Chapter 4: Washing Off the Past

Before bed, I filled my old blue bucket to the brim, wanting to wash away the dirt, the pain, the memories. As I peeled off my clothes, the bruises on my arms and thighs glared back, angry and purple. I caught sight of Amma’s old neem loofah—she used it as a child, she said, to scrub away the day’s dust. I grabbed it and scrubbed at my skin, as if I could erase last night, my motions growing frantic, skin burning red. But the memories clung as stubbornly as Mumbai humidity—impossible to wash off.

I was so sore, I couldn’t sleep. I lay awake, listening to the distant whistle of a pressure cooker in someone else’s flat. As expected, Arjun didn’t message. Our six-year ritual of saying goodnight over WhatsApp—broken, just like that. I told myself it was for the best. Might as well start now, instead of later. I drifted into uneasy sleep just before dawn, exhaustion finally dragging me under.

In that brief twilight, I dreamt someone kissed my forehead, gentle as a blessing.