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, and my eyes wide.
Then I felt it. A presence. Soft breathing near my ear, and a whisper.
"Tell my story. Will you?”
I turned, startled, and replied
“Your story? What is there to tell? 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. I was nothing when I remained silent.
In the mornings,
when I was slow -- with pain and with the household chores, my mother scorned and said it again—
Good for nothing.
Nothing.
Today I have reduced myself to nothing.
I hide within myself—quiet, unseen. I move around like a cat. No one hears me. But when they do, they don't 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. I don't remember when that happened.
Mother is old now. But her silence has not aged. Father is still the hungry 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 breath near me eases, but the whisper continues, slower and softer.
"I have ways.
No—
not like before. Not foolish. I think of it sometimes—clearly."
The breathing grows 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 cant do it alone. "
The voice continues whispering, hovering over me.
"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 piercing eyes, she looks at her scornfully, my brother looks at her with disdain, and my father looks at her hungrily.
I see her constant fear. In her, I see me. Sometimes we exchange glances. I see what no one else sees-- how she stiffens when my father is around, how she flinches at my brother's stares, and how she reddens in front of my mother.
One day when she was crying while washing clothes, I tiptoed behind her . I couldn't help but touch her . I remember the violence in her eyes as she turned suddenly , her eyes blazing and her hand holding raised as if to strike. Seeing me she shuddered, wipped her tears and went back to washing.
She mirrors my helplessness. My inner violence .
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 were 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. I am going to befriend her before she becomes me. Maybe in me she will see herself and help. In the meantime, you will decide whether my story is worth telling."
The whisper stops suddenly, and with a shrill laugh, the presence vanishes. A pain pierces through me like a dagger.
I keep throwing stones into the water, watching the ripples—and my broken reflection . I run my dirty hands through my matted hair. I look at my haggard face and stained clothes, My body gradually stills, and the pain becomes bearable.
Then—faint at first, then sharper—my mother's voice cuts through the air:
“Chumki… Chumki… you good-for-nothing—where are you?”
The name settles inside me. I jolt --as if pulled back into my self.
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.
