Sourabha Rajyam The land Where Women Dont Matter

The party was never meant to be anything official. Someone's older brother had brought a crate of stout back from the city. Someone else had pinched a bottle of whiskey from a cupboard they thought wouldn't be checked. Word passed the way it always did in a small town-quietly at first, then all at once.

The forest sat just beyond the last line of houses, where the road gave up pretending it led anywhere important. Everyone knew it. We'd grown up skimming stones along the stream that cut through it, carving initials into bark we swore would last forever. Mothers warned us not to go too far in, but they always said that, about everything.

The wireless crackled with half-caught stations, the sound warping as someone adjusted the dial. Laughter burst and collapsed in uneven waves. Girls in borrowed coats huddled together against the damp cold, cigarette smoke clinging to wool and hair. Boys stood too close or not close enough, all elbows and bravado.

I moved through it easily. That was my talent.

Someone handed me a drink I hadn't asked for. Someone else told me I looked well. I said thank you, smiled, said it back. I was good at that too-fitting into the shape people expected, like a piece from the right puzzle.

But underneath it, something in me kept pulling.

I watched the firelight flicker over familiar faces and felt oddly removed, like I was already remembering the night rather than living it. The music skipped. A girl shrieked with laughter. A lad kissed someone he'd regret kissing come morning.

I edged away before anyone could decide I was meant to stay.

The forest swallowed sound quickly. The music dulled first, then the voices, until all that remained was the soft crush of leaves under my boots and the low murmur of the stream somewhere to my left. The air smelled damp and green and old, the kind of smell that never quite leaves your clothes.

I told myself I was only stepping away for a minute.

The trees stood closer together here, branches tangled like clasped hands. My hair snagged on thorns and twigs, and I muttered under my breath as I freed it, stuffing it into my coat to keep it out of the way. The ground dipped slightly, the land folding inward as if keeping a secret.

That was when I noticed the stones.

At first, I thought they were just part of the hillside-another scatter of rock half-buried by time and moss. But then I saw the curve. Too smooth. Too deliberate.

I knelt, brushing away leaves and dirt with my sleeve. Cold bit through the fabric, but the stone beneath was strangely warm, the contrast sharp enough to make me pause.

The carvings revealed themselves slowly.

They weren't pretty. They weren't decorative. Figures etched deep into the surface, worn by weather but unmistakable in their intent. Bodies caught between shapes. Limbs stretched too far. Mouths opened in silent cries or howls. Around them, smaller figures huddled together-people, I realised-arms raised, heads bowed or turned skyward.

It felt like standing in the middle of a sentence without knowing how it began.