Sister: Night Attack On My Little

Not at his head. My grandmother had taught me: Aim for the hand that holds the weapon. A man without a hand is just a man.

I didn’t think. I grabbed the iron pestle my grandmother used to grind spices—heavy, cold, a foot long.

When the village came with lanterns and lathis, the men were gone. Only the knife remained, lying in the dust near the well. And one small, sandaled footprint—Meera’s—leading away from the dark. night attack on my little sister

The iron connected with his wrist. I felt bones give—a crack like a dry branch. The knife spun into the dust. He howled, a raw animal sound, and staggered back, clutching his arm.

We burst into the headman’s courtyard, and I banged on the iron bell meant for fires and floods. Not at his head

I looked at my hands. They were still wrapped around the pestle. My knuckles were white.

We ran.

The next morning, my mother washed Meera’s feet. There were cuts on the soles. She did not cry.