I remember the first time I held a gun for the purpose of killing. It was three days after our wedding day. He had taken a week off from office and we had gone to visit our ancestral village.
Our village is a village only in name. There is internet and cable, boutiques and supermarkets. But the lanes are narrow and made of bricks, there are never-ending fields on the outskirts. We headed towards them.
I knew, that sooner and later, he would make me do it. We had promised each other we’d try out each others’ interests. He had bought a Harry Potter box set for himself, he had taken the first step. It was time for me to take the double-barreled shotgun in my hennaed hands.
He was patient, despite of my squeamishness at hunting innocent birds, and my trembling hands.
I had crap aim. But he told everyone that one out of the four casualties done that day had my name on it.