Twelve -- flash fiction by Mahika Gandla

I was twelve when I became his. 

Twelve—the age of playing in the dirt, chasing street dogs, and having my hair tightly braided by Aji. Twelve–the age of scraped knees, stolen toys, and the rhythms of Aai's voice as she sang while grinding spices. Twelve–the age when my world was still small, confined to the small park in front of my home, my dreams unburdened by reality. Twelve–the age when I should have been climbing mango trees, not ladders to adulthood.

Twelve–the age when I became his. 

I remember that day, the day the match was made. Aai sat on the cold marble floor, whispering to my baba in a voice that cracked like dry earth before the monsoon rains. I crouched near the doorway, straining to hear. “Aplya mulgi la changla ghar hava,” she said, though her voice broke on the last word. A “good home” meant his home. A “good match” meant a man with streaks of silver in his hair and pockets heavier than our own. A good home, a better future—what she didn’t say, what no one said, was that this future came at a cost. Mine. 

They had assured me he was respectable, kind, and most importantly wealthy. “To tumhala anandi thevela.” Aai told me. Her words were hollow, more for her own sake than mine. Happiness, I learned that year, was just another word for silence—the kind that settles when a truth is too heavy to voice.

Preparations began quickly. Aai’s hands moved like machines–scrubbing, sewing, folding. “Anjali, tula mothe vhayace ahe, he tujhyaca bhalyasathi ahe,” she said. Grow up. As if I could change overnight. As if I could strip away my childhood, fold it neatly, and never look back. The house soon buzzed with activity–the metallic clang of borrowed utensils, the pungent scent of halada wafting through the air, and the suffocating weight of unspoken truths settling into every corner. I had asked her once, “Aai, mala kasa vatel?”

There was no response. 

The day of, I felt like an ornament–perfected, polished, and empty. They dressed me in a sadi so red it looked like blood. Gold chains hung heavy around my neck, the weight suffocating. My hair was oiled and pulled tight, adorned with jasmine that made my scalp ache. 

The hall was full, yet it felt empty. The chatter and laughter of the guests sounded distant, like echoes in a cave. 

And that’s when I saw him.

I felt my stomach twist. He was sitting on the dais, his face weathered, his eyes cold, a stranger wearing the title of majhe pati.  He looked thirty-six, maybe thirty-eight. I was twelve. His skin was darker than mine, his features sharper, his presence heavier than I could have ever imagined. His hair was flecked with gray, neatly oiled and combed to the side. His mustache curled upward at the edges, as if mocking the innocence I had not yet outgrown. He looked at me, not with love, not with curiosity, but with ownership. 

 I clung to Aai's sari. “Hasa, Anjali,” she whispered. But I couldn’t. My mouth stitched shut, my voice swallowed by the weight of the room.

When I sat beside him, I felt small. Smaller than I had ever felt before. He towered over me, not just in height but in everything else–in age, in authority, in the sheer gravity of his being. His hands were rough when he reached for mine, his grip firm, possessive. The bangles around my wrist jingled as I flinched, the sound loud in the suffocating silence. The priests’ chants echoed around us, ancient words binding me to a future I did not want. The smoke from the homa stung my eyes, but the tears that fell weren’t from the fumes.

When he tied the mangalsutra around my neck, it felt like a weight far heavier than gold. “Tu sundara ahesa.” he whispered. Sundara. The word tasted bitter, like cinca on my tongue. 

That night, I was sent to his home. 

“Ja Anjali. Ata tumace svatace ghara he”, aai said, her voice cracking. 

It wasn’t my home. It was a cage, his cage.

A maid led me through the dimly lit hallways,where flickering candlelight danced on the walls, casting shadows that seemed to twist and follow me. We stopped at a heavy wooden door. It groaned with a slow, eerie creak, the sound prickling my skin. 

The room was beyond vast, yet the air felt stifling, the walls pressing closer with every breath. And there he was, perched on the edge of the bed, his silhouette filling the room with a suffocating heaviness I could not escape. I wanted to pull away, to retreat into the safety of anywhere but here, but my feet remained still, weighed down by the gravity of what was inevitable.

When he touched me that night, I bled.

The pain was sharp, searing and unforgiving. It wasn’t just my body that broke; something inside me shattered too, something that would never fully heal. I wanted to scream, to run, to escape into the fields where no one could find me. But I laid there, rooted to the spot, my hands twisting the edge of the sheets until my knuckles turned white. The silence around me pressed against my chest, as heavy as the gold on my neck.

When it was over, I sat still, staring at the ceiling. The cracks in the plaster blurred into shapes–monsters, cages, things that had no names. My body ached. My soul felt hollow. 

I thought of the park in front of my home, of mango trees and street dogs, of the sound of Aai’s voice. 

I was twelve when I became his. 

And I was twelve when I stopped being mine. 

---

Mahika Gandla is a sophomore from Massachusetts who loves art and anything vintage. When she’s not crafting something otherworldly or hunting for unique vintage finds, she’s spending time with her Doberman and indulging in her sweet tooth. This is her first publication, an exciting milestone in her creative journey. Always looking for new ways to blend creativity and learning, she’s eager to see what comes next.