Breadcrumb #688
Chinmay Rastogi
She drives her motorcycle off the Old Silk route, leaving winding tarmac roads behind. Stones and pebbles kneaded into the dirt break the monotonous trumpet of her vehicle’s thump as she manoeuvres the fractured path. Her hold on the handle weakens when she grips the fuel tank with her legs, something she’d learned to do to better negotiate jagged terrains. An hour of bumpy ride later, she turns into the forest running along her right.
This time, she is not looking for a spot to lay down a sheet and spend an afternoon eating pakoras and blowing cigarette smoke into concentric circles - she recently stopped smoking because it doesn’t affect just her anymore. This time, she has not deviated from the dirt track, where other adventure seekers might have found their way, just to get away from people - she met someone a year ago. This time, she isn’t out to bask in the spring sun and be with nature in the hills of North-East India.
She learned something new about her body this week and wants to share it with the fat man who’d tried siccing his dog at her when she was first here two years ago. The poor dog had run up to her to do his master’s bidding but was old and ran out of breath by the time he reached her. He was glad to be petted and fondled, his tail weighed down by his age wagging like a heavy whip. His owner, quarantining himself from humans, was harder to befriend. But it was a cold evening, and she had rum and snacks.
“That was how she had unearthed friendship with the once famous archaeologist who had half a mind to turn into a prized relic.”
She kills the engine when his small hut comes in view. Tyres roll with a comforting whir on the supple grass. When the motorcycle exhausts its momentum and comes to a halt, she takes off her helmet and untangles her hair. The lack of sound inside the hut tells her he is perhaps sleeping. The woods are pregnant with stillness save for her fluttering hair and the carousel-shaped wind chime hanging at the hut’s entrance. She gets off. Bougainvillea petals litter the path, colouring it pink. Just as she’d thought, she finds him sleeping. But his posture and placement are unnatural.
Her brain goes into overdrive.
Moments later, her shriek rips apart the quiet surroundings.
It’s dawn by the time she’s done filling up the hole in the ground. She places the newspaper article with his name on its masthead as the headstone. She doesn’t want him resting in an unmarked grave, despite his strong desire to wipe his name from the world’s memory. For the second time in a week, she feels something in her belly. The first was a bloom. This is something wilting.