Fishy Chronicles 87: The Webs We Weave (19) – The secret

Though it was a state secret, everyone in the family got to know of Sarah and Johnny’s ‘disengagement’ (FC86) in a few days – even the youngest kids.

We had just spent awkward hours in a humid church, squeezed into an increasingly stinky crush of people there for the Sunday service. All the while people glanced our way, whispered to each other, hastily looked away when we looked at them, and either spoke with a smirk or double meanings.

Elsamama and Amma stood on either side of Anniemama, effectively fending off questions. But then some girls approached Shyla and Nina after church and asked. They were saved the trouble of answering when a stony-faced Sarah stepped out of that side entrance and almost bumped into them. The girls scattered in different directions like an army of ants interrupted, while Shyla and her sister stayed rooted to the spot in shock. Sarah raked her cousins with a filthy look and walked past.

I kept out of everyone’s way. It was too much tension. Today people who had seen through me for weeks wanted to speak to me. My nosey second cousins who lived opposite Kunjappachan’s house, Eenya and her sister Tara, blocked my way. I composed myself – lying, or being economical with the truth, was easier when emotions didn't come in the way.

“Is it true?” Eenya asked.

“What?”

“The engagement is off?” Tara said.

“Engagement?”

“Sarahchechi’s engagement to Johnnychyan!” Eenya burst out.

“As far as I know it’s still on,” I pushed past and walked quickly to the dirt road leading out of the church. The church had loads of money – every parishioner had someone in the Middle East, the US, UK or Australia and the church often got hefty donations from those wanting to make good impressions – yet the road outside the church stayed clay red and untarred year after year after year, and when it rained there was a strong chance you would slip. 

A puddle splashed and I felt cold wetness at the back of my salwar. But I hurried on. A hand grabbed my elbow. I started in fear, but relaxed when I saw who it was. I started walking away from the church’s gates.

“What does it mean? They aren’t going to get married?” Rita asked. She had been standing a way off but must have heard the conversation with our second cousins.

“No.”

“What happened?”

“Johnnycha’s family called and said they didn’t want to marry.”

Rita caught my upper arm and made me stop. I sighed and stood under the stoop of a shop. I watched people go past in their Sunday whites, and slippers, unperturbed by the 99.99% possibility of top-quality slush scarring their whites for life.

Rita looked confused. She opened her mouth, but words didn’t come out. Finally she said, “He doesn't want to marry Sarahchechi?”

“Yes.”

“He said that?”

“Ye… er… there was a phone call. I don’t think it was him.”

“So he didn’t say.”

“Someone in his family said it for him.”

It doesn’t count.”

“Yes it does.”

“Someone could be doing it chumma (just like that).”

“Too serious a business for someone to do chumma.”

“I mean… I don’t think he wants to.”

Something about the way she said it made me pause. “What do you mean, Rita?”

She looked around and pushed me back into the damp brick wall. “You remember we went over to Eenya’s house for her birthday?”

I snorted, but stilled my cynical tongue. There was no traditional payasam that Eenya’s mother was known for, but some awful cake Tara had baked. The plain yellow cake at the bakery was better. “Yes.”

“Achacha was there.”

“Which Achacha?

“Johnnycha!”

“What?”

“Not at the party, but he was in a car down the road. And after a while, Chechi disappeared. I saw her sitting in the car.”

“But... how? He's in Bombay... and... and... his family would have known! Thomachan would have known!” Thomachan was Eenya's brother and Johnny's friend.

Rita shrugged. "He was in the car with Sarahchechi."

I shook my head. It was too farfetched. No one took such risks. Not in this village at least. “Kasam se, God promise, chechi!” Rita pinched her throat with one hand and touched her head with the other, indicating that God would smote her if she lied.

Rita squeezed my arms and pushed me deeper into the wall. “Believe me, chechi, Achacha was in his friend’s car – like the car Appapa has. A white one, with big scratch marks. You remember Johnnychacha used to drive around in that.”

"Rasool?" Johnny’s friend drove a dented Padmini Premier. They spent a lot of time in the car. Apparently there was no way to enjoy the company of adult friends in this village, because even if you hid in the fields someone would see you.

"Yes."  

"He was in the car with them?"

"I didn't see him."

"Er, so who drove the car?"

Another shrug.

“I don’t understand. If Johnnychyan had come everyone would have known.” 

“Yes, but he was here last week.” She counted her fingers. “On Sunday.”

How was it I hadn’t seen them. It was impossible. But even more impossible was the possibility of Rita lying. 

“He stopped calling on Wed…” 

“Who stopped?”

“Nothing.” No one knew about the calls. I pushed her away but suddenly Rita was pinning me against the wall. 

“So they are talking!”

“Er…” I clawed at the little fingers that were digging into my fleshy forearms.

“How are they talking?”

“Let me go, ouchhhhhhhh!”

She let go, but stood on tiptoe, her small body pressing aggressively into mine – a most determined expression on her little face. “He’s called Sarahchechi? When?”

“I’m not supposed to say.”

My chest compressed into my shoulder blades and the damp came right through the back of my clothes. Amma would get mad at me if the mossy bricks stained my clothes. “Come on, Rita. A secret is a secret is a secret,” I mumbled.

She didn’t move or ease the pressure on my chest. I tried pushing her, but she jammed her feet into the ground and pressed me against the wall with her upper body and arms. This was something Roma sometimes did to Rajiv and now Rita was doing it to me!

“Ok, ok. He calls late at night.”

A calculating look settled on her face, and she stepped back. “What movie are you watching?”

“Eh?”

“Which movie?”

“A-a s-serial. Crime programme – CSI.”

“What time?”

I remained quiet. That was the only 'me' time I got in our overcrowded household. I didn’t want another person to join. Rita pressed into me again, but this time I didn’t budge. But when her index finger wouldn’t stop skewering my right kidney, I gave up, “ouch... one o'clock... ooouuucccchhhh.” I shoved with some effort, and she staggered back.

Rita grinned and walked to the middle of the road. “Come on. Let's go before Ammachi comes out and thinks we're loitering.”

******

After a nice fat Sunday lunch we sat in the sitting room waiting for the adults to leave for their afternoon naps. But the boys grabbed the TV remote first and after watching them surf channels and laugh at their sisters’ entreaties to allow them to watch a certain film, I walked out. The house was stifling.

