A Golden Light by Mary Katherine Carr

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We wrap dark, dome-shaped chocolates in foil with cold fingers. We affix a sticker with Mata’s face to the top of each wrapped chocolate. The wall-mounted air-conditioning unit blows icy air on us. The chocolate room is the only place in the camp with air conditioning.

We are wrapping chocolates for Mata’s upcoming world tour. People all over the globe are waiting to fall into her open arms, to feel the warm magic of her motherly love. 

I have not been hugged by Mata and experienced this love yet. I’ve heard it’s like the embrace of God. I see Mata’s face everywhere around the camp—on t-shirts and posters, smiling up at me from each chocolate I wrap—but I have never seen her in person. They say she is here among us, but it’s hard to know for sure.

I once ate one of the chocolates when no one was looking. It tasted like sweet, hard wax.

Every now and then, Frederick looks up at me from across the table, from underneath his thick Danish lashes. I wonder if he is trying to look seductive. His wrapping is sloppier than mine.

Last night we had a feast with the groceries Amandine brought back from her trip home to Europe, the treats, like good chocolate, that we miss: balsamic vinegar, hard cheeses. Frederick made hot chocolate with the cocoa powder from Belgium. The group was silent as we sipped the drink. It was good to taste the European chocolate after months of too-sugary Indian sweets. Then Frederick kissed me in the communal volunteers’ kitchen after everyone else had gone to bed. He tasted like sour milk. I thought about asking him to stop, but I hadn’t kissed anyone in over a year, and I felt like I was due for something like this. Frederick is shorter than me, and I do not find him attractive.

One of Mata’s angels watches us. The angels rarely speak, except to give us instructions. This one is tall, very thin, with narrow hips and dark eyes. He looks like he is from one of the northern states. I think of him as the Angel from Assam, though I don’t really know if that is where he is from. He wears a simple grey tunic and pants, like all the angels do, and sweeps the chocolates we have wrapped into a cardboard box once the tabletop becomes crowded.

We do not speak. The angel hasn’t told us not to, but we know this is not the time. We are doing Mata’s work.

We hear a voice from the loudspeaker outside the chocolate room:

All must report to the yard. I repeat, all must report to the yard for an announcement.

We look up at the Angel from Assam. He motions with his arms: Go, go. We are released.

We file out to the yard, where everyone from the camp is gathering before the low stage. It is so dry that each footstep raises a puff of dust. The camp is about a half-hour’s bus ride outside of Chennai. 

A group of angels files onto the stage, each with their hands clasped behind their back. They step over a tangle of electrical cords. A microphone and speakers have been set up.

Frederick puffs out his chest; I can tell he is feeling the excitement of something important happening. We have never been summoned like this. Will Mata make an appearance?

Hello friends, one of the angels says into the microphone. We have invited you here to share some truly terrible news. We are very sorry to say that there has been an electrical accident in the camp, and one of Mata’s volunteers has passed.

A murmur rises from the crowd.

What the fuck, Frederick says.

Rest assured, the angel continues, an electrician is on site for repairs and to ensure an accident like this does not happen again. And now let us take a moment of silence to remember our dear brother.

The crowd becomes quiet. Some people grasp on to one another or place their hands over their hearts. I lower my gaze. I try to feel appreciation and sadness for the loss of the volunteer, who has not been identified, but I feel strangely energized; a mixture of disbelief and exhilaration surges through me, like a formation of swiftly diving birds, and I can see a golden light swirl up through my legs, not unlike how I envision the deadly current that shocked the volunteer’s body. 

The angel speaks again:

Thank you all for your continued dedication to Mata.

The angels file off the stage, and the golden light mists off my legs, into the dust.

The members of the crowd glance at one another in confusion. Was that it?

Let’s go, Frederick says.

We join a group in the volunteers’ kitchen. They are gossiping, smoking, and drinking beer. I am not sure if the angels allow drinking, but they never come in the volunteers’ kitchen.

My friend Gloria and I exchange an urgent look, and she presses her fingers into my palm. I can tell she is shaken by what has happened, but she is gulping down a Kingfisher quickly. Gloria is a young Anglo-Indian woman from Visakhapatnam. Before she came to find Mata, she lived at home with her family, by the ocean. She hopes to study in the US. I am charmed by her love of animals, how she makes friends with the street dogs that wander into the camp. She holds the small ones in her arms and talks to them. Most people here think street dogs are dirty. Gloria can see when I feel out of place, and is always kind to me.

