STORY

Nila had long clocked that kindness in the 21st century looked a lot like a flash sale. Loud, time-bound, and deeply transactional. People didn’t care.

When her mom took a fall in the bathroom, a minor slip, more bruise to pride than body. Nila did the bare minimum drilled into her by upbringing. Lifted her up, brewed tea, fluffed a pillow, and went back to chopping onions in the kitchen. Just another Saturday, carrying the invisible weight no one hashtags.

That night, she tossed a story onto Instagram. A blurry shot of her mom’s hand, veins like roadmaps, clutching a chipped teacup. Caption: “The hand that ironed my school ties now shakes lifting teacup.”Forty-three views. Zero replies. The algorithm yawned.

One viewer was Rhea, Nila’s old college roommate who’d once split cheap wine and existential dread with her in a 2×2 dorm. Now Rhea a “wellness influencer,” peddling digital hugs and TEDx-adjacent platitudes about “holding space.” Minutes after Nila’s post, Rhea dropped a reel. Dim lighting, cashmere sweater, voice like a yoga retreat ad: “Check on your strong friends. They’re too busy saving the world to save themselves.” It racked up a few hundred likes. A comment gushed, “You’re why I believe in humanity.”

Nila, half-drunk on exhaustion, messaged her: “hey, mom fell today. Kinda upset. You free to talk?” Rhea seen the message. No reply.

Days later, Nila birthed a shadow account: @notesfromnowhere. No profile pic or bio. Some raw truth lobbed into the void. First post:“ People repost ‘be kind’ memes while ghosting the living.” It hit like an amarula. A few hundred followers by Friday. Rhea followed, naturally, reposting it with: “This account is my therapy. So raw.” Nobody knew it was Nila. Anonymity was her middle finger to the world.

On her main account, Nila posted again: her mom peeling oranges at the table, sunlight catching her gray hair. Caption: “She’s fine. Still nags me to eat.” Nineteen views. The internet didn’t care about real. But @notesfromnowhere, she dropped: “You’ll cry over a movie protagonist dying but ignore the friend who texts ‘I’m not okay.’” It went sensational. A meditation app pool slapped it on an ad. A TEDx speaker wove it into a talk about “digital loneliness in a 5G world.” Rhea commented: “Every post is a gut punch. Thank you.” Nila stayed silent – iti was her knife.

Rhea slid into her DMs: “Hey 💖 Your words are shifting paradigms. Wanna join my podcast? We’re diving into anonymous grief and quiet influence.” Nila typed back: “Influence isn’t quiet. It just wears yoga pants now.” By next week, that line was on a few tote bags.

Finally, Nila posted one last time on @notesfromnowhere:“ If this meant anything, you’d call someone real. If it didn’t, you were never the point.” She deactivated the account at dawn. Rhea, predictably, spun it into content. A black-and-white reel, single candle flickering, royalty-free piano bgm: “We never knew her, but she knew us.” Wellness Weekly crowned it “the internet’s elegy of the decade.” Rhea parlayed it into a video series, The Unseen, and sold out a workshop on “Emotional Architecture in the Digital Age.”

Weeks later, they bumped into each other at a bookstore. Nila was thumbing through Kafka. Rhea was filming a reel about “finding yourself in literature.” “Nila! Still writing those little poems?” Rhea beamed, already framing the moment for her followers. “Sometimes,” Nila said, eyes on the spine of The Trial. Rhea launched into her elevator pitch: a book deal, a podcast, a course on “compassionate boundaries.” She was “soul-full but socially drained.” Then, mid-monologue: “ Oh, did you ever see @notesfromnowhere? That account rewired my brain.” Nila’s smile was a razor. “Nope. Missed it.” They hugged, a hollow collision of past and present.

That night, Rhea posted a story: white text on a pastel sunset. “Not everyone who vanishes wants to be chased.” Nila saw it, and switched off her phone. She poured her mom another cup of tea, sat down in silence. The world kept scrolling.

_{Cover: Jyothis Paravoor}

Meera walked into the village, her shawl fluttering like a loose kite. She carried no money. The rain tapped softly on the leaves, and her feet sank into the wet mud of the paddy fields. She was thirty-two, maybe thirty-three, her face lined with stories.

The villagers watched her, curious and unsure. Kochu, his hands rough from climbing toddy palms, scratched his neck and said, “She’s lost her mind.” Radha, her hut filled with old things, hugged her fish basket and snorted, “She’ll come begging soon.” Balan, who counted every grain of rice, shrugged. “No money means no future.”

Meera ignored their words. She crouched by Radha’s torn fishing net and began stitching it with steady hands. Radha frowned. “What’s that worth?” Meera smiled faintly. “Your nod.” By evening, Radha’s net was full of fish. She didn’t say much, but she handed Meera a medium fish – a rough thank-you. That night, Meera cooked it over a fire. The smell filled the air, and the taste made her laugh. It was real, and it was hers.

