Chapter 2: Seven Years of Running

2.

My mother was talking about my twin brother, who died when we were little.

His name, once spoken daily in our house, had become a forbidden word. His clothes still hung untouched in the cupboard, smelling of naphthalene and lost years. They always told me he died of illness, but it was clear now there was more to the story.

"Mummy, how did bhaiya really die? Aur abhi woh kya tha?"

The question hung in the air like incense smoke, curling into all the silent corners of our small flat. My mother didn’t answer. Panic-stricken, she grabbed a mask and pressed it to my face.

She fumbled with the elastic, hands trembling. It was a simple white cotton mask—one of the many she’d stitched during those lockdown years—frayed at the edges from too many washes. She pressed it against my face, voice hoarse.

"Beta, don’t ask. Jaldi mask pehen lo, saans dheere dheere lena."

Her "beta" was both a scolding and a caress, a way of holding on to her only surviving son. Honestly, at sixteen, I found it a bit much, but it was her way. And we had a strict rule:

After sunset, no one in our family is allowed to say my name.

This rule was as much a part of our lives as eating rice and dal for dinner or lighting a diya every evening. In fact, we tried not to say my name at all, but since I rarely went out at night, I never thought much of it.

Once, my mother called my name in her sleep in the middle of the night. When she woke up, she slapped herself so hard she drew blood.

I remember the sharp crack, waking up to find her rocking herself on the floor, muttering prayers. That night, we packed and fled as if our lives depended on it, leaving everything behind.

Back then, I was still a child. I didn’t understand anything, so I obeyed my parents in everything.

I remember clutching my schoolbag, still half-asleep, as we boarded the night train, my father scanning every shadow on the platform. Now, my father threw on a sweater and started packing, just like he had that time.

"Radha, jaldi karo—zaroori cheezein pack karo, abhi nikalna hai."

He didn’t wait for questions. His voice was sharp, like when he’s truly afraid. Leave? In the middle of the night—again?

In fact, we’d only lived here in Pune for less than two months.

The walls of this flat still smelled of fresh paint and disinfectant. Our neighbours barely knew us. For as long as I can remember, we’ve always been running.

South, north, small towns, big cities.

Place names blurred together—Patna, Nashik, Allahabad, Raipur, Bengaluru, Ahmedabad—like stations on a train that never stopped. Never more than a year anywhere.

My mother wiped her face, sobbing.

She pressed her dupatta to her eyes, trying to stop the tears. "Kab khatam hoga yeh sab bhaagna, chhupna? Kab milegi sukoon?"

She dragged over a suitcase. She shoved a tattered family album into the suitcase, the marigold garland slipping off the cover. I grabbed her hand.

Her fingers were icy, trembling. I held on tight, desperate for answers. "Mummy, batao toh sahi—kis se bhaag rahe hain hum saalon se? Abhi kya tha?"

My mother stroked my face.

Her thumb lingered on my cheek, where the slap’s sting would soon rise. Her eyes searched mine, begging me not to push for more.

"Beta, mat poochho. Yeh sab humari galti hai."

She said it like the words could shield me. I was tired of running, tired of secrets. But they wouldn’t tell me anything.

Anger bubbled up. I sat down on the floor, refusing to budge.

The marble’s chill seeped into my bones. I hugged my knees, jaw set. "Agar aaj raat sach nahi bataoge, toh main kahi nahi jaaunga."

My father, mid-packing, rushed over and slapped me hard across the face.

The slap echoed in the small room, sharper than the clang of temple bells. My cheek burned, but it was the sting of betrayal that made my eyes water. I bit my lip, refusing to let the tears fall. "Pagal ho gaya hai kya? Bhool gaya tujhe kya hua tha saat saal pehle?"

Saat saal pehle…

My head buzzed, and I saw again that blood-soaked courtyard in our old family home.

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*The courtyard: In many Indian towns and villages, families gather in a central open area to dry grains, chat, or play—here, it’s the family’s communal courtyard.*