Mehndi

I have lived before. I will live again. But today, I die. Starting at the tip of my large toe, I painted the Mehndi with henna ink and a fine horse hair brush, repeating my mantra as the brush swirled, making a trail of burnt-orange leaves on my brown skin. My mother had taught me the power in the leaves, as my grandmother had taught her. And today, I drew it for myself. The drums pounded louder and louder outside my tent, their quality hollow and rhythmic, filling my head until my thoughts grew quiet. They did not understand.

I heard them take my sister the night before, her wails as empty as the drums. She disgraced herself. I said the mantra again and it slowly vibrated in my head and chest, filling me, "Om...ma...ni...pe...me...hung." Each sound hung on my dry tongue. How long since they had given me water?

Outside the tent a shadow walked purposefully, tearing back the flap as light and sand rushed in. He stood tall and dark against the back lit sun, a mirage in the desert, dressed head to toe in menacing black linens except for the wide scarlet sash about his waist and the same colored turban wrapping his head. His features mirrored his clothing - dark with splashes of ruddiness lining his cheeks, eyes and lips. Squinting my eyes to focus, I noticed he stared from me to my henna bowl and a dark look crossed through the back of his black eyes. Concentrating on the brush, I dipped it in the dark liquid before returning to the vines I made on my anklebone, leaving fine swirls and leaves to trail up my shin.

"Om...ma...ni...pe..me...hung." I continued.

His boots pounded in the sand throwing a whirlwind of dirt into the air as he rushed me, kicking my bowl to splatter against the far end of the tent, leaving a stain on the off-white canvas.

"Where did you get that?" He demanded.

My heart began to thump, echoing to the sound of the drumbeats. I had not finished the Mehndi! I stared at the spoiled henna. How would I complete it? Glaring back at him, my mouth stayed quiet, tight. With a thick hand he grabbed a clump of my loose hair, pulling. I rose steadily, though my blood quivered inside, searching in my head for the words of the most Holy One. "All dharmas are marked with emptiness; they are neither produced nor destroyed, neither defiled nor immaculate, neither increasing nor decreasing." My breath became steady as I repeated the words in my head, a blanket to my nerves.

He smelled of the sweat of a hundred moons, heady and thick as he pressed the bulk of his filthy body to mine. I wanted to retch, but the words undulating in my head stopped me. He released my hair with a jerk. Strands of it came away with his soiled palm, falling to the dry sand beneath us.

"I could think of something better than death for you." His eyes bore into mine, searing me. I stared back at him without answering. The drums stopped. It was time. He held me there for a moment, wrapped in his stench, waiting. Still I did not answer. He slapped me hard across my face. It burned me, my eyes filling with water from the sting. I pulled my head back to stare at him, swallowing hard as he breathed, "die then, bitch."

The rope burned into my skin as he pulled me, though I tried my best to keep pace with him. My bare feet against the sand felt