Shibam Iyer
1
The train slowed as it entered Alappuzha, the rhythmic clatter of wheels softening into a crawl. Ananya leaned closer to the window, her eyes tracing the sight of endless coconut groves swaying gently in the late afternoon breeze, their reflections shimmering across the sprawling backwaters. The air outside looked different, thicker almost, carrying the sheen of humidity and the fragrance of wet earth that no city could ever imitate. As the train screeched to a halt, she stepped down with a deep breath, as though she were inhaling her own past. The station was small, familiar, yet somehow distant, like a memory half-forgotten. A car waited to take her to the ancestral home, and with each turn of the narrow roads flanked by canals, she felt herself journeying not just into the village but into a life she had once lived and abandoned. Childhood images rose unbidden—bare feet splashing in puddles, the sticky sweetness of mango juice dripping down her arms, the sound of temple bells mixing with the call of boatmen. The weight of those memories settled inside her as the car approached the tall wooden gates of the Menon household.
The ancestral house stood just as she remembered, its tiled roof darkened by time, its verandah wide and watchful, its wooden pillars smelling faintly of sandalwood and age. The moment she stepped down, the aroma hit her—coconut oil from freshly bathed hair, jasmine flowers strung into garlands, and the earthy dampness of a home too close to water. The courtyard, with its old tulsi plant, looked almost sacred, bathed in the slanting rays of evening sun. She heard voices inside, laughter and busy footsteps preparing for the ritual that had brought her back after so many years. Yet, she lingered at the threshold for a moment, fingers grazing the carved teak doors, her heart uncertain whether to rejoice in the familiarity or to retreat from it. Her grandmother’s voice echoed in the distance, calling out instructions with the authority only she possessed. Stepping in, Ananya felt the house envelop her—not as a guest but as one of its own, its walls whispering to her with every creak of wood, every shadow stretching across the floor.
But comfort mingled uneasily with something else. As much as the place wrapped her in warmth, there was an undeniable weight pressing down on her, as though the house demanded answers she was not ready to give. It had been years since she had walked its corridors, since she had slept in the room overlooking the water where she once dreamed childish dreams of freedom. Now, standing there in the twilight glow, the silence seemed charged, alive with stories that had never been told, with questions she had never dared to ask herself. She was both daughter and stranger here—welcomed by tradition, yet unsettled by her own memories. The scent of incense drifted in, mingling with the faint sound of temple drums from afar, reminding her why she had returned: duty, family, ritual. And yet, in that quiet moment, Ananya knew it was not just ritual that awaited her in this house by the backwaters, but something far more personal—something she could neither name nor escape.
2
Ananya wandered toward the backwaters the next morning, needing to escape the noise of preparations inside the house. The sun had just risen, painting the water in hues of molten gold, and the air was thick with the cries of birds wheeling overhead. She walked along the bund road, her slippers sinking slightly into the damp earth, until she heard a voice—soft, familiar, calling her name. She froze, startled, before turning to see him: Arjun, leaning against a coconut tree with a notebook in his hand. For a moment she thought her mind was playing tricks, conjuring him out of memory, but the warmth of his smile was too real, too present. Time seemed to fold, and she was once again the girl who used to run along these very paths with him, breathless from laughter. “Ananya,” he said simply, his voice carrying the same unhurried rhythm she remembered. She found herself smiling back, though her heart beat faster than it should have for a meeting between old friends.
They began walking together, the conversation at first cautious, almost formal, as though they were testing the waters of familiarity. Arjun spoke of his writing, of how he had left the city behind to return to the village, drawing inspiration from the stories etched into its people and landscapes. Ananya laughed when he teased her about the way she used to scowl whenever he stole her mangoes or when she slipped and fell into the water during their childhood races. In turn, she reminded him of the afternoons he used to scribble poems on scraps of paper, too shy to let anyone else read them. Their laughter rang out, light and unguarded, but beneath it ran a current of awareness—of who they were now, of the years that had passed, of the choices that had shaped them. When his hand brushed against hers as they walked too close, neither withdrew immediately, and silence fell between them, heavier than any words.
