Fishy Chronicles 88: The Webs We Weave (20) – Hunt for a phone number

Photo credit: A. Peter

How hard could it be to get a phone number?

After our sugiyan-eating-crimewatching-spree the previous night, we spent the next day plotting how to get Johnny's phone number. First, we went over everything we planned to say to him, practiced and changed dialogue and went over and over and over it.

When we did decide to look for Johnny's phone number, it seemed even harder than plotting our still unfinessed conversation with him.

First, we cased the George family's room, I from my bedroom’s doorway, and Rita from outside the house. For some reason, Sarah and her mother wouldn't get out of the room. Frustrated and finally discovered by Ammachi, I was made to scrape a couple of coconuts on the quick – while Rita continued to watch the Georges from the backyard.

She returned nearer lunch, a shade darker than before her surveillance activities, looking dejected, with a strong odour of sweat emanating. She used the small once-white dish cloth, tucked into the handle of the fridge, to wipe her neck and face, while I looked on in disbelief… and disgust. I was going to have to remind myself never to touch them or wipe my plate with any of the dishtowels. 

She took out a bottle of cold water from the fridge and put it to her mouth. From nowhere, Ammachi appeared, launching into an angry lecture.

When Ammachi advanced menacingly with a raised ladle, Rita screwed the cap back on the bottle, skipped into the study, and threw her arms around our surprised grandfather’s neck. His smile twisted into shock momentarily as her body odour hit his senses.

His face righted instantly, his arm coming around her shoulder and she sat on his lap. Ammachi watched from the doorway, her lips tightly squeezed over each other, and then marched back to the kitchen. After a while, Rita got off Appachan’s lap, opened all the drawers of his table, which were now unlocked, and picked up a ten rupee note and waved it into his face excitedly. Appachan laughed at something she said and waved his hand at her. She kissed his cheek, and skipped back towards me. She grabbed my arm and we disappeared out of the house.

I took the note from her and examined it. This was a so-so sum – it could get us a packet of chips, a bar of Amul chocolate or a smaller bar of Cadbury chocolate. Alternatively, we could get two veg puffs, but who wanted to eat veg puffs. We could split one meat puff instead. In the middle of my thoughts Rita plucked the note out of my hand, folded it into a thin length and put it into her pocket. She put her arm in mine and we stood under my guava tree.

I felt deflated – my cousin was not going to share. I was surprised Appachan gave in so easily and handed over a higher low-denomination note. I swallowed the saliva that had gathered in my mouth in anticipation of a meat puff.

One more time.

“Er, maybe we can get a meat puff with that.”

Rita’s thin shoulders lifted and sagged, and she clicked her tongue to signal a negative.

“What are you going to do with the money?”

“Hmmm… I’m going to put it in my piggy bank.”

“The church box one?”

Children sometimes got a coin box in our church. Our church in Mumbai gave out wooden ones, with a small inscription indicating the purpose of the boxes. But our village church in Kerala gave out nice tin boxes with either Jesus staring into the heavens or St George spearing a dragon or Mother Mary holding baby Jesus painted on them in vivid blues and reds. At some point Roma and I realised the key to the hatch at the bottom of the conical tin box would stay with our parents and the money was meant to be handed to the church, eventually finding its way to the poor. Then we began to drop only low-denomination coins into the tins and hid the cash. Of course, we never spoke about it – we were acting sinfully. Our thoughts about money showed greed. Clandestine greedy thoughts were still a sin. Cash was meant for other things – sinfully ‘good’ things. One needed to be adroit in managing sin and ourselves.

Rita shook her head.

“Then what?”

“I want to buy some hair bands.”

My eyes roamed over her sparse head. We girls had to keep our hair long. It was a family thing. Something about femininity and knowing our place etc, etc, etc. Despite begging her parents for a boycut, like her best friend’s, Rita was not allowed one. A month ago, while visiting her mother’s brother’s family – recently visiting from the US – Rita had found her uncle’s shaver. After watching him use it for a while, she used it on herself.

She sobbed at the inroads she had made on her head and a local barber was called in to rectify the hairy issue. As Roma told me, it was extremely funny and the family had had a hard time keeping straight faces. While she didn’t quite get the chic pixie haircut she wanted, the sailor’s crew cut was now growing out charmingly.

“You don’t have long hair,” I said, trying to be patient.

“Yes, but it will grow soon.”

“Are you sure?”

Rita looked alarmed. “Yes!”

“What if you want to keep it short again?”

“No. Want it long,” she said, her outer lip jutting and a fierce look creeping into her face. I was suddenly nervous of her.

“How are we going to get Johnnycha’s phone number? I don’t think we can enter Georgiechyan’s room – where would we look?” I gave up hopes of eating 10 rupees worth of anything.

“Maybe Appachan has the number in his phone book. I can check later, when no one is looking.”

