บท 2: Mother's death
On this serene evening in the quaint village of KISAN, nestled close to the formidable "Wall of Death," a tranquil routine unfolded against the canvas of the setting sun. The sky, painted in hues of orange as dusk approached, cast a mesmerizing spell over the landscape.
As the sun gradually descended, the cool breeze whispered through the village, gently stirring the leaves. The residents of KISAN, dedicated to their agrarian lifestyle, engaged in the ritual of filling lanterns with kerosene, preparing for the impending darkness that cloaked the streets nightly—a mundane yet essential chore.
Despite the world's advancements in technology, the villagers here embraced an ancient way of life, dependent on the fertile land for their livelihoods. Their village, a small cluster of around 50 families, hummed with a familiar rhythm. Each homestead kindled a roaring bonfire, a defense against the prowling wild creatures that roamed the night. The symphony of insects' chirrups, amplified in the serene stillness, resonated through the air.
Amidst this tranquility, the moon, a radiant beacon in the night sky, bestowed its silvery glow upon the village. However, the calm was abruptly shattered by a piercing cry—a voice filled with anguish that reverberated throughout the village, causing a stir among its inhabitants.
The picturesque serenity of the village shattered into a scene of unspeakable tragedy. Zia, a 10-year-old girl clad in a once-pristine white frock, was now drenched in blood—her own tears mingling with the crimson stains. Her eyes, bright emeralds now clouded with sorrow, scanned the onlookers with a mute plea for solace.
In a harrowing display, Zia trudged along the rough dirt road, every step exacerbating her wounds. Her fragile frame bore the unimaginable weight of her mother's lifeless form, her torn dress and bloodied hair telling a tale of utter desolation.
As she gently laid her mother's body on the ground, a crowd converged, their faces devoid of empathy. The eerie silence was disrupted only by Zia's mournful wails—a lone voice amidst the hushed whispers of the villagers.
Althea, Zia's mother, bore the brutal marks of a tiger's claws upon her face, her stomach torn open, an unspeakable sight that left Zia's heart in tatters. Yet, the villagers' murmurs were a cacophony of blame and condemnation.
"I knew this was inevitable..."
"The cursed child must have caused her mother's demise."
"Didn't she bring doom upon her father too?"
"Should we rid ourselves of her to ensure our safety?"
These cruel words pierced Zia's already fractured world, the villagers casting their judgment upon her without remorse. Her life had been a solitary struggle, marked by incessant bullying at school. Her mother, Althea, had been her sole pillar of support, but now, even that refuge was snatched away.
Althea's prowess in magic had instilled fear in the villagers, and with her demise, their disdain for Zia poured forth without restraint. They scorned her openly, now that they believed themselves safe from any retribution.
In the wake of unspeakable loss, Zia found herself alone in a world that had turned its back on her, surrounded by a sea of accusations and condemnation.
The bustling crowd dissipated into silence, leaving Zia alone with her mother's lifeless form, a poignant stillness that echoed her profound loss. Amidst her anguished weeping, she gathered the strength to conduct the last rites—a solemn duty that fell upon her shoulders as Althea's only daughter.
In Hindu tradition, the ritual of cremation is believed to release the soul from its earthly vessel, allowing it to transcend to the afterlife. For Zia, this meant procuring firewood to cremate her mother's body—a task usually done by a male family member.
With no means to purchase the required firewood, Zia scoured her home for any semblance of currency, finding a meager sum that fell short of what she needed. Determined to honor her mother's soul, she turned to the villagers, pleading for aid. Knocking on doors, her pleas for assistance met harsh rejection, the villagers' contempt for her and her late mother outweighing any compassion.
Denied even the most basic assistance, her desperate efforts failed. The weight of despair settled heavily upon her young shoulders, draining her of hope. With a heart heavy with guilt and sorrow, Zia returned to her mother's side, unable to fulfill the rites necessary for her peaceful passing.
Consumed by remorse and anguish, she sought solace in tears that refused to flow, her despair leaving her numb and hollow. Apologetic thoughts tormented her, the weight of perceived responsibility crushing her spirit.
"I am sorry, Mom. It's my fault you can't find peace. I am so sorry!" Her anguished thoughts reverberated, tears refusing to offer solace. Exhausted and defeated, she retreated into a desolate corner, burying her face in her hands, the depths of her grief enveloping her in a sorrowful embrace.
As night descended, she surrendered to a fitful slumber, her pain-laden tears dampening her face as she drifted into an agonizing and lonely sleep, her world steeped in sorrow and despair.
In the depths of night, when despair clung to her like a heavy shroud, a warm touch jolted Zia from her restless slumber. It was Mr. Harper, the venerable village head—a beacon of unexpected kindness amidst the cold indifference of the villagers.
With a gentle yet firm grasp, Harper guided Zia toward a pile of firewood, ample enough to honor her mother's passage to the afterlife. In that moment, a glimmer of hope pierced her despair, igniting tears of gratitude that streamed down her face. Falling to her knees, she humbly offered thanks, feeling a sense of blessed relief amid her grief.
"It's alright, my child," Harper's soothing voice reassured her, his paternal touch offering solace in her moment of need. Assisting her in positioning her mother's body upon the wood, Harper stood by her side, a silent pillar of support in her hour of agony.
As Zia hesitated before kindling the wood, a wave of trepidation swept over her—an overwhelming realization that this act would sever her final tie with her beloved mother. But Harper's encouraging words steadied her resolve, urging her to grant her mother the peace she deserved in the afterlife.
Summoning her courage, Zia ignited the wood, the flickering flames casting an eerie glow upon her mother's serene face. A poignant moment of farewell ensued, tears flowing freely as the flames consumed her mother's earthly form.
Harper's gentle guidance and empathetic presence offered her comfort in this heart-wrenching moment. His words, a balm to her sorrow, echoed in the night, urging her to release her tears but not let them linger—a testament to the kindness he showed in her darkest hour.
Crying unabashedly, Zia found solace in Mr. Harper's silent company, a compassionate figure standing resolutely beside her as the flames consumed her mother's body, bidding farewell to a cherished soul.
The offer of shelter and care from Mr. Harper, coupled with his previous acts of kindness, stirred a glimmer of hope in Zia's heart. With gratitude in her eyes, she swiftly accepted his invitation, rushing inside her modest abode to freshen up before leaving with him.
Emerging from her home after a quick bath and change of clothes, Zia found Mr. Harper waiting patiently outside her door. Without a word, she followed his lead, trailing behind him as they embarked on their journey.
Their destination was Harper's imposing brick house—a structure that stood as a testament to his wealth and influence. Beyond his role as the village head, he held a revered status among the locals, a position he had maintained for close to two decades.
As they approached his residence, a sense of relief washed over Zia. For the first time, she felt a glimmer of acceptance and kindness, a stark contrast to the disdain she had faced within the village. Little did she know, within the ostensibly safe confines of Mr. Harper's house lay secrets and dangers lurking beneath the surface—secrets that would soon unravel in ways she could never have imagined.
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