Night Attack On My Little Sister -

That night, Meera slept on the cot again. She held my hand so tight that her small nails left crescents on my palm. And I did not let go. Not when the jackal howled. Not when the wind moved the trees like fingers. Not even when sleep finally came, heavy and dreamless.

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. night attack on my little sister

Meera’s side of the cot was empty. The thin cotton sheet lay twisted, and a small, sandaled footprint—fresh, deep—pressed into the dust near the broken step. That night, Meera slept on the cot again