I opened the sitting room door and looked back at the scene in the room. The long baby pink curtains (Appachan’s choice) were billowing with the breeze coming in from the windows, the boys were spread across all the chairs and sofas, unwilling to let their sisters sit, the only exception being Rajiv and Roma who were squeezed into a love seat. None of the boys were willing to toy with Roma, especially after the chapter of violence Bobby was subjected to some weeks ago (FC76).

At this moment, I hated the boys with all my heart. They were crude, awful to the core and I did not know how my family favoured them. I shuddered when I looked at Mobby and Bobby, their heads together discussing something in low tones. Idiots.

I wanted to bang the door, but that one moment of rebelliousness would unleash demons that were right now safely snoring in their beds. Why chance a typoon when you could eat a sweet chubby mango. I closed the door gently and ran around to the back of the house for the mango-lassoing pole. It lay near the shed and I hurled it over the side gate and climbed over. I ran joyfully, but carefully, through the pineapple patch, enjoying the sudden rain-induced coolness. 

From a point on the property it was possible to see the river. You could hear it all the time if you stood still and slowed your breathing – a gentle whooshing sound that almost sounded like the trees shivering, but not quite.

Rita followed me and we smiled at each other. I howled and barked, imitating the dogs in the neighbourhood, enjoying our moments of freedom. Rita bared her teeth and yipped like our neighbour's pomeranian. We howled and yipped until we noticed a passerby stop to watch. Another nosey idiot neighbour.

******

Past 12.45am, I peeped warily at the sofa and sighed in relief. Sarah was not there. I felt my spirits sag thinking of how she had been forced to give up on Johnny.

A cold hand caught my arm. I leaped backwards and hit the wall. I cowered with my arms up to protect myself, when I heard someone shush me. I opened an eye and saw Rita. I wanted to wring her neck.

“What are you doing here?” I hissed.

“I want to watch TV too,” she whispered in my ear.

I was stumped. “You’ll get into trouble.”

“Ok.”

I glared at her, until she gestured for me to come closer. I leaned towards her lips. “What?”

“I got a plan for that.”

“What?”

“When anyone comes, we should run in different directions.”

“What if they block the corridor?”

“We can run through the study to the dining room, get to the store room and wait there till all is clear.”

“But what if they go after only one person.”

“Then we’re screwed.”

******

Fear didn’t deter us. We watched our crime serial without sound, trying to figure out what they were saying, until Rita leaned into my ear and said, “We’ve got to call Johnnychyan.”

“Why?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Ask him the truth?”

“How?”

“Just ask.”

“He’ll laugh at us and complain to our parents.”

“Ok. I’ll do it then,” Rita straightened in the sofa and continued watching TV.

You irritating pimple. “Ok, let’s ask.”

“Deal. You get his number from Sarahchechi.”

“Whhatttt? She’ll bite my head off!”

“Hmm. Ok. I’ll try and get it,” Rita whispered nonchalantly.

“How will you do that?”

“I don’t know. I’ll find a way. Now keep quiet and let me watch. Here. Eat this.” She pushed a large oily ball of sugiyan into my hand. Ammachi had made the ladies cook namkeen and other eats the last few days – she was preparing to send off her children with many goodies. The sugiyan, filled with a sweet moong (lentil) filling, had been made fresh and would stay a few days.

“How… how…”

“How did I get them? Ammachi changed the lock and Rajiv saw her hide the key under the paper at the bottom of the sideboard.”

I had been made to clean said sideboard recently, and had lined its shelves with clean back editions of the Malayala Manorama newspaper. I eyed the little one… had we corrupted this 10-year old more than we knew?

“Eat. Don’t drop any crumbs, or the ants will come and Ammachi will track us down.”

“Ok. Got it.”

After the sugiyan and the serial, too lazy to wash our hands, we wiped them on the back of a curtain in a neglected corner of the sitting room and parted ways, promising to keep the whole day, and night, a secret. 

******

This series is fictional and follows the narrator who is remembering events related
to a family vacation gone wrong in Kerala. 

In this episode she comes to know, through another cousin, that their cousin Sarah had been meeting her fiancé Johnny without the family's knowledge. Johnny's family ended the engagement a few days previously.   

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

#ants #antarmy #river #bombay #crumbs #washinghands #fiction #keralachristians #keralastories #kerala #keralavacation #keralafamilies #love #loss #brokenengagements #marriage #food #mobby #bobby #sarah #fishychronicles87 #grandparents #websweweave #mumbaimalayalis #malayalistories #cake #secret #padminipremier #crimesceneinvestigation #crimeserial #CSI #malayalamanoramanewspaper #sideboard #payasam #bakery #kidney #johnnyandsarah #keralachurch #typhoon #mango #sugiyan #namkeen #10yearold #corrupt #neighbour's #dogs #pomeranian

Road to Phnom Penh

Photo Credit: A. Peter

A speeding shot of a day fast turning to night. This was taken from a car on our way from Siem Reap to Phnom Penh, after a great two days with friends. We'd been to Angkor Wat, the men and sole teenager absenting themselves from a visit to the temples on the pretext that they'd been there before. 

Since it was new year 2019 we spent the night in Siem Reap's Pub Street crammed into a young crowd, the most peaceful gentle mass of public I have ever been squeezed into, and swayed to some catchy Cambodian music. 

I liked the music enough to try looking for those party music tunes on YouTube. Couldn’t find anything that sounded familiar, but liked what I heard enough to keep listening for some days, mostly Cambodian pop and rock. 

That night we weren't able to get a meal anywhere, finally finding a small South Indian restaurant that was almost closing and had very little food. We were able to eat and found out the owners were Malayalis from North Kerala. The wife and family were Cambodian. The world is indeed a small place. 

Oh, btw, I'm proud of this shot. Reminds me of my years fiddling with a Yashica camera's aperture/shutter speeds to take night pictures. A lifetime of trying to take good pictures. Now I use the camera phone. Something good died along the way. 

                                    ******

#Cambodia #Sunset #Cambodiamusic #Cambodiapop #siemreap #phnompenh #pubstreetsiemreap #pubstreet #cambodiatemples #templesofcambodia #angkorwat #newyear #newyearincambodia #newyearinsiemreap #music #newyearparty #YouTube #teenager #nightphotos #aperture #shutterspeed #Yashica #cameraphone #photographs #wife #northkerala #southindianrestaurantincambodia #travel #traveldiaries #southindianfood #travel #indiansincambodia #malayalis #mumbaimalayalis

Fishy Chronicles 86: The Webs We Weave (18) – An ending

I watched the shadow move. I had stopped being afraid of the shapes that danced on my wall at night, because I knew now that it was the tree’s branches moving gently – illuminated by the weak streetlight. I had conquered my fear of the shadows outside, but I stayed awake at night consumed by the shadows within.