They sat by the water’s edge, the stillness around them magnifying the tension in the air. Arjun opened his notebook, showing her a page filled with lines he claimed were unfinished, though to her they felt startlingly whole—verses about longing, about remembering a face that returned again and again in dreams. She looked at him, startled, but he quickly laughed it off, saying he drew from imagination. Yet his eyes lingered on her too long, and she felt her cheeks flush despite herself. She reminded herself of her husband waiting in Bangalore, of the life she had built far away from these waters, but here, under the morning sun and with Arjun’s quiet presence beside her, that world felt strangely distant. As the call of a boatman drifted across the river and the breeze rustled through the palms, Ananya realized that what they shared was no longer just the innocence of childhood friendship. There was something unspoken between them now—something fragile and dangerous, like a flame that might catch if either dared to breathe too deeply.
3
The morning of the ritual began with the clang of the temple bell echoing through the courtyard, mingling with the smell of incense and freshly lit oil lamps. The ancestral house was alive with activity—relatives arriving in crisp white mundus and kasavu sarees, women rushing about with brass vessels of water, and priests chanting in low, rhythmic tones. Ananya wrapped herself in a simple cream saree with a golden border, her hair adorned with jasmine strands that carried the sweet, heady fragrance of tradition. As she stepped into the courtyard where the shraddham was being arranged, she felt the weight of expectation descend on her shoulders. Every movement of hers was watched—by cousins, aunts, and distant relatives—measuring her as the dutiful daughter, the married woman returned from the city. Her Ammamma, seated in authority at the head of the proceedings, gestured for her to take her place beside the others offering rice balls and water to the ancestors. The ritual was meant to be solemn, sacred, but for Ananya it felt suffocating, as though each chant reminded her of the life she was expected to uphold rather than the one she longed for.
As the ceremony unfolded, Ananya tried to focus on the priest’s instructions—the measured pouring of water, the laying of banana leaves, the offering of sesame seeds—but her eyes betrayed her. Across the courtyard, half-hidden behind a pillar, stood Arjun. He wasn’t part of the rituals, just an onlooker, but his presence unsettled her far more than the sharp stares of judgmental relatives. He leaned casually against the wood, his expression unreadable, though his eyes followed her every movement. Once, as she bent to place an offering, her gaze lifted involuntarily and met his. It was only for a fleeting second, but in that instant the world narrowed—the chants, the heat of the oil lamps, the shuffle of feet—all blurred into nothingness except for the quiet intensity in his eyes. She quickly lowered her gaze, her fingers trembling as she placed the offering, but the echo of that glance lingered, quickening her heartbeat in a way no prayer could soothe.
When the ritual ended, relatives gathered around Ammamma, praising her for keeping traditions alive, their voices filled with reverence. Ananya stood aside, wiping sweat from her forehead, feeling oddly detached from the very customs she had grown up with. She knew she should feel pride, even serenity, in being part of this lineage, but instead a heaviness sat in her chest. From across the courtyard, she caught sight of Arjun again, this time slipping away quietly toward the backwaters, his notebook tucked under his arm. It was as if he carried with him an escape, a reminder that there was a world outside these rituals where life was not dictated by duty alone. For a moment she considered following him, abandoning the swirl of family voices that pulled her back into expectations. But instead, she stayed, smiling faintly when a relative spoke to her, all the while feeling the burn of that secret glance—a silent rebellion, hidden in plain sight, against the roots that bound her.
4
The night had fallen heavy and warm, the kind of humid Kerala night when the air clung to the skin and the silence seemed alive with hidden murmurs. From the verandah, Ananya could hear the distant croak of frogs, the hum of cicadas, and the occasional splash of a fish breaking the backwater’s surface. Lanterns glowed faintly inside the house, where most of the family had retired, their voices dwindling into whispers before sleep. Unable to rest, she stepped out into the courtyard, her saree brushing softly against the stone floor, and found herself walking instinctively toward the bund road that curved along the water. The fireflies had already begun their slow dance, flickering like little sparks against the dark canvas of the night, and in their glow she caught sight of Arjun waiting there, as though he had known she would come. He smiled quietly, without words, and she felt an inexplicable pull, the kind that transcended reason and time.