This is so messed up, she says quietly.

I wonder who it was, I say. 

It’s impossible to know. There are hundreds of us here.

Should we ask them how this happened? another volunteer, Victor, wonders.

If they wanted you to know, they would have told you, Amandine tells him. She leans against the counter, the smoke from her cigarette curling up from her elegant fingers.

Sukesh, a young man from a wealthy family in New Delhi, sits at her feet, gazing up at her with his mouth half open. I can’t tell if he is perpetually overwhelmed by Amandine’s beauty or if he is just a bit dim.

I never thought something like this could happen here, Gloria says. Why didn’t Mata come out to say a few words?

She doesn’t make speeches, Frederick says, reproaching Gloria lightly. There are people who do that for her.

He drapes an arm around my shoulders. Amandine raises her eyebrows at him.    

Maybe he thinks we are a couple now.

I lie in bed after dark. The night is hot and dry. A light in the yard buzzes outside my window, illuminating a cloud of worshipping insects. I hear a soft click as the door is unlatched. A figure with thick hair and long, graceful limbs crawls under the mosquito net and into bed with me. It’s Amandine.

I brought Turkish delight she says, opening a small box.

We each take a piece from the box. I taste roses.

What do you think happened today, exactly? I ask her.

Mmm, she says, chewing. Not sure.

I wonder if the electrical was up to code.

And if it wasn’t?

The family could sue.

I wouldn’t try to sue Mata, Amandine says. No one fucks with her.

She snuggles closer to me. She smells like she hasn’t showered in a few days, and there is no deodorant to mask the scent. She arranges her long fingers in a vice-like tent over my face. I touch the ring around her right middle finger: three rectangles of onyx with tiny diamonds in between.

I got it in Paris, she says. I saged it to get the bad energy off. You know about diamonds.

Amandine holds her hand out from her face to admire the stones glinting in the near-dark. I can’t believe someone this beautiful and glamorous smells so bad.

Powdered sugar sticks to her lip.

     

     

The powdered sugar on her mouth begins to look like a raised growth, like mold, suffused with its own life force. Golden light darts in and out of her mouth, circles her irises, her head, and the onyx and diamond ring. She brings her face towards mine and begins to suck on my bottom lip. I imagine the mold sinking into my skin, embedding itself, like dirty diamonds from the bottom of a river being fastened into a white gold setting.

Over a whole year of not kissing anyone, and then all of this.

I push her away.

Amandine only smiles and slips back out of the mosquito net, taking the box of Turkish delight with her. She does not see this as a rejection. She has never been rejected.

Amandine closes the door behind her.   

My phone dings. It’s a message from Frederick.

Send me a photo.

What kind of photo is he asking for?

I take off my top. I’m wearing a green satin bra that I bought at a boutique in Canada. I have hand-washed it only once since I flew into Tamil Nadu. The embroidery on the front of my kurta has left red, itchy marks on my chest. I hold my phone out and take a snap.

The photo isn’t bad. My hair curls softly over the pillow, and my collarbone protrudes and catches the light of the flash, like a piece of driftwood under the moon.

I send the photo to Frederick.

My phone dings.

He has sent a photo back.

Frederick stands, shirtless, in front of a tiled wall—the men’s bathroom, I think—holding his phone up to a mirror. I can tell he is sucking in his stomach. He is ridiculous.

The next morning, I am scheduled to help roll t-shirts for gift packages at 8 am. I wake, and my phone says 7:50. 

I dress quickly, grab a cold uthappam and a banana from the volunteers’ kitchen, and eat as I walk to the packing room. Twenty or so others are already at work, cutting open boxes of t-shirts and sorting them by size. The t-shirts are a fiery orange, with yellow block lettering across the front:

MATA’S WORLD TOUR

2011

I have rolled t-shirts before. I take my place in the gift bag assembly line and begin to roll the size XS shirts and stack them neatly to my right, where another female volunteer stuffs them into plastic bags containing donation forms and pamphlets detailing Mata’s mission to spread love throughout the world. My assembly line mate quickly returns my smile as we settle into a rhythm.

A volunteer named Ryan, who has been at the camp for over two years now, told me they used to silkscreen the t-shirts by hand here at the camp. Those t-shirts have become collector’s items. Now they use an external company to have the wording printed on the t-shirts as it’s a lot cheaper. If I see Ryan later, I should ask him who died yesterday. He would probably know.