I had remained in our bedroom every night since Romeo had been cut up and cooked into a curry (FC84). It was brutal and I couldn’t stop thinking of it. I missed my little feathered friend and avoided going to the guava tree now. I missed his kinship and the way he seemed to speak to me. 

In the day, I spent time next door with my grandfather’s brother Kunjappachan. But I had developed a nagging distrust, which I tried consciously to shrug off every time I understood what was happening. Appachan had been loving, a larger-than-life presence always. His sweet treats, taking his grandchildren out to the local market – we took turns as his car could only fit some of us at a time – bringing us flowers and cashew seeds from his morning rounds of his fields, his stories about his long-dead parents and other family. But in one swoop all that had changed for me, and watching things unfold – for some of my cousins too.

In a few weeks I had witnessed all of this family turn from Dr Jekyll to Mr Hyde. It was something I couldn’t wrap my head around. I felt myself hold back from simple interactions, wondering if the person I was talking to was secretly plotting evil against me. I couldn’t share my thoughts, I had to debate everything I wanted to say, how it would be construed, consider the backstories... eventually it felt easier to nod and keep quiet. It was all confusing and frightening. I clung to my parents, following Appa to the farm and drifting into the fields, much to Appachan’s irritation. I wanted to avoid the house, Ammachi, her daughters and my cousins at all cost. When I spotted my great uncle, I stayed close to him.

Every morning I swallowed my breakfast, doing my best to avoid eye contact with the others and then, while my grandmother was mid-sentence listing out my chores, I was out the door and at the gate next door. The day I was cornered, my father reluctantly blocking my path, Ammachi gave me an earful about being ungrateful and bad mannered and it being a sure-fire route to the gates of Satan’s vile quarters. It was tedious listening.

Just the previous night my father had given me a restrained lecture about good manners, and having to accept what had happened and moving on. We had had a bitter argument and I had demanded going to my mother’s parents’ home. When there was no let up, I burst into tears and the matter ended.

I looked at my parents – they were snoring. Their ritual night-time chats and light laughter had stopped – not that I had noticed. But I did notice that I had not heard any family gossip in a long time.

                                          ******

There was news at Kunjappachan’s house though. His eldest grandson was visiting from the US. He’d just got a job and his parents had insisted he meet his grandparents before he returned. I had met my cousin occasionally over the years, but we had little in common because of our age difference – except for being able to speak in English.

My great aunt and her daughters in law fussed over him – partly because he was so handsome and mostly because he enjoyed their attentions – and luckily his pants had elastic at the waist because his gaunt look had disappeared quickly. Every relative of ours that lived abroad usually returned to India ‘healthy’, a polite way of saying fat in Kerala, but in Roy’s case this was the reverse.

He was the brilliant cousin, who had studied at a tony university in Delhi and soon after gone off to do a PhD in the US. He was hot, according to my cousins. I had to agree, he looked chiseled and did not have a potbelly. And he was nice too. His face was mostly buried in the newspapers, his grandfather ordered some English magazines and newspapers just for him, and when he wasn’t reading he was either at our house or roaming around the village and fields.

When I did get over my awe of him, we chatted, played chess, and because I always lost we ended up playing draughts, Snakes and Ladders or cards. And after a while, I became aware that my older cousins would be there too.

One day, I pushed through the crush that had formed around Roy. I petted Petty the goat and then saw the glistening deep purple jamuns on the ground a little further on. Many had been trod on by the visitors, but some were in good condition nearer the bushes bordering the courtyard. I moved forward, picking up a coconut shell from near the cow shed to hold the jamuns.

From the low wall separating the two properties, I could see the men in my grandfather’s study, and an argument in progress. So what was new – my relatives only knew how to fight. When I asked Appa about this trait, he said they discussed politics. The snatches I had heard confirmed it, but once in a while they got heated and shouted their heads off about other things. One day it was about an old friend and some money. Another day one of the uncles was denying a smoking habit, and another day it was about one of their wives being treated rudely. But this seemed unlike any other argument. Anniemama, Sarah’s mother, was standing in the doorway of the study, her face pressed into her open palms.

Georgiechyan was looking down at someone and screaming blue murder and Appa and Joychyan were pulling him away. Suddenly Ammachi appeared at the windows, grabbing two shutters at a time and slamming them shut.

                                       ******

Georgiechyan and his family did not appear for lunch. I wondered what they were doing for food. They did not appear for evening tea either, even though the youngest kids were sent to knock at their bedroom door.

I was surprised Ammachi could spare a daughter in law, chores might be heaping up. Ammachi looked disturbed. Her daughters sat on either side and the only noises were of my cousins eating their food and bantering.

Inhaling the aroma of the etheka appams, I gave thanks for the extra snacks on my plate. The George family didn’t know what they were missing. 

                                         ******

I wiped the sweat off my neck with my hand. Ugh. The fan was spinning slowly over my parents and the air didn’t quite disperse into my corner of the room. The fluorescent dial of the clock on the bedside table showed 12.53am.

I debated getting up. Usually Sarah had her call with Johnny about now (FC80). It had become a prolonged nightly ritual, and was a pain because it coincided with a murder serial I had started watching. They were still not allowed to talk to each other, unless supervised, till their marriage some months away. As the family didn’t know that the two were speaking to each other, Sarah had sworn me to secrecy. The understanding was that I would not listen in on the call, and no one would know that I was watching TV on the sly.

For some reason Mobby had stayed firmly in his room since our night-time episode (FC81, FC82) … or else he was visiting Sonimol chechi later at night – after Sarah’s call and my serial.

What could I do this time of night? No movie and no night-time snacking – Ammachi had changed the padlock on her goodies cupboard. She still hadn’t figured out who had been making inroads into the snacks or that there were a few copies of the same key floating around. Sometimes we watched her open the cupboard to see her reaction. She thought someone was taking the key from under her pillow at night and couldn’t understand how she didn’t wake up.

