Fishy Chronicles 93 – The Webs We Weave (25)

As soon as my great uncles and their families left Rita got Appachan to agree to an after-hours party. First we helped organise a bridal suite for the couple and then Ammachi gave us the keys to her snacks cupboard reluctantly, while Appachan stood nearby watching her. Ammachi’s mouth stayed open as she watched us fill our arms with snacks and concentrates. One of the boys got a music system and another candles.

Rita ordered us all to reorganise the furniture of the room furthest from the bedrooms, one in which some of the children slept. We pushed the furniture to the sides of the room and emptied it of unwanted stools and chairs. We decorated it with tinsel leftover from Christmas that we found in the loft.

Surprisingly everyone took their orders from Rita without a murmur, save for Roma. She dawdled at her duties as much as she could and at one point earned a brutal poke in the back from Rita. Roma glared at Rita’s disappearing back and flopped on to a nearby bed. 

“What’s with you?” I asked.

“Why does Rita get to set up the party?”

“Er, because she came up with the idea, and Appachan agreed!”

“Yes, but he agrees only when she asks.”

That was true.

“Smacks of partiality,” Roma continued.

I took a deep breath and walked off. My cousin was suffering a case of sour grapes. Her family was in Appachan’s A-list, they got what they wanted, everything they did was applauded, etc, etc. But I had not seen Roma’s resentment at being overshadowed coming. Roma only ever saw Rita as an irritating fly. But here in Kerala, at our grandfather’s house, Rita was in with the crowd that mattered. The elders found her charming, and so did our oldest cousins who found none of the younger cousins fun to be with.

I hurried to the large backroom because the music had started and the bride and groom were already dancing with each other, with more spectators than dancers on the floor. They looked beautiful.

Sarah danced with young Tomo and slowly the floor started to fill. I stacked the food on the table in the corner and jumped in. I gestured to Roma and after ignoring me for a while, she stood at the door and sniffed at the scene in front of her. Mobby suddenly pushed his way in, dislodging Roma from the door and she stumbled into the room. I righted her and we started dancing. Soon she was grinning and her poor mood disappeared.

When I crawled into bed at near 4am, my father was awake. “Forgot to watch CSI?”

“For once, there was something more fun, Appa.”

“I hope nothing’s left of the snacks.”

“Nothing. Ammachi insisted we clean the room before we go to bed.”

“Did you?”

“No.”

Appa chuckled. I wondered whether to set my alarm in time to watch Ammachi’s fury in a couple of hours. Nah. Sleep was more important than Ammachi’s torment and this family’s disobedience movement. I put back my clock on the sidetable.

                                     ******

“But why?” Rita mewled.

“Because that is the tradition, mol,” Joychayan smiled, trying to reason with his daughter.

“But what if I talk to Appachan, he’ll agree.”

“Rebecca is now part of another family, so she has to spend time there too.”

“No!”

“Yes!”

Next to her my cousins Rebecca and Roy looked amused. Rebecca had had an argument with her mother in the morning. She had worn a pair of jeans and a white t-shirt to breakfast, and Ammachi had blown a fuse about being a bride and something about a period to wear silks and jewels. Anniemama had hurried her daughter to her room and after an inordinately long time, a grumpy Rebecca came back to the dining room in a green silk sari, with several gold chains around her neck and her arms glinting of metal. Roy winked at her and her mood lifted.

“What’s going on?” I asked Roma, currently my fount of all knowledge related to Syrian Christian weddings and practices.

“Chechi has to dress the part for a few weeks. Look bride-ly. Gold jewellery always, silk saris, etc, etc.”

“What about the groom?” I eyed Roy, who was wearing a white shirt and grey trousers.

“Someone must have warned him, else he’d have been in track pants.”

“What was Rita crying about back there?”

“Roy and Reb are going back next door tomorrow. Rita wants them to stay till we return to Mumbai. She’s full of crap. Does she expect people to dance to her tune always?” Roma poked a boiled egg viciously, breaking it in half. Her fingers ground the appam and curry agitatedly.

“Why are they going?”

“I don’t know!” Roma snarled, bits of egg white flying from her mouth.

Silence was best, I felt. All further queries could be answered by my parents.

To escape my grandmother and her list of chores, I followed my father into the fields. “Why is Rebecca chechi leaving us?”

