Every evening, Dida comes to our colony. It’s as if she’s searching for someone. Her distinct body odor announces her arrival, and the whole colony knows Dida is near.
Her appearance is striking and unsettling. A rusty comb sits tangled in her hair, looking like a broken bottle cap. Her teeth are stained with brown spots, resembling dirt. She wears a tattered gray cloth that barely reaches her knees. Sometimes, Dida flashes a sly, eerie smile that sends chills down the spine.
Dida always tries to catch the little children. She stares at their faces with a strange intensity, as if searching for something lost in their eyes. At times, she laughs; at others, she cries. The children, terrified by her wild appearance, hide whenever they see her.
One evening, Dida came to our house. My younger siblings, frightened, hid behind me. Suddenly, Dida’s face twisted into a strange smile, and she lunged forward, snatching my little brother from behind me. He screamed and cried, and fear gripped me too. The people in the colony rushed out, shouting and throwing stones to drive her away. But Dida clung tightly to my brother, refusing to let go.
Finally, someone struck her from behind, and she released my brother. The crowd didn’t stop—they beat her mercilessly. Watching this, I felt a pang of pain for her. Curious about why Dida behaved this way, I later learned her tragic story.
Years ago, Dida’s son went missing at a forest fair. She searched desperately but couldn’t find him. The next day, she learned he had died. Overwhelmed with grief, she wailed like a madwoman. Someone, perhaps trying to console her, told her in a soothing voice that her son wasn’t dead—that he was living in a nearby colony. Since that day, Dida has wandered, searching for her son, hoping to find him among the children in our colony.
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