Fidha 3

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I’d gone to bed late, so I woke up later than usual. I stirred once, early on, but slid right back into sleep—the kind of deep, blissful oblivion you resent anyone for interrupting.
Which is exactly what happened.

The blanket vanished with a sudden, ruthless tug.

"What is wrong with this girl? Would it kill her to let me sleep for ten more minutes?" I grumbled into the mattress, prying my eyes open as I mentally loaded the cannons for another round with Chechi.

Except the figure standing over my bed wasn't Chechi.

It was Emma, looking down at me with a faintly wicked smirk.

"Emma? I thought you were—wait... when did you get here?"

She tilted her head, clearly enjoying the sight of my sleep-deprived brain struggling to reboot.

"Still not awake, huh?"

The words came out in Malayalam, wrapped in a thick, unmistakable Norwegian accent. The sheer absurdity of it shattered the last traces of my morning grumpiness. I burst out laughing, and the moment she saw my defenses drop, she launched a pillow straight at my face. I ducked—a reflex that was entirely too quick for someone who'd been dead to the world thirty seconds earlier.

Ettan hadn't breathed a word about this when he called yesterday. Even Emma, when we'd spoken the previous week, had insisted she was stuck in Perth for an endless string of corporate meetings.

"Weren't you supposed to be in Australia? For work?"

Emma scrunched up her nose and gave an unapologetic shrug.

"Wanted to surprise you."

Whether she said it in English or Malayalam, I decided to let the lie slide. It was far too early in the morning for one of our usual heavyweight arguments.

Just then, a drift of voices floated down the hallway, threaded with the warm, lyrical sound of a violin.

Emma and I followed it into the living room, where the morning light was beginning to pool across the floorboards. Ettan stood in the middle of the room, completely absorbed in a Swathi Thirunal composition. Our cousins and aunt sat around him in captivated silence. The moment he spotted me at the doorway, he lowered the bow and smiled.

"When did you get here, Ettaa?"

"Early this morning."

"And nobody thought to wake me? Why didn't you tell me you were coming?"

"What would've been the point?" he said, resting the violin against his side. "You would've slept through it anyway. You're a rock."

"Hey, that's the hard-earned exhaustion of finally escaping the hostel and sleeping in my own bed," I protested. Then I nodded at the violin. "Since when do you play?"

He lifted it with a grin.

"Antarctica doesn't exactly have a thriving nightlife. When you're stuck in a research station for months, you either find a hobby or go slightly mad."

I tried to picture him at the edge of the world learning classical violin.

"Fair enough. But someone still had to teach you."

"She did." He gestured toward the far corner of the room. "Meet Clara—my violin teacher. This is actually her violin." Then he pointed to the man beside her. "And that's Kevin. We survived the ice together."

So Emma hadn't just smuggled herself into the country. She'd brought half the Antarctic expedition with her.

My attention drifted to Achamma, who had already cornered the two newcomers. It was a masterclass in human communication. Neither Clara nor Kevin understood a word of Malayalam, and Achamma's English vocabulary was practically nonexistent. Yet there she was, explaining something with absolute authority, her hands carving shapes through the air for emphasis. The two scientists watched with intense concentration, nodding enthusiastically as though they understood every single word.

"Go brush your teeth," Ettan said, catching me swaying to the lingering melody. "Breakfast's ready."

By the time I reached the dining table, the room had become a cheerful chaos of clinking plates and overlapping conversations.

My uncle—a man who could strike up a lifelong friendship even with a concrete wall—had already appointed himself the cultural ambassador. He was giving Clara and Kevin an intensely serious demonstration on the proper way to mash puttu with ripe bananas, insisting they copy his every move. Across the table, my aunt had already begun teasing my brother.

"So the South Pole finally granted you parole?"

Laughter rippled around the table. Between my uncle's earnest culinary lesson, my aunt's relentless teasing, and a dozen conversations competing for attention, breakfast turned into one of those long, unhurried family meals where the food never seems to run out and nobody has the slightest intention of leaving the table.

After breakfast and our morning tea, Ettan bundled his friends into the van and headed out. They hadn't come all the way to Kerala just for the engagement. Clara and Kevin wanted to see the quieter side of Palakkad—the villages, the fields, the slow roads that never make it into travel brochures. Our cousins happily tagged along, lured by the promise of sightseeing, shopping, or, failing that, a free meal at my brother's expense.

