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.
Illustration : Varsha Menon (Author)
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