***

It was while Rita and I were standing near the tall long-suffering mango tree, that we spotted the Mathan sisters – Eenya and Tara. “Let’s see if we can get it from Thomachan,” I said.

Rita frowned. She didn’t like Thomachan – he was an oily character and it was surprising he was friends with Johnny. But I knew they weren’t as thick as Rasool and Johnny. For sure Rasool would have Johnny’s phone number, but where did he live?

“Let’s go to Thomachan’s house and see if he’s got a phone book,” I said.

“What if we get caught?”

“We’ll have to take that risk.”

“He doesn’t like people entering his room,” Rita said.

“We don’t have a choice. Maybe we could ask him for Rasool’s number.” Even as I said it, I knew such a request would send a shock wave around the family – Thomachan’s and ours –why was I asking for an older man’s phone number, someone no one quite knew except for the fact that Johhny was great friends with him. The few times I had met Johnny, Rasool had been around – either buying cigarettes, reading a newspaper or sitting some way off and watching us with narrowed eyes and no expression.

I shivered. I didn’t have a good feeling about all this. What was I doing getting into more mischief. I had to accept that Sarah and Johnny were not going to get together. “Maybe we shouldn’t do this.”

“Okay.”

I looked at Rita in surprise. I hadn’t expected it. “You’re okay with it?”

“No. But if you want to give up, it is fine. I’ll get his number.”

“H-how?”

Her shoulders moved up a fraction and she turned towards the mango tree. “Can you get that one?” She pointed at a ripe mango, that couldn’t be reached with the pole.

I sighed and looked around. Many people didn’t know about my new slingshot (FC75, FC72, FC73). Every time I used it I had an illicit feeling, a high, like I was using contraband. My eyes focused on the windows along the side of the house facing us. Sarayumama and Mathanchyan were watching us from their window. I waved to them and they turned around and disappeared. I waited a while to see if they would return. Then I looked at our neighbours’ houses. It took several tries to bring down the mango with the slighshot – bruised, with some pulp hanging out. Sweet success.

I had a thought. “Do you know who moved my old slingshot to Sarayumama’s room (FC73)?” Rita hesitated. “You know?!” 

“Er, no. No, I don’t.”

“You’re lying!”

“No. No. I don’t know!”

I stared at Rita in disbelief. All this time she knew, but now she wasn’t going to tell. What was going on? “How would you know? You were with me the whole time that day.”

A shrug and bland expression. I grabbed her. “Tell me!”

“I don’t know!” She pinched my upper arm viciously and I let her go. She began running to the house, and I watched feeling confused. And I wondered whether she was still interested in getting Johnychyan’s number.

***

I needn’t have worried.

While everyone was having their afternoon siesta, I saw Miss Pincher rummaging through Appachan’s address book on his desk – a fat book that Appachan sometimes forgot to lock up. She saw me watching from across the dining room and shook her head.

I pointed at my chest with my thumb and my head with my forefinger and mouthed ‘I have a plan’. I was not sure what, but it would come to me.

Rita had located Johnny’s parents’ home number, but Johnny’s wasn’t there. “How can we ask his parents for Johnnycha’s number? They’ll want to know who we are and why we want it,” Rita voiced my concern.

When we were sure no one was watching, we left the house. First we went over to Kunjappachan’s house. We decided that asking our great uncle for the phone number might be easier than asking our grandfather. But when we entered the house, the side door was always unlocked for relatives, friends or workers, we found Kunjappachan snoring on his bed. We looked at his table, but lost our nerve. Unlike our grandfather’s table, this was piled high with newspapers, magazines, papers, official looking papers in Malayalam, files, etc. There was even a bowl of something edible resting precariously on one corner of the table, and ants climbing the sides of the table to reach it. My great aunt was fast asleep on a settee in the sitting room, all the curtains drawn.

We left Kunjappachan’s house without rifling through anything. In hindsight, he would have asked us a lot of questions.

We crossed the road and went to Thomachan’s house. A quick look through his window indicated my cousin was asleep. We scanned his room but saw nothing that resembled a phone book.

“What if he hasn’t written it down anywhere?” Rita said. We hadn’t ever had the need to be in Thomachan’s room. It looked dirty, and his table rivalled Kunjappachyan’s. Fat books pinned down loose long note paper. A brown banana peel rotted away on the edge of the plastic dust bin – not quite in or out. “Maybe he remembers the phone number and doesn’t need to write it down,” Rita whispered hoarsely in my ear. I shivered. That whisper tickled.

“Don’t think so. He’s failing in college.”

“Whattt? Who told you?”

“I heard Eapachyan tell Roychyan.” Eapachyan was Thomachan’s father and my father’s first cousin and Roy was Kunjappachan’s brilliant grandson. “He wanted Roychyan to give Thomachan a pep talk on studying harder.”