“She has to spend more time with her husband’s family now.” My father stopped and stroked my head. “She’s part of that family now.”

“Er, we’re her family.”

“Not really. She’s married into Kunjappachan’s family and that is now her family.”

“And Georgiechyan, Anniemama and Sarah chechi?” I said, feeling disquiet build. “What about them?”

“They’ll get used to it.”

I stopped midstride, wondering what this was all about. My father put his arm around my shoulders and nudged me forward. “See, mol, a girl is part of her husband’s family once she marries. She has no say in her own family.”

“Nooo…”

“Yes. It is a kind of unofficial family law.”

“But Amma visits her family.”

“Yes, but she’s considered an outsider now.”

“Is that why she cries everytime she leaves after we visit?”

“No,” Appa laughed. “She misses her parents, brothers and grandmother badly. Thinks Bombay is too far. Phone calls are expensive, you know. But she is considered part of my father’s family now – after marrying me.”

I felt glum – I couldn’t understand why. My aunts worked silently in the kitchen like work mules, while only their sisters in law and mother in law spoke. They were always going to be the outsiders, no matter what.

“What happens when I get married?” I was an only child after all.

“Well, you will be part of your husband’s family.”

“And you and Amma?”

“We’ll visit you every now and then. You’ll visit us and stay on holidays.”

“What if I want to stay with you permanently.”

Appa slowed and took a deep breath. “It doesn’t work that way. You’ll have to do what your in laws want, or fall in line with what they say.”

“I rarely do what you tell me.”

“Yes, I am always hoping that will change,” Appa grinned. “Shall we have puffs and chai on our way back?” My father was trying to change the subject.

But I had a burning question. “Who takes care of Georgiechyan and Anniemama when they are old? Like Roy will take care of his parents. Who will take care of Uncle and Aunty?”

Appa looked unhappy for a moment and then the expression vanished. “Oh, they’ll manage. The girls are smart, they will pitch in.”

“But... they will not be living with them...”

Appa walked off, not hearing me. I stood rooted to the spot, a thousand questions filling my mind and wondering why Appa was not keen to tell me the truth – something I had realised over the years but hadn’t really made peace with – daughters weren’t important, only sons were.

Appa turned around and held out his hand to me. I went to him feeling the burn of the sun on my bare head. I wanted to tell Appa I’d always be there for him, but suddenly I wasn’t sure anymore.

“Appa, yesterday someone called for Sarah.”

“Okay.”

“It was a man.”

Appa turned and stopped, his eyes widening. “He came to the house? Who?”

“Er, no, no. When everyone was in the sitting room, I picked up the phone. The man asked for Sarah chechi, but put the phone down when I asked who he was.”

“Johnny?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

“Do you think it was a friend of Johnny’s? Maybe he wants to get back with Sarah chechi.”

Appa sighed, “Johnny and Sarah are not going to get married. So stop discussing it or bringing it up. It will upset your cousin some more. She’s a bright girl and will find someone else soon.”

“Er, ok.” I could feel Appa’s irritated look on me, but I kept walking.

“You should go back in a while, Ammachi will want you to do chores.”

“I can do chores here in the field, there must be something I can do.”

Appa shook his head, “Not here. At home.”

“But you promised me puffs and chai!”

“Ah yes. From tomorrow then.”

We’d see.

                                     ******

I was relieved when Appa decided to return home. The menfolk and workers were now at the field and work was in full progress.

True to his word, and despite our heavy breakfast, Appa stopped for puffs and chai. I bit into the meaty puff and disappeared into another realm. The air stirred, feeling cool, and all about us people moved in slow motion, tending to their daily business. The shopkeeper next door watched us eat with interest. Nobody, absolutely nobody, ate puffs in full view of other people here, only outsiders – only Bombaywallas.

I chattered to Appa all the way past the bridge. Once we were at home, I wouldn’t have his ear until late at night when he was tired.

We were almost at the turn near the house when I noticed the white car. It had slowed just past our gate and come to a stop. I could see the man in the passenger seat look at the house, where a boisterous game of volleyball with a plastic ball was in progress but my cousins Rebecca and Sarah were standing at the sidelines holding each other and giggling.

I began to run to the car. The driver looked back at me and then started the engine. It failed. I tried to run faster. Appa shouted for me to hold back, but I hoped I could reach the car before it started. The tin tub revved into life and moved forward, attempting to drive off at full speed. It jerked and stalled and then started again. It was Rasool and he had broken into a sweat – and all because a 14-year-old girl was chasing him. But my eyes were on the man beside him.

