Chapter 4: A Memory Erased

Chapter 4: A Memory Erased

The ambulance glided to a silent stop before the warmly lit gates of my uncle’s house. The journey from the pass had been a blur of unnerving smoothness, the engine a whisper, the ride devoid of the bumps and jolts that should have defined that rugged road. Uncle Roshan turned in his seat, his face illuminated by the soft glow of the dashboard. That same, broad, reassuring smile was fixed on his face, but in the dim light, it seemed stretched, a little too perfect.

“Here you are,” he said, his voice a calm hum. “Safe and sound.”

“Roshan-dai, I don’t know how to thank you,” my father said, his voice thick with emotion as he got out. “You saved us. Truly.”

We all piled out, a wave of warm, spice-scented air from the house washing over us, a stark and welcome contrast to the chilling presence that lingered around the ambulance. The front door of the house burst open, and my uncle and aunt spilled out, their faces etched with relief.

“You’re finally here! We were getting so worried!” my aunt, Thuli Āmā, exclaimed, rushing to hug my mother.

“I’ll be off,” Roshan called from the driver's seat. He didn’t get out. “Long drive back.”

“At least come in for tea!” my mother insisted, turning.

But the ambulance was already pulling away. It didn’t make a three-point turn. It simply reversed into the darkness, its red taillights shrinking with impossible speed before vanishing completely. There was no sound of its engine fading into the distance. One moment it was there, the next, the night had swallowed it. I shivered, chalking it up to the mountain air.

Inside, the house was an oasis of life and warmth. The aroma of simmering lentils and fried spices filled the air. My cousins were watching a loud Bollywood movie, and the kettle was whistling in the kitchen. The terror of Serpent’s Pass began to feel distant, a bad dream already fading in the light. This was reality. This was safety.

My uncle, Kāko, clapped my father on the back. “So, the old car made it in one piece, eh? I was betting Thuli Āmā it would break down near the river crossing.”

My father laughed, a hearty, genuine sound that I hadn’t heard in hours. “She’s a stubborn old beast, but she got us here. Not a single problem. Drove like a dream.”

The words hit me with the force of a physical blow. I stopped dead in the hallway, my blood turning to ice. I turned and stared at my father, my mind struggling to process what he’d just said.

“What?” I asked, my voice coming out as a croak. “What did you say?”

My father looked at me, his brow furrowing in confusion. “I said the drive was smooth. Are you alright, Aryan? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

A hysterical laugh almost escaped my lips. “Smooth? Dad, the car died. It’s still sitting on the side of Serpent’s Pass! We were stranded for hours!”

The room went quiet. The movie noise from the other room seemed to recede. Everyone—my mother, my father, my aunt and uncle—was staring at me. It wasn't the look of people remembering a shared trauma. It was a look of complete and utter bewilderment.

My mother came over and placed a hand on my forehead, her touch soft and concerned. “Beta, what are you talking about? Are you feeling sick? You must have fallen asleep in the back and had a nightmare.”

“A nightmare?” My voice rose, bordering on shrill. “Mom, you were there! You were praying! Priya was crying! And the… the thing in the road… the tiger!”

The name of the beast hung in the warm air of the house, a profane and alien word. Priya, who had been half-asleep, looked up at me, her eyes wide with confusion, not fear. “What tiger, Āryān-dāi? I just slept the whole way.”

This was impossible. This was a joke. A cruel, elaborate joke. I looked from my mother’s worried face to my father’s stern one. “Stop it. This isn’t funny. We were terrified. You blasted the horn—it was the only thing that made it go away!”

“Aryan, that’s enough,” my father said, his tone shifting from confusion to annoyance. “You had a bad dream. It happens. Don’t frighten your sister.”

“It wasn’t a dream!” I was shouting now, the desperation clawing at my throat. My reality was being dismantled, piece by piece, by the very people who had shared it with me. Their denial was so perfect, so absolute, it was like a physical wall I was beating my fists against. They weren’t lying; I could see it in their eyes. They genuinely had no memory of it.

My mind latched onto the one irrefutable piece of evidence. The one person who was an objective third party to our family’s shared delusion.

“Fine!” I said, my voice trembling with a frantic, righteous energy. “Forget the car, forget the tiger! How do you think we got here? We didn’t drive! Uncle Roshan picked us up! In his ambulance! He just dropped us off two minutes ago!”

The moment I said his name, the atmosphere in the room changed again. The confusion on my relatives’ faces was replaced by something else, something deeper and far more painful. My aunt’s eyes welled with tears. My uncle looked down at the floor, a muscle twitching in his jaw. My father’s face went pale.

My mother grabbed my arm, her grip surprisingly strong. “Aryan. Stop this right now,” she whispered, her voice laced with a pained urgency I didn’t understand. “Do not say his name. It is not something to joke about.”

“Joke?” I wrenched my arm away, completely bewildered by their reaction. “Why would I joke? He saved our lives! He drove us here! He was just outside! Why are you all acting like this?”

It was my father who finally broke the spell. He stepped forward, his eyes full of a sorrowful pity that terrified me more than anger ever could. He placed his hands on my shoulders, his grip firm, grounding.

“Son,” he said, his voice heavy. “We drove here. In our car. It is parked outside. We did not see an ambulance. And we did not see Roshan.” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “Aryan… your uncle Roshan died three years ago. In an accident. On Serpent’s Pass.”