Chapter 3: Mother Moves On

Three years passed like that. The world slowed, marked only by changing seasons and festivals I could no longer join. My grave grew more forgotten with every passing day.

One afternoon, Amma brought a new uncle to my grave. He was tall, moustached, with a gentle smile. Amma’s saree was a cheerful pink, her gold bangles jingling with a new hope. For the first time in years, her eyes were brighter.

She plucked grass from my mound, one blade at a time, murmuring prayers under her breath. Her lips moved in silent conversation with me, her lost child.

When Amma came, I felt a flutter of happiness. She looked lighter, her sadness replaced by a quiet hope. She wore her favourite bindi again.

I greeted her, "Mummy, you’re here! I’ve been practising—look, I can count to a hundred!" I twirled, hoping she could see how much I’d learned, how I tried to make her proud.

"Mummy, do you miss me? Should Meera send you a dream?" Sometimes I snuck into her dreams, leaving messages in the rustle of leaves or the chirping of sparrows.

"Mummy, who is this uncle? Is he your good friend?" His hands were rough, his shirt freshly ironed. He seemed kind, gentle, the sort who walked long distances without complaint.

Before I could finish, Amma spoke first. She knelt by my grave, tracing my name on the stone, her voice trembling: "Meera, Mum is going to leave here."

I lowered my head. "Leaving is normal, Mum…" I tried to sound brave, but my heart twisted at the thought of being left again. I remembered her stories of birds flying away and coming home, clinging to hope.

Amma unpacked her bag, arranging piles of orange, mango, and cola lollipops in front of my grave. She stacked them as she did in my tiffin during exam days, as if I’d still crave their sweetness. Before, I was allowed only one a day. Now I could have as many as I wanted.

I ran my fingers through the wrappers, wishing I could taste the sugar again. The bright colours brought back memories of summer evenings on our balcony.

She placed the food carefully and tugged uncle’s hand. "Mum is getting married… He’s a very good person. If Meera were here, uncle would definitely love you too." Her voice was soft, hopeful. Uncle smiled at my grave and nodded as if he could see me, legs crossed, listening.

Uncle squatted down, folding his hands in namaste. His Hindi was musical, laced with a Tamil accent: "Meera beta, don’t worry, okay? I take care of your Amma, promise."

I squeezed between them with a smile, "Mummy, uncle, you two go ahead. Meera… Meera will take good care of herself." I stood tall, pretending to be strong as they turned away, sending Amma all my silent blessings.

Before leaving, Amma wiped her eyes with her saree’s edge, forcing a smile for uncle’s sake. Her voice wavered, "Meera, if you miss Mum, send me a dream, okay?"

The only answer was the tall grass swaying in the wind. The breeze carried her words away. I tried to reply, but my voice was lost in the dusk.

Uncle hugged Amma, wiping her tears. She clung to him, her tears soaking his shirt—a new beginning written in their embrace.

Two more years passed. No one came to my grave. The grass grew tall, the earth swallowing my little mound. Even the toys Papa left were buried, forgotten by all but me.

Sometimes stray dogs dug nearby, but even the crows didn’t come anymore. I was alone, even among the dead.

So, when Papa and the aunty next door walked by holding my little sister, they didn’t stop at all. Their laughter echoed down the road, Riya’s bangles tinkling as they passed. I watched them, feeling like a stranger in my own story.

But in that silence, a cold hunger grew in my bones—a hunger that would not let me rest.