'Shakuntala' by Srilatha Rajagopal

The first time you saw Shakuntala was when you were eight. She was a birthday gift for you from your next-door aunty. Shakuntala did not have hair that you could braid or clothes that you could change, nor were her limbs movable. Her eyes did not blink, nor close when you laid her down. She was one solid piece of ugly green plastic, with a plastic bead necklace in neon pink that was welded to her body. She was your ugliest and the most precious possession for a few minutes. Until Amma said you had to share her with your three younger sisters. Giri named her Shakuntala immediately.

The first time you fought with your sisters viciously was when you were deciding how to share Shakuntala. Even though she was technically a gift for you. You tried a weekly schedule. This proved to be too long a time for any of you to be without the only doll you had. Then you tried a schedule of changing ownership every three days. When that failed, because you simply couldn’t keep track of the days—there were false accountings, early starts, late returns, and forgotten due dates. Then amma came up with a journal of check-ins and outs, that seemed to work for a while.

The first time you remember really crying, not because you had scraped your knee or fell, those only caused temporary tears, was when amma said you were too old to play with Shakuntala anymore. Until then, you and your sisters had loved her equally, fighting for her equally. But the day you got your first period, amma decided you didn’t need her anymore.