I remembered the magazine Roy had given me. It was a political one but had a gossip column of sorts in the back. Plus, there was a Bollywood special in this issue – the only reason I had wanted to read it. I found a torch in the dressing table drawer, but it didn’t work. There were no batteries to be found either. The bedside clock yielded only the narrow pencil variety. I snuck out of our room and stood still in the corridor until my eyes got used to the darkness, and then followed the faint light from the street coming through the sitting room windows. 

I crept forward, the memory of Mobby’s thrashing coming to mind and I was mindful that I would get the same treatment were Sarah to catch sight of me. I still felt bitter at the thought of me being punished and Sarah getting away scot-free. For sure, Mobby and his parents were afraid of Sarah, else she would have been court martialed or locked up in the store room for a few days.

There was no noise coming from the sitting room. The call must have ended early. This was strange because lovers talked for an inordinately long time – as did Sarah and Johnny. I held back. Sarah was seated on the red sofa, staring into the distance. I leaned forward to see what she was looking at and could spot nothing in particular. The phone was next to her on the sofa. I hesitated, but then cleared my throat. It would be worse if I was caught spying.

Sarah didn’t seem to have heard. I went closer. She was holding herself stiffly, her hands by her side, her back straight but leaning forward and bathed in white streetlight. And then I saw a tear roll slowly down her face, with another dropping from her jaw. I began to move forward, but then remembered our pact and moved back into the corridor. I watched for a while, but she didn’t move or stop crying.

Finally I stood next to her and waited. She sat back against the sofa.

“What happened, Sarahchechi?”

There was a long sniff. And a shrug. But she still didn’t turn to look at me.

“Did… er… Johnnychacha call?”

She looked down at her hands.

“Er, chechi, did you guys have a fight?” I couldn’t remember ever seeing her cry.

She looked up and one side of her lips rose in a false smile. “No. We didn’t fight.”

“So?”

“His family called yesterday and ended the engagement. He hasn’t called me for several days.”

My breath stopped. “What?”

She stood up and brushed down her kurta, swaying. I caught her arm to steady her. “You’re joking, right, chechi?”

“Wrong, mol. I’m not joking,” she said with some force. “His uncle called up and said they did not want to proceed, th-that… Johnny had had second thoughts.”

I was stunned. My perfect brother in law. Now a never-brother. It was unbelievable. “But why? What’s wrong with you?”

It seemed a source of mirth for my cousin, and her lips thinned.

“You think it is funny?” I asked.

“You think I’m perfect?”

“Yes!”

“Even after pinching your ears and shouting at you?”

“… I think a guy would think you’re perfect.”

She snorted and sat, bending over, with her elbows on her knees and her face in her palms. I babbled, “I mean, you’re pretty, fair, and thin,” and you have brains, “and guys like that.” Guys didn't like brainy girls – beautiful yes, clever no. And after several weeks of Ammachi’s training and her grand plans for her granddaughters, Sarah knew how to keep house. That made her perfect.

I was putting my hand on her shoulder when I heard the savage swear word. I quickly pulled it away. “What now, chechi? … Er… The announcement was made in church… What will happen now?”

She shrugged.

I didn’t know what to make of it. But I did know most of my cousins had had ultra-short engagements, and been raced to the altar. Was this why our weddings occurred so quickly after an engagement – to kill the possibility of the union not happening? “Have you tried calling Johnnychyan?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“He hasn’t picked up his phone for a few days. Since Wednesday.”

I felt horror seep through my being. It was the day before Romeo’s life was brutally snuffed out. “Y-y-you think it’s related?”

“What?”

“Feels like a coincidence.”

“What?”

“Romeo’s death and your engagement ending.”

“Don’t be silly, mol! There is no connection.”

“Or the same person who wanted Romeo dead, spread stories about you, enough to end your engagement?”

“What stories?”

“I don’t know.”

“Romeo and ‘this’ are not related.”

“How can you be sure. And why now, why not before your engagement?”

“I can’t be sure, but I don’t think anyone would break my engagement just because they were angry with me for something. It is too cruel.”

I could believe it. Anything was possible in this house filled with insane people. My cousin looked up, searching my face, “You don’t think so?” her voice broke and tears started falling again.

“Sorry, chechi, just me being paranoid.” I sat next to her and squeezed her hand. “Maybe Johnnycha will change his mind… and-and want to get back with you…” I wished I had a hanky because now my cousin’s face was twisted and red, and she was sobbing.

I held onto her for an eternity, begging God to ease my chechi’s misery. In that fell swoop, I realised that it wasn’t the engagement that mattered to my cousin – she had lost her heart to Johnny too. When she stopped crying, a long time later, we held hands and watched the street outside until the sky started turning pink and the streetlights were switched off. Then we went back to our rooms.

                                            ******

This series is fictional and follows the narrator who is remembering events related
to a family vacation in Kerala during her childhood. 

She is traumatized by the demise of her pet rooster, but it seems the malevolent force prevailing in her household isn't done with her and Sarah yet.   

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

#fiction #keralachristians #keralastories #kerala #keralavacation #keralafamilies #love #loss #brokenengagements #marriage #food #satan #clock #mobby #sarah #fishychronicles86 #grandparents #goat #rooster #Romeo #websweweaveseries #swearwords #beautifulwomen #mumbaimalayalis #malayalistories #chess #boardgames #snakesandladders #draughts #johnnyandsarah #spying #beautifulwomen #cleverwomen #prettywomen #savage

******

Fishy Chronicles 85: The Webs We Weave (17) – No ripples in the river

To say I was messed up is an understatement (FC85).

The murder of my Romeo plunged me into a hole – of pain, a sense of betrayal, nothing could ever be right, I’d never trust my own, I was scarred for life, I felt deep horror that my beloved bird could be so brutally punished for my sins. It was a morass I seemingly couldn’t climb out of. It hampered my breathing and my head stayed under my pillow, most of the time, to smother the sound of another human being trying to talk to me.

By the end of day 2, I had not eaten for two days, despite my parents’ desperate pleading, and had a high fever, eventually requiring the services of the good doctor Lal. He sat next to me on my bed, his face grim. He tried to joke about cheering up else I’d have to take an injection. He gave me one anyway and told me all would be well. Hah. My cousins ogled him from the doorway. My older, stupid, cousins had worn nice salwar kurtas. When he looked around and saw Georgiechyan, he jumped up and they left the room together.