The hours pass. I find a peacefulness in the repetitiveness of the work. Soon, though, my arms become tired. I would like to take a moment to stretch, but Mata’s angels are watching me.

At noon, one of the angels says, Lunch.

We leave the mounds of clothing and bagged parcels and go to the cafeteria.

Most meals for volunteers are served and eaten in the cafeteria. We take shifts preparing the food. Those volunteers who are on meal preparation duty eat after serving everyone else. I take a tray and hold it out to receive a ladleful each of daal and rice, a roti, and a mango pickle. I ask for an extra roti; they rarely say no. The local volunteers are surprised at how much I can eat. Many of them think North Americans eat too much and are fat, yet they often tell me I am too skinny. I have lost five pounds since arriving at the camp.  

I take my tray and find a seat next to Gloria and Frederick. Frederick eyes my slyly. I can hardly look at him, thinking about his silly photo from the night before.      

Did you see? Gloria asks me, her mouth full of roti.

What? I return.

She juts her chin in the direction of the podium at the far side of the cafeteria, where Mata’s angels often read from one of her books or lecture us on her principles during mealtime. Next to the podium is an upright piano. I brighten, sitting up straighter.

Where did that come from? I say.

It was here when we arrived, Gloria replies. Will you play for us?

I have told Gloria about my training as a musician, but I haven’t touched a piano since I left Canada.

Do I have to ask someone? I ask Gloria. Will I get in trouble?

What’s the worst that could happen? she counters.

My stomach rumbles with hunger, but I am itching to touch the instrument, which gleams with remembrance of a former part of me that has been dormant for some time. I smile at Gloria, and she winks back.

I go to the piano and sit on the bench. It feels unsteady beneath me. I place my fingers lightly on the keys. I begin to play “La Campanella.” I am surprised to hear that the instrument is perfectly in tune. I am out of practice, but soon I am carried away. A faint golden light pulses from in between the keys, running up my fingers and arms. I feel euphoric, chosen, like the piano and this moment are Mata’s gift to me, that she knows who I am and how I’ve been lost. I bring the piece to its thunderous conclusion.

There is an uneven smattering of applause from the tables of volunteers. One of the angels, who has been standing by the doors, walks towards me. He wants to take back control of the room.

Brava! Amandine shouts from across the room, sending her arm into the air with a flourish.

I go back to my seat.

You’re amazing! Gloria tells me. That was beautiful.

You’re pretty good, Fredericks adds, looking at his plate and seeming to be concentrating carefully on mopping up a puddle of daal with his roti. I’ve heard piano is the easiest instrument to master.

Gloria glances at him in surprise.

After an afternoon spent cleaning the dorms, I meet Gloria and Frederick in the cafeteria again for a supper of rice and paneer in a thin gravy. The piano is still there, but someone has put a sign on it that says “DO NOT TOUCH.”

It is Sunday, so after dinner, we have free time. That means more drinking in the volunteers’ kitchen. As we enter the space, I hear someone say, It wasn’t an accident.

A phantom coldness licks my neck. They can’t mean the volunteer who died.

What are you guys talking about? Frederick asks.

Nothing, a young Gujarati woman named Priya says quickly. She turns to Gloria.

I got my acceptance letter from the University of Michigan! Priya tells her.

Gloria takes Priya’s hands and pulls her into a hug.

I’m so excited for you! Gloria gushes. I can’t wait to go study in America one day. We’ll have to visit each other.

It’s going to be amazing, Priya enthuses. Nobody judging me for drinking or eating meat. Or wearing short pants. And all those American boys.

Already you’re looking for an American boyfriend! Gloria teases.

I definitely need a man who writes poetry.

Good luck finding that guy, Victor snorts.

I sip a lukewarm Kingfisher. Sukesh gazes around from his seat at the table, crunching on a packaged snack and looking lost without Amandine’s face to venerate.

Do you have any North American dating tips for me? Priya asks me.

I may not be the best person to ask, I admit. I’m still figuring out the rules of North American dating myself. Men can be disingenuous. I’ve experienced enough gaslighting to swear off the apps for a while.

Gaslighting is such an overused term these days, Frederick says.

Gloria watches my face.

I set my bottle of beer on the counter and leave the room.

I am reading a slim, tattered copy of The Cherry Orchard in bed with a flashlight. I think of the sound of heavy tree trunks hitting the ground. I bought the play at a used bookstore in the city, and I can smell the rot of the yellowing pages. I have been dying to be alone and read. Reading is seen as a leisure activity and isn’t encouraged in the camp. I have locked the door.

