6:17 It is

She appeared every evening at exactly 6:17 PM. I remember the time clearly because the temple bell rang once authoritative, judgmental and immediately after that, my watch stopped. Not slowed. Stopped. As if even time took one look at the situation and decided, Not my problem.

She wore a bright Rani pink saree, the kind worn by women who do not wish to be forgotten. Loud, regal, unapologetic. The pallu was pulled tightly over her face modest, but also hiding everything except a stubborn, uneven shadow clinging to the left side. Even through layers of silk, it was obvious something there had been altered by fire, not by age. Fire has a handwriting of its own, and it never writes gently.

Wherever I went, she followed.

Through the narrow gali that smelled of agarbatti, damp walls and yesterday’s rain that refused to leave politely. Past the chai tapri where glasses clinked like gossip and the chaiwala knew everyone’s business but his own. If I slowed, she slowed. If I stopped to adjust my shoelace she paused too, suddenly engrossed in fixing her saree pleats counting them with the grave focus of a woman balancing household accounts without a calculator.

She followed me. Never brushing past me. Never calling out my name. Never dramatic. Always at that exact distance relatives maintain when discussing your future close enough to know everything, far enough to deny responsibility if things go wrong.

Once, a mischievous breeze clearly in the mood for trouble lifted the edge of her veil. Just for a heartbeat, I saw it clearly. The left side of her face disfigured, skintight and uneven, as though it had once known fire and survived it unwillingly. The right side remained untouched, calm, almost beautiful, making the contrast sharper, crueler, and deeply unfair like life itself.

I wanted to ask her who she was.

But every time I turned around, she tightened the pallu, as if questions were far more dangerous than scars.

By the seventh evening, my patience gave up before my courage did.

“Arre, why are you following me?” I asked.

Her eyes gleamed amused. She raised one finger gently, the universal Indian gesture for ek minute, and stepped closer. Her voice was steady, dry, almost kind.

“You’ve been following me,” she said.

The ceiling fan creaked like it had something to confess. Morning light spilled into the room, rude and uninvited. My heart raced without permission.

I sat there for a while, waiting for my watch to start again.

It didn’t.

6:17 AM glowed back at me, stubborn and exact.

I checked the window. No narrow gali. No chai tapri. Only an empty street, minding its own business. No flash of Rani pink.  I laughed softly, the way you do when relief arrives late and slightly embarrassed.

It was just a dream, I told myself.

The kind the mind produces when it has too much imagination and not enough sleep.

I got out of bed, shook it off and went on with my day.

And yet, as I stepped outside, I caught myself walking a little faster careful not to look back.

Because sometimes, even after you wake up, there is none.

And sometimes, that’s exactly what stays with you.