My mother covered me up with my sheet again and I cringed when I saw my grandfather enter the room. I pulled the sheet over my head and turned away. There was a long silence and then Appachan cleared his throat and asked about my fever. Amma mumbled. Appa stood staring out of our bedroom window, his back towards the room.

He had spent the night holding me tightly while I cried, slept, and vomited bile. Revengeful scenes played in my dreams. Mostly of a burly, faceless goon chasing my aunt Sarayumama with a fat stick and hitting her more times than was humanly possible. Over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over. Hit hit hit with stick stick stick.

When I was awake I imagined how Romeo was killed. Did the person enjoy it? When I eventually found my voice, it was to ask who had done the deed.

“I don’t know,” Amma looked down. I looked at Appa and he looked away.

On the rare occasions my parents disappeared from our bedroom at the same time, they left a strange minder. My uncle Pilipochyan sat in a chair, about a feet away from the bed, the newspaper in his lap, his hands loosely resting on the arms of the chair. “You know your parents have not eaten for two days.”

Shame coursed through me. I hadn’t bothered about my parents. There was a strange blank look on Uncle’s face. I knew there had been an angry exchange between Sarojmama, his wife – my father’s youngest sister, and Pilipochyan, that night (FC85). According to Roma, his children had cowered in a corner of their bedroom until Georgiechyan had stood in the doorway and tapped the door sharply. I couldn’t imagine that stopping my aunt making her point.

Pilipochyan sat in a chair in the corner of my room for a few hours every day, with the paper in his lap, unread, and his wife peeping in occasionally. Every time she came into view I closed my eyes because a horrible feeling would creep over me – that she had been party to what had happened to Romeo.

And as soon as Pilipochyan left the room, or my parents did, I yelled out every awful swear word I knew – but it wasn’t enough.

“Who cut Romeo’s throat?” I felt there was a greater chance of hearing the truth from Pilipochyan.

“I don’t know, mol.” At my incredulous look, he said, “Believe me, mol, I don’t. All I know is that when I reached the dining room, your parents were very upset and I understood what had occurred.” He opened his mouth and closed it a few times, his face thoughtful.

My eyes bored into his, trying to catch his lie. But he held my gaze.

“You have to know who did it! Someone would have talked – they would have gloated!”

His nostrils flared and for a moment I was afraid he was going to be angry. “I have an… inkling. I can’t be sure. No one is saying.” When I opened my mouth in protest, he said, “If I know, I won’t say either. Because there won’t be an end to this wickedness, you understand?”

“No!”

“Yes, mol. I know you understand what I am saying. The mulish, stupid nature of the act should tell you something about the person, about the people who did it and were part of it and who let it happen… about the person who tried to make you eat it. Do you think matters are going to end with you retaliating in some way?”

I opened and closed my mouth several times,  my eyes filling. The brutes would get away with it. “So what do I do?”

He didn’t say anything. And that was that. A few minutes later, my cousin Rita pushed the door open for her sister Roma, who was carrying a tray with a large blue bowl containing kanji, a thick starchy broth that comes from cooked rice. The bowl was one of my grandmother’s treasured blue flowered China bowls, made by some rich uncle who had a factory that had shut down a long time ago. Some plates existed, screaming of those forgotten aristocrats.

“She let you use her blue plate?” I said in disbelief.

“No,” Roma said.

“Then?”

“I took it,” Rita said, and grinned. She tucked a thin white towel into the top of my nightdress and Roma set the tray on my lap. I wanted to continue my hunger strike, but I was very very hungry and I looked at Pilipochyan who nodded encouragingly. I thought of my parents and took one of the ornate spoons that was part of my granny’s inheritance, had a sudden thought of locating all her old plates and cracking each of them, dipped the spoon into the kanji and started swallowing it. I pushed the large piece of mango pickle around the bowl and soon the kanji was orange brown and tolerable.

My parents came in, carrying their plates and smiled. They sat on the bed with me and ate quietly.

                                             ******

A couple of days later, I had shed the fever and begun to roam about, avoiding my grandmother and, thus, any chores. My father’s sisters, Sarayumama and Sarojmama, stayed away from me, strangely backing away and disappearing when they saw me. I was fine with it. I used my slingshot to shoot down mangoes from the trees further away from the house and shared them with Roma, Rita and Sarah. She had sought me out every day and spoke to me even though I refused to speak.

When we returned, the sitting room was filled with family. They quietened when I came in. My eyes were immediately attracted to the basket that lay in front of my great uncle’s feet. Kunjappachan, my grandfather’s older brother, and his wife Mathuram amachi had come to visit. He held out his arm to me and I sat on the arm of his chair.

“I heard you were ill,” he felt my forehead and cheek. “But when I saw you aiming your slingshot at Bobby I knew you were better,” he murmured at my cheek and chuckled. I flushed. How had he spotted me! I had indeed seen my idiot cousin and slowly turned my slingshot at him from across the field. He was too far, of course. It would have required a cannon to shoot a missile at where Bobby was standing.

Kunjappachan asked me if I had been eating well. I told him I was being fed prison gruel. And he laughed some more. I liked seeing him laugh and so I fibbed about my circumstances outrageously. When I looked at the others, I saw some angry looks, some jealousy, some warm smiles. Through it all I had understood one thing – to trust my instincts because the vibes didn’t lie.

Uncle urged me to open the basket. Noises came through and I immediately knelt by it, my little cousins coming nearer to see what was in it. There were little chicks, black, yellow and brown, immediately trying to jump out of the basket. My cousins squealed, picking up the chicks and nuzzling them. I picked up two, desperately wanting them.

I looked up at Kunjappachan. My grandfather’s face was expressionless. My grandmother was angry. Normally livestock of any sort was not brought into the house. I sat on the arm of Kunjappachan’s chair and looked at him, smiling. He smiled back broadly.

“You can keep them.”

I suddenly felt cold. No. No. NO.

“Why not, mol?” he frowned.

“Umm, I can’t take them back with me to Bombay,” I lied.

“I am not asking you to.”

“Yes. What will she do with a chick. She will only spoil it silly like that rooster she pampered. It thought it was a human!” Ammachi grumbled.

The room went silent, I could see distaste form on some faces. Ammachi never spoke, especially when my grandaunt visited. She couldn’t get along with the family next door. I could see Kunjappachan’s mouth tighten, a sudden fury on his face. “Mol can play with them and return them if she can’t take them back with her,” he said quietly. “Elle*, mol? Besides, one chick will be too small for a curry.”

