The second man dropped the sack and lunged for me. I was small, but I was fast—fast from chasing goats, fast from running from village dogs. I ducked under his arm and brought the pestle up into his ribs. He wheezed, folded, and stumbled over the low wall of the well.
It was a night sewn shut with clouds, no moon, no stars—just the thick, breathing dark of our village on the edge of the forest. I was twelve, my little sister Meera was seven. We shared a string cot on the verandah because the summer heat made the tin-roof house feel like a kiln. night attack on my little sister
Some attacks are not survived by bravery alone. Some are survived because a little girl refused to make a sound, and her older brother refused to be a child any longer. The second man dropped the sack and lunged for me
The dark under the jackfruit tree was absolute. But shapes moved there. Two men, low to the ground. One held a jute sack. The other—his hand was over Meera’s face. She was kicking, her small legs flailing, her eyes wide as broken plates. He wheezed, folded, and stumbled over the low
I looked at my hands. They were still wrapped around the pestle. My knuckles were white.
“Meera?” My voice was a cracked whisper.