I receive a text from Frederick:

Where did you go?

Then, shortly after:

Come to my room.

I place my phone face down on the table next to my bed. It dings again, and I don’t look.

I read.

Then, someone turns the doorknob.

I feel a hollowness, with a tough rind, forming in my stomach. 

Maybe if I’m quiet, he won’t know I’m in here.

The person knocks.

Then I hear a voice say, It’s Amandine.

I get out of bed and open the door.

Amandine grabs my wrist. She looks frantic.

I need you, she says.

Why? What happened?

I think I got an STI, she breathes. From Sukesh.

You slept with Sukesh?

The camp doctor is going to examine me. I don’t want to go alone.

The camp has a doctor?

We need this, she says, snatching my flashlight out of my hand. Come on.

Amandine pulls me down the hall and out the front door of the volunteers’ dorm. We walk across the yard, down the palm-lined lane towards Mata’s residence. Amandine switches on my flashlight. I have never been this far down the lane. I don’t even know what Mata’s house looks like.

The air is thicker and moister here. I savour the respite from the dust, inhaling the coolness of the plants and groundcover that grow denser as we continue our journey down the lane. But Amandine is hurrying me along, her fingernails digging into the skin of my arm.

There is a glitter up ahead, a golden light shifting behind the palm leaves: a castle. Or a very tall house, with latticed windows, not letting us glimpse what is inside. I am reminded of the rosy-coloured Wind Palace in Jaipur, its design of screened windows with small holes that allowed women of the royal court to look out, but no one to look in. Could Mata be looking at us now? Are there lit candles behind the windows, or am I seeing light again?

I imagine a woman’s face obscured by an intricate lace veil, the golden light of her pure soul filtering through. I feel that we are close to her.

There is a white beam of another flashlight down a small path to the left. Amandine veers towards it, dragging me along with her. I hear two men’s voices.

Dr. Reddy? Amandine calls.

Yes, Miss, one of the voices says. This way.

The flashlight beam swivels up to illuminate a man’s round face and thick mustache. He looks at once eerie and comical. It reminds me of the men I’ve seen on billboards for Tamil action films, wearing sunglasses and holding guns. 

We have reached a squat building with cement walls. On the door the word “Medical” is printed. The second man holds the door open for us. We all go in, and he shuts the door.

The interior of the small building is comprised of one windowless room, lit by a single bulb on the ceiling. There is a wall of cabinets and a sink. A brown plastic bottle labelled “ALCOHOL” sits next to the sink. It is the only item that would indicate we are in a doctor’s examination room. In the centre of the room is a metal table. I think of a morgue.

Amandine has not let go of my wrist. She turns her head this way and that, seemingly unable to find something she is looking for. Her grip tightens.

Do not stress, Miss, the man with the mustache, who I think is Dr. Reddy, says. We will take a look at this problem and find what to do.

He motions that Amandine should get on the table.

Amandine looks at me, panicked.

It’s okay, I try to reassure her. It’ll be all right. Here, I’ll help you. I won’t leave you.

I assist her onto the table and smooth her hair.

I notice a dried splash of something brownish on the wall. Is that blood?
Dr. Reddy is rummaging in one of the cupboards. I hear the clink of metal. He produces a speculum.

Miss, if you can please bend the legs, he says.

Amandine places her sandalled feet flat on the table. Her long, gauzy dress covers her. It’s probably Celine, from Paris. The doctor lifts the hem of the dress and moves towards Amandine with the speculum. Then, he pauses, retrieves a pair of Latex gloves from the cupboard, puts them on, and resumes.

Torch, he barks at the second man.

The man shines his flashlight between Amandine’s legs for the doctor to see. 

There is not enough bloody light in here, Dr. Reddy says.

You, he says to me, bring the other torch.

I take my flashlight from Amandine.

Shine it here, Dr. Reddy commands me.

I position myself at his side and do as he says. Dr. Reddy inserts the speculum.

Putain, Amandine curses.

Her exposed private parts look like the throat of a snake. The doctor prods at Amandine with Latex fingers.

There is some inflammation here, he says. And you say there is some discharge?

Yes, Amandine responds through gritted teeth.

And then I see it again.

