Appada. The word escaped amma’s lips as the ghetti melam faded. Both daughters married. Her duty done. All that is left is to die a sumangali.

Appada. Amuda put the receiver back, kissed the cross on her chain, sat down and sent up a small prayer of thanks. He was unhurt, the AC compartment had not derailed.

Appada. She set down her basket in a corner of the room that sheltered seven. Today had been a good day, only three measures of kadambam left unsold. And that Selvam had not turned up to demand his cut.

Appada. Sixty three votes. Narrow but clear. He would no longer be ‘former’ MLA. He stood up, somehow taller, somehow stronger, somehow more frightening, and marched out to address the cameras.

What makes you say it?


2 responses to “Appada

  1. When I come home.. every evening.. or at any point in the day.

  2. Yes, I know the feeling. Tense shoulders relax, sucked in paunches fill out, legs held together splay. How much of me the old sofa at home knows!

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