FIDHA 2
It was past ten when I finally woke up. The kind of sleep you don’t get often—the deep, unbroken kind that leaves you feeling like you’ve surfaced from somewhere far away. For a moment, I just lay there, holding on to that rare, weightless quiet. Then habit took over, and I went straight to the kitchen.
Chechi was already there. She had decided, with the quiet determination she reserves for such things, that the morning would be dedicated to cabbage thoran. Amma must have taken Achhamma to the hospital; otherwise, she wouldn’t have surrendered the kitchen so easily. I leaned against the doorframe for a while, watching the steady rhythm of her knife moving through the cabbage.
“Amma should be back by noon,” she said, without looking up.
Noon, she said. But I knew better. Hospital visits never kept to schedule—there would be scans, tests, waiting, more waiting. Evening would come before they did.
The phone rang. Chechi dropped everything and went to answer it, leaving the half-cut cabbage abandoned on the counter. Some friend, most likely. She wouldn’t be back anytime soon.
After breakfast, I wandered out to the verandah, where our cat appeared as if on cue—stretching, unbothered, clearly having spent the night roaming wherever it pleased. I sat there, idly fussing over it.
“Shree—hey! You’re impossible to find when you’re actually needed.” Chechi’s voice cut through the house. She checked every room before finally spotting me on the porch.
“You need to go to the shop.”
“What for? We have everything.”
“That was Ammaayi. They left this morning—they’ll reach Palakkad by noon. And get some chicken.”
“Chechi cooking chicken? That sounds risky.”
“Just go,” she said, already scooping up the cat and disappearing inside.
By the time I reached the market, the day had settled into its usual heat and noise. At the chicken stall, I ran into Junais—an old friend from school. We exchanged the kind of easy conversation that picks up without effort, no matter how long it’s been. On the way back, I stopped by the tharavadu and borrowed Cheriachhan’s van. We do have an Endeavour at home, but it spends more time at the workshop than on the road—more ornament than vehicle at this point.
Amma’s side of the family is from Kannur. Three elder brothers, a younger sister—and with them, an ever-expanding orbit of aunts, uncles, and cousins.
That morning, a good number of them had boarded the Mangalapuram–Coimbatore passenger train. They were all on their way. I was to pick them up from the station.
There wasn’t much to do until then, so I joined Chechi in the kitchen. Between the two of us—and with some unspoken hope—we managed to get the chicken curry going.
I reached Palakkad railway station around half past three.
It felt less like receiving relatives and more like preparing for an incoming procession. The train pulled into the third platform, and within minutes, the place was alive with familiar faces.
Sreeja Ammaayi had recently undergone knee surgery and couldn’t manage on her own. The lift, predictably, wasn’t working. So Sreeraj, Nimmi, and I formed a makeshift support system and slowly guided her down.
Up ahead, Vallyammaman moved with purpose, as though he were leading an expedition, Ammomma keeping pace beside him.
There were enough of us to fill a mini-bus—and that’s almost what we became. Somehow, I packed everyone into the van and got us home without incident, which felt like an achievement in itself.
The house shifted the moment they arrived.
Ammaayi went straight to lie down—she has a metal rod in her leg and can’t stand for long. Vallyammaman, after a cup of tea, announced he was going for a walk and would stop by the tharavadu on the way.
By the time Amma, Cheriyamma, and Achhamma returned from the hospital, it was already night.
The cousins had claimed the floor and were deep into a game of Noottankole. The house was loud now—alive in that familiar, comforting way that only happens when everyone is under one roof.
Achhamma, thankfully, wasn’t dealing with anything immediately serious. It was the usual trouble—phlegm in the lungs, the strain of age. She has a pacemaker now, keeping her heart in rhythm. Everyone knows, even if no one says it out loud, that we are living in a kind of borrowed time with her.
She has one wish left—to see her grandson married before she goes.
Later, Vallyammaman and Cheriachhan returned.
Cheriachhan had brought along fresh river fish—Aattuvaala—and took over the kitchen with quiet authority. When it comes to cooking, no one even tries to compete with him. Somewhere along the way, valiyammaman had acquired a bottle of toddy too, though no one seemed to know from where.
