Rushing through the afternoon busyness, I move from the sidelines of Alwar and onto the highway. The cacophony of city life gives way to the hum of the regulated rhythm of my truck’s speed. Rain is lashing on my windshield, making an inconsistent  music that feels uncharacteristic of the arid Rajasthan that we have accustomed ourselves to. 

Stopping over for a security check, I crane my head over the window as the checker signals me to pass through. The truck snakes its way through the alternate arrangement of the barricade and suddenly comes to a halt. 

Did I just press the brakes or a ghost took over me?

Before I could dwell on it further, I heard someone banging on the side of my truck. I open the gate from the passenger’s side and in hops a tiny frame, her drenched dupatta plastered on her head, covering her face partially. “Can you drop me at the scissor point towards Ajmer?” She asks. Her body shakes in spasms making her voice quiver. 

It isn’t as cold for someone to feel a shiver.

 I nod, firing the engine back into action. Silence hangs between us.

I could’ve refused. I could’ve asked her to not manipulate me into thinking that she needed my help. She could be an absconding convict, or worse—a killer!

She takes off her dupatta, squeezes it out of the window, and as she turns I find a familiar face. 

“Meera?” I am stunned. 

What kind of a turn of events is this? My gaze moves down at her bulging belly. What’s a pregnant Meera doing in the middle of the road asking strangers for a lift back home?

 “Are you traveling home?”

She’s surprised to see me. “Rafiq?” Her voice is soft and measured. “Hmm.” A feeble smile emerges on her lips. Instantly, I am transported to a time when as teenagers we’d held hands to promise togetherness for eternity. Save for the religion card, the families had nothing else to object to, when, as adults, we went to them to plead. Not long after, she was married off, leaving behind the scattered pieces of her heart. And mine. No grand declarations. No rescue fantasies.

And now, we were this close and yet a world apart. Will she reach my heart now?

As we near the town, Meera asks me to stop. We’re still a hundred kilometers away from our village. She wants to walk the rest of the way. 

“Where to?” Would the concern in my voice sound intrusive?

Stepping out she turns towards me, “to a women’s shelter I found online.” Thirteen years and I have lost all authority to ask her any questions. I don’t insist otherwise.

I reach over to my arm and pluck a brass talisman that my mother had given me and hand it to her. “For strength.” I say.  I know she needs plenty. She hesitates, and takes it.

As she walks away, I whisper to myself, “This time, let her reach where she’s meant to.”