When A Mosquito Bites

By Kruthi Deepthi Lakkaraju

Do you expect to know about every instance a mosquito bites me?

This incident and the subsequent ones are the same, in my opinion.

The first time it happened – I was going about my daily ride on the local bus,

homebound with friends after wrapping up a hectic day at school.

Ever the first one in the queue to board and be seated,

but misfortune struck that day.

I got pushed back - back into the hellhole of a space that we all dreaded.

Adjusting the strap of my backpack, I clutched the spare books tightly

and held onto the grabrail of the seat – stained and slippery with sweat.

As the conductor’s hoarse voice carried over the noise,

I shifted my weight and ended up at what felt like the deep end of an abyss,

with no scope to wiggle.

It took mere milliseconds for the slithering hands to come out and engulf fresh meat.

Two stops and ten minutes later, I waded through the thinned crowd.

Reunited with my gang near the front entrance, head lowered in shame,

the cool breeze soothing my frown.

Bathing in the shower of empathetic and experienced glances from the girls,

I felt my eyes dry as the colour drained from the cheeks.

With this new, unbearable trauma burdening my mind,

I slowly walked back home and into my room.

At fourteen, keeping mum was my best chance to retain mental peace,

but why wouldn’t you realise I was uncharacteristically quiet through dinner?

My loss was not tangible; it was invisible, yet comprehensible – had you just noticed!

I have wondered why I likened such episodes to mere mosquito bites.

Was it because my world was teeming with lechers,

or if the consequences are considered severe only under specific conditions?

Either way, I neither saw a reason to share what happened nor a solution.

And you will never understand why I abhor public transit.

By Kruthi Deepthi Lakkaraju