Dinner turned into a small feast.
Chechi’s chicken curry, having been discreetly rescued by Ammaayi, was no longer a threat to public health. The fish curry was, as expected, exceptional.
After dinner, conversation lingered—stories, laughter, small arguments that went nowhere. Eventually, one by one, the house began to settle.
Later in the night, Cheriachhan, Cheriyamma and Achhamma left for the tharavadu.
The rooms and the hall were already overflowing.
Sreeraj and I grabbed a mat and escaped to the terrace, hauling it up the narrow stairs like we were smuggling contraband. Sreeraj is Dhanya Ammaayi’s eldest son—my age, a second-year B.Arch student in Chennai. We grew up side by side, which makes conversation with him easy in a way that doesn’t need effort.
We lay there, talking about Chennai—half stories, half exaggerations—when Nimmi climbed up.
Nimmi is my Mema. She’s been married a few years now. Her husband works in the Merchant Navy.
“Couldn’t you have slept downstairs like a normal person?” Sreeraj asked, already grinning. “What made you climb all the way up here?”
She made a face at him and came over, settling on the other side of me.
“I’m sure he’s been boring you with stories about his Chennai girlfriends,” she said, aiming straight at him.
Sreeraj didn’t miss a beat. “Do you know the story of a poor fellow who hasn’t stepped onto dry land in two years because he’s scared of his wife?”
It landed harder than he intended.
Mema sat up instantly. “Who isn’t coming home?” she demanded, already halfway to her feet. I had to pull her back down, talk her out of it.
It wasn’t hard to see why she reacted that way. Apart from the few months after their wedding, her husband was almost always at sea. The rest of the time, she lived with questions—casual, careless ones—from neighbours and even relatives. Whether he’d left her. Whether there was another family somewhere. It wears a person down.
“Think before you speak,” I told Sreeraj, quieter now. “You know her situation. What’s your problem?”
He shrugged. “She took my chicken leg piece at lunch.”
That, apparently, was the real grievance.
Given the seriousness of the offence, I decided the matter required no further discussion.
A little while later, Chechi came up, followed by Anusha and Kiran.
“So this is where everyone disappeared to.”
“Gauree… your room is unbearable, it’s too hot here” Mema said. “And Vallyechi told me these two were up here.”
“We came here for some peace,” Sreeraj said, sitting up. “And Vallyamma went and announced our location to the entire house. Wait—if everyone’s here, who’s left downstairs to sleep?”
“If I’m such a problem, you can go back down,” Mema shot back.
“I will,” he said, starting to get up.
Chechi caught him by the arm. “Where do you think you’re going? Lie down.”
He lay back down immediately.
Mema laughed. “Look at that. One look from Gauri and he’s back in place.”
“My dear Cheriyammaayi,” Sreeraj said solemnly, “Gauri Chechi has had a few. You can smell the toddy from here.”
And just like that, they were on the same side.
“As if that’s news,” Mema said. “Isn’t she the official drinker of this house?”
“Enough commentary. Move,” Chechi said.
I shifted. Chechi slipped in between me and Mema, claimed her space like it had always been hers, and settled. Anusha and Kiran followed suit, pushing Sreeraj further and further out.
“Great,” he muttered. “I’ve been evicted.”
I looked over—he was lying on the bare cement now, the mat completely taken.
“Alright, everyone up,” I said. “We’ll turn it sideways.”
We lifted the mat, rotated it, and lay down across it in a row. Our feet hung off the edge, but the rest of us fit well enough. It felt like a small victory.
“Still though, Gauri…” Mema began, unwilling to let the earlier topic go.
“Mema,” I said, leaning closer, “when I came up earlier, I saw Chechi downstairs, keeping beat next to Cheriachhan. I knew exactly how the night would end.”
She laughed.
“You remember last Thulam?” I continued. “When toddy was offered during the puja? She finished an entire bottle. Cheriyamma didn’t speak to her for a month.”
“Karkidakam is coming up,” Mema said, turning to Chechi with a smirk. “Another opportunity.”
