Her eyes are closed, as if in a trance; her face immersed in deep meditation. A trace of a thin smile plays on her small, wrinkled face, marked by a maroon bindi and framed by a mop of silver hair. It’s not a rosary that her hands hold, but a stethoscope that gently moves over my belly. I’m awed — not just because she’s privy to the heartbeats of my unborn child, but by the godly aura she exudes.“This is my direct communication with God,” she whispers, almost reading my mind. “There cannot be a connection more intimate and pure than this.”
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