Our Ford Endeavour had been sitting in the workshop for almost two months. The repairs were finally done, and someone had to bring it home. I picked up the keys, and just as I reached the front door, Chechi announced that she was coming with me.

At that moment, Mema and Ammayi walked in through the back door carrying a sack of tender jackfruit between them.

"Where are you two off to?" Mema asked.

"The engagement's almost here," Chechi said. "I thought I'd stop by the beauty parlour. Why don't you come with us, Mema?"

I looked at Ammayi.

"That's not fair. You invited Mema and completely ignored Ammayi. So... Ammayi, would you like to come too?"

She stared at me as though I'd taken leave of my senses.

"At my age, Kanna?"

She was one of the few people who still called me Kanna. The other was Sreeraj.

"What's age got to do with it?" I said solemnly. "Who knows? They might turn you into Aishwarya Rai."

I paused, giving her an exaggerated once-over.

"Well... maybe not Aishwarya Rai. But I'm sure they'll manage some sort of miracle."

"Oh, listen to him," Ammayi laughed, shaking her head as she disappeared into the kitchen with the sack.

To my surprise, barely ten minutes later, Mema emerged from her room, neatly dressed and ready to come with us.

A little shopping in Palakkad turned into three unhurried hours at the beauty parlour. By the time we stepped outside, the afternoon had already slipped past three-thirty. We stopped at a roadside restaurant for a late lunch before setting off for home in the Endeavour.

The SUV felt almost new again. After two months in the workshop, it seemed eager to stretch its legs.

"Sis... what do you say we drive up to Nelliampathy?"

No answer.

She sat by the window, chin resting lightly against her hand, watching the world drift by.

We left the bustle of Palakkad behind and turned onto Thirunellayi Road.

The afternoon had softened. Sunlight spilled lazily across the paddy fields, and long shadows stretched from the coconut palms. To our left lay the Bharathapuzha.

Or rather, what was left of it.

The river had withdrawn into itself, leaving behind an immense sheet of pale sand that shimmered beneath the sun. Here and there, clumps of changanam grass rose from the riverbed like little green islands. Cows wandered among them without hurry, grazing in complete indifference to the passing world. Down the middle, a thin ribbon of water wound its way through the sand, narrow enough to mistake for a roadside canal.

"Sree... pull over for a minute. I'll drive."

I glanced at her.

She almost never asked to drive.

I eased the Endeavour onto the sandy shoulder and climbed out.

The air was warm and still. Beyond the whisper of the breeze, the riverbank was almost silent.

Chechi walked around the front of the car and slid into the driver's seat.

Only then did I notice where she was looking.

Across the wide, empty riverbed, beyond the ribbon of water, her eyes rested on the National Highway.

I didn't need to ask.

"Sis..." I said quietly, pointing farther downstream. "There's a bridge over there."

She looked at me and smiled.

A small smile.

One that answered nothing.

The Endeavour rolled gently onto the sand. The tyres left slow, shallow tracks as we crossed the broad riverbed before climbing the opposite bank. A moment later, we joined the National Highway, and the engine settled into its familiar, effortless hum as the road opened before us.


A KSRTC Super Fast bus bound for Thiruvananthapuram thundered past.

Chechi frowned and pressed the clutch.

"What's wrong with this thing? The pedal barely moves."

She pushed the gear lever into place with a little more force than necessary.

"Easy, Sis," I said. "It just came back from the workshop. Don't send it right back."

She ignored me.

Instead, she began humming the same Swathi Thirunal composition Ettan had played that morning. Her fingers tapped lightly against the steering wheel as the Endeavour eased out, slipped past the Super Fast bus, and settled back into the lane ahead.

"And the steering's pulling to the left..."

The speedometer climbed steadily. One-twenty. One-forty.

A faint vibration crept through the cabin. Then came a dull rattle from somewhere under the bonnet.

"And listen to that," she muttered. "The whole thing starts shaking in top gear. What exactly were those idiots doing with it for two months?"

Mema turned from the window and glanced at me.

I looked out at the road ahead.

The engine kept humming.

Before long, the conversation found its own rhythm again. It wandered from Ettan's Antarctic stories to the engagement, then drifted into old family memories, interrupted every now and then by laughter.

Outside, the plains quietly gave way to the hills.

The road began to twist. Coconut palms disappeared behind us, replaced by thick forest and tall silver oaks. The air through the open window turned cool enough to raise goosebumps.

Only when the first tea gardens appeared did we realize how far we had come.

Without any of us noticing, we had climbed into Nelliampathy.

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