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The Peninsula That Counts

I found the notebook in a second-hand shop in Fort Kochi, sandwiched between a mildew-stained hymn book and a shipping ledger with the ink eaten away like lace. The shopkeeper said it came in a trunk from "some foreign-return family" and he did not care for it because the pages smelled of salt even after a hundred monsoons. The cover was plain. No title. No name. Only a faint stamp, half rubbed out, that looked like an official seal. When I opened it, the first line was dated in a steady hand. April 1907 If you are reading this, then either I have become brave enough to send it, or I have become something that no longer needs bravery. What follows is not a tale I invented to frighten myself in the dark. It is my account, written with the only weapon left to a man who has lost his place in the world: words. And if you think a disease is the only horror in this story, you are still safe in your ignorance. The Summons My name is   Shankara Menon, born near the backwaters, raised...
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The Last Journey Of The Guide

Some stories start with a railway station. Not the big, noisy ones in cities, but the smaller ones where trains come in unhurried, and the chai seller still calls out each order by name. This one begins in such a place. I first met Hari when I got down from the Mysore passenger at a little town that looked as if it was still untouched by the rush of the world. Hills in the distance, a lazy river running along the tracks, and a row of yellow buildings that seemed to have dozed off in the sun. I had come looking for silence that weekend. What I found was a story. He appeared beside me so quietly that I almost stepped on him. "Sir, you need auto, lodge, or temple darshan" he asked, tilting his head slightly, eyes searching my face for clues. I waved the others away. There was something strangely calm about him. He looked like the usual local guide in these small towns, with a faded shirt, cotton bag and sun browned skin. Yet there was a softness in his eyes that did not ...
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Bitter Water

Kuttanad, late monsoon. The rain had thinned into a steady thread, like someone pulling a white cotton wick through the sky. At the cooperative hospital, the backwater slapped the mossy steps and brought with it the smell of silt and coconut husk. Dr Ajayan reached for the metal gate and felt it cold against his palm. He had been on duty for sixteen hours. The ward slept in uneven breaths. From the postnatal room came the hiccuping cry of a new baby and the soft persuasion of a tired nurse. A feral cat stared in from the verandah, eyes narrowed, tail writing things in the damp air. Just before dawn, a woman came in with a breathless boy. The boy’s face was pale and tight at the lips. The woman had tied her hair in a knot that had loosened into a tail of frizz. Rainwater clung to the end of her sari like a shadow. Asthma, Ajayan thought. He did not look at the file first. He crouched near the boy and spoke in a simple way. Tell me where it is tight. The boy pointed to his chest with ...
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