I felt sick with the memory of that curry in Ammachi’s prized blue flower-patterned tureen. Why had she used that one? She usually used the large melamine ones her daughters kept gifting her. A guffaw startled me. I couldn’t make out who had laughed, but people were trying to stifle their smiles.

My granny was furious. “She doesn’t want the chick!”

“She hasn’t said so.”

“She just did!” At this Appachan raised his hand and Ammachi smouldered in silence.

There was silence in the room and we continued to play with the chicks. Even the older boys leaned down and plucked them off the ground, holding them in their palms and giggling.

“If chechi doesn’t want it… ” Eva, Sarojmama and Pilipochyan’s older daughter, looked at me warily and then turned her pleading gaze at Kunjappachan, all the while holding out a chick in her palm.

“Eva, they are for mol, you cannot ask for them,” Sarojmama said.

“They are for anyone who wants them,” Kunjappachan said.

Eva quickly picked up another chick, a brown one, but her younger sister Tina held back even though Eva urged her to take one. None of the children came forward. And slowly the boys too began to put the chicks back in the basket.

Kunjappachan looked incredulous. “No one?”

I felt bad for Kunjappachan. He had just wanted me to feel better. I whispered in his ear. “Everyone’s afraid that if they’re bad, their chicks will get cooked.”

Uncle’s face twitched. I murmured again, “One chick won’t make a curry, but what if Ammachi manages to catch all of them.”

Kunjappachan guffawed and I laughed too. Ammachi's face was red, certain we were talking about her. I felt my dear granduncle’s arm around me. He said, “You come over and play with the chicks.”

“Thank you, Appacha. I will.”

                                      ******

In the evening, a couple of hours before dusk, we cousins went to the river to bathe, with our cousins from next door leading the way via the clay dirt roads behind our homes.

The boys had been bathing at another spot every evening. The girls not so much because of the fear of peeping toms.

But today we were planning to have some fun. It was cool now, the sun wasn’t shining as much and a recent downpour had cooled the air, including the river water. A faint breeze moved through the spindly tall grass, but could budge little else. I wasn’t a good swimmer like some of my cousins and so stayed in the shallows. Despite the breeze, the water stayed stagnant. Unusually, there were no ripples. The river was at a slight incline and on most days moved constantly towards the dip further on.

I found the spot I usually squatted in. I stretched out carefully in the water, taking care to rest my neck and shoulders on a small mound of silt. So while my body stayed submerged, my face and ears stayed above the water. It was as near a state of bliss as I had ever experienced and every time I visited the river I was able to locate the mound.

A shadow blotted out the sun and I opened my eyes reluctantly. Sarah smiled, “You should practise your swimming.”

“No swimming pools in Bombay.”

“That can’t even be logically correct.”

“Okay… no swimming pools in the vicinity, none that Amma will let me swim in, anyway.”

“That’s better. Makes sense. Still doesn’t mean you shouldn’t learn. You could swim in the sea. What if you decide to become a marine biologist. Or travel to Australia’s Great Barrier Reef?”

I blinked. That was the first sensible thing anyone had said to me in terms of a career. I had never heard of marine biologists, but that sounded posh and adventurous. Sarah was still speaking, “Have you been thinking of what you will do in college, your career options?”

I swallowed some water and choked. I sat up and Sarah slapped my back. “Not thought of anything. Er, but I’m still thinking.”

Sarah looked irritated. “Right. Don’t think too much, or for too long. Ammachi may get you married off after 12^th standard.”

“Appa and Amma would never let it happen!”

“Ammachi and Appachan would come to Bombay and bulldoze them. See what happened to me.”

“But, but… but it worked out, no?”

Sarah’s eyes moved slowly over my face and her mouth opened. Just then Sheelamama, my youngest aunt next door, waded into view, carrying her young daughter. She held out a hand to Sarah. Sarah grabbed it and pulled herself out of the water. She reached down and helped me up.

I looked at the river one last time. A shiver ran down my spine. The water still had no ripples despite us frolicking in its depths. The peace I felt lying in the water had now evaporated. 

Later, I would realise it was the calm before the storm.

                                      ******

*Elle translates to ‘Isn’t that right’ in Malayalam.

                                      ******  

This series is fictional and follows the narrator who is remembering events related to a family vacation in Kerala during her childhood. 

When her family cooks her pet rooster (FC84) to punish her, the young narrator becomes depressed. Her granduncle visits, bearing gifts.   

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 

                                      ******

#fiction #keralasyrianchristians #lifeinakeralavillage #FishyChronicles #mumbaimalayalis #malayalam #clandestinelove #love #rooster #romeo #chicks #river #fever #bonechina #aristocrat #chinafactory #tureen #kanji #feverishsouls #greatbarrierreef #marinebiologist #bombayswimmingpool #swimmer #career #dirtroad

Fishy Chronicles 84: The Webs We Weave (16) – Mob justice

I left Appachan's (grandfather) study, but the commotion behind me continued. My world felt like it was crashing around my ears (FC83). I felt a deep shame and my skin tingled with humiliation. Plus my legs, where Appachan had beaten me with his stick, stung.

I slowed near the front door. I could disappear for the rest of the day… but then I’d be a quitter. I had just told Appachan that running away was for losers. I turned to the corridor, my thoughts raging. I heard running feet behind me.

Saruymama, hatred in her eyes and her mouth stretched back in a snarl, was rushing at me. I backed away, terrified. Too late. Her hands gripped my arms painfully and shook. My head rocked back and forth sharply and I tried to push her away.

“Get up! Get up! Appachan will get annoyed if you miss breakfast! How much can you sleep?” I sat up with a start. My mother was sitting beside me on the bed,  glaring. Her face softened, she felt my forehead, and then wiped my face with her sari pallu. “If you cover yourself fully under a thick sheet, you are only going to sweat. Go brush your teeth and get ready for breakfast.” She got up and left.

I looked around. The sun was bright outside the window. The fan was spinning at top speed. In the corridor outside my bedroom, the closed door muffled the sounds of a big household at the start of its day. I threw the sheet off and rubbed my legs. No pain, no marks.

I thought back. Did all that happen? I was wearing the same nighty as last night. My head didn’t hurt. The bruise on my face – I rushed to the dressing table mirror. Nothing.

I slowly ran my hands over my legs. It had to have been a dream. It seemed to have been filled with my darkest fears, and showed my family in the worst possible way – a family of monsters.