She kept going, one small step at a time. She helped Balan plant rice seeds. He gave her a handful of rice, muttering, “Fair’s fair.” She boiled it with wild greens she’d found, and when she ate it on her porch, it felt like a quiet victory – warm and hers, no money needed. Kochu’s baby wouldn’t stop crying, so Meera hummed a soft tune. The child fell asleep, and Kochu handed her a coconut. She cracked it open, drank the sweet water, and grinned as it dripped down her chin.

One day, Meera picked up a brush and began painting. She had always loved colors and shapes, even when she was a copywriter in the city, weaving words into stories for brands and businesses. But then, the AI came. It was faster, cheaper, and never tired. One day, her boss called her in. “This was a difficult decision. This isn’t about your performance, but we have to let you go” he said, his voice flat. Meera had walked out, her heart heavy, her pockets empty.

Now, in the village, she painted the walls of Radha’s hut with vibrant fish designs, bright and alive. Radha stared, her tough face softening. “What’s that worth?” she asked. Meera grinned. “Your smile.” Radha didn’t smile, but she handed Meera a basket of mangoes. Word spread, and soon Sarasu, Balan’s wife, asked Meera to paint her kitchen. In return, she gave Meera a book of poems, its pages yellow but full of beauty. Meera read it by the firelight, her heart swelling with words again.

Elsakutti, the quick-footed girl, brought her a broken clay pot. “Can you paint this?” she asked. Meera turned it into a masterpiece, swirling colors. Elsakutti clapped her hands and ran off, returning with a handful of wildflowers. “For you,” she said. Meera tucked one into her hair and felt lighter than ever.

Even Balan, who rarely smiled, asked her to paint his shed. “How much?” he grumbled. Meera laughed. “A story.” When she finished, the shed bloomed with scenes of the village – paddy fields, fishermen, children playing. Balan handed her a small wooden carving of a bird, rough but full of life. “My father made this,” he said. Meera held it gently, feeling its weight and history.

One evening, Meera sat by the backwaters, staring at her reflection. She remembered her old life – the rush of the city, the hum of computers, the emptiness of losing her job. Now, she scooped mud into her hands, tears mixing with the earth. Elsakutti ran up and handed her a wildflower. “For you,” she said. Meera hugged her. “You’re my win,” she whispered, tucking the flower into her hair.

Then Shivan, thin and nervous, was caught stealing rice from Balan’s shed. “I have nothing!” he cried. Balan looked ready to scold him, but Meera stepped in. “Let him share,” she said. Balan grumbled, “He’ll run.” Meera shook her head. “He’ll stay.” Shivan did. He helped patch a leaky roof, and when he was done, Meera gave him a bowl of rice. He ate quietly, his hands steady, and Meera felt a quiet pride.

One day, a storm hit the village. Water rushed everywhere, washing away Balan’s savings and Radha’s stash. The villagers stood helpless, but Meera didn’t stop. She gathered bamboo, shared her rice, and called Shivan and Elsakutti to help. Kochu joined them, trading toddy for a dry spot. Balan, his plans ruined, brought his last sack of rice. “You knew this would happen,” he said. Meera nodded. They ate together under a tarp, the steam from their bowls rising like a shared victory.

When the water receded, the village felt different. No one traded money – just rice, help, stories, and art. Meera sat by the water, weaving reeds into a basket. Elsakutti sat beside her. “Teach me,” she said. Meera handed her the reeds. “Make it sing.” Radha walked up, her voice soft. “I’m stronger now,” she said. “Not because of money – because of you.” Meera smiled. “That’s all I needed.”

Years later, under the banyan tree, the villagers told her story. “She let go of money,” they said, “and held onto us.” The wind carried their words, alive with her small, real victories – stitched nets, painted walls, shared meals, and the quiet hum of a life rebuilt.

Cover Design : Jyothis Paravoor

Part 1: An Unlikely Meeting

Nidhi had been craving a break from her routine. After months of legal battles and emotionally exhausting days, she decided to treat herself to a movie. The film Parched was screening, and she was intrigued—anything that celebrated women and freedom caught her attention.

The theater was dimly lit, the soft hum of chatter dying down as the trailers began to roll. That’s when Nidhi noticed her. A woman sitting a few rows ahead, completely absorbed in the movie, had an air of quiet intensity. Their eyes met briefly—an almost imperceptible exchange of acknowledgment, a shared moment that passed like a breeze. Nidhi didn’t think much of it then, but she had no idea that this encounter would soon change her life.

Later that week, Nidhi attended an art workshop led by a famous local artist. She had been trying her hand at painting, more as therapy than art, pouring her emotions into each brushstroke. As she set up her easel, she saw her again—the woman from the theater. She recognized the same intensity in her gaze, but this time, the woman approached her.

“Mind if I sit here?” she asked with a half-smile, her voice soft yet confident.

Nidhi nodded. “Please.”

“I’m Suma,” the woman said, extending her hand.

“Nidhi.”

They exchanged pleasantries, but the conversation quickly deepened. The surface-level discussions about art morphed into confessions about life, relationships, and the weight of societal expectations. By the time they left the workshop, they had already decided to continue their conversation over coffee at a nearby art café.

