I was sitting alone on the steps of the village water tank,
watching 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.

“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?
I have stories.”

Do you know how my father touched me?
Do you know how my brother laughed?
Do you know how my mother watched—
not stopping him,
not seeing me?

Yes.

I am good for nothing.
That’s what he 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 the household chores,
they said it again—

good for nothing.

Nothing.

Today I reduced myself to nothing.

I hid within myself—quiet, unseen.
No one would know.
No one would hear.

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 drunk.
My brother is married.

I am no longer needed.

They say I am mad.

I don’t mind.

Let it 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.

I have ways.

No—
not like before.
Not foolish.

I think of it sometimes—
clearly.

Cutting him.
Watching him bleed.

Or mixing something into his drink—
slow, quiet—
so he never knows it was me.

My brother—
laughing as always—

I want that laugh to stop.
Just stop.

A fall.
A slip.
A broken head on the floor—

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.

I remember her face—
my sister-in-law—
crying every night.

I see my mother looking at her—
older now,
but with the same hard eyes.

My brother—smiling.

In her, I see myself.

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.

---