While pulling lobster pots from the bay, Finn chanced upon the mermaid. His mind was on Jenny, dark with worry, when the mermaid appeared alongside his boat. An old friend once told him of a legend
...
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The last thing Meera said to her mother was, "I wish you'd leave me alone."
Six hours later, her mother was dead.
They had argued over a scholarship overseas. Her mother had hidden the acceptance letter.
"You had no right," Meera said.
"I was going to tell you."
"When? After the deadline?"
Her mother twisted the end of her red saree around one finger, as she did when she was worried.
"You can study somewhere closer."
"I'm twenty, Ma. I'm not asking permission."
Meera stormed into the rain. Her mother followed.
"Will you just listen to me?"
Meera turned. "What now?"
"Watch out!"
Headlights flashed. Someone shoved her onto the pavement. When Meera looked up, her mother was lying in the road.
At the hospital, Meera remembered only two words.
I'm sorry.
After the funeral, relatives left behind food and advice. Eat something. Get some sleep. Be strong.
Her father had slept on the sofa in his funeral clothes. Meera went upstairs but stopped outside her mother's bedroom.
A novel lay face down beside the bed. Meera always said it ruined the spine. Her red scarf hung over the armchair near the window.
Meera wrapped it around her shoulders. She could smell the jasmine.
She sat in the chair and felt something beneath the cushion: a small diary, full of random notes, lists and recipes. One entry was twenty years old.
The doctors say she won't survive the night. I can't accept it.
A few pages later:
I went to the shrine behind the old market. They say the deity grants wishes made from the bottom of the heart. I asked for my daughter's life. I offered mine in return.
The next entry was dated a week later.
Meera is home. She cries all night. I have never heard a more beautiful sound.
Meera knew she'd been a sick baby, but not about the shrine.
"Ma, what did you do?"
For an instant, she could picture her mother in the chair, peering over her glasses.
What any mother would do, she imagined her saying.
Meera nearly walked past the shrine.
It stood between two old buildings beyond the market, down a narrow lane. Banyan roots had cracked the pavement around a weathered idol. Bells hung from the branches.
An elderly woman sat threading jasmine garlands.
"Does this place actually grant wishes?" Meera asked.
"Depends what you're asking for."
"Something impossible."
The woman shrugged. "Then you've come to the right place."
Meera bought a garland and knelt before the idol.
"She gave me everything," she whispered. "And I couldn't even be kind to her."
She bowed her head.
"Please. Let her come home. Take me instead. I want to trade places with her."
A bell rang.
Meera looked up. Nobody was near it.
Another rang, then a third. Suddenly every bell in the banyan tree began swinging. Wind tore through the lane, scattering flowers and slamming shop shutters. People ran for shelter. The flower seller fled.
Meera tried to stand, but the gust forced her down. Through the dust she glimpsed a woman beside the idol, the loose end of a red saree whipping around her.
"Ma?"
The figure turned.
Everything stopped.
The bells fell silent. The wind vanished.
"Madam?"
The flower seller had returned. "Are you all right?"
Meera glanced at her hands. The skin was creased, the fingers broader. A small burn scar marked her wrist.
In the dark window of a closed shop, her mother's face stared back.
Her father opened the door before she found her key.
"Kavita? Where have you been?"
On the living-room table stood Meera's photograph, surrounded by white flowers.
Her father said their daughter had died. When Meera tried to explain, he asked if she needed a doctor.
Eventually, she stopped.
The next morning, she returned to the shrine.
"Do you remember the wind last night?" she asked the flower seller.
"What wind?"
"The bells. Everyone ran for shelter."
The woman frowned. "You bought flowers for your daughter's funeral yesterday."
The shopkeeper remembered no storm either. Neither did her father.
At home, the diary's last page had changed.
Meera died today. I should have held her tighter.
She slammed it shut.
She had brought her mother back to a world where Meera was dead.
That evening, Meera sat in the armchair with the red scarf around her shoulders. The ceiling fan clicked overhead.
She pictured her mother opposite, glasses sliding down her nose.
"You could've told me, you know."
In her head, her mother raised an eyebrow.
And would you have believed me?
"Probably not."
Exactly.
Meera smiled despite herself.
"I still think you should've let me go."
I know.
"You made me feel like I couldn't do anything without you."
Her imagined mother was quiet.
I suppose I did.
"I was so angry with you."
You were allowed to be angry.
"Not like that."
She waited, but no answer came.
When she looked up, the opposite chair was empty. Of course it was. Still, she wished they'd had this conversation while her mother was alive.
Meera turned to the diary's earliest entry.
I asked for my daughter's life. I offered mine in return.
Her mother had made that promise without knowing if anyone would hear. When the truck came, she pushed Meera aside.
Would her mother really have wanted her to undo that sacrifice?
At dawn, Meera returned to the shrine carrying the scarf and her creased scholarship letter.
The lane was deserted. The bells hung still among the banyan roots.
"I made a mistake," she told the idol. "I thought if she lived and I died, everything would be right."
She unfolded the letter and stared at the enrolment date.
"I still want to go. I want to grow old. I want to have days when I don't think about her at all." Her voice shook. "And I hate myself for wanting that."
Nothing moved.
She laid the letter on the stone, then picked it up again.
"I want my life back. Even if it means losing her all over again."
She took off the scarf, pressed it to her face and breathed in the fading scent of jasmine. Then she placed it before the idol.
She waited. A bird called. Somewhere, a shutter opened.
Meera stood to leave.
A single bell rang.
Cold wind swept past her. She closed her eyes, clutching the letter to her chest.
When she opened them, the scarf was still at her feet.
But the burn scar was gone.
She touched her face. Her own face.
At home, her father sat before two untouched cups of tea.
"Where have you been so early?" he asked.
"Just out."
He nodded. To him, Kavita had died in the accident and Meera had survived. Nothing else had happened.
Only Meera remembered.
Three months later, her father drove her to the airport.
He checked her passport twice and reminded her to pack warm clothes. He sounded so much like her mother that Meera almost smiled.
The red scarf was in her bag. She had gone back for it, unable to leave it on the cold stone.
At the departure gate, her father hugged her, then stepped away and pretended to search for his car keys.
Meera joined the queue. She was frightened of the flight, of living alone, and of the possibility that one day she might struggle to remember her mother's voice.
She went anyway.
When the attendant called her forward, Meera took her place.
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