A slap sounded on my door and it opened. My cousin Sarah’s head appeared. “Not hungry?”

“Y-yes.”

“Going to hide all day?”

I opened my mouth but couldn’t figure what to start with. Memories of last night flooded my brain (FC82). Sarah thrashing Mobby with a cricket bat. Oh God.

“If anyone asks… you were sleeping.”

I nodded.

“Even if they demand, or beat you for it… Understood?”

I nodded again. “M-Mobby?”

She left.

I jumped off the bed and folded my sheet. As dreams went it was the mother of all nightmares. I changed, brushed my teeth and ran to the dining room.

A quick scan of the room. No Mobby. The Mathans were missing. Appachan was angrily waving at the table and I sat next to Rita. She put a dosa on my plate and sloshed chutney next to it, some of it hitting the front of my kurta. I rubbed the spot. The men were discussing details for Sarah’s wedding (FC80) – lists and invites, and preliminary arrangements. I looked at the bookshelf in the study and wondered if Appachan’s stick still lay nestled in its cobwebs. I had worn a pair of jeans under my kurta, just in case my body met his cane. Roma’s elbow poked my breast, reminding me of my dosa.

******

The Mathans didn’t leave their room the whole day, though I saw Sarayumama come out during meals, and at one point crying near her mother. I stayed out of sight, but within sight, and did my chores.

Later in the day, while standing near my guava tree, our neighbour from down the road came through the gate. Dr Lal waved at me and went into the house. I stayed near the guava tree as it was near the Mathans’ room. I heard voices, but was too scared to peep through the half curtain. Romeo skulked near my legs and I picked him up. At that moment, Sarayumama appeared in the window and her face turned vicious. “Spying on us! You good for nothing!” She slammed the windows shut. An involuntary laugh bubbled up because my aunt had to bang the windows together several times as the wood had expanded and wouldn’t close.

I balanced my bum on the narrow ledge below the Mathan family’s windows. The wall behind my back was cool and though I could not hear anything, I felt hanging about was a way of showing my aunt my middle finger.

Some time later the doctor came out and was near the gate, when he glanced my way and began to walk across the gravel. “Hi, mol, you’re from Bombay, yes?”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“Sarayu Aunty said you hit Mobby with a cricket bat. Is that true?” he said it with a smile.

“No!” I was shocked.

“Do you walk around the house at night?”

“Y-yes. But that doesn’t mean I hit Mobby!”

“No-no. Sometimes the ideas Sarayu Aunty gets. But did you see anything at night?”

“No-no. I watched a movie and then went to bed,” I embellished. I felt the kind eyes bore into me. “W-What’s wrong with Mobby?”

“Someone gave him a good whacking. Looks like someone strong.”

I shook my head in disbelief. It was just my luck. Someone else did the crime and I was being blamed for it. “Is-Is he badly hurt?”

“Not really.”

“Has he been broken?” I said in my stressed state.

Dr Lal chuckled. He pushed his round spectacles further up his nose. “Luckily not. But he has some deep bruises. By the way, which of your family lives in Bangalore?”

“Er, Georgiechyan. Appa’s oldest brother. Why, Doctor?”

“I’m moving there for work.”

“Oh.”

“Feeling bad I’m going to leave?”

“Of course.” Not quite true, but who cared.

“Which of the kids are Georgiechyan’s?”

“Sarah chechi and Rebecca chechi. She’s studying in the US.”

His head moved up and down. “Yes, I know her.” He gave a quick smile. “Okay, got to run. Don’t watch too much TV at night, and sleep latest by 12.”

“Er, why are you telling me this? Did someone complain about me?”

“No. It will regularise your sleep pattern,” he grinned.

I watched the goodlooking doctor walk away. I should have been happy he spoke to me, but I felt unsettled. Worse, my cousins were pressed into the bars of the sitting room window, watching.

“Hey, you. What was Dr Lal talking to you about?” my cousin Shyla asked. She and Nina were watching the doctor drive away.

I shrugged and disappeared around the wall. There would be too many questions, and I had no answers.

****** 

In a couple of days, Sarah and I knew we had been marked.

No one talked to us, including her parents. And my parents, not publicly.

My mother had it out with me. “You beat Mobby?” there was disbelief on her face. My father was pacing up and down our bedroom. I shook my head.

“I understood you using the sling for self defense (FC72), but you don’t have to beat up people you don’t like. And Mobby has some bad injuries.”

“I didn’t hit him!”

“But you know what happened and aren’t saying! Did Sarah tell you to keep quiet? Or is this some misguided effort at avoiding punishment. Whether you tell the truth or not, everyone thinks you are guilty.”

I wanted to protest, but uncannily my mother had touched on the truth. She had to have some sort of inner vision. I glanced at my father, who had stopped pacing, but his lips were squeezed together and jutting out, and a deep frown accompanied the look. I looked at Amma.

“Don’t you realise you have to accept the consequences of your actions… that you have to think of the effects before they occur? And beating someone is unacceptable.”

When I didn’t say anything, Amma said, “Appachan and Ammachi are very angry. I don’t know what your grandfather will say to you, but he has said a number of hurtful things to Appa.” My head sunk lower.

“Go and apologise to Mobby. And find a way to make amends. Don’t let me find you beating anyone again. What is it with your midnight roaming,” Amma shook me and stopped when Appa cleared his throat. “You don’t stay awake at night in Bombay. Why are you doing it here? All the family is talking about it. I get a lecture about you every day from Sarayu chetathi, ‘she did this, she did that, she has no manners’… do you think I like hearing this nonsense?”

I had stopped listening at ‘Go and apologise to Mobby’. Was Amma mad? I didn’t do anything to the ass, but he got what he deserved! But looking at my raging mother, I felt it best not to say so. She pinched my arm in frustration and left the room.

I rubbed the tender area and looked at Appa from the corner of my eyes. He too left the room.

I thought about it a bit. How was I going to keep out of trouble when it came unbidden, despite my best intentions.

I stayed put in my room until there was silence in the corridor and I couldn’t hear anyone further away. I slipped out through the front door, closing it carefully. I had seen Sarah oiling the latch a couple of weeks ago, but had only made the connection the night I saw her stealing out of the house with a backpack (FC78, FC79).