I wanted to shout to him, but didn’t want Sarah chechi to know. So I took a stone and aimed it at the back of the car – hitting the fender. My father, gasping, caught up with me, grabbed my arm and raged, “What is wrong with you! You cannot throw stones at cars!”

“I can if Johnnychyan’s in it.”

Appa stared. “You still can’t, even if you hate him. Throwing stones is not a solution. A-Are you sure it was Johnny?”

“Appa, I’m 90% sure, and I don’t hate Johnychyan. Why did they run? It was Rasoolchyan’s car and he was driving. Why did they speed off!”

Appa caught my hand tightly, taking a moment to compose himself. He looked across the road at Sarah and Rebecca. “Don’t ever throw stones at anyone again. Promise?”

“Okay.” I had my fingers crossed at my side. My compliance with this latest dictat would depend on the situation. From the opposite side of the road we watched my cousins play for several minutes and then crossed it.

                                   ****** 

The Webs We Weave series follows the travails of a 14-year-old narrator on a family vacation. An innocent deviation spirals out of control and one thing leads to another. 

You can read the full series at FC69, 70, 71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80,81, 82, 83, 84, 85, 86, 87, 88, 89, 90, 91, 92, 93, 94

#lovemarriage #marriage #sarah #roy #rebecca #rebeccaandroy #cousins #kissingcousins #joy #love #grandparents #humour #kerala #keralavillage #keralastories #fiction #loveinkerala #cousinsinlove #cousins #puff #chai #summervacation #bride #groom #appam #eggcurry #gold #goldjewellery #phone #caller #syrianchristians #youngadult #secondcousins #bombaywalla #snacks #christmas #music #appam #curry #eggs #boiledeggs #fishychronicles93 #websweweave25

                                    ******

Fishy Chronicles 92: The Webs We Weave (24) – Rebecca

People shoved each other trying to push through the narrow dining room doorway. Others ran to the one opening into the study and out into the sitting room – I was one of them. Through the sitting room window we watched Thomaskuttychyan, Roy’s dad, slowly get out of the front seat of the car. His father Kunjappachyan was walking up from the road with his youngest son Mathaichyan and my other great uncle Eapachyan from opposite the road, their wives following at a modest distance.

Despite the crowd at the windows there was pin drop silence and I began to feel tense. I could see Roy… and Rebecca… in the back seat of the newish-looking red Maruti Esteem, wedged in with Roy’s mother Meenamama. The car had gauzy gold bows on its handles and small bunches of roses stuck to its body. The air was somewhat cool because it had just rained heavily and the fragrance of wet earth, mixed with that of Appachan’s roses and a neighbour’s chicken curry, was in the air. 

I had not expected Rebecca to come bride-like with Roy or with reinforcements and this seemed to change everything. The elders in the house stood at a distance from the windows staring out uncertainly, while there was a terse exchange between my grandmother and her two daughters. Pilipochyan looked coldly at his wife, almost as if he was exasperated with her. Sarojmama stopped talking and looked away.

Someone opened the front door, but there was an incoherent bark from the back of the room and everyone stilled. Appachan shuffled over to the door, but made no move to step out.

“Rebecca chechi is here!” Rita said happily, looking at the crowd puzzled. Had no one told her? Didn’t everyone know that our first cousin Rebecca had married our second cousin Roy from next door. That just couldn’t be… everyone was standing frozen to their spots, expectantly, almost as if they feared the worst. Georgiechyan and Anniemama hovered beside the door looking stressed, and shooting glances at Appachan.

By now Appachan’s brothers and their wives were at the doorstep, waiting to be invited in. It looked like a standoff. Appachan’s face was thunderous. Years later I would overhear a conversation between my father and his two oldest brothers about how Appachan was determined not to bend, especially suspecting his brothers of trying to force him to give his blessings to this unholy union.

Only Rita had had enough and with an exclamation she was out of the door and at the car tugging the door handle. When it finally wrenched open, she crawled in.

