Wearing a pyjama torn near the left ankle and a banyan that looked too big for his languid body, Pyarelal was walking at a pace quite unusual for him. The crooked land he found at his feet was barren not because of moisture or the lack of it, but because it was sad and irritated; at least that’s what Pyarelal often thought.

It was Raghu who called out with a shrill voice, piercing the clouds, hoping that the skies might reverberate and start falling apart like a cacophony of echoing whispers.

“Pakhi has fainted; they are calling you.”

Pyarelal didn’t hear him the first time, or even if he did, he remained preoccupied and somewhat oblivious. He had dreaded this day would come, dreaded it, yet still anticipated it, as if preparing for a life beyond anything even remotely attached to joy or tranquillity.

“Did you hear what I said?” Raghu pitched higher this time.

When the words finally breached Pyarelal’s stream of consciousness, he stood still for a moment, trying to gauge the significance of the event and what it might entail. Then, leaving his occupation behind, he began walking steadily toward the horizon where the day had decided to settle down for a rest, giving way to a night that, at least for Pyarelal, might refuse to fade away anytime soon.

Pyarelal had hoped that this might be the season, the season when his crops would grow taller and handsomer than his neighbours’, more beautiful than anyone else’s in the village. It would be something to be frowned upon and looked at with a certain degree of jealousy, while he basked in its glory. He had obviously thought of this many a time, dreamt of it with eyes open, only to be met with disappointment, which stepped in frequently as an uninvited guest choking with agony.

The other day, when Pakhi requested Pyarelal to bring home some meat, he felt there was a measure of certainty in her voice, as if it were terminal. So, Pyarelal went to the butcher Anwar Miya to get some while on his way back. Anwar is a towering figure; when he slices through his trade, the muscles in his hands move as cogs in a machine, twitching and turning at every moment possible. Pyarelal avoids Anwar on most occasions, not because he is afraid but because he is in debt. But though Anwar Miyan may look like someone not to be trifled with, he does have a softer side; when Pakhi calls him chacha, his heart melts into a thousand spectral pieces.

This time, Pyarelal also had no money, and Anwar was annoyed.

“Anwar Miyan, for the last time—”

“Didn’t you say that last time?”

“The little girl wants to have it. I don’t know how much life she has left in her.”

Anwar knew Pyarelal was telling the truth. Pakhi’s condition was far from hidden, though no one liked to talk about it. What if he listened and took her away, the one whose presence is most dreaded?

Anwar had kept Pakhi in his prayers. “God is always kind,” he had said to Pyarelal, hoping to steer his thoughts toward something more sane. But Pyarelal was not to be mended. Barely holding his tears, his heart had developed cracks that were now stitched together with a silence absolute in nature.

As Pyarelal neared the house, he felt as if an earthquake had taken hold of him, shifting and shaking his entire existence. His body was decaying under an uncertainty that had no means of going away. Slimmer than before, with his skin desperately clinging to the bones, he looked twice his actual age.

He saw that people had gathered, some of whom he was indebted to. As he whisked past them, he could feel their eyes on him, locked in a battle between pity and disdain; he, however, hoped it was the former.

Many years ago, the house was destroyed in a flood. It was a time when the river god chose to vent their anger, an uncontrolled rage that knew no bounds. But some were spared; the concrete houses on the edge of the village stood tall and mighty. Pyarelal was young back then. He had always wondered why they always seemed to get a lion’s share of the misery. Was it because of how they looked? Or how they smelled? Or was it because they had neither the money nor the substance to appease anyone?

As Pyarelal stood in front of the house, he saw Pakhi lying flat on the floor with her face up. She got up and ran to him, asking if she could go out and play. Pakhi had always loved watching the kites, though her friends never allowed her to participate. As the kites flew and consumed the air, Pakhi watched them poke each other for supremacy with a singular curiosity. She had wished to be a kite. To be carefree, to fly away, to be free from any pain.

Pyarelal moved forward to hold her, but the illusion withered away. Pakhi was still lying on the floor, her eyes shut, her lips parted but immobile, her hair uncombed and messy. She was a lifeless object waiting to be disembowelled.

The thoughts in his mind, which a moment ago were scrambling to be heard, suddenly became voiceless; a void now bordered Pyarelal, crushing him gently. His eyes slowly moved toward Rima, Pakhi’s mother, who sat silently, caressing Pakhi’s lifeless locks of hair. She was still withdrawn from whatever was happening around her. The teardrops had dried on her cheeks, leaving quiet marks.

Pyarelal felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Bhisamnath, one of the village elders.

“It’s the season of death; there was nothing you could have done.”

Pyarelal wanted to say something, but he knew Bhisamnath was telling the truth. When August comes, it takes away what is rightfully his.

The story is as old as time; some say it was a plague, but many disagree. As a battle waged between heaven and earth, as the four seasons jostled for power, it was August who mischievously took the children away. He had promised to keep them safe, keep them from harm’s way, and bring them back when everything was over. The villagers waited, but the children never returned. Some say he keeps them at a place where time doesn’t fade and where pain holds no dominion.