I whistled long and low, feeling the afternoon heat even though I was standing under the guava tree. Sitting was not an option – the large red ants roamed all over the guava tree and around it. I had to keep stamping my feet, gently and as noiselessly as I could, to dislodge them. The day was nice though. A breeze rustled the leaves of the trees, making them shiver and emit that lovely shushing noise. Even the birds seemed to stay quiet to listen. No wonder Appa loved this place so much. There were mangoes in the trees, but unripe. A blue bird swooped into a tree nearby and I stayed still hoping it wouldn’t fly away quickly. When it flew away I whistled again for my favourite bird. Romeo, my rooster boy, usually came running at my call. Maybe he had more tasty bits to eat today. One of my cousins had started feeding the kitchen’s vegetable waste to the hens. An aunt had remarked to Amma that the eggs had started tasting different and could it have been the birdfolk’s new diet.

I crept as close to the back of the house, where the shed was, and whistled for Romeo. I saw my cousins washing clothes and Sonimol chechi, the servant and Mobby’s ‘girlfriend’, collecting firewood. She gave me a dirty look and walked away quickly. I saw Roma through one of the windows. “Hey, open the front door for me.”

She came close to the window and opened her mouth to say something, but shook her head and closed it. I rushed around the house to the front door. She opened the door and moved away into the kitchen immediately. Odd. I went back to my room. I didn’t understand it. Ammachi no longer had work for me and I was now sitting in my room most of the time.

I stayed there until I heard the call for dinner.

******

I entered the dining room, and the room turned silent. People looked up and then looked away. My grandmother and Sarojmama were looking at me coldly, but Sarayumama was sitting where I normally sat, smiling at me. I felt repulsed, and a little afraid. Most of the family were looking at each other or looking through me. My grandmother had made her chicken curry, and the delicious fragrance was all over the room. But now this room full of people intimidated me. My mother stood with her sisters in law – her eyes and nose red. She was looking at my father, who was sitting stony faced at the end of the table. My eyes went to Pilipochyan and it was blank.

“Sit quickly,” Appachan said gruffly.

I sat next to Rita and it was a squeeze because of Sarayumama. We bent our heads in prayer, and Appachan thanked the Lord for our food. I looked around, wondering why no one was reaching for the food. Even the aunts were standing still and not serving. My grandfather rectified that when he glared at my grandmother and she started bustling.

But next to me, my aunt was ladling the thick dark naadan chicken curry into my plate. I wondered which chicken they had killed today.

My aunt smiled at me and put rice and vegetables on the side. She was behaving so strangely.

I looked around. My grandfather was eating, but casting glances my way. I slowly squeezed some curry and rice into a ball and was raising it to my mouth when I noticed Rita staring aghast. “Why aren’t you eating, Rita? What happened, baba?” Rita’s sudden tears frightened me. I put my left arm around her shoulders, and whispered, “What happened, why are you crying?” There was no food on her plate. Nor in Roma’s. Nor in Pilipochyan’s or my father’s. Appa was… in a cold rage.

But Rita wouldn’t stop crying. And… Roma’s head was down, tears falling into her plate.

“Eat your food, mol, Ammachi’s curry is excellent,” Sarayumama said from next to me, looking happy.

I nodded and tore a piece of chicken off its bone when Rita’s hand grabbed mine. “D-d-don’t e-e-eat ith.”

My aunt grabbed Rita’s hand and threw it away. “Eat your food now!”

I hesitated, an awful sense of foreboding creeping into my being. Something was totally off. Why was this hateful woman being nice… now? And why was everyone quiet. Even Appachan was not eating the curry, and he loved this particular dish.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Oh-ho. Why?”

Maybe you poisoned my food. But there was curry in some plates. Why did Mobby look happy. From the corner of my eyes I could see Sonimol chechi in the dining room, watching. She never came into this room when we ate.

I pushed my plate away. “No.” I got up. But instead of shouting at me to sit down and eat my dinner, my grandfather ignored me and continued to eat. Sarayumama grabbed my arm and forced me into my chair. I looked at my father, his face was furious, “Sarayuchechi, let her go. You’ve punished her enough.”

“When she’s eaten the curry, I’ll forgive her.”

What the hell were they talking about. Suddenly my aunt was stuffing pieces of chicken and rice into my mouth.

“No, no, no, chechi, don’t eat it. they’ve killed Romeo and cooked him. She’s forcing you to eat him!” Rita screamed in my ear, shoving away Sarayumama’s hand from my mouth. Killed Romeo and cooked him? My aunt’s fingers were in my mouth, pushing the food right in, and I bit down as hard as I could to stop her. Someone pounded my back hard, while Rita and Roma jumped on me trying to push our aunt away. Sarayumama screamed in pain, punching the side of my head and my shoulders to release her. When I was sure I was going to vomit because of the blood from her fingers, I opened my mouth. But her screaming didn’t stop.

All around me was chaos, people shouting, chairs falling backwards. I saw Appa trying to reach me, but Bobby and his father physically holding him back, and them scuffling. I felt none of it, heard none of it, only feeling a growing horror. I tried walking out of the room, but bodies blocked my way. My grandfather had the long stick in his hand, there were no cobwebs on it. He swung it at my legs and I stood still. I heard his sons begging him to stop, but it was Pilipochyan who stood in front of me. The thin long stick hit him once and there was immediate silence. I tried to look around me, at the plates. I wanted to know who was eating my Romeo. Traitors, all of them. Bastards.

I opened my mouth to tell my grandfather about his precious Mobby and Sonimol chechi’s night-time rendezvous, but Pilipochyan’s hand gripped my shoulder and pulled me close. “You cannot take back anything you say… you will always regret saying what you did in the heat of this moment. Best to leave it unsaid, mol.”

Sarah pulled me away, pushing through the family angrily. “Shame on you for killing an innocent, and tormenting another. And shame on you for enjoying it all!” 

She took me to her room.

That night I slept in my cousin’s bed, hunger gnawing my stomach, and crying for my beloved Romeo. I hated them all.

                                                                 ******

This series is fictional and follows the narrator who is remembering events related to a family vacation in Kerala during her childhood. 

The family is punishing the cousins for their midnight attack on Mobby (FC82). Unfortunately, quite harshly.  

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

                                                                 ******

#fiction #keralasyrianchristians #lifeinakeralavillage #FishyChronicles #mumbaimalayalis #malayalam #clandestinelove #love #rooster #romeo #chicken curry #naadanchickencurry