I was sitting alone on the steps of the village water tank. I watched circles form as I threw pebbles into the water. Yes, I wanted to create ripples—not just in the water, but around me.
I needed to do something. Suddenly, anxiety gripped me.
My breath turned heavy, hissing—my chest tightening, rising—my throat closing, my eyes wide.
Then I felt it. A presence. Soft breathing near my ear, and a whisper—
“Write my story. Will you?”
I turned, startled, and replied
“Your story? What is there to write? Who are you? Nothing. A good-for-nothing, lazy, mad woman—
who would want to hear your story?”
She ran. but her voice did not. It stayed, slipping into my head, shouting, tearing through me—
“How dare you call me lazy? You know there are stories, but you keep ignoring them. Then let me tell you again-
Don't you know how my father touched me every night?
Don't you know how my brother laughed and how mother watched—not stopping them?
not seeing me?
Yes.
I am good for nothing.
That’s what they told me every time
his grip tightened
and I froze into silence.
When I could not speak, I became proof. When I stayed silent, I became nothing.
In the mornings,
when I was slow with pain and with the household chores, my mother scorned and they said it again—
Good for nothing.
Nothing.
Today I have reduced myself to nothing.
I hide within myself—quiet, unseen. No one hears me. But when they do, they dont forget to call me mad."
.
I shudder as the voice continues—
“I am older now. I don’t smile. I don’t speak. I don’t comb my hair.”
My hair is matted. My clothes are stained.
Mother is old now.
But her silence has not aged.
Father is still the man.
My brother is married.
I am no longer needed.
They say I am mad. I don’t mind.. It lets me be
But now there is a new girl. My brother’s wife.
I watch her.
Sometimes she looks at me with pity. I don’t speak to her. I think like her—
but I don't show it.
Should I be the only one to vanish like this? Or should another become like me?
I am no longer afraid."
The breadth near me eases, but the whisper continues slower, softer.
"I have ways.
No—
not like before.
Not foolish.
I think of it sometimes—
clearly."
The breathing becomes heavy again and the whisper agitated
I want to cut them into pieces and watch them bleed. Or maybe mix something into their drink—but how? I need help; I cannot do it alone. "
The voice now mincingly continues breathing down my neck.
"I know what I have to do. I am sure my sister in law will help. I hear her scream every night. I see my mother older now. But with the same hard eyes, look at her scornfully, my brother disdainfully, and my father hungrily. I see her constant fear. In her I see me. "
I want that laugh, that stare, that touch to stop. Just stop."
The whisper, now harsh and accusing continues --
This was all your idea, and you tell me I have no story?
The fall. the poison, the blood, the broken heads on the floor—all was your idea.
.
—
something sudden, something final.
I turn these over in my mind
again and again—
until they blur, until they feel almost real.
But I cannot do it alone.
I need help. Ah .Yes. let me go and find her."
The whisper softens now. The voice still burns.
I keep throwing stones into the water, watching the ripples—and blaming them.
Yes.
I have an idea.
I will befriend her.
Before she becomes me.
Maybe she will listen to my story.
Let me go and find her.
And then—
you can decide
whether my story
is worth writing.
My body stills.
Then—
faint at first,
then sharper—
a call cuts through the air:
“Chumki… Chumki…
you good-for-nothing—
where are you?”
The name settles inside me.
I don’t turn.
Slowly,
I get up—
pick up a large stone—
and hurl it into the water.
The ripples widen.
Widen—
and something in me rises with them.
I don’t wait.
I rush inside—
to find her.