They walked side by side, their steps sinking into the damp earth, and slowly the weight of years seemed to lift, replaced by the easy rhythm of a friendship once so natural. Arjun reminded her of the afternoons when they would steal mangoes from the neighbor’s orchard, running breathless until they collapsed in laughter under the banyan tree. She laughed despite herself, recalling how she had once scolded him for pushing her into the pond during a monsoon, even as she secretly enjoyed the thrill of it. He teased her about the secret hideout they had built near the paddy fields, where she had once whispered her dreams of leaving the village for a bigger life. The memories spilled out effortlessly, weaving a tapestry of childhood that felt both distant and dangerously intimate. Each story was a thread binding them closer, reminding them not just of who they had been, but of the possibility of who they might still be.
The backwaters stretched silently beside them, reflecting the silver shimmer of the moon, a witness to the growing closeness neither dared name. Their laughter softened into pauses, and those pauses filled with unspoken things—questions, desires, regrets. Arjun’s hand brushed against hers more than once, and though neither pulled away, the silence between them thickened, charged with something fragile and forbidden. She felt the tug of memory blending with a longing she had buried for years, one that came alive now in the simple act of walking beside him. The air smelled of wet earth and coconut husks, of a village that held them in its timeless embrace, yet it was her racing heartbeat she could not ignore. As they reached the edge where the bund narrowed into shadows, Ananya stopped, gazing out at the water alive with fireflies. Arjun stood close beside her, so close she could feel the warmth of his presence. In that moment, beneath the stars and the restless hum of the night, she realized their bond was no longer a memory. It was something living, breathing, and dangerously close to crossing into desire.
5
The afternoon had been heavy with the promise of rain, the sky smudged in shades of grey as clouds gathered low over the backwaters. Ananya had wandered down the familiar path again, finding Arjun already there, notebook closed on his lap as though he had been waiting for her. They sat beneath the grove of coconut palms, the air thick with the scent of damp soil, speaking in fragments that danced between laughter and silence. Then, without warning, the clouds split open, and the rain came crashing down in sheets, drumming against leaves, rippling across the water, soaking them within seconds. Ananya shrieked in surprise, half laughing, half scolding the sky, as Arjun grabbed her hand and pulled her deeper into the grove where the tall palms offered some shelter. Their bodies brushed in the frantic run, and though the rain still found its way through, it no longer mattered. The storm had isolated them, creating a cocoon of sound and water where no eyes could follow, no voices could intrude.
They stood together, drenched, their laughter spilling over in helpless bursts as droplets slid down their faces. Arjun shook his hair like a mischievous boy, splattering her with more water, and she responded by swatting at him, only to dissolve into more laughter. For a moment it was as though the years had vanished—they were once again the children who played through monsoon storms without care, splashing in flooded fields, racing along slippery paths. But as their laughter faded into quieter breaths, the air between them changed. Ananya felt the weight of his nearness, the way his arm brushed hers, the warmth of his gaze lingering on her face. The rain poured around them, blurring the world into silver streaks, and within that blurred world, boundaries softened. She could feel her pulse quicken, each beat amplified by the closeness of his body and the stillness that followed their laughter. It was not just nostalgia anymore; it was something new, unsettling, and impossibly alive.
The silence deepened, broken only by the steady rhythm of the rain. Ananya turned her face upward, letting the cool drops slide over her skin, and in that simple act she felt something she hadn’t in years—a raw, unfiltered joy. It was as though the rain had washed away the layers she carried: the dutiful wife, the measured daughter, the woman bound by routine. Standing there with Arjun, drenched and trembling, she felt herself come undone, alive in ways she had forgotten were possible. Yet with that aliveness came guilt, sharp and insistent, clinging to her as relentlessly as the wet fabric of her saree. She thought of Raghav, of the vows she had made, but when she glanced at Arjun—his eyes searching hers, his hand reaching just close enough without touching—she knew something within her had already shifted. The rain had not only blurred the boundaries between them; it had crossed them. And as the storm raged on, Ananya realized that no amount of silence or self-restraint could erase the memory of that first touch—not of hands, but of something deeper, more dangerous, stirring awake inside her.
