They say it came back to kill a woman in Odisha.How it first trampled into the clearing while shewas gathering water. How she died shortly after.Whispers passed from mouth to mouth about howthe sun pressed onto the creature’s back, a river’sedge cracked and dry. Its task: to survive the wildwhen its herd had not, its tusks sharpened by the past,its skin seared by ropes and knives. Both their screamsshattered the sky. The villagers held a funeral but it wasall for naught. It never forgot, have clung to the memoryof what life was like before it was lost. There is no paththat leads to stillness, only the ever-narrowing corridorsof the world. And so it arrived at the burial to find heragain, to mangle whatever else is left to mangle: homes,goats, a singular corpse. Hot and ancient rage spilled intotheir homes like blood. The smell of mourning hung likeblack smoke thickened by blood. Everyone scattered likedry leaves tainted with blood. For it will not let them havesorrow, it will not let them salvage what could be salvaged.What kind of love could subsist in anguish, could continueremembering even if remembering is all it will ever have.What kind of love? That which makes a beast aches.That which wrecks a village.