The Mud, 1941

My body rolls and curves along these hills where houses are nestled, stacked on top of each other. I can feel the weight of the homes, some built from my own body. I lie within the infrastructure and beneath the feet of people walking around all day long. There are people with skin the colour of mine: warm and earthy. And there are those with skin the colour of clouds who walk very much like they were in the sky—floating about with their heads held up. I have watched them change Simla and populate it, especially when the season becomes pleasant and the sun stays out longer.

There is a white house, all alone, higher up in the hills and a family walks up to it. A woman with hair the colour of lemon beams alongside her two golden children; an elegant man trudges up ahead, eager to enter his new home and view the mountainous terrain; a frail, dark man heaves luggage up the steep slope; another woman, hunched over, trails the family and blends with the colour of my own body. She is nobody, just like the rest of them.

“Susan and Michael, what do you think of your new home?” The lemon-haired woman speaks. I sense her name is Mary—I have always been good with names.

“It’s so big!” The little girl trills.

“So, so big,” Michael says. Mary turns to her husband and both of them nudge their chins up, righteous and dignified.

“Madam, where should we put the luggage?” The other woman asks. Kranta.

“Just by the door is fine,” Mary speaks with precision, but there is a filthy undertone. I never understand the way humans speak. There is a river flowing beneath each word—hard to follow or interpret.

Kranta nudges the man strapped with luggage to do as commanded, and he skitters off into the house as discreetly as a mouse. He leaves through the back door moments later, unnoticed.

“It is so nice here, David. I don’t know why we didn’t come sooner. I was sweating like an animal in the awful heat.”

“We will come here every summer.” David places an arm around Mary’s slim waist.

As Mary, David, Susan, Michael, and Kranta enter the glistening home—like a dove nestled in the lush green—I feel something move. There is a twitch and my body begins to loosen. The fluffy clouds above turn dense and grey; there is the faint sound of thunder shattering on me somewhere far away. But the glorious golden candy in the sky continues to shed light, deceiving the world below of the looming storm. I can imagine the rain pouring over me till I turn slick and slide down the slope all the way to the white house. I’m not worried.

Mary and David are on the balcony soon enough with cups of tea in their nimble fingers. Crumbs stick to the edge of Mary’s plump lips, but she is unaware of them, her head still held high as she looks over Simla.

“I just wish the weather would stay like this everywhere,” Mary says. She takes a deep breath. It is my odour, earthy and sweet, which fills her nose.

“It doesn’t matter, because we can go anywhere we want,” David remarks.

“That’s true. And Kranta can make a perfect cup of tea anywhere we are.”

“Are you happy with Kranta’s work?”

“Well, yes, I am. She had a lot to learn, but now she is doing everything well.” Mary smiles with her wide, dazzling teeth.

“Yeah, they all have a lot to learn.” David raises his eyebrows and smirks. His freckled and contorted face appears lacklustre as the sun shines a spotlight over him.

When the door shuts with a clamour, Mary leans over the railing to find Kranta trudge through the grass to a small house hidden behind trees. Mary watches Kranta like an object, completely unashamed by her long, derisive stare. While it isn’t noticeable, Kranta flicks her gaze up to the balcony with an equal amount of contempt.

A loud rumble in the sky shot both David's and Mary’s eyes upwards.

“It looks like a storm is coming,” David says.

I want to tell him he was right and the storm was going to be a big one. I can feel some mud preemptively roll down and hit the back wall of the house, where no one could see.

“At least we’ll be safe indoors. Do you know if Susan and Michael are inside?” David asks.

“Yes, I tucked them into bed early. They are both tired from the train journey. Remember, poor Susan got quite ill.”

“She looked a lot better once she stepped off the train into the fresh air,” David says.

“She did, thankfully.” Mary turns toward the small house covered by trees just when Kranta heads down the hills. “Where does she think she’s going?”

She tends to bubble with rage, so David coaxes her into the room, “I'm sure she'll be back soon. We should also get some rest. The journey was fatiguing.”

A small droplet falls onto the balcony railing, clinging to the curved metal. And then a gentle rain begins to spatter.

“I really hope there isn’t a big storm tonight. Susan can never sleep when it is raining and especially when it is thundering.” Mary clenches her jaw. As much as her love for Susan bore deep in her chest, at times Mary just wants to shake all the flaws from her daughter’s little body. Susan is too timid—she trembles at the sound of thunder and screams at the sight of ants. Mary is revolted by the annoyance she feels towards her daughter at that moment. But soon, sleep weighs her down and she sinks into the mattress.

The splatter of rain increases and I feel there is more water to come. There is going to be a waterfall from the sky, soaking my entire body till I turn to sludge. I know I am going to slide down very soon and bury Susan, Michael, Mary, David, and Kranta. I will fill their noses and their mouths and hold their arms down, so there is no way to escape. Their faces will contort as they suffocate, and then death will come for them. The windows of the house will shatter and the pristine furniture will be covered with me. Despite the destruction, I will keep sliding and sliding until the rain once again reduces to a pitter patter and the sun peeks up over the horizon.