From deep inside Amandine, from the darkness the beams of the flashlights cannot penetrate, there appears a light. It is something trying to be born. Not a baby. Not an infection; the infection is already alive. The light is struggling. Reaching out. It is coming for me.

The golden light is coming out of Amandine’s vagina.

I feel dizzy.

Is it gonorrhea? Amandine wails.

It may be a yeast infection, the doctor says, removing the speculum. I can give you a tablet for that.

He takes off his gloves and glances around, not finding a receptacle for them.

The golden light is gone.

The next morning, I cross the yard with a bucket of vegetable scraps. I have been preparing the midday meal with other volunteers in the cafeteria. I am going to feed the goats.

The yard is desolate without the hustle and bustle of the angels. Some of them are usually around, going from place to place and directing volunteers. The stage is empty of audio equipment. The shabbiness of the camp contrasts with my memories of Mata’s residence from the night before.

I hear shouting.

It’s coming from behind the long, low building that is the angels’ quarters. I set down my bucket and go to look.

A group of angels stand in a line, shoulder to shoulder. The Angel from Assam is one of them. A man, dressed similarly to the angels, but in black rather than grey, paces back and forth in front of them, yelling in Hindi. He gestures with his arms. He is holding a small brown bottle—it looks like an empty bottle of rum—and he thrusts it at them, then at the sky, shouting all the while.

The man is reprimanding the angels. Maybe they do drink. 

The Angel from Assam does not avert his eyes from the man in black. He is taking the punishment that is his due.

The man in black delivers a final, bellowing admonishment and throws the bottle to the ground, where it shatters.

Then, the golden light comes.

The golden light issues from chest of the Angel of Assam. It emerges from his heart, like an open book, or a butterfly’s hinged wings—no, more like a pair of jaws—and swirls out towards the man in black, enclosing his harsh words that still hang in the air and infusing the pieces of glass on the ground with an amber glow. The shards are alive with the chemical verve of alcohol, with the thrill of the angels’ transgression.

If I see the golden light around the broken bottle of rum, why don’t I see it when the volunteers are drinking in the kitchen?    
     

Suddenly, the crackle of the loudspeakers:

All must report to the yard. I repeat, all must report to the yard. Mata will now receive you.

The Angel of Assam turns his head, and we lock eyes. His are dark.

The light disappears.

I return to the yard, where everyone is assembling. I find Gloria and Frederick.

What’s going on? I ask Gloria.

It’s our time to meet Mata, Frederick answers for her.

A phalanx of angels is advancing down the lane. There is someone in the middle of them whom they are hiding. I glimpse a bit of yellow in the grey. Is it Mata? Two angels carry stacks of satin cushions. The group goes up onto the stage. They are moving around, doing something.

I strain on tiptoes, trying to catch a glimpse of her. I can’t see; the angels surround her seat on the stage. The crowd is pushing me forward.

Two of the angels grab a young woman from the front of the crowd. She disappears into the huddle of grey cloth. Soon after, she stumbles off the side of the stage, crying. Did she hug Mata?

A man with a shaved head follows. He steps off the stage with his hands open, looking helpless and bewildered, like he has seen the end of the world.

The crowd is crushing us.

I can’t, Gloria begins.

Frederick pushes his way past us. He steps on my foot.

One by one, the volunteers are taken up onto the stage, and one by one, they are released. They are changed.

A pair of hands grabs Frederick under the arms and yanks him up onto the stage. Moments later, he staggers out of the cluster of angels, sobbing. He is like a desolate child, like something spoiled and sour I want to spit out of my mouth. I wonder what he has been searching for and if he has found it.

I am getting closer.

Gloria calls my name. And then I am pushed violently forward. I fall, and my hands are on the stage. I crawl onto it.

     

She is a heavyset woman in a yellow dress, with a matching yellow dupatta draped over her head. She sits in a nest of cushions. She is dripping with Hyderabadi pearls.

Two of Mata’s angels grab me on either side and throw me forcefully into Mata’s arms. 

Her bosom is like a sturdy mattress catching me, without temperature; she is not hot or cold. She pats me repeatedly on the back and says, Yes, child, yes child.

Is it happening?

And just as quickly as the angels threw me into her arms, they take me away. I don’t know whether to cry or scream. I’m not ready yet.

Where is the golden light?

Where is it?

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Mary Katherine Carr (she/her) is a writer, editor, and mental health advocate who lives on a farm in Ontario, Canada. Her website is: www.marykatherinecarr.com.

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27 June 2025