“6:00 a.m. 27/04/2025” showed the digital clock as he woke up that morning and rolled his eyes up to the wall before him, still lying on bed. He turned right to see his wife, Ophelia still sleeping peacefully. He Caressed her face and gently pecked on her glabella. His stomach continued to rumble as it had rumbled the night before, the day before, and days before that…as if he had attacked a bakery and has to attack a bakery for the second time. He went straight to kitchen, rummaged the pantry to find a big, brand new, shining butchering knife and came back to the room, stood by the her-side of the bed raising the knife. “To be or not to be” he whispered staring at her peaceful Angel. He raised his knife further back. “Singggg…..chukkk”. In a flash of a lightning, the sleeping Lamb leaped Tigerly from her bed, swinging the knife she kept ready under her pillow and KGFed him before his raised hands came down. She wiped the blood spilled out of her mouth watching TV news in which the news reader reported: THE DEATH RATE INCREASED UPTO—— AND THE QUARANTINE EXTENDS UPTO———
“She is my delicious Biriyani. The flavour of all her condiments in the rice is delicious but when I accidentally chew one of those condiments itself like cardamom for example, hidden in a morsel I take, it’s bitter” I remarked on my would-be wife’s characteristics, straddling with my half-trousers on, on the wall of a deep well in the middle of a paddy field. He, my cousin had his lungi folded up and straddled, facing me. Breeze messed his messy hair messier. Punching the wall, he stared at me for a while and then he turned away and smirked.
“She is my pazhaya soru and I’m her pacha molaga” He said. For a moment, I thought “how patriarchal! Does that mean that there is no flavour for her without him?”
“such a deadly combination” he added some moments later, answering my alleging thoughts.
“o come on man! Why do you have to say something so ‘country-related’ always countering me?” I asked.
“Do you know what Is grown in this field you are sitting in the middle of right now?” He belittled me “samba or kurunai? Three months crop or six months crop?” I pouted out my lower lip.
“Do you know W.H. Auden and W.B. Yeats?” I tackled him with a counter question. He gave a relegating look and remained silent.
“Both are great poets. And Auden was right about country people” I kindled him for response.
“what that bugger had to say about us?” he raised his eyebrow and jutted his tongue through his right cheek.
“In a homage poem to Yeats he metaphorized village to ignorance because they didn’t read Yeats’ genius”
“avan kadakiyan kena kooo” He said in his typical country Tamil dialect . “My Tamil Selvi writes better” he said and sang in his high pitched voice.
The sun had set in the West The mass has gone to rest Even the waning moon hid his crescent Why am I still lying feeling resent
It all started when this flower the spring had bloomed Promised by the words of love and fooled With the hand on my head I’ve been told I’ll never be let down even when I’m old.
“Wow…but what’s between you and her” I inquired
“I couldn’t keep my promise” he said anxiously.
“Why” I asked
“engappan dhiyan” he shouted angrily.
“what Mama told?”
“avanga namma aalunga illa le” he replied very hesitantly. Translation: “they don’t belong to us”. But I still can’t understand what that means!
kilk 
You must be logged in to post a comment.