Part 2: Coffee, Art, and Revelations

The café was a cozy haven, its walls adorned with quirky paintings and plants hanging from the ceiling. They picked a corner table, hidden from the world, as if this new friendship needed the protection of anonymity.

Suma, sipping her coffee, broke the silence. “So, how’s life been?”

Nidhi chuckled darkly. “Divorce final yesterday. Anniversary, actually. Got congratulatory messages from friends who had no clue what’s been happening.”

Suma raised an eyebrow. “Did you reply?”

“To one. Told them I’m divorced. They didn’t even bother responding after that.” Nidhi laughed, though the laugh didn’t reach her eyes. “I guess they didn’t know what to say.”

Suma nodded, her eyes soft with understanding. “People never know what to say when things don’t fit the ‘happy’ narrative.”

Nidhi took a sip of her coffee, savoring the bitter taste. “You’re not wrong. It’s like we’re expected to grieve quietly and move on without making anyone uncomfortable. But I’m done with that. I’ve decided I’m going to live for me now.”

That statement marked the start of a candid conversation between the two. They found comfort in each other’s pain, but more importantly, in their shared determination to break free from societal expectations. They spoke of art, relationships, and freedom. Nidhi’s adventurous spirit began to inspire Suma, who, though more cautious, found herself drawn to Nidhi’s openness.

Part 3: Foodies with a Twist

As they grew closer, Nidhi and Suma discovered their shared love for food, not just as sustenance but as an experience. They began attending wedding parties—uninvited. Their philosophy? Why miss out on the best food around just because you don’t know the bride and groom?

At first, Suma hesitated. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

Nidhi laughed, already grabbing her purse. “What’s the worst that could happen? We get kicked out? Fine, we leave. But until then, we eat. And trust me, it’s worth it.”
The first wedding they crashed was a grand affair—fairy lights draped over trees, tables groaning under the weight of traditional Kerala dishes, the smell of spices and roasted coconut wafting through the air. They blended in, smiling at strangers, laughing when no one was looking. They filled their plates with every delicacy they could find—biryani, payasam, kappa, meen curry—and savored each bite as though it were their last.

“This,” Suma said, between bites of fish fry, “is freedom.”

Nidhi grinned. “Exactly. No rules. No expectations. Just us, good food, and the world outside our door.”

This became their thing—an adventurous, rebellious take on life that fueled their friendship. Wedding crashing wasn’t about the food anymore; it was about taking life into their own hands, stepping out of the boxes they had been forced into for so long.

Part 4: Unconventional Escapes

Their escapades extended beyond food. They found thrill in traveling to the most unconventional places, where they could escape the pressure of being “proper.” In a secluded beach town, they rented a small house overlooking the ocean, where they sat for hours on the sand, sipping cheap wine, discussing art, love, and life’s mysteries.

Art : Varsha Menon (Author)

One night, as the waves crashed against the shore, Nidhi mentioned a young man she had met. “He’s 24. Doesn’t know a thing about intimacy, but boy, does he make me laugh. We spent the whole night talking about everything and nothing.”

Suma smiled. “Sounds refreshing.”

“It is,” Nidhi said. “I don’t want anything complicated anymore. Just moments. Fleeting, beautiful moments.”

Part 5: Reflections in the Rearview Mirror

Suma, though she enjoyed these adventures, couldn’t shake her introspective nature. As she drove through the city one afternoon, she noticed a young couple kissing in the park. She instinctively looked away, a knot forming in her chest. The moment transported her back in time—she and her ex-husband had once shared such a kiss, filled with the promise of forever.

She switched off the music in her car, her face growing serious. “How naive we were,” she muttered under her breath. But instead of drowning in melancholy, she steered her thoughts back to the present. The kiss wasn’t hers to mourn anymore. It was just another transient moment, like many others that had come and gone.

Part 6: A New Chapter Begins

Nidhi, now an Uber driver in the evenings, found herself fascinated by the people she met. Each ride brought new stories—some heartwarming, some heartbreaking, all deeply human. She shared these stories with Suma, who listened intently, always eager to hear about the lives of strangers.

One night, after a long shift, Nidhi sat with Suma on the balcony of her small studio apartment. The city buzzed below them, a reminder of the endless noise of life.

“Sometimes I think driving people around has taught me more about life than anything else,” Nidhi mused, sipping her tea.

Suma smiled. “Maybe because you’re finally seeing life for what it is—messy, unpredictable, but always moving forward.”

Part 7: Friendship and Freedom

Their friendship wasn’t built on the easy stuff—it was forged in the quiet moments of shared struggle, in the spaces where the world told them they weren’t enough. But Nidhi and Suma knew better. Divorce didn’t break them, it unraveled the stories they no longer needed to live by. Together, they rewrote the script.

As they wandered through uninvited wedding feasts, laughing and sampling life’s chaos, they understood something profound. The victory wasn’t in what they had left behind; it was in who they had become, sitting across from each other, unburdened, free to live without apology.

COVER: JYOTHIS PARAVOOR