6
The house felt heavier that evening, as though its old walls had absorbed the rain and were pressing inward with their damp, lingering silence. Ananya sat on the edge of her childhood bed, her saree still faintly smelling of wet earth, her hair damp against her back. The laughter and closeness under the coconut grove replayed in her mind in flashes—his hand almost touching hers, his gaze lingering, her own heartbeat betraying her. With every memory came a pang of guilt, sharper than she expected, for Raghav’s face floated before her like an accusation she could not escape. He had trusted her, believed in her, and she was supposed to be the dutiful wife—the woman who belonged not to herself but to her family and the roles carved out for her. Yet when she closed her eyes, it was not Raghav she saw but Arjun, his quiet smile, his voice like an echo of home. The weight of this duality settled on her chest, leaving her restless, unable to speak or to sleep, caught between the woman she was expected to be and the woman she was beginning to remember within herself.
Meera barged into her room without warning, as she had always done since they were girls. Her cousin carried the same mischievous spark in her eyes, the kind that seemed to peel back layers of secrets with ease. “So,” Meera teased, flopping onto the bed beside her, “our Ananya still takes long walks by the backwaters? Just like before. Don’t tell me you’ve met him already.” The slyness in her tone made Ananya’s heart jolt, though she tried to mask it with a laugh that sounded too brittle, too forced. Meera nudged her knowingly, recalling stories of how Ananya and Arjun had been inseparable as children—how the two had once been scolded for spending hours by the river, how even then people whispered half-jokingly about their bond. Ananya tried to deflect, claiming it was just old memories, nothing more, but the warmth rushing to her cheeks betrayed her. For a moment she feared Meera could see right through her, that her emotions were written too clearly in her silence, in the way her eyes darted away at the mention of his name.
Outside the room, the shuffling of feet and the muted conversations of relatives continued, but Ananya felt another pair of eyes on her—her Ammamma’s. The old matriarch sat in the verandah, her body frail but her gaze sharp as ever, noticing everything. When Ananya emerged later, carrying a tray of tea, she found her grandmother studying her with unnerving stillness, as if she could sense the storm churning within her granddaughter. Ammamma said nothing, yet her silence was far more piercing than any reprimand. Her gaze lingered a moment too long, a reminder that nothing in this house escaped her. Ananya lowered her eyes, her hands tightening around the teacups, the guilt swelling inside her until it felt unbearable. The house, with its rituals and duties, demanded obedience and composure. But inside, she was unraveling, caught between silence and desire, between the life she had chosen and the one that was quietly, dangerously choosing her.
7
The afternoon sun slanted through the lattice windows, casting shifting patterns of light across the veranda where Arjun sat with his notebook resting loosely on his knee. Ananya had come seeking quiet, hoping to escape the endless chatter of cousins and the watchful silence of Ammamma, but instead she found him there, pen tapping absentmindedly against the page. He looked up when she approached, and with a half-smile, motioned her to sit. For a while, they exchanged only small words—the weather, the heaviness of the air after the rain—but then, almost hesitantly, Arjun began to read aloud from the notebook in his hands. His voice was steady, rich with the cadence of practiced storytelling, but the words themselves unsettled her. It was the tale of two children, inseparable in their laughter and mischief, who grew up side by side until life pulled them apart. As he read, Ananya felt a jolt of recognition in the details: the stolen mangoes, the secret hideouts, the swims in the swollen rivers of monsoon. Each image mirrored their own past so closely that she wondered if he was weaving their childhood into fiction, or if he was finally confessing truths through the guise of a story.
The further he read, the more the story blurred the fragile wall she had built between memory and present. The boy in his tale grew into a man who carried his love like a hidden flame, silent yet consuming, while the girl returned to her ancestral home only to find herself haunted by what could have been. Ananya’s breath caught as she realized how much of herself lived in those lines, how the longing she had tried to suppress was now reflected back at her in his words. She dared a glance at Arjun, but he was intent on his notebook, his voice low, deliberate, almost as though he feared what silence might reveal if he stopped. Her heart pounded with a confusion that was both terrifying and intoxicating—were these merely passages from an unwritten novel, or were they fragments of his own soul, laid bare for her to hear? Every sentence seemed to strip away another layer of denial, binding her more tightly to him, yet also leaving her trembling under the weight of unspoken desire.
