The rickety old bus wheezes to a halt and you jerk awake. You’re not at your destination, but all the passengers file out. You follow them, too groggy to question it.
You realize you’re closer than you thought when your foot meets the soil and you slip. Two women, fellow passengers, haul you up to your feet.
Dense rainforest surrounds you, dark as the womb, the only source of light coming from the bus. You think of roots erupting from the damp earth, wrapping around your ankles and dragging you back into their depths.
Take a deep breath.
You escaped once before. You can do it again.
The last time you were among these trees, eight years ago, you promised you’d never be back. Turns out all it took was a phone call — “Your mother’s very sick. She doesn’t have long.”
You join the passengers standing around the bus and squinting at the front wheels inches deep in mud. Able-bodied folks volunteer to pull it out. You stretch, coaxing your muscles to wake up, ready to haul the beast out of the muck so you can resume your doomed journey.
“It’s ok, madam,” says the driver, blushing a little. “We — the men can handle it.”
You do as you're told. You remember how to behave when you’re back home.
You’re still my good girl.
Ah, but you don’t think you’re a girl.
Your name echoes through the dense forest. You try to ignore it, but it moves ever closer.
Everyone looks up when it’s only a few feet behind you. A hot breath caresses your neck, and you spin around.
A man steps out of the dark tree line just as lightning splits the sky. The woman next to you — the one who helped you up before — pulls you back, a protective grip on your shoulder.
But there’s no need to worry! You recognize the man even though he’s wet and muddy and disheveled. You know him from the slight lean to the left as he stands, from his crooked smile, from his dark, unwavering eyes trailing your every move.
“It’s ok,” you tell the woman, patting her hand on your shoulder, loosening her grip. “He’s my cousin.”
You step away from the group.
“What are you doing here?” you ask him.
“I’m here to walk you home,” he says, smiling wider, less crooked.
You look away from his intense gaze, back at the bus and the safe group of people unsuccessfully trying to lift the bus out of the mud.
“Even if they get the bus out, they won’t be able to stop at our home,” he says, reading your thoughts. “There’s a landslide ahead and they’ll need to take a detour. You think I’d come out here if I could just meet you at home?”
When you’re this close to home, you don’t need to bother with decisions. They’re already made for you.
You ignore the dread building in your stomach as you pick up your small bag, inform the bus driver and the helpful passengers, and follow your cousin into the muddy forest.
“How’s Amma now?” you ask him when you can no longer see the headlights.
“She’ll live,” he says, not looking at you, hacking down a tree branch with a machete you didn’t know he had.
“Why didn’t they take her to a hospital earlier? She could’ve —”
“Still don’t trust me?” he says, chuckling. “I might be just a ‘village doctor’ but I know my stuff.”
Your stomach twists at those words. You’d hurled them at him before you refused to marry him, before you ran away from your family.
“I know you didn’t mean that,” he says, waving a hand nonchalantly.
He’s right. You didn’t mean it. You would have said anything to get out of that arranged marriage.
It starts to rain again, and you hold your bag over your head.
“You travel light,” he says, as he helps you climb a small mound made of fresh earth.
“I won't stay long,” you say.
He’s looking at your chest as you step lightly down on the other side. The outline of your binder is visible through your wet shirt. You hug your bag to cover up, letting your short hair get wet instead.
“At least stay till your hair grows out again,” he says, leading the way. “I like your hair long.”
I agree with him.
You follow him quietly through a small clearing on the other side of the mound, not speaking the angry words bubbling up your throat. You escaped once before, you think you can do it again.
Lights shine through the trees, and you pick up your pace. You want to rip the band-aid off your family seeing you after all these years. Your mother seeing you after all these changes.
In 30 feet, you’re out of the forest. In another 30, you’re in front of the palatial farmhouse you grew up in. And you’re not alone. The whole village seems to have gathered there.
You walk past distant relatives huddling under a pandal. Their hushed whispers and accusing glares follow you to the open front door. Oil lamps flicker inside.
Realization floods through your chest and you run up the three stairs. It’s a memorial!
“Appa?” you shout, skidding to a halt in the hallway, trailing dirt and mud on the red oxide floor. You burst into tears, sinking to the floor, extinguishing the oil lamps.
Footsteps surround you. Gentle hands raise you from the floor. You gawk, trying to comprehend, trying to recognize the person holding you.
“Amma?”
“I’m so glad you’re here,” she says, cradling your face. “I wish you’d come home earlier. So you could —”
“What’s happening?”
She leads you into the main room, and you see the photo. You recognize him, his crooked smile and intense glare, piercing you even in a photo covered in garlands of marigold and jasmine.
“He died in a landslide three days ago,” says your father. “I wish you had come home earlier.”
You step back, back towards the hallway, throat dry.
“You shouldn’t have run away without marrying him,” says your aunt. “You were promised to each other when you were born. Our kuladeva, our yaksha, made this promise to our families.”
And I always keep my promises.
You shake off the arms holding you and run out in the rain again. You run towards the forest, towards a path he carved out for you. You slip when you hear your name echoing in the trees. Covetous hands jut out of wet soil and grab your ankles, twisting them. Sharp, piercing pain shoots through your legs as you try to crawl on your hands, not caring if you swallow the mud or if the mud swallows you.
You escaped once before.
Hot, heavy breaths caress your neck, holding you down.
I won’t let you escape again.
