Chapter 7: Blood and Chai

8

"Maa, I’m cold." The girl in the back seat began to shiver.

Her teeth chattered audibly. A gust of wind crept in through a tiny crack in the window, making the hair on my arms stand up.

Anjali quickly took off her shawl. "Here, wear Maa’s shawl."

She wrapped it around her daughter’s shoulders, tucking it close, her face drawn with worry.

As the girl turned around, she suddenly screamed, "Maa, you’re bleeding!"

Her eyes were wild, and she pointed at Anjali’s shoulder, panic etched across her features.

I didn’t see any blood in the rearview mirror, but the girl’s expression at that moment looked anything but fake.

The rest of us stared, frozen, as though waiting for something to emerge from the shadows.

Old Mehra quickly turned and grabbed the girl’s arm. "Where’s the blood? Your Maa’s shawl just has that pattern. Silly child, are you scared out of your wits?"

He tried to laugh, but the sound was brittle. His hand trembled as he squeezed her arm, trying to calm her.

When the girl turned back to look at Anjali again, Anjali had already wrapped herself in her shawl. "Maa’s fine, there’s no blood. You’re just imagining things. But it is a bit chilly in here—I felt cold as soon as I took off my shawl."

She tried to sound light-hearted, but her eyes flickered to mine, seeking silent confirmation.

"Let the girl sit in the front," I suggested. "The heater’s stronger up here. She’ll warm up soon."

I switched the heater on full blast, the warm air instantly fogging up the windshield a little.

Anjali and Old Mehra hesitated at first, but when the girl started shivering violently, they agreed.

They bundled her forward, fussing over her like any Indian parents would, adjusting her dupatta and tucking the shawl tighter before she slid into the front seat.

9

After switching seats with Old Mehra, the girl seemed much better.

She rubbed her hands together, blowing into her palms, cheeks flushed from the heater’s warmth. Old Mehra squeezed her shoulder, relief softening his features.

She looked at my face curiously, then suddenly smiled. "Uncle, you look like Bhima from Mahabharat."

Her voice was teasing, almost playful. I couldn’t help but chuckle, thinking of all the times my nieces used to compare me to mythological heroes during Sunday TV reruns.

I smiled too.

The tension broke for a moment. Even Anjali smiled, a hint of pride in her tired eyes.

She wasn’t wrong—I was born with rough features, a fierce look, and an unusually tall, sturdy build. Luckily, she wasn’t scared of me.

My friends from the lorry union always joked, “Rao, you could carry a sack of rice in each hand and not even break a sweat.”

I handed her my thermos. "Have something warm to drink. You’ll feel better soon."

The chai was sweet, with a hint of ginger and elaichi, the way my wife made it every morning before I left for a long haul.

The cup was steaming, the scent of chai mingling with cardamom and a dash of ginger—my wife’s secret recipe for the road.

She took the thermos and stared at it for a long time.

She ran her fingers along the handles, tracing the outline of the little rabbit.

It was milky white, with a pink rabbit painted on it, and two handles shaped like rabbit ears.

A gift from my daughter, years ago, now my lucky charm. The truck always felt safer when it was with me.

"Uncle, your cup is so cute."

Her laugh tinkled, the first true smile I’d seen from her all night.

She stroked the fuzzy ears. "I think I have one like this too…"

She frowned, eyes unfocused, as if seeing a different room—a faded photograph, a pink rabbit cup on a kitchen shelf.

She said it with a faraway look, as if the memory was just out of reach—a memory from another time, or perhaps another life.

10

"Really? Who gave it to you?"

I leaned in, genuinely curious. My own daughter used to love stories like this, and for a moment, I could almost hear her giggle from the passenger seat. The road stretched ahead, mysterious and silent, as if waiting for the answer.

I blinked, and she was gone. But the scent of mogra lingered, sweet and ghostly, as if someone had whispered my name.