“B-But Thomachan is studying engineering!”

“I know.” To get into an engineering course one had to be good in maths and science and thus had to have a brain. Thomachan had also got into a good college. My grandmother suspected college girls were ruining Thomachan’s concentration. Of course, I didn’t tell Rita that. The only person ruining Thomachan was Thomachan.

The longer we kept our faces pressed into the bars of the window, watching Thomachan scratch his crotch, cough and roll around his bed, the more it dawned on us how futile it was to get Johnny’s phone number. He was out of bounds to us – out of bounds to Sarah – the family didn’t want anything to do with him, they had stopped talking about his family altogether, and here we two girls were trying to keep a wound open. We weren’t letting Sarah heal.

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Rita said.

“I don’t either.”

We jumped off the ledge and walked slowly towards our house. At the gate, we hesitated. The sun seemed to be in a hurry to leave and it was cool, the sounds of silence enticing. Rita said it first. “We don’t need to go home… no one will notice.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Let’s go to the junction.”

“Okay.”

We moved to the opposite side of the road so that our cousins would not see us. We had second, third and fourth cousins living in the houses dotting both sides of the road to the junction about a kilometre away. Most were likely to be asleep now, but there was always the stray relative who liked the afternoon quiet as much as we did. Rita and I enjoyed the sight of the river gushing under the bridge, slowly letting our spit fall into the spray below us. We walked towards the junction, but everything was closed, including the bakery shop. I glanced at Rita and felt glad. She was looking at the closed shutters glumly. 

We walked past shuttered shops, only the medical store was open, which we ran past because an uncle ran the place. But then we spotted Rasool’s Padmini Premier parked on the road further along the road. He was wiping the windshield.

Rita started running towards him. “Achacha, can I have Johnnychyan’s phone number?” Rita poked Rasool in the midriff, causing the cigarette in his mouth to fall. Rita picked it up and held it up to him. He reached for it and wiped the butt against his white shirt, all the while looking at us speculatively.

“Why?”

“I want to talk to him.”

“About what?”

“Er, about stuff.”

“He may not want to talk to you.”

That stumped us. Why had we assumed Rasool would give us Johnny’s phone number or that Johnny would want to talk to us.

“He told you that?” Rita’s voice squeaked.

“Eh…”

Rita’s back straightened and she gave Rasool the coldest look I have ever seen her give anyone. She wasn’t a bit intimidated by Rasool, who was a beefy six-footer. Rasool’s jaw slackened and he moved back slightly.

“Did he tell you he didn’t want to speak to me?” Rita repeated.

“No. No. Er. Who are you?”

“I want his number.”

Rasool’s jaw clenched. He took a deep puff of his cigarette, threw it and crushed it into the ground, both Rita and he eye duelling.

“You have a pen?”

“No.”

He located a piece of paper and a pen in the glove compartment of his car and wrote down a number. “There are only seven numbers here. Bombay phone numbers have eight numbers.” Rita waved the piece of paper at his chest. Rasool took it and scanned the numbers. He leaned the paper against the car’s window, struck out the old number and wrote it afresh. He was trying hard not to laugh, which was easy to hide considering his enormous moustache.

Rita grabbed the paper, counted the numbers one more time, her eyes moving from the first set of numbers to the next.

“Thank you, Uncle,” Rita smiled sweetly, though Rasool’s smile suddenly died for some reason. Rita tugged my skirt and turned. We ran all the way back, just in time for tea, getting in through the back.

***

When I went to the sitting room at 12.50am, Rita was already there, happily waving a packet of chips.

“How did you get this?”

“The 10 rupees Appachan gave me.”

“You mean the 10 rupees you took.”

She shrugged. “Do you want some?”

“Let’s wait till the serial starts.”

A door opened. “Hide behind that curtain. Quick! Quiiiickkk!” I lunged at the TV, switched it off and ran to the curtain nearest the door. I held my breath. I could feel Rita panting beside me. I bent towards her ear, “Shhhh.” She put her hand on her mouth and held her breath.

Through the curtain we saw a light growing brighter. It flashed around the sitting room and then disappeared. I counted to five and then tiptoed to the corridor, and saw the light disappear into Sarayumama’s room. Damn. Was Mobby lurking again? I went into the storeroom and stood near Sonimol chechi’s room. Not a noise. There was no light coming through the cracks in the wooden door.

I went back to find Rita. The phone started to ring. I shushed it involuntarily and then picked it up to silence it.

I held it to my ear nervously, not speaking. Rita got out from behind the curtain and stood next to me, listening.

We held our breath and waited for what seemed an eternity. Finally, the person on the other side said, “How are you?”

****** 

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

In this episode Rita and the narrator look for a way to contact Johnny, Sarah's fiancé, to ask him why he's decided to end his engagement to their cousin. But getting his phone number isn't as easy as the girls think.    

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

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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