When he finally closed the notebook, the silence between them was more piercing than the words had been. The backwaters glistened in the distance, the sound of birds returning to their nests filling the void, yet neither moved nor spoke. Ananya felt her throat tighten, a dozen questions pressing against her lips, but none dared escape. Was this his way of telling her what he could not say outright? Or was she reading too much into the poetry of his imagination, hungry to find herself within it? Arjun met her eyes then, just briefly, and in that glance lay all the ambiguity of his words—fiction blurred with truth, longing cloaked in narrative. Shaken, she rose from her seat, murmuring some excuse about helping in the kitchen, but her steps were unsteady, her chest heavy with emotions she could no longer dismiss. The story lingered inside her long after she left the veranda, a mirror she could neither look away from nor shatter, binding her more deeply to Arjun in ways she feared to name.
8
The night was steeped in stillness, the kind that carried every sound across the backwaters like a secret. Lanterns hung along the verandah, their amber glow spilling into the dark, trembling faintly with the breeze. Ananya found herself wandering again toward the water’s edge, her heart pulling her where her mind resisted. Arjun was already there, standing by the bund, his silhouette etched against the shimmer of moonlight on rippling water. For a moment, she hesitated, torn between turning back to the safety of walls and stepping forward into the pull of something far more dangerous. But when he looked up, his eyes meeting hers with that quiet intensity she had come to dread and crave, her resistance crumbled. She walked toward him, each step echoing in her chest like a drumbeat, until the space between them was so small that the hum of the night seemed to fold in around them.
They spoke little, their voices hushed, fragile against the weight of the moment. Arjun said something about the water being a witness to all their memories, and Ananya laughed softly, though it came out trembling. He reached for her hand then, hesitantly, as if giving her the chance to retreat. She didn’t. The warmth of his touch sent a shiver through her, and before she could summon the will to speak, to remind herself of vows and duty, his fingers tightened gently around hers. The silence stretched, charged, unbearable, until he leaned closer, and she felt his breath mingling with hers. Their lips met in a kiss that was at once tender and consuming, born not of impulse but of years of nostalgia, longing, and suppressed desire finally breaking free. It was soft, hesitant at first, but deepened with the weight of everything they could not say. The world around them dissolved into shadows and water, until only the two of them existed, bound in a moment that felt stolen from time itself.
When they finally pulled away, the guilt crashed into her with the same force as the longing that had led her there. Ananya turned her face, unable to meet his gaze, her heart hammering against her ribs. She thought of Raghav, of her family asleep in the house just beyond the grove, of Ammamma’s sharp eyes that seemed to see everything. Yet even as shame pressed down on her, she could still feel the warmth of Arjun’s lips, the softness of his hand holding hers. Arjun didn’t speak, and perhaps that silence was his way of acknowledging what they had done—beautiful and forbidden, impossible yet undeniable. She wanted to run, to hide, to erase the moment, but she also knew she never would. It had carved itself into her, a mark that no ritual, no duty, no vow could erase. As she turned back toward the house, her saree damp from the night air, she felt the heaviness of her choice settle deep within her. For the first time, she was no longer merely haunted by longing; she had acted on it. And that act, fragile and fleeting under the lantern’s glow, had changed everything.
9
The morning broke with a deceptive calm, sunlight filtering through the swaying palms, casting glimmers across the backwaters that looked almost too serene for the storm inside Ananya’s chest. She awoke with the memory of the previous night still burning on her lips, the taste of longing and guilt tangled together, impossible to separate. The house was already alive with sounds—pots clanging in the kitchen, uncles speaking in hushed tones about preparations for the final day of the rituals. Then, like a stone dropped into water, the words reached her: Raghav is coming today. The name struck her with sudden force, pulling her back into the world she had tried to push away. Her husband’s presence, so far removed in the city, now loomed over her ancestral home like an unspoken judgment. She moved through the house like a shadow, nodding, answering when spoken to, but her mind was elsewhere—caught between the warmth of Arjun’s embrace and the weight of vows she had made years ago.