“Everyone drank,” Chechi said, gesturing vaguely—towards me, towards the air, towards shared guilt.
“What Chechi means,” I added, “is that I had one small piece of chicken and a very modest amount of toddy. It was prasadam. Everyone is supposed to have some.”
“A little bit, maybe, and we all drank it” Anusha cut in. “but do you know how much she actually had?”
That was all it took.
The conversation drifted into stories—each one louder and less accurate than the last. Chechi protested, Mema egged them on, Sreeraj contributed selectively when it suited him. The night loosened around us.
We talked, laughed, argued over nothing in particular.
Sometime around three in the morning, without any real ending, the conversation thinned out—and we fell asleep where we were, lined up under the open sky.
By mid-morning, the house was full.
Vallyachhan and Vallymma had arrived early, and by eleven, both the Cheriachans were there as well. Achan’s entire side of the family lived within reach—Cheramangalam, Thekkethara—close enough that gatherings like this required no planning, only momentum.
With everyone under one roof, the house took on the feel of a festival.
Children spilled into every corner. There were enough of us to fill a vehicle twice over. Most of the morning was spent in the pond by the paddy field—diving, splashing, refusing to come out even as the sun climbed higher. It took Ammaayi shouting from the bank to finally drag us back for lunch. Even then, no one really minded. There’s a particular kind of joy in throwing yourself into water on a hot day, and Ammaayi knew it as well as we did.
After lunch, I found Vallyachhan sitting on the bench in the courtyard, his betel box open beside him. I went and sat down next to him.
“Why are you out here? There are chairs on the varanda” I asked.
He smiled. “Didn’t you see who’s in the chair?”
I went to look.
Our tomcat lay stretched across the armchair, in absolute, unbothered comfort. The noise, the people, the movement—none of it seemed to concern him. He had the air of something that considered itself the rightful owner of the house, and perhaps of the world beyond it.
“Etta… we are playing Ludo. Want to join in?”
Chinchu had appeared beside me.
“Where is everyone?”
“Upstairs.”
I leaned out to look. The jackfruit tree blocked most of the view, but I could see shapes moving in the open balcony above. It must have been stifling indoors.
Chinchu followed my gaze—and then noticed Vallyachhan. More specifically, the betel box.
Her face lit up.
“What is it?”
She hesitated, then said, “Wouldn’t it make a nice Instagram photo? Me in a silk saree, sitting in that chair, chewing betel?”
“If you’re aiming for a thamburatti look,” I said, “the verandah at the tharavadu would suit you better. But that’s not the problem. Where exactly is this silk saree?”
“That’s true,” she said, deflating slightly.
“As for the betel—we can arrange that. Do you want some?”
She didn’t answer.
Vallyachhan had leaned back against the frame of the bench and was already drifting into sleep.
“valIyacha… I am taking two leaves,” I told him.
He nodded faintly.
I prepared them the way I’d seen it done—lime, a pinch of tobacco, folded neat—and held one out. Chinchu parted her lips, and I placed it carefully in her mouth.
We sat there chewing, talking about nothing in particular. Mostly about her Instagram followers. Then, inevitably, about whether I had a girlfriend. Questions that felt like they belonged to another age, though apparently they hadn’t gone anywhere.
“ You two sitting here chewing betel, are we?”
I turned.
Cheriyamma stood behind us, a knife in her hand.
“It’s just for a photo,” I said quickly. “She wanted….”
“Ettan is the one who put it in my mouth,” Chinchu added sweetly, all innocence.
“I heard everything,” Cheriyamma said. “What are you two sitting here talking about? Are those things to ask your brother?”
She had heard more than I’d realized.
“We’re besties, aren’t we, Etta?” Chinchu said, already smoothing the edges.
“It’s just for a photo, Cheriye,” I said. “What’s the knife for?”
“To cut banana leaves.”
“I’ll go,” I said, taking it from her. “There’s that channel Amma dug—you won’t manage climbing over it.”
The banana grove was cool and dim compared to the glare outside.
