DINKY DOLLIE Seventeen-year-old Athara’s cousin Riya was four when she received Dinky Dollie at her birthday party. Riya squealed in delight the moment she tore open the box. Tiny and adorable, the doll wore one of those glittering princess dresses adults seemed determined to manufacture for every toddler on earth — layers of pink lace, puffed sleeves, satin ribbons. The sort of thing children adored with frightening sincerity. Riya swayed side to side, hugging it to her chest like treasure. Her older cousin Athara and younger sister Diya — thirteen and newly initiated into teenagerhood — exchanged a look. Diya leaned toward Athara and whispered, barely suppressing a snort, “I think Amma’s upset because Riya looked more excited over the doll than the gold earrings she got.” As if summoned by divine humiliation, their mother turned toward them with a smile stretched far too tightly across her face. She was beautiful in her copper-sulphate blue chudidhar, hair pinned back neatly, heavy gold earrings dangling like tiny ladoos. “Riya darling,” she said sweetly, “why don’t you try on your earrings for your Athai?” Riya clutched the doll tighter immediately. “No!” she declared with scandalized delight. The adults burst into laughter. The doll itself was harmless-looking. Soft cotton body. Long floppy limbs. A stitched little smile. Black button eyes. Yarn hair braided into two uneven plaits. Diya snickered under her breath at the toddler’s stubbornness. Athara elbowed her sister lightly to behave, though she herself struggled not to smile. Riya became obsessed with the doll almost instantly. She refused to let it go for the rest of the evening. She dragged it around the house like a prized artifact, one tiny fist wrapped tightly around its arm. And she named it immediately. “Dinky Dollie,” she announced proudly. That was that. From then on, the doll went everywhere. To dinner. To the bathroom. To the temple room. Riya even insisted the doll be fed. “Dinky Dollie is hungry too,” she declared indignantly one night at dinner. So there sat their grandmother, feeding spoonfuls of cake alternately into Riya’s mouth and then smearing icing playfully onto the doll’s stitched face. “You better not leave anything unfinished, missy,” Paati scolded the doll sternly, wagging a finger. Riya giggled so hard she snorted. Everyone laughed. Athara remembered laughing too. The kind of laughter that exists before disaster. Before your body learns how fear tastes. It started small after that. Athara would hear whispering. Not around her. Inside her head. Faint. Breathy. Childlike. At first she blamed exhaustion. Their house had been overflowing with relatives all week — aunts yelling across rooms, pressure cooker whistles shrieking endlessly, cousins stampeding through hallways. But one evening, while talking with her uncles, she heard it clearly. Right beside her ear. “Athara…” She turned instantly. Nobody. Only the dim hallway stretching ahead of her. And little Riya dragging Dinky Dollie by one limp arm. Thup. Thup. Thup. The doll’s head bumped softly against the floor with each step. Riya looked up brightly. “Akka,” she squeaked, “Dollie wants a kissie!” Diya groaned dramatically. “Oh, so you want a kissy,” she teased. “Very well then, dear doll.” She took the doll gently from Riya and pressed an exaggerated kiss against its stitched forehead. Athara laughed. Riya laughed harder. The doll stared ahead with its black button eyes. Athara tried to forget the whispering after that. Too much sugar. Too much noise. Too much chatter and cake and relatives. That had to be it. The next morning the family gathered again downstairs. Someone was frying bajjis in the kitchen. Children shrieked through the corridors. An uncle argued loudly about politics while the television blared devotional songs nobody was actually listening to. Riya had abandoned Dinky Dollie briefly on one of the plastic chairs in the hall while she ran off to play tag with the younger cousins. Athara passed by absentmindedly, sipping warm Boost from a steel tumbler. Then she glanced at the doll. And froze. The stitched black-thread smile looked wider. Not by much. Just enough. Enough for her stomach to tighten. Then came a faint rustling sound. Like cotton dragging across fabric. And something breathed softly near her ear. “Stay…” Athara blinked hard. The doll sat exactly where it had been before. Limbs limp. Button eyes blank. From the kitchen someone yelled for more chutney. The noise of the house crashed back around her all at once. Athara shook herself quickly and walked away before she could think too much about it. That afternoon she found Riya asleep upstairs after hours of running around. The little girl had collapsed sideways on the bed, sweaty curls stuck to her forehead, tiny fist still wrapped tightly around Dinky Dollie’s arm. Athara smiled fondly. Typical Riya. Carefully, trying not to wake her, Athara reached down to remove the doll from her grasp. It wouldn’t move. Athara frowned slightly and tugged again. Nothing. It felt absurdly heavy. Like someone had secretly filled the doll with wet sand. Or bricks. She blinked, gripping harder now. The doll remained fixed stubbornly in Riya’s hand. Athara gave an annoyed little huff and pulled sharply. Finally — The doll came free all at once. Riya whimpered softly in her sleep. Athara looked down automatically. Tiny red scratches lined Riya’s wrist. Faint. Thin. But unmistakable. Like little fingernail marks. Athara stared. Her heartbeat skipped unpleasantly. Then she immediately shook her head. Toddlers scratched themselves all the time. Riya probably scraped herself while playing. That was all. That had to be all. Still… Athara quietly placed the doll on the far side of the room before leaving. That night, Riya refused dinner. She sat cross-legged dramatically with her lips pushed into a stubborn pout while the adults begged her to eat at least a few bites. Diya, already tired of the theatrics, snatched Dinky Dollie from her lap. “Fine then,” she declared grandly, holding the doll high above her head. “I’ll give Dinky a hair wash. Maybe a dye too. Chop these curls right off.” Riya gasped in horror. “Nooooo!” Diya burst into laughter. “Bad dolls go in the water,” she teased lightly. Then she tossed the doll carelessly onto the couch. Everyone laughed again. Even Riya eventually giggled through her whining. Athara laughed too. Though she noticed something strange. The doll had landed face-down on the cushions. Yet somehow — impossibly — Its head now seemed tilted toward Diya. Watching her. A week later, Diya was found in the river. Her hair floated around her like black weeds beneath the water. Her skin pale. Her mouth swollen blue. Still. Cold. Bloated. One arm drifted beside her slowly with the current. And tangled tightly inside her dead fingers — Was Dinky Dollie’s hand.
Some toys are loved too much
