Janalppalikal

He was thirteen when it happened. Red brick laid  paths, ponds with floating moss, the church bell cutting through afternoons like a blade. The church festival had illuminated  the village beyond itself. Lights were tied to bamboo poles, sweet smell of jaggery and frying oil hung in the air, and men drank more than they should have. By evening, voices hardened. By night, fists appeared. The brawl started near the toddy shop—one shove, one insult too many. People circled instinctively, like they always did. That was when the sound arrived first. A deep, confident growl. A Royal Enfield. It came through the narrow road as if it owned it. The rider stopped without hurry. Tall, broad-shouldered, hair slicked back, a cigarette hanging carelessly from his lips. His shirt clung to him like it knew him well. He did not look at the crowd. The crowd looked at him. Someone whispered his name. It traveled faster than the bell. He picked up a sugarcane from a nearby cart. Tested its weight...

I don’t remember the exact day the announcement was made. The school said one batch would be converted to English-medium. Some students cheered quietly, some laughed openly, some whispered about how ridiculous it was. I laughed too, but the sound felt hollow in my chest. English had always been a shadow behind me, and now it was being asked to step forward, stand tall, and be measured. I felt that I would crumble, quietly, somewhere no one could see. Malayalam had always been my world, my comfort. I didn’t need to think to speak it, didn’t need to measure each word, didn’t need to apologize for pauses. English required calculation. It required courage I did not have. The school had no money. No new books. No trained teachers. Some periods on the timetable were blank, placeholders that seemed to mock us. People said it couldn’t be done. Parents said the children would suffer. Teachers said it was impossible. I believed them because their doubt sounded the way mine felt. Georgekutty S...

  The place where Manu grew up had a reputation long before it had streetlights. People spoke softly there. Not out of politeness—out of habit. The Kannadi madom stood next to his house like an unblinking eye. By day it was harmless: locked gates, moss on stone, silence thick enough to lean on. By night, it changed ownership. Expensive cars arrived without headlights. Doors closed carefully. Sounds escaped anyway—drumming that felt too slow for music, screams that sounded rehearsed but never fully acted. Manu’s parents had rules. “Never look.” “Never go near.” “When you hear voices, say Arjunan–Phalgunan slokam and sleep.” Belief was discipline in that house. Neighbors whispered stories—never fully, never directly. The madom was spoken of as if it could hear its own name. People nodded while listening, not in agreement but in fear of disagreement. The Bundle in the Well One story stayed. A distant relative—an old woman—found a small bundle of paan (betel) leaves inside her we...

The Periyar never asked permission. It rose and fell like a breathing giant, changing its level each season, leaving the land dark and yielding—soil that held a footprint for a few seconds longer than it should. From the main irrigation channel, water spread into the village. Each house cut its own kayyani, narrow paths dug by hand, guiding water to coconut palms and banana trees that had learned patience over generations Water did not belong to anyone.It belonged to time. Pump Days Every alternate day, when the motor pump hummed alive for two hours, the village split itself neatly. Children turned wild. They jumped into canals, swam like fish, chased minnows, screamed and laughed until their voices echoed between concrete walls. On dry days, the same canals became cricket grounds—the walls perfect boundaries when fielders were few. Adults became serious. Bhaskaran Uncle measured water with his eyes. Suku Uncle moved around correcting everyone, smiling while scolding. Varghes...