Free The Girl in the Road by Monica Byrne

Mehrdad exchange a look. “Jinn,” says Misbah.
    â€œWhat?” I say.
    â€œHe’s saying Bloody Mary is a spirit,” says Mehrdad. “Yes, I’ve heard of her. The graving docks of the Trail were in Djibouti, not Mumbai, and apparently one of the construction workers died while the Trail was being laid out. So they claim her ghost haunts the Trail now.” He waves his hand. “African superstition.”
    I see that Misbah has finished. He presents my full backpack like a wedding cake, then bids me turn around and hold out my arms so that he can thread the straps around them. They have me walk around the store with it on. They want to make sure I’m happy with my purchase. I am.
    So Misbah gestures to my outfit, laid out. I go behind the curtain and dress in a white tank top, white drawstring pants, and second skins on my feet. I also take the opportunity to change my bandage. The wounds have stopped bleeding and are five maroon dots, now, like five bindis, each with a halo of red infection.
    I come out in my new outfit and now there’s only one thing left to do. I hold out my wrist to Mehrdad. My mitter glows. Once the money transfers, anyone can know where I am, if they want to.
    He smiles and holds his wrist to mine. His mitter pings and glows green. He says, “Khuda Hafiz.”
    My glotti says,
    URDU : Go with God.
Ballad of the Trail Snake
    So now the proverbial clock is ticking.
    First I leave my bundle of old clothes in the street in Dharavi. They’ll get used. Then I use more of my cash to buy a ride back to Marine Drive, this time with a driver, a taciturn African man. I have mixed feelings toward him. I suppress the urge to tell him I’m going to Africa. I don’t want to be That Indian Woman.
    I get out near Nariman Point and walk to the very end of the seawall, a tourist spot with lots of people at this hour, scanning for any sign of the barefoot girl or any other pursuer. I see none. I shade my eyes from the sunlight until I see the Trail. It lies on the surface of the sea like a white garland.
    I can’t go in the daylight. My plan is to hide nearby until nightfall and then swim out to the head of the Trail. I don’t know where I’ll hide and I don’t know where I’ll enter the water. I’m just making up a plan, trusting that, in its execution, all basic physical principles will hold, like the yield of seawater to the force of my hands.
    I sit on the edge of the seawall like a dozen other Mumbaikars, looking south toward the multibillion-dollar high-rises across the break. Looking casual. I look down and it’s a two-meter drop to the breakwater, a tumble of slimy concrete jacks. The two meters were added to deal with the ocean rising. When I bend over to examine the seawall, for the first time I see that there are squares cut into the stone to dissipate the surf, like the jacks do. If I can climb down, I can sit inside one of the squares until night falls. No one will be able to see me unless they crawl down onto the jacks, and what are they going to do? I look like a sadhvi. They’ll leave me alone.
    So I have a plan.
    Should I do a puja? Maybe I should do a puja. I’m not a very religious person. I celebrate whatever parts of religion give me an excuse to eat and dance. Mohini was much more solemn, a mystic, a contemplative. She tried to get me to take it seriously. She went to temple in the morning to get her forehead smeared, and when she came home, I let her smear my forehead in turn, because she had more authority to me than any priest.
    But I think this occasion warrants a puja. For a safe passage to Africa. If I’m really doing this. Which it seems I am.
    I drop down onto the jacks and pick through them for trash. I find seashells, a blue and silver Nordi bottle wrapper, and a gnawed Parle-G glucose biscuit, perfect for offering. Now I just need something to be a murti. There has to be a murti submerged