Chapter 1: The Girl at My Grave

Before my next birth, a little girl began coming to my grave. She’d call out to my tomb, crying ‘Ma’, and every few days she’d bring me offerings—sometimes a tiffin of poha, sometimes a bright marigold mala, sometimes just a few sweets she’d saved from the local mithaiwala.

Sometimes, her hands would tremble as she set the tiffin on the cold earth, her eyes darting around as if someone from the basti might scold her for wandering out so late. She’d wipe her nose on her sleeve, glance at her battered chappals, and fidget with her faded school ID card. The smell of poha mixed with agarbatti, the marigolds glowing orange in the morning sun. Once, she left a jalebi from Gupta Sweets, syrup still sticky on the brown paper.

I never had the heart to appear and tell her, “Beta, this is my grave—your Ma isn’t here.”

Every time she folded her hands, mumbling prayers, I wanted to reach out and say, ‘Arey beta, you’re making a mistake.’ But some misunderstandings are so tender, you feel afraid to break them. In the quiet shade of the cemetery, I watched silently, pigeons fluttering above the banyan tree’s branches.

After a bout of weeping, she started coming even more, begging for my help to find her Ma.

Her tiny voice would echo through the graveyard: “Ma, please, help me. Just one sign, na? Please?” Her tears would soak into the dusty earth. Sometimes, she’d clutch her schoolbag to her chest, like kids do when the principal passes by in assembly—like it was her only shield in the world.

The day I finally got news of her Ma, the little girl collapsed before me, covered in blood.

The afternoon sun was burning, but her face was so pale. Her school uniform—already threadbare—was stained deep red. The chill that swept over me was not from the wind.

She asked, “If I die, will I be able to see my Ma?”

Her words shook with a hope only the most desperate ever feel. She stared at me with eyes that looked far too old for her small face, as if she’d already surrendered to the world. My heart twisted painfully.

Unable to hold back anymore, I finally told her the truth: “After your Ma died, her bones were turned to ash, her soul locked away in a mandir, never to be reborn. Even if you die, beta, you won’t meet her.”

The words were as bitter as karela. I saw the last flame of hope die in her eyes. But I forced myself to speak—sometimes, even the harshest truth is an act of mercy.

She reached into the emptiness, found my hand, and pleaded, “My Ma was a great general—she protected the country. She shouldn’t have suffered like this. You have big powers, you can show up even in daylight—please, help me save her…”

Her grip was weak but stubborn, the kind of stubbornness only Indian daughters have when they refuse to accept injustice. As if, by sheer will, she could pull her Ma back from fate itself. I just couldn’t turn away.

Hearing her, I replied, “Theek hai.”

The way her shoulders relaxed for a second—it broke something in me. She believed my promise, because it was all she had left to believe in.

With that, the little girl breathed her last. I called Yamdoot and told him, “No more searching for a good family. I want to be reborn in this very body.”

The wind shifted. Somewhere, a distant temple bell rang out. I looked up at the purple sky, feeling the world itself mourn. Yamdoot, with his pale face and tired eyes, just nodded. Sometimes, the biggest sacrifices are the ones nobody sees.

Tonight, the dead would not rest until justice was done.