It seems like me there are others too..and they don't know why they are here. It seems like we'll never know but we can only adapt in this world in our own way..
She returned. The girl with long black hair.
She didn't scream this time.
"You look tired"
she whispered, placing a stick gently near me.
Not a weapon. A gesture.
She walked away.
And for a moment, I remembered what it felt like to be touched without fear.
I stayed motionless long after she was gone, the stick lying in the dust beside me. Its end was smooth, sanded by time and use—perhaps something she carried often. Maybe a toy, maybe a walking staff. Or maybe it was her way of measuring the distance between herself and danger. But when she placed it down, it was as if she was measuring trust instead.
The morning air was thick with dew. The scent of cow dung and incense floated from nearby homes. I retreated into the temple's cracked foundation, watching the world wake up.
The girl came again that evening. This time with a small bowl of milk. She didn't come too close—just placed it near the base of the steps and stepped back. Then she sat on a stone and waited.
"Amma says you're a Naga. Maybe you came back to protect."
I blinked slowly. My tongue flicked once, sensing no fear.
"You bit someone before, didn't you? Or they bit you."
She wasn't looking at me anymore. She was watching the sunset, her eyes glossy. As if she spoke not to me, but to the silence between us.
"My father says snakes are evil. Amma says they carry old souls. My brother says they don't think at all."
She turned and smiled faintly.
"I think you're sad."
The milk warmed in the bowl. I didn't drink it. I simply watched it curdle under the last heat of day. She waited until dusk, then left without another word.
---
The next day, she brought rice. A handful pressed into a banana leaf. She whistled a little song and waited again.
By now, the villagers had begun to notice.
Two women whispered as they passed.
"She's feeding that thing again."
"She thinks it's divine."
"She'll get bitten. Mark my words."
A boy threw a stone. She turned sharply and shouted, "He's not hurting anyone!"
The stone missed me but hit the side of the wall. The sound echoed like a warning.
That night, I did not sleep.
The village was changing. And I was still prey.
---
By the fifth visit, the girl sat closer. Her voice was gentler, almost hesitant.
"You remind me of something," she said. "Something I can't remember."
I wanted to tell her that memory sometimes fades even when it matters most. That I too remembered faces I couldn't name. Pain I couldn't explain. That once, I had a son, not much older than her.
But all I could do was blink.
She reached forward and gently pushed the banana leaf closer.
"I think you were someone once."
She smiled again.
"But now, maybe you're something better."
---
One morning, the priest returned to the temple.
Old. Thin. Mouth turned down in suspicion.
He saw me at once. Froze. His hand went instinctively to his staff.
But then the girl stepped in front of me.
"Don't," she said.
"He's lived here for weeks. He hasn't bitten anyone."
The priest frowned. "It's still a snake."
"He's part of the place."
He hesitated, then slowly lowered his stick.
"Then pray he stays that way."
That evening, he left a diya (oil lamp made of clay) burning beside the idol.
And beside me.
---
A week passed.
The girl came every day.
She brought sweets once. I didn't touch them. But the ants thanked her.
She began naming me: "Kal", short for "Kaal," she said, because "you look like time itself—silent, dangerous, always watching."
I didn't mind the name.
She spoke of her fears. Her school. Her father's temper. The stray dog she once fed that never came back.
And I listened.
Because no one had listened to me in either life.
---
Then one day—she didn't come.
Morning passed. Evening. Night.
No milk. No rice. No song.
I waited.
The second day, I slithered to the temple's edge.
The third, I ventured out beyond the wall.
I crossed dust paths and cow trails, avoiding eyes, listening.
By evening, I heard it. A cry. A child's voice.
Near the pond. Near danger.
I rushed.
Faster than fear, across thorns and roots.
---
And there she was.
Trapped between a bramble and a barking dog. Not the kind that bites. The kind that kills.
She held her stick but her hand shook.
I didn't think.
I struck.
Fast. Clean. Precise.
The dog yelped. Backed off.
It didn't die. I hadn't used venom. Just a warning. A declaration.
I curled beside her as the dog fled.
She looked down at me. Pale. Crying. But alive.
"You came," she whispered.
---
And in that moment, I realized something I hadn't before:
That maybe this wasn't punishment.
Maybe I was brought back not just to suffer.
But to serve.
Not humans. Not gods.
Just… the earth.
One small life at a time.
One step at a time.
Even if I'm a snake so what?!