A gasp resounded across the room, and all the younger children were now wedged in the main door, trying to reach the car before the other, despite their parents hollering at them to stay in the room. You must know that Rita is Sarah and Rebecca’s favourite cousin – always following them and, surprisingly, being allowed to tag along. I imagined it was because she was quiet and sensible, and had a charm that overrode elder-cousin concerns (Rita handled them), while the rest of the girls were noisy and stupid. Despite Roma’s smartness and intelligence the George sisters didn’t care much for her, and that stung. I suspect they saw in her an equal – brilliant, and smug about it. I turned to look at Roma, she tilted her head sharply in the direction of the car and we raced out even though I heard my mother calling out to me. I was already in deep shit, some more, especially in the company of my cousins, couldn’t hurt.

We swarmed around the car and our cousins came out and were hugged and patted on the back. Rebecca was in a fuchsia pink silk sari and jewellery, sweat on her brow and looking flushed. “How did she get all that?” I whispered in Roma’s ear, eyeing Rebecca’s heavy-duty gold furnishings.

“Thomaskuttychyan would have paid for everything.”

We heard a roar from inside the house and stood still for a minute, but the chatter continued unabated. We saw our grandfather stand in the doorway watching us, first in astonished silence and then he almost fell trying to hasten down the three steps of the house. We hushed and flattened ourselves against the car, while some of the kids moved behind it. Would he use his walking stick to thrash us, but if he did how would he keep his balance?

He tottered towards us and stood for an eternity in front of Roy, who towered over him, while Appachan’s gaze roamed silently over the renegade couple. Roy looked nervous but Rebecca met my grandfather’s gaze head on. Finally he raised one of his arms and she walked into his embrace, while with his other he held Roy’s hand, ostensibly shaking hands with him, thereby cleverly balancing upright. There were shouts and my family laughed, pushing and shoving and trying to share the joy of the moment. The group moved itself up the house steps and into the sitting room, floating just above the ground like the swarms of ducks that frequently navigate Kerala’s farmlands. In the end, there was only standing space in the room. My aunts made several rounds of tea, while the couple were forced into the dining room. People hovered over them, dropping snacks into their plates, some hands pushing food into Rebecca’s mouth and tears, of joy, running down Anniemama’s face. Georgiechyan, with Sarah’s arms around his waist, looked overwhelmed, but happy, his eyes and Sarah’s focused on Rebecca.

And Ammachi? She stood at the side of the dining room, seething but intimidated by the adulating boisterous crowd. She tried to push through to the couple, but it was impossible.

I watched a hand shove an etheka appam into Roy’s cheek. An elbow shoved the hand aside and another hand with a handkerchief pressed against Roy’s nose, trying to wipe away the food. Clearly no one could see what they were doing to him. I was surprised Roy didn’t get up and run.

“Is this handfeeding business normal?” I asked Roma.

“No. Hugely abnormal. But what here is normal – not even our cousins!” she said in a super low whisper.

“Do you think any of them have washed their hands?”

“No.”

“Where’s Sarayumama?” Sarojmama and Pilipochyan were watching the couple from the side, the former’s mouth pursed and the latter leaning over a chair and smiling.

Roma turned around to look. Our older aunt was missing, but her husband and sons were in the dining room. “Well, she can’t put a stop to anything. Appachan will fix her if she says anything silly,” Roma said fiercely in my ear.

“Where do you think she is?”

After a long pause, “Probably checking if there’s a dowry to be given and how much.”

I looked at her in disbelief. “But these two had a love marriage. They eloped! The deed is done, how can you get a dowry after?”

“Sab hote hai* (everything goes).”

“Bullshit!”

A few seconds later, I began to move away from the dining room because my aunt’s absence had piqued my interest.

As Roma had said, Sarayumama was hanging on to every word being said by her father’s brothers and their families in the sitting room. There was not a mention of a dowry. I watched Sarayumama clandestinely – while her face smiled, her eyes were narrowed and it seemed an effort for her to look affable.

I remembered what my uncle Rajanchyan told me at tea time (FC91) just a little earlier – there was nothing anyone could do about Rebecca and Roy’s marriage. They were a done deed. And Sarah looked happy even though her younger sister had married before her. Probably there was no pressure for Sarah to marry now. No Johnny either.

I crept nearer Amma and slipped my arms around her waist and murmured, “Does this mean all is forgiven?”

“We don’t know, mol. For the time being, yes,” she murmured back.

