The night it happened, the air had the temperament of overwelmed tea – heavy. Her companion, once the human embodiment of chamomile, crossed lines she hadn’t thought to draw, because some betrayals are too absurd to anticipate.
His touch became more of a hostile acquisition. A corporate takeover of her autonomy. She froze from the sheer absurdity of it all. The apologies arrived later, brittle and rehearsed, like bad theater. She’d heard sturdier remorse in customer service scripts.
So, she left like someone walking out of an opera at intermission. She moved to a city where the streetlights hummed like old vinyl and no one asked why she never took phone calls. Therapy became a weekly engagement, as dependable as morning tea. Her job at a bustling bookstore offered the comfort of quiet rebellion: alphabetizing chaos and handing out literary salvation to strangers. The scar from that night she wore it like vintage lace.
And then, one evening, the television, forever the traitor summoned his face. A little older, sleeker, the same eyes repackaged with gravitas. The chyron read: Advocate Against Harassment Shares His Mission. He spoke with the fervor of a reformed villain – giving TED Talks on virtue, as though amnesia were a public service. Her tea cooled.
He’d become a brand. A moral influencer. Social media applauded him with digital ovations. She scrolled, numb and fascinated, watching people offer standing ovations to the thief who’d stolen her safety and now returned in a hero’s cape.
But anger, like deo, eventually fades to something more complex. Late at night, insomnia dressed her in curiosity. She watched his interviews with a critic’s eye: was that a flicker of guilt, or merely good lighting? Did he believe his own narrative? She didn’t know. What unsettled her most was not that he’d changed – it was that she wondered if he had.
She saw his face on a book and thought, of course. She stopped, just mid-chew of a mediocre snack. A flicker of something. Just… static. He looked permanent now, laminated. She kept walking. Her story didn’t fit jackets or shelves. It leaked, it burned, it laughed in church. It changed accents mid-sentence. It was a window smashed by joy and mended with glue that glittered. She was still being written, mostly in the margins.
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
The Government Higher Secondary School where Maya worked wasn’t so much a building as it was a passive-aggressive statement against civilization. Cracks in the walls seemed to be a symbol of overall neglect. Every morning, Maya stood at the gate holding her bag like a riot shield, bracing herself for the war of mediocrity.
The students called her “Maya Ma’am” with the sort of exaggerated respect usually reserved for their Math teacher who speaks in riddles – acknowledging her presence while secretly hoping she’d just go away.
Her first lesson in history wasn’t about ancient kings or freedom struggles. It was the truth that her job didn’t matter. And the second lesson – neither did anything else.
Comedy of errors:
Maya’s career began with a clerical error – someone in the education department must’ve been more concerned with their tea break than accuracy. She wasn’t meant to teach. Her only previous experience with authority was trying to stop her husband, Dhananjay, from wearing his outdoor slippers inside the house. The slippers always won.
When the principal – a lean man whose face looked permanently stuck between disbelief and annoyance – welcomed her, he said, “We need someone to inspire the students.” His tone suggested he needed someone to endure them instead. Maya suppressed a sigh and began mentally composing a list of reasons why she took this job in the first place, hoping it would remind her to stay positive, at least for the day.
The Classroom:
Day one in the classroom felt like stepping into the audition for a low-budget Malayalam movie directed by a clueless amateur. The overachievers in the front row sat poised like they were ready to publish a savage review the moment she faltered. The middle-row kids yawned with synchronized indifference. And the backbenchers – ready with TikTok memes and snack packets, they were the local equivalent of rebels.
“Ma’am,” one of them asked with the audacity of youth, “why should we bother with history?”
Maya paused, scanning their bored faces. Then she replied, “Because it’s the study of why people like you shouldn’t exist.” The class burst in to laughter.
Domestic Detachment:
Home wasn’t much better. “What’s for dinner?” Dhananjay asked one evening, flipping channels on the TV.
“Cyanide,” Maya uttered. She had picked up the term from a Netflix documentary, Curry and Cyanide, which had become her accidental lifeline of late.
“Add some turmeric, bell peppers and onions. It tastes better that way and good for your health” he replied without blinking. Maya stared at him, not sure whether to laugh or cry. The truth was, she didn’t feel marriage so much as secured, it felt like being the unpaid intern in a start-up called “His Life”
Their marriage wasn’t a partnership; it was a maintenance contract. Maya didn’t even feel resentment anymore – just an overwhelming urge to ghost her own life.
Medication and Tantrums:
Maya’s life was governed by a delicate balance of SSRI’s, beta blockers, and caffeine. The pills kept her upright, functional, and barely human. If she missed a dose, the withdrawal symptoms hit like a tsunami – her heart racing, her vision blurring, her mind collapsing into dark little pockets of paranoia.
One day, she forgot her meds before class. The students were halfway through reenacting a scene from Baahubali using their desks when Maya slammed her textbook onto the table. “Sit down!” she screamed, her voice cracking like old furniture.
“Ma’am, are you okay?” a boy asked, his voice infused with genuine concern.
“No,” Maya replied. “But let’s pretend I am.” The laughter that followed was the closest thing to therapy she’d had in weeks.
By month two, Maya stopped pretending to care about the syllabus. Maya’s lessons became part lecture, part stand-up comedy, and part therapy sessions. The students liked her, not because she taught well, but because she didn’t care about her own teaching. “Learning happens despite me, not because of me,” was her favorite excuse.
“History is meaningless,” she declared once. “Unless you like stories about dead people screwing up.”
“What about Gandhiji, Ma’am?” someone piped up.
Maya shrugged.“Think of him as that one person in your WhatsApp group who keeps forwarding motivational quotes.”
A backbencher shouted, “Maya Ma’am, I saw your Instagram page! You’ve shared Pakalu Papito memes – no wonder!”
Existential IBS:
Maya’s only refuge was the school toilet – ironically, the most stable part of the crumbling campus, courtesy of her IBS, but she’s not confined to the solitude. She’s got Andrew Huberman in her ears, turning a gut battle into a brain gain. Talk about making the most out of a crappy situation.
At home, Dhananjay noticed nothing. Or maybe he noticed everything and just didn’t care.
“Want a new phone?” he asked once, mid-dinner.
“No. I need a new life,” Maya shot back.
“Do they sell those on Amazon?” Dhananjay asked. He smiled, pleased with his own joke.
Maya felt like the tragic protagonist of a drama series, complete with melancholic violin music and a spotlight on her unwavering sense of inadequacy. Truly, a masterclass in self-inflicted cringe.
The Renaissance Breakdown:
The turning point came during a lecture on Michelangelo. Exhausted and unmedicated, Maya broke down mid-sentence. “Imagine painting a ceiling for years,” she moaned, “only for people to say, ‘Nice’ and move on.”
“Ma’am,” a girl hesitated, “are you saying Michelangelo wasted his life?”
“Yes, and so am I!”
The students clapped slowly at first, then louder. Maya couldn’t tell if it was mockery or solidarity. She didn’t care.
Epilogue of Absurdity:
Years later, one of her students wrote a book and dedicated it to her. “Maya Ma’am taught us that history is just humanity’s longest inside joke,” it read. She placed the book on a pile of unpaid bills, smiled faintly, and uttered, “At least someone got it.”
Then she made herself coffee, prepared some food, took her meds, and faced another day. Not heroic, not tragic – just absurdly human.
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