I haven’t met her, nor spoken to her; our communication was solely through text messages. She was reticent, perhaps shy and unassuming, preferring to remain unnoticed. She distanced herself from the garishness and chaos of modern life, staying far from its edges. Though a trained Mohiniyattam danseuse, immersed in the art since the age of six and having performed at temples and other venues, she downplayed her talent. Her outgoing peers had little sway over her choice to stand apart. In an era of social media, where attention-seekers vie for visibility, this captivating maiden, for reasons of her own, chose to remain unobtrusive, almost hidden.
She was virtually faceless on social media, yet maintained a quiet presence. Her pages revealed no clear image of her, but with a discerning eye, one might glimpse her among the faces in the rare group photographs she shared. Even then, it would be mere conjecture. Yet, I felt certain: the vivacious, mesmerising eyes and the grace of a danseuse shone unmistakably in one figure among those pictures. The allure of her eyes was arresting. Still, without confirmation, even the most confident guesses remain just that—guesses.
When asked why she chose this path, she replied simply that she loved it. A recluse? Certainly not. At 23 or 24, her eyes beckoned alluringly from her pages, but her perspective on life was equally striking. At such a young age, few ponder deeply about existence, yet she mused about infusing meaning into life’s inherent frivolity: “We are born without purpose, but we can create one, can’t we?” she once texted. That was some time ago, and now no trace of her remains; she simply vanished, perhaps deliberately leaving no footprints.
Her final message lingers, stirring an eerie unease, though she may have faded like a shooting star, whose wanderlust she admired. She first reached out after reading my blog post, “My Gods of Small Things,” shared on my social media, inspired by Arundhati Roy’s The God of Small Things. The content differed, reflecting on individuals from my life, now gone, whose small acts were profoundly meaningful.
Through our extensive exchanges—spanning religion, love, morality, humanity, life’s apparent triviality, idleness, and even vintage Malayalam and Hindi film songs—I found her to be a keen listener and reader with a sharp, reasoned perspective on nearly every topic. Why, then, was she training to be a chartered accountant, a profession often marked by dullness? The answer was straightforward: her father’s wish.
Her mother, a dancer herself, had instilled in her a love for Mohiniyattam but had sacrificed her own passion under her husband’s domineering will, ensuring her daughter faced no such constraints. She occasionally spoke of her younger sister, about ten years her junior, who followed her like a devoted shadow.
“Sir,” she always addressed me, “what do you make of this clichéd notion of ‘settling down’? Why should it mean conforming to society’s or even family’s expectations? Can you tell me?”
“Indeed, why can’t settling down be about finding meaning in life’s frivolity?”
“Exactly! That’s why I believe being attractive isn’t about a chiseled body, an arrogant swagger, Rhett Butler whiskers, or high cheekbones.” (She added a smiley emoji.) “It’s about how one thinks—the mind shines through the face. You can’t fake it with bravado. Men are terribly mistaken, don’t you agree?”
“Ha, indeed!”
“Thank you for agreeing. Remember that girl you mentioned, who abandoned a lucrative job in the Far East, slung a backpack, and travelled the world? Was she my age?”
“Hmm.”
“Sir, I quote from her book: ‘Four years ago, I gave up my home, sold most of my possessions, and embraced a nomadic life. This journey has taken me as far within as with my feet.’” A pause followed, then: “I hate him, the bastard!”
“What?” I asked, confused. I had recommended the book, and those words weren’t from the passage she cited, nor related to her text about the author she cherished. If spoken, I might have dismissed them as misheard, but they were typed.
Ignoring my question, she continued: “…how travelling changed my perspective on marriage and not wanting children. ‘Sir, I felt sick after that.’ I wrote this post for dreamers, adventurers, and rebels who feel stifled by a lack of choice.”
“What?” I pressed again. After a prolonged pause, when I asked about her abrupt remark, she explained.
“I needed to get this off my chest. It’s him.”
“Who?”
“My father.”
“What about him?”
“He hugged and kissed me today.”
“What’s wrong with a father hugging his daughter? I do. Hasn’t he before?”
“No, it’s not that. He has, but this was different. I felt it when he touched me—nauseating, terrifying.”
“What are you saying?”
“Exactly that. I feel sick and scared. He kissed me, biting my cheeks, nearly my lips, and I felt… his thing pressing against me through his lungi. It was deliberate, all in seconds.”
Speechless, I asked, “Are you sure?”
“Please, Sir, I’m not a child. This never happened before, but I felt it, saw it in his eyes. I was frozen, unable to pull away. Lately, I’ve felt uneasy around him, a vague discomfort… but now…!”
“Have you told your mother?”
“No, I can’t. It would worsen things. They’re not getting along, and it might affect my sister too.”
“Is he your stepfather?”
“No.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Nothing. I just needed to unburden this.”
“If anything untoward happens, tell someone. Call me if you need to.”
“Hmm, yes. Instead of longing for the next holiday, perhaps build a life you don’t need to escape.”
Was that a quote? I’m unsure. It was her last message before the line went dead. Months have passed, and she’s vanished without a trace. Perhaps her footprints linger in the sands of time—across deserts, mountains, South American river basins, or the forests she dreamt of. Maybe she found the courage to flee, to live without needing escape. I pray she didn’t yield and become trapped.
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