I sat beneath the Jacaranda tree, its violet blooms drifting down like whispers from the sky. As those delicate flowers brushed against my skin, a quiet joy settled into my chest—momentary, but real. After a long and weary day, they were a soft reminder that peace still existed in the world.
With that calmness tucked in my heart, I began my walk home. I used the few coins Maa had given me to buy a mango-flavored ice cream—the kind that melts too quickly but still manages to leave a sweet trail on your lips.
But the sweetness faded the moment I reached home.
My mother was crying.
Her shoulders trembled. Her eyes, red and hollow, met mine, and I knew—something was terribly wrong. I signed quickly, asking her what happened. Silently, she pointed toward my father. He was lying motionless, bloodied, barely breathing.
I froze.
I signed again, hands shaking: What happened?
Her lips quivered before the words came. "An accident," she whispered. "It happened right here… in front of the house."
Panic surged. I reached for the phone and dialed, but my voice—nonexistent. I shoved the phone into my mother's hand, begging her to speak. But she couldn't. She was too stunned, too broken. Her silence echoed louder than mine.
By the time we acted, it was too late. He was already gone.
The next day, we buried my father. The air was heavy with incense and pity. Relatives gave me the same look they always did—like being a mute girl made me smaller, weaker, less.
After the rituals faded into silence, so did my mother. She moved like a ghost, floating through the house, barely acknowledging me. There was no food, no warmth. I survived on instant noodles, and silence became my only companion.
Then, one morning, she told me not to go to school.
Instead, she took me out for ice cream—again mango. We drove beyond the city, to a place I'd never seen before. There were children there, all around my age. My mother spoke softly with a woman at the gate, and then the woman walked towards me with a strange kind of smile.
She took my hand.
I clung to my mother's arm, heart racing. But she gently peeled my fingers away and whispered, "Just a few weeks. I'll be back. I promise." She even pinky swore.
And then she left.
I watched the back of her sari flutter down the road until it vanished completely.
Now, I sit alone in this place. No one talks to me—not really. A few children mock me when I try to sign, and the rest ignore me altogether. I don't belong here.
There's no Jacaranda tree.
No violet petals.
No home.
It's been three days.
And somewhere deep inside, I'm terrified that my mother isn't coming back. That she lied. That maybe… she's already forgotten I'm still just a girl.
Just a girl who cannot speak.
Just a girl who's still nine.