“You think Ammachi has forgiven them?” My grandmother was in the sitting room, looking defeated, trying not to look glum and failing. One of her nieces got up and gave her her seat. Everyone was trying to avoid the elephant in the room, and only concentrating on positive topics. The conversation seemed forced.

My mother stayed silent. Some silences say a lot… and some nothing.

The phone in the study rang. Appachan was listening raptly to Thomaskuttychyan and so I picked up the phone.

“Sarah?”

“Er, no. Who’s speaking?”

The person cut the line.

******

* translated from Hindi

This series is fictional and follows the narrator recalling a childhood vacation with extended family in Kerala. The narrator’s cousins who eloped appear at her ancestral home and there’s a standoff.

Read the entire The Webs We Weave series here FC69, 70, 71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80,81, 82, 83, 84, 85, 86, 87, 88, 89, 90, 91, 92, 93, 94

#standoff #elope #lovemarriage #marriage #sarah #roy #rebecca #rebeccaandroy #cousins #kissingcousins #joy #love #hope #grandparents #shit #humour #kerala #keralavillage #keralastories #fiction #loveinkerala #cousinsinlove #cousins #holyunion #maruti #marutiesteem #redmarutiesteem #roses #wetearth #fragrance #rain #keralarains #summervacation #bride #groom #ducks #keraladucks #ethekaappams #appam #gold #goldjewellery #dowry #elephantintheroom #phone #caller #hindi #syrianchristians #secondcousins #brilliant #smug #snacks

Fishy Chronicles 70: Lockdown Diaries: The Webs We Weave (2)

I waited till I heard my parents snore. It took a long time. They had spoken in whispers and I occasionally heard a familiar name.

I grabbed the small torch I had kept under my pillow and slowly got off the mattress on the floor. I waited until my eyes got accustomed to the dark and then switched on the torch in bursts to show me where the door was and not wake my parents. I crawled forward until I reached the door and opened it slowly. I had oiled the squeaky hinges and door handle a couple of days ago and had been caught in the act by my grandfather.

“Good girl! I’ve never seen any of the other children show so much interest in managing a house. The hinges of all the doors and windows in my room are crying. Some days it is because of the wind moving the windows and it almost gives me a fright. Come on, I will be your assistant.”

I was tongue tied at first, and then gave in to my grandfather’s enthusiasm. Plus, he genuinely seemed to think I had a yen for home improvements. That day I oiled the hinges of the door of his walk-in cupboard, the hinges of his bedroom door and all the hinges in the windows. Because he smiled at me so sweetly, I gave in and cleaned all the windows of his room from the outside of the house. I wondered if I needed to avoid Appachan (grandfather), but he had so many stories to tell that I forgot my irritation soon enough.

At the back of my mind, I could hear my maternal great grandmother telling me how doing something bad would come back to haunt me. The more I thought of the photos and diary in the loft, I couldn’t figure out what was evil about wanting to have a better look at them.

A few days ago, I had discovered (FC69) photographs of my aunt Saroj with a man, who was not her husband, and a journal. My paternal grandmother, who had commandeered my services to clear out the loft in the storeroom, had emptied out a holdall that had belonged to Saroj Aunty and asked me if there had been anything else in the bag. While I was in the loft I had removed the photographs and diary and hidden them.

I shivered in the dark. My grandparents didn’t believe in keeping a weak light switched on in the long corridor outside our room. I was somewhat of a nocturnal being and didn’t need a light, but pitch dark in a rural household in Kerala is an eerie, scary business. So I switched on and off the torch until I reached the store room.

I opened the door and shut it. I didn’t switch on the light because the store room was opposite my grandparents’ room and there were opaque glass windows in the sides of the storeroom – you couldn’t see who was in the room, but you could make out outlines and see light. Earlier in the day I put an old plastic stool under the table. Once in the loft, I took out my stash from inside a holdall in a distant corner.

I shone the torch’s light over the faded colour photographs. Saroj Aunty was beautiful. She didn’t look like a typical Malayali and my grandmother had told me often that there had been many marriage proposals for her. She had also been smart and ambitious, which was why my grandparents had agreed to let her study in Delhi. My older aunt Sarayu, just as pretty as Saroj Aunty, had been married off young.

All the photographs were either of the handsome Sardar, or of Saroj Aunty or both. All the stories I had heard of people falling in love or marrying, had ended badly. Either the girl or boy was found out and dissuaded from marrying their loves, or the ones that married now couldn’t get along.

