To Forget and Be Forgotten

Note: Amma means mother in Tamil. Tamil is a language from South India.

The sea had tried to kill her, but it had failed again.

Seren woke with sand in her mouth and salt burning her eyes. She lay on her stomach, the gentle waves still licking at her legs as if reluctant to release what they had carried for so long. Her body felt paper-thin, hollowed out, every limb heavy with exhaustion.

She didn’t remember how she got here.

There were fragments - fire licking at her skin, rope biting into her neck, the roar of a crowd - but they dissolved when she reached for them. Like trying to hold smoke.

Slowly, she pushed herself up. A sharp pain flared across her throat. She touched it instinctively and felt raw, tender flesh. The wound had not fully healed. It still wept slightly, angry and red. That was new. Her body had always healed faster than this.

The sun was brutal. The beach stretched long and wide, filled with sounds she didn’t recognize - distant ship horns, voices speaking in a language that flowed like water, the creak of wooden carts. Strange buildings with colonial architecture stood further inland.

She had no idea where she was.

Her legs shook violently when she tried to stand. The world spun. She dropped back onto the sand, breathing hard. She must have looked like death itself - deathly pale, soaked, barely alive.

A small shadow fell over her.

Seren looked up.

A little girl, perhaps five years old, stood a few steps away. Two neat braids, curious dark eyes, and a small cloth bundle clutched in her hands. She stared at Seren with the fearless honesty only children possessed.

“You look like you’re going to die,” the girl said seriously in Tamil.

Seren could only stare.

The child reached into her bundle and pulled out a piece of sweetened rice cake wrapped in banana leaf. She stepped closer and held it out.

“Amma gave me two. You can have one. You’re very pale.”

Seren’s hand trembled as she accepted the offering. The cake was still warm. She ate it slowly, tasting sweetness for what felt like the first time in centuries.

The little girl watched her with solemn satisfaction.

“What’s your name?” Seren asked, voice hoarse.

“Kavitha,” the girl replied proudly. Then she glanced back toward a group of adults further up the beach. “I have to go now. Don’t die, okay?”

She ran off, feet kicking up sand, braids bouncing.

Seren sat there long after the girl disappeared, staring at the empty banana leaf.

Kavitha.

The name settled deep inside her chest like something precious she didn’t yet understand.

Later, as the sky turned orange and the beach grew quieter, two other names drifted up through the fog in her mind.

Liora.

Clara.

They felt real - warm hands, soft laughter, the smell of herbs, a smile she could almost see. But when she tried to grasp who they were, the memories slipped away. Faces blurred. Details faded. She knew they had mattered. She knew they were gone.

She just didn’t know who they were anymore.

Seren looked out at the endless sea that had delivered her here. For a long moment she considered walking back into the waves. Letting them finish what rope and fire could not.

But the little girl’s voice echoed in her head.

Don’t die, okay?

She closed her eyes.

Not today.

Fifteen Years Later - 1940

Seren stood in her small, neatly kept room near the college, adjusting the high collar of her blouse to hide the faint scar that still lingered on her neck.

Fifteen years had passed since that day on the beach.

She had learned the languages. Built documents. Earned qualifications through careful persistence. Carved out an identity in this city called Madras - a place that never stopped moving, never stopped shouting, never stopped hoping and suffering all at once.

Tomorrow, she would submit her formal application to teach English Literature at Presidency College.

She touched the old scar lightly.

Somewhere in this city was a young woman named Kavitha. No longer five. No longer the small girl who had offered food to a dying stranger.

Seren didn’t know if she would ever find her again.

But for the first time in many long years, she had a reason to stay in one place.

She looked at her reflection and whispered softly:

“Kavitha.”

The name still felt warm.