Free The Girl in the Garden by Kamala Nair

red, like a miniature ape’s. The skin was shiny and plastic, as if the top layer had been peeled off, exposing the rawness beneath. The hair was plentiful, and rose from her lumpy head in black spikes.
    I was going to be sick.
    “I have to go.” I turned and ran out the door, out of the hospital, past Vijay Uncle and Nalini Aunty, past Dev, past the line of staring patients, across the road, and back up the stairs to the safety of Ashoka where I gulped in the clean air of freedom.
    I wanted to find Amma; she was no longer in her bedroom. I went toward the sitting room. The door was closed and I could hear the muffled voices of a man and a woman on the other side.
    “I’ve missed you so much,” I heard Amma say.
    It was Aba she was talking to. It had to be. He had come for us. A senseless joy possessed me, leaving me dizzy. They were not going to get a divorce after all, and we were all going to spend the summer in Malanad together, happily.
    “Aba! Aba!” I burst into the room, almost choking on my words I was so excited. Aba was here and everything was going to be okay now.
    But it was not Aba. It was a stranger—a slender man wearing loose trousers and a white button-down shirt, with the sleeves rolled up over his elbows.
    Amma looked at me in shock. “Rakhee, your father is not here, you know that.”
    “Hello, Rakhee. I’m Prem, an old friend of your mum’s.” The man stepped in. His voice was very soft, very gentle.
    “Prem is an old friend of the family—we all used to play together when we were children.” Amma was speaking too fast.
    “I’ve heard so much about you, Rakhee. I’m happy to finally meet you.” The man was smiling at me. His eyes were a light brown color, like maple syrup.
    Anger welled up inside me, anger at Amma for ruiningeverything and looking at this man, this Prem, in a way I had never seen her look at Aba.
    “Why don’t you say something, molay? Don’t just stand there, it’s not polite,” Amma was saying, but they both seemed very far away, as if I was watching them through water.
    “I’m going to my room,” I heard myself say. “I want to be alone.”
    “Okay, if that’s what you want.” Amma’s brow was creased. “Please join us for dinner, though.”
    I turned and walked out. I was not going to my room. I wanted Amma to feel pain. I wanted to run away, to escape from Ashoka, from Malanad, from everything in it, even for one day, for one afternoon.
    I don’t know where everyone was, but the house was quiet, and when I walked purposefully out the front door, around the side of the house, and into the backyard, nobody was around to stop me. The cows and goats watched me go with dark, disapproving eyes.
    Rough weeds rose from the earth and encircled my bare ankles as I tumbled over the wall and landed on the other side. I brushed the dirt from my knees and got to my feet. It was not so scary now, in broad daylight. The trees and bushes shone an electric green. I glanced up. The branches of the tallest trees bowed under the weight of their leaves, forming an arched ceiling above the forest floor, and I felt as if I had entered a church. Through the intricate, screenlike pattern of leaves I could see patches of bold blue sky with not a cloud in sight.
    A couple of mynah birds were singing; Amma once told me that mynah birds were symbols of undying love because they paired and mated for life. The clear notes of their song floated down to me, comforted me, andcompelled me forward with a rare courage. Separating the chaos of snarled vegetation was a narrow pathway, like a neat surgical incision. On either side of the path were explosions of cobwebbed greenery that seemed to be sweating in the humidity. The air had the sharp smell of grass, moist soil, and flowers. I followed the dirt path, using my hands to brush away low, sweeping branches that stretched out protectively before me.
    I could hear Amma’s voice in my head.
If you love me, promise you’ll obey me and