The forgotten mother

The rain poured relentlessly, tapping against the window as Anjali, a young and dedicated journalist, sat at her desk. Her mind was restless, pondering over the news of the day. The small town she had recently moved to had been quiet for the past few weeks, yet a strange feeling lingered in the air, like an unspoken tension. Anjali worked for a local newspaper, covering stories that had yet to be told, stories that people wanted to forget. On one particularly gloomy day, Anjali decided to take a break from her monotonous routine. She threw on her raincoat, grabbed her scoot , and set off into the village. The streets were muddy from the continuous rain, and the atmosphere was thick with the scent of wet earth. As she parked her scoot near a small, dilapidated house, Anjali noticed something odd: a figure slipping in and out of the house. It was a woman, dressed in a faded saree , clutching something in her hands. Curiosity piqued, Anjali approached the house. The door creaked open, revealing a modest, dimly lit room. Inside, she saw the woman placing milk bottles and baby toys on the ground. The scene seemed strange, unsettling. The woman didn't notice Anjali's presence as she moved about, placing objects under the soil in the corner of the room. "Excuse me, are you okay?" Anjali finally spoke, her voice breaking the silence. The woman snapped her head around, her wide eyes filled with confusion. Her hands trembled as she stood up, brushing off the dirt from her saree. "I... I have to care for them," the woman murmured, her voice barely audible. "Who are you caring for?" Anjali asked, her heart pounding in her chest. The woman’s eyes flickered with something Anjali couldn’t quite decipher, as if she were lost in her thoughts. "The babies... they are happy under the soil," she whispered, her voice trailing off. The words sent a chill down Anjali’s spine. What kind of person would bury babies? This wasn’t just an odd sight; it was a cry for help. Before Anjali could respond, the woman dashed out of the house, disappearing into the pouring rain, leaving Anjali standing there, confused and disturbed. Over the next few days, Anjali couldn't shake the image of the woman from her mind. She returned to the village to investigate, hoping to uncover more about the mysterious figure. As she walked along the muddy roads, she noticed a photographer named Arvind taking pictures near the local flower shop. He was capturing the delicate blooms that dotted the edges of the village, but his focus soon shifted to Anjali, as if drawn to her presence. Their first meeting was brief, but Arvind's intense gaze and thoughtful demeanor caught Anjali's attention. He was more than just a photographer; he seemed to have an understanding of the world that intrigued her. They talked briefly, and Anjali, without intending to, found herself sharing her experience with the woman from the house. Arvind listened carefully, his brow furrowed with concern. "A woman who’s hiding babies under the soil?" he asked, his voice low. "That doesn’t sound right. We need to find out more." That evening, as they walked together, Arvind shared that he had stumbled upon something odd during his photography session. While traveling along a secluded path, he had found baby milk bottles scattered near the ground. He didn’t think much of it at first, but after hearing Anjali's story, the pieces began to fall into place.