Utter nonsense, according to some, especially those who believe more in inquiry than mysticism. But some stories are beyond truth, beyond mysticism; they are simply old.

Six years ago, the sky gods decided to stop with their blessings. The people in the village grew wary and afraid, and then one fine day, Bittu, son of the village Pradhan, went missing. He was swept away by the river while he was playing, the same river that has since gone stale. It happened in the month of August.

The next year, three children died. The doctor at the local health centre said it was a severe case of malaria. All of them died within three days, again in August.

The following year, August brought a hint of chill in the air, and Montu, who had gone to play with his friends near the ruins of the old government office, never made his way back. He vanished, taken from this world, or perhaps simply ran away. Either way, it had the village elders whispering curses, myths, and stories that had somehow found ways to be alive again.

When the rain stopped, the land and its fertility went bankrupt, and with that, Pyarelal’s hopes of having a fulfilling life came crashing down. He was, and forever would be, a foolish man for thinking that he could have had a better life. As his debts rose one mountain after another, a little girl came into his life.

Bhisamnath had even told Pyarelal to get rid of “it.”

“Drown it somewhere. They are not ripe for anything but trouble,” he had said when he saw the child sleeping in a makeshift hammock.

Whether Pyarelal ever thought of carrying out the distressing idea is a secret now buried within his inner sanctum. As he stood near Pakhi’s lifeless body, he was reminded of guilt, guilt for listening, guilt for harbouring profane thoughts. He wished to apologise, but the opportunity had now faded away.

Pakhi was a quiet little girl, emphasis on “little.” While she seemed healthy and active, she was not growing at a rate proportionate to someone her age. The doctor at the local health centre checked for any irregularity but couldn’t find one. And so, life ebbed on, miserably at that. But in that misery, Pakhi was a beacon of hope, a shining light that could dwarf any slithering darkness in sight.

It was just after her fourth birthday when she fainted for the first time. It happened during the night when the moon had appeared to be eaten in half. They took her to the doctor the next morning, who seemed somewhat annoyed.

“You should have brought her sooner,” he had said. He then went on to explain what was wrong with her, the disease, the symptoms, but not a cure.

“Her heart is not strong enough.”

The cure the doctor mentioned was elusive, in other words, expensive. Pyarelal and Rima both found the doctor’s words gibberish. It was an alien language, partly because they lacked basic comprehension skills and partly out of fear. 

The fear of helplessness, what would they do if she screamed in anguish and they were unable to care for her? How would they justify bringing a child into this world while being mediocre and threadbare?

Rima had begged Pyarelal to take Pakhi to the big city to see another doctor. Pyarelal steadily refused. He had already seen the future or perhaps dreamt of it. His barren land was crowded with corpses of children, their bodies rotting, radiating a pungent smell. In the midst of all the wreckage was Pakhi, wearing her favourite dress and the bangles Pyarelal had bought her at the last village fair. But Pakhi did not move; her body was dormant, but she was not dead. She was in pain. When she opened her eyes and saw her father, she smiled and spoke:

“Baba, the pain is too much.”

For a while, Pyarelal couldn’t make out whether it was a bad dream or a nightmare, as if there were any difference between the two. Rima was not one to make noises; she was angry and hurt, but in the end, she was helpless. And so, they waited patiently for August to come.

The day before yesterday, Pakhi woke up with a high fever. Rima ran off to Mohan and Khusi’s house to grab some medicine to calm it down, while Pyarelal stood guard. The season of death was here. Mohan, who worked at a chemist’s shop, was like a friend, perhaps more like a brother. He was sensible, a bit educated, and could easily discern a convoluted situation.

He could see a failing family, three ailing bodies dragged around the invisible plain until every bone, every muscle had turned to dust. How could he turn his eyes away? His conscience wouldn’t allow it.

“Here, take this. It will help ease the pain,” he said to Rima.

“Is it one of those painkillers?”

“Yes, something like that.”

Pakhi, the little child, did get better, though only for a little while. Sitting on the front porch, she heard stories from her mother about mythic heroes who fought battles for righteousness. When time was up, she gave up, and so did her body. It was all over.

All those people who are now hovering near Pyarelal’s little house. The house with a single room, a makeshift bed, some utensils, and worn-out clothes hanging from a thin wire, hung their heads not in sadness but perhaps in shame. They knew what had transpired. Had they not seen Pyarelal and Mohan talking on several occasions? Did they not know what they talked about? Had they not known about Pakhi’s condition or Pyarelal’s penniless plight? They knew, but they chose silence. Their secrets lie buried deep within their wretched, incoherent souls, where they have managed to cage and even tame their shattered emotions.

When everything was over, when Pakhi’s body was reduced to ashes and the house was eerily empty of serenity and tears, Pyarelal asked Rima,

“What did you do?”

“I just gave the medicine Mohan bhaiya provided. You saw it, no?”

“Hmm.”

“Then it happened exactly as you said. August came and took her. She is now in a happy place, my poor little child.”