Dharmasiri

Dharmasiri looked up.

That was Ashoka, sitting by the fire, exactly where I’d left him. I could barely recognize him. His facial features—I looked through the fire, and everything became clear.

“Dad?” I asked.

Ashoka laughed. “I’m not your Dad. I’m just your friend—but you could ask him.”

“Who?” I asked.

“Who has been sitting here the whole time? The fisher boy (“Hi!” he said) the jungle girl, the rainforest boy, everyone who you’ve met on your great journey, (What was it that boy said? Andrew. Ah, yes) the adventure of a lifetime—

yes, who was it sitting there, tending your food, making sure you never go hungry—

“Mom? Dad?”—

yes, Sameera said, look around you. Who here is most your Mom and Dad.

“Mom? Dad?”

“It won’t do any good asking more questions. You need some action.”

“I have prepared a sandwich for you, Mr. Austin.”

I looked in front of me, and there, he, she, they were—”are you?” I started to ask.

“My family?”

“Oh no, much better,” he said. “Me Dharmasiri.”

I ran to him. He put his arms around me.

“Oh, Austin, Mr. Austin, me so happy. I not your family. But I can take you to your family.”