Meeting the baba

There’s something I should tell you about Mom. Religion is her weakness—not just faith, but the kind of blind, trembling devotion that makes her kneel before any man who drapes himself in holy cloth. A priest could tell her to walk barefoot over burning coals, and she’d do it without hesitation, her eyes shining with misplaced reverence. It’s why, when the doctor mentioned the baba, I felt my stomach drop. Because I knew. The second Mom heard the word "holy man," she’d already made up her mind.

The next morning, Mom emerged from her room wrapped in one of her old cotton sarees, the fabric thick enough to hide even the shadow of her curves. The pallu was neatly pinned over her shoulder, not a centimeter out of place. She moved with deliberate care, like someone reassembling a shattered vase—each step calculated, each fold of fabric precise. It was the first time in days she'd looked like herself.

The address led us to a crumbling building on the outskirts of town, its cracked plaster walls draped with faded saffron banners. A rusted bell hung lopsided by the door, and when Mom tugged the frayed rope, the sound echoed hollowly through the empty street. The door creaked open before the last chime faded—and there he was. Jeremy.

Jeremy stood framed in the doorway, barefoot and draped in saffron robes that looked like they’d been stolen from a cheap theater production. His hair, usually slicked back with too much product, now hung loose and tangled around his shoulders—a poor imitation of holiness. But Mom didn’t see the smirk hiding beneath his solemn expression. She only saw the rudraksha beads around his neck and the ash smeared across his forehead. Her breath hitched, her hands instinctively rising to press together in a trembling namaste.

"Baba," she whispered, bowing her head so low her pallu slid forward, exposing the nape of her neck. I wanted to grab her and run, but Jeremy’s eyes locked onto mine over her bent form, daring me to interrupt. His grin was a razor slit in the dim light.

Mom’s voice was barely above a whisper, her fingers twisting the edge of her pallu as she spoke. "Baba, I—I have been unwell. Weakness grips my body, and no medicine has helped." Her eyes stayed fixed on the ground, her shoulders hunched in deference. Jeremy—no, the *baba*—nodded solemnly, stroking his chin as if contemplating divine wisdom. His bare foot tapped against the dusty floorboards, the rhythm lazy, mocking.

Jeremy's fingers traced the edge of Mom's pallu with deliberate slowness, his thumb brushing the fabric just enough to make her shiver. "The stars whisper of imbalance," he murmured, his voice thick with feigned reverence. "Your horoscope—it holds the key to your suffering." His gaze flicked to me, sharp as a blade, before settling back on Mom's bowed head. I frowned, there was a catch. Jeremy wouldn't be pursuing such noble holy pursuits if there wasn't something in it for him.