the girl who lived

words by Sarayu Kurra, art by Mariam Seshan

may 2023

i watched my daughter unload the car, her skin glistening with perspiration from my heavy endeavors. she refused to let me help, claiming that my supposed “fragility” would hinder me from such activities, while i retorted that her birth itself was a testament to my strength. 

she left me in a chasm of my belongings at the new apartment that she had bought for me. every belonging signified every memory i had with her, knowing she was my greatest strength in each time of weakness. the green snow globe that she got me for christmas when we had just lost our own house to a snowstorm, the Wicked tickets she bought me on our road trip to New York when i learned that i’d been replaced at work, the aloe vera plant she got me when i was healing from my surgery. and now this green apartment, smelling of eucalyptus and mud. i knew it hurt her to leave, as she got in the car and drove away to her new life with her partner. but i knew i couldn’t have her stay. it would be soon that she learns why.

i opened my trunk and felt the tornado twirl, filled with bodies, blood, and blame. i breathed in the ash of the past, and my belongings were replaced by the chasm created by the tornado’s eye. i blinked. i counted. i prayed. And then i heard her voice. 

may 1973

underneath my grandmother’s mango tree, samaira and i lay, our hands sticky from mango juice and our laughs as sweet as the mango’s core. we incessantly joked about how mrs. khush reprimanded us for the prank we constructed at school, knowing full well it demonstrated more creativity than any of the homework we got assigned. 

“are you going to the festival tonight?”

“i have to, my parents are basically hosting it”

i rolled my eyes. sometimes, i wished that my parents were less outspoken. maybe then, they wouldn’t be running around, coordinating policies with the mayor, managing the town’s finances, and hosting all the big events. maybe if we had a little less influence, i could wear my hair the way i wanted and not worry about it being unkempt, i could let my heart lead instead of my head, and i could feel like i was flying, instead of swimming through my dreadful life.

samaira beamed. “at least we have each other,” to which i chuckled. there was nothing that could deter this girl. not even being in the eye of the tornado that is this busy town.

—

i put on my blue lehenga and smoothed out the skirt, admiring its intricate embroidery. i guess there were some advantages to having a bit more wealth. 

my mother yelled my name, snapping me out of my daze. 

“let’s go! we’re going to be late!”

i rolled my eyes. wow, what an abomination. to arrive late to an event that will hold no significance in fifty years.

as we drove into town, i gasped at the sights outside of my window. the entire town was decorated in lanterns, with brightly colored streamers hanging above the busy street. carts sprinkled about the bustling road, filled with elders bargaining with cart-owners. musicians played their guitars and sang unapologetically about their long-lost loves. 

i saw samaira with her parents. she looked beautiful in her green kurta. 

“can you stop the car here? i see samaira.”

it was my mother’s turn to roll her eyes.

“i don’t know why you spend so much time with that incompetent girl.” she turned to my father. “you know her parents are going through a rough patch financially. clever girl chooses her friendships wisely.”

i gritted my teeth. samaira wasn’t like that. she didn’t care about my money; no measure of wealth mattered to her. she cares about me. and i care about her. 

i jumped out of the car and jogged to her, bunching my lehenga in my hands. 

“hi!”

“hello.”

“look, i bought us both cups of sugarcane juice!”

i smiled at her gratefully. i knew it must have been difficult for her to spend what little money her family had left.

“thank you.”

samaira smiled back. “of course.”

as she and i walked down the swamped street, teasing each other about our misfortunes, i realized that this was enough. enough for me to be grateful for. enough to define my success. enough for me to be ha-

there was a shriek, as loud and alarming as an ambulance truck pressed up against your ear. and then a crash. quiet. murmuring. there were rocks in the sky. i blinked, not believing my eyes, and counted. 7. 8. 9. 10. it continued to hurtle towards us. 

and when the people around me started running. when the monstrosity before me labeled us all as equals, i got on my knees and prayed.

blood marked every tile on the street, seeping into crevices forever stained by who once was. bodies lay still and silent, crossing the barrier that separated the living from the dead. there were screams and stomps as people ran, in hopes that doing so would grant them salvation. 

someone grabbed my hand. it was not samaira’s. this hand was rough and calloused, hinting at past grievances.

“come with me.” the man said. 

the mayor

i shook my head, looking through the smoke for samaira. the man tugged at my arm, as i protested. 

and then i saw her. she looked straight at me with nothing beyond her gaze. 

why was she okay?  why was the tornado not devouring her like it did the townspeople? like it did my family?

the mayor locked his narrowing eyes with samaira and his mouth fell agape before he flew, convulsing in fear. but he didn’t let go of my arm. 

was it worth it at the end?  i wanted to ask him. to save a soul rich in blue diamonds than a soul rich in green life? 

i close my eyes and see samaira’s blank stare. and though i was flying, it paled in comparison to the heights i reached with her. the world ceased its spinning, and my breath hung in the silence.

may 2023

there was a knock. my eyes flashed open, and my body started to shake. 

was i having another episode? it couldn’t be. i resolved to stay away from everyone to ensure that nothing could happen to them like it did to…her. 

i swam to another world, leaving the whispers of my sins behind. and I soared once more the day my daughter was born, lifted by her breath into the sky anew.

yet nothing could compare to the heights i reached with… her.

i walked to the door, one foot in front of the other, and twisted the handle. the smell of a bundt cake greeted me. 

“hi! we’re your new neighbors! i’m pam and this is my husband, bill!” 

i took a deep breath and smiled at these stranger’s faces. taking the cake, i spoke,

“hello! it’s to nice to meet you. im samaira khush.”