The ridge at the entrance had been worn down by running water, leaving a deep and narrow trench. I stepped across easily. Chinchu climbed down into it and held out her hand.
“I can’t lift you,” I said. “You weigh at least five hundred kilos.”
“I’m forty-two,” she said, offended. “What’s the point of you going to the gym then?”
I pulled her up anyway and set her down beside me.
“Happy?”
She grinned.
We cut the leaves we needed, though it quickly became clear we’d need more than we thought.
“There are so many people,” she said.
The grove slowed her down. The filtered light, the thick leaves, the birds—she slipped into photo mode, moving from one spot to another while I took pictures. Some of them turned out surprisingly well.
“Careful,” I told her. “If you post these, you might have to delete your account.”
We carried the bundle back to the kitchen.
Everyone was there. Achhamma and Ammomma sat together, deep in old stories, while the rest gathered around—children, daughters-in-law, sons-in-law—listening, interrupting, laughing. It was the kind of scene that holds a house together.
Most of what I write, if I’m being honest, begins somewhere in those conversations.
“Biryani tonight,” someone said.
Which meant no elaborate spread—no separate rice and curries.
“Then why the banana leaves?” I asked.
“For ada,” Cheriyamma said. “You need something for four o’clock tea.”
There was something different about her that day. Softer, somehow.
“Do you need anything else?” cheriyamma asked.
“Like what?”
“Nothing. Just asking.”
I caught Amma watching us, as if she wasn’t quite sure what to make of the exchange.
The leaves were washed, wiped, cut. Batter spread. Fire lit.
Smoke filled the kitchen.
Achhamma started coughing.
I took her to the room, handed her the inhaler, waited until her breathing steadied. Amma came in with tea a little later and sat beside her.
“Should I go get chicken?” I asked. “Will ten kilos be enough?”
“Get a little more,” she said. “There are many children.”
I went to the shop with Aadi, and Chinchu came along—wisely avoiding kitchen duty.
The meat shop was crowded. Junais wasn’t there; his father was at the counter. There was the usual small talk, a question about the engagement, a mention of mutton—already sold out for the day. I placed an order for a whole goat anyway. Mutton is Ettan's favourite. And he will be here , Tommorow. With this many people, we’d need an entire goat...
At the grocery next door, we picked up rice, ghee, everything else.
Aadi had his eyes fixed on the freezer.
“Do you want a Chocobar?” I asked.
“Shouldn’t everyone get one?”
“How many of us are there?”
“Twenty-four,” Chinchu said. Then paused. “Actually, buy for everyone.”
It seemed reasonable.
We went back with forty-two Chocobars.
By evening, someone suggested going to the temple. The idea spread quickly—as it always does—until everyone, even those who had seen it all before, wanted to go again.
We bathed, dressed, and went for the deepaaradhana.
Later that night, I video-called Achan. There was a quiet satisfaction in showing him the house—full, noisy, alive—and letting him see what he was missing.
Dinner was served on banana leaves.
It was my first time eating biryani that way.
Mema and Ammaayi had cooked, but the hand behind it all was Ammomma’s. Proper Thalassery biryani—her recipe, her supervision.
I ate until I was full, and then kept eating.
Everyone did.
Afterward, the older men gathered outside under the moonlight, talking in low, serious voices.
Inside, we played carrom.
Chitta, I realized, had likely been a champion in another life. She won most of the games. The tomcat, who had spent the evening curled against Mema, eventually climbed onto the board, stretched out in the middle, and began grooming himself.
That ended the game.
By midnight, the house began to quieten.
There wasn’t enough space for everyone, but the tharavadu next door stood empty, vast and waiting. Some went there to sleep.
In my room, it was just Ammomma.
I lay down beside her.
She began telling one of her old stories.
There is a particular kind of comfort in falling asleep to that voice. For a long time now, I’ve had the quiet wish to gather all her stories, shape them properly, and one day turn them into a book.
A good compilation of such a warmful events only happened , when you are around with the best persons you love and being with them to understand their situations.
This was lovely. It has that rare feeling of a house becoming a whole world for a little while—and I’m glad you ended on the thought of one day making a book of Ammomma’s stories.