Mira began. Her accent was terrible. She stumbled over the names of the gods and the metaphors of the sacred river. But she read the English translation with a voice full of wonder.
Frustrated, she opened her laptop and typed: Marathi Mangalashtak lyrics in English .
Mira printed the pages. That night, she sat with Aai in the kitchen, the smell of vatan and coriander in the air.
On the wedding day, under the mandap , the priest chanted the Mangalashtak in his deep, sonorous Marathi. Mira did not sing along. But she closed her eyes, and in her mind, the English lyrics played like a silent film.
By the seventh verse, her eyes were wet. The English words weren't clunky or academic. They were tender. One line read: “May you see your own joy reflected in each other’s eyes, even when the world grows dark.”
Mira had tried. She’d listened to recordings of the rapid, rhythmic Marathi, the words flowing like a swift river. But to her, it was just a beautiful, incomprehensible sound. How could she “feel” something she didn’t understand?
Aai paused, her hand over the grinding stone. “Read them to me.”
Mira began to read.