Unable to bear the closeness of walls and relatives, Ananya slipped away toward the bund road where the backwaters stretched endlessly, their quiet surface reflecting the sky’s unease. She sat by the edge, her saree brushing the mud, and tried to gather her thoughts, but all she found was turmoil. The water seemed to ask her questions she could not answer: Was last night a betrayal or an awakening? Was she a wife bound by duty, or a woman allowed to claim her own desires? Every ripple looked like a reminder of choices that would carry consequences far beyond herself. Her heart ached with the thought of Raghav’s trust, of the life they had built together, however imperfect. Yet when she remembered Arjun’s voice, his stories, his silence that spoke louder than words, she felt a pull she could not deny. The water reflected her conflict back at her, refusing to give her clarity, only mirroring the tides of her own dilemma.
It was then that Arjun appeared, his steps quiet but his presence unmistakable. He didn’t startle her; it was as though she had been waiting for him all along. He sat beside her, not too close, his gaze fixed on the horizon. For a long while, he said nothing, allowing the silence to hold them both. Finally, he spoke, his voice low, almost resigned. “Ananya, I will not chain you. I never could. You have a life, a husband who trusts you. What we shared… it was real, but it is not mine to claim.” She turned to him, her eyes burning, wanting him to fight, to demand, to give her a reason to surrender. But instead, he gave her freedom—an unbearable gift. “You must decide,” he continued, his voice steadier now. “Where your heart belongs, where you belong.” His words left her hollow and trembling, because she realized the choice was not just about love or loyalty, but about the woman she wanted to be. As the water lapped gently against the shore, she felt herself drowning not in guilt or desire, but in the crushing weight of having to choose.
10
The final day of rituals began with the murmur of prayers and the fragrance of sandalwood curling through the ancestral house. Relatives bustled about, carrying trays of offerings, their voices layered over the solemn chants that filled the courtyard. Ananya moved through it all as though in a trance, her smile polite, her gestures measured, her eyes carefully avoiding Arjun’s. Ammamma presided at the center, her frail figure somehow commanding, ensuring that every step of tradition was followed. And then, amidst the hum of duty and ritual, Raghav arrived. He stepped into the house with his familiar ease, exchanging greetings with uncles and cousins, carrying the quiet authority of a man rooted in his role. To him, nothing seemed out of place. He looked at Ananya with warmth, perhaps even pride, and she responded with the same grace she always had. Yet within her, the memory of the lantern-lit embrace lingered like a second heartbeat, hidden beneath layers of composure.
As the sun dipped lower, the rituals came to an end. Relatives packed their bags, children ran about chasing each other, and the house that had been filled with voices began to empty, returning to its quiet rhythm. Ananya found herself once more by the water, drawn irresistibly to its edge. The backwaters stretched before her, serene and watchful, as if they had witnessed countless lives before hers and would continue long after. Arjun stood there too, not approaching, but close enough that she could feel his presence like a shadow against her skin. Their eyes met across the space, and in that gaze lay everything unsaid—the tenderness of memory, the ache of parting, the burden of choices. Words would have broken the moment, so they remained silent, letting the water and the wind carry what they could not voice. The house behind them loomed like an old guardian, absorbing their secret into its walls, storing it alongside generations of whispered longings and unfulfilled desires.
When Raghav called her name, it sounded both near and impossibly distant. She turned, adjusting the pleats of her saree, and walked back toward him with measured steps. The car was waiting at the gate, its engine humming softly, ready to take her away. As she slid into the seat beside her husband, she felt the weight of stability settling around her, the life she had chosen and the role she was expected to fulfill. Yet, as the car pulled away, she could not resist looking back. By the water stood Arjun, still and steadfast, his figure framed by the fading light. He did not wave, nor did she. The distance grew, but his presence remained etched in her, like a truth that could never be spoken. The house loomed in the background, its windows catching the last glow of evening, holding within it the memory of their forbidden moment. It did not judge, it did not condemn—it simply remembered, silently keeping their secret as it had kept so many others, forever.
End