While my cousins wanted to have boyfriends and love marriages, having boyfriends was taboo and we only discussed them when we knew there would be no adults around.

I reached for the holdall to remove the diary and a hand grabbed my wrist and tugged. I recoiled in fright, trying to pull myself backward and out of the strong grip. I struggled to free myself but the hand tightened like a deadly noose. A light flashed into my face and I tried to shield my eyes with my free arm.

“What are you doing in the loft?” my cousin Bobby said. He was Sarayu Aunty’s youngest child, around 18 years old. He tried to pull me to the edge of the loft but I struggled to keep myself away. “Come down, you idiot. What are you doing up there?”

“Let me go!”

“Why?”

“Er…”

Bobby was now standing on the desk and squinting at the pictures with the help of the light of my torch, which had rolled to my feet in my struggle. He let go of my hand and reached for the photos and I kicked his hand away and moved further into the narrow loft. I grabbed and pushed the photos out of his reach. “Fool! Give me that! It has to be something mischievous if you need to look at it in the middle of the night!”

“NO!”

Bobby grabbed my arm, shook me angrily and tried to drag me off the loft. I kicked him, catching him on the chin. He snarled and grabbed my hair and neck and shook. After an eternity, my head stopped shaking and I was free. But now his hand squeezed my breast. With his other hand he tried to pin me down. I flailed and toppled some of the things near me on to the ground.

“Shhh!” Bobby’s cold spit sprayed my cheek, his hands slamming me against the loft's wall.

Suddenly the light came on and I was blinded. Bobby let me go and jumped off the table. I lay supine, hearing someone speak. The door opened and closed.

I cried silently, until I heard a throat clear. My heart beats thundered in my ears, throat and chest. I reached for my torch, willing myself to beat Bobby if he looked into the loft again. I stayed flat, listening for noises, my breath escaping in shallow gasps.

“Come down, mol,” Appachan said.

I stilled, trying to stop crying.

“Come down. I don’t want anyone else to come in and find us.”

I sat up and looked at my grim grandfather. My eyes veered away. He held out one of his hands. My body trembled and I sat and slowly moved to the edge and let my legs dangle on the side of the loft. The life seemed to have gone out of my limbs.

Appachan stood under me and I caught his outstretched hand and slid off the loft slowly.

Suddenly I felt stinging pain across my arms and bare legs. I threw out my arms to fend off my grandfather’s attack, but he was hitting me with a plastic flyswatter that had rested on the storeroom's dusty window ledge for years. I yelped in pain wherever the flyswatter struck me and bits of it broke and flew about as it made contact with my skin.

“You… you…” Appachan choked. I pulled the flyswatter out of his hand and threw it into the loft and fled when he came rushing towards me with a raised hand.

I ran down the hall, and into my father’s arms, both of us falling backwards and onto the ground. I begged Appa to save me from Appachan and Bobby. By now lights in the other rooms were being switched on, my father immediately pushed me towards my mother and she pulled me into our room and shut the door.

Doors opened and we could hear Mathan Uncle, Bobby’s father, ask what was going on. But Appachan and Appa stayed silent. Later we heard angry voices, but mostly Appachan’s voice. After an eternity, my father returned to our room.

I burned with shame, unable to talk or make sense of what had happened. So I buried my head in my mother’s lap and cried. She patted and rubbed my back, begging me to tell her what had happened.

When I looked up, my father was lying on the bed his eyes staring at a spot on the ceiling and his arms over his head – his face unreadable. “Lock the door,” he told Amma. I was bundled into the bed, in between them, my heart speeding and bumping insanely. I turned away from Appa and curled desperately into Amma, afraid and unable to understand his silence.

Adrenaline rushed through my body. I relived Bobby’s hands on me and felt utterly humiliated and betrayed by my grandfather’s beating.

Sometime in the night, my father’s arms came around me and he whispered and told me to calm down and that he loved me. We spent most of the night staring at the play of light and shadows of leaves on the wall caused by the moonlight streaming in through the parted curtains. 

None of us slept.

(To be continued in the next episode.)

                                                                ******

This is a fictional series about the 30-something narrator who is recalling an incident from her past. The first part can be found here (FC69). And the rest of the episodes here  

71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80, 81, 82, 83, 84, 85, 86, 87, 88, 89, 90, 91.