The Village Never Forgets
994 Words
The village woke up before I did.
Which was unfair.
If people insisted on rising at five in the morning voluntarily, they should at least have the decency to keep it private.
Unfortunately, villages don't believe in privacy.
At six-thirty, I woke up to the sound of roosters, temple bells, vessels clanging, somebody calling for their cow, and my mother conducting what sounded suspiciously like a military operation in the kitchen.
The baby kicked.
Apparently it had also decided to participate.
I opened one eye.
Immediately regretted it.
My mother was standing near the door.
Holding a steel tumbler.
A dangerous sign.
"Drink this."
"What is it?"
"Healthy."
That did not answer the question.
In my experience, anything described as healthy usually tasted like regret.
I sat up carefully.
The watermelon objected.
I ignored it.
After months of pregnancy, the baby and I had reached an understanding.
It kicked.
I complained.
Neither side changed its behavior.
I accepted the tumbler.
One sip later, I discovered it contained something involving almonds, saffron, milk, and what I strongly suspected was parental manipulation.
"Good?"
"No."
"Drink."
I drank.
Resistance was futile.
By the time breakfast ended, I had already consumed enough food to support a medium-sized construction project.
Apparently pregnancy transformed women into national assets that required constant nutritional investment.
I escaped before my mother found another snack.
The morning air was cool.
For June, anyway.
The village roads were already busy.
Farmers heading to fields.
Children carrying school bags larger than themselves.
Shopkeepers opening shutters.
A few elderly men discussing politics with the confidence of people who had never once been asked to run the country.
Life moved differently here.
Slower.
Louder.
And somehow more personal.
As I walked, people greeted me.
Not because they were unusually friendly.
Because everyone knew me.
Or at least remembered me.
The advantage of growing up in a village is that you're never anonymous.
The disadvantage is that you're never anonymous.
"Mounika!"
I turned.
Rama aunty was standing outside her house.
The same house.
The same gate.
The same permanently curious expression.
"You've come after so many years."
"I visited last year."
"That doesn't count."
Apparently only visits longer than a government project qualified as real visits.
She looked at my stomach.
Then at me.
Then at my stomach again.
Village people have a remarkable ability to conduct entire conversations using only facial expressions.
"When is the delivery?"
"Any day now."
She nodded.
Then lowered her voice dramatically.
"As if the baby can hear."
"Have you chosen a name?"
"No."
"Good."
I blinked.
"Good?"
"If you choose early, somebody will steal it."
I stared at her.
She stared back.
Perfectly serious.
I decided not to investigate.
Some village traditions are best left unexplored.
I continued walking.
The old government school appeared ahead.
Fresh paint.
New classrooms.
New compound wall.
Same memories.
Funny.
As children, the school looked enormous.
Now it looked smaller than my software office cafeteria.
Everything in childhood feels bigger.
The playground.
The summer holidays.
The problems.
The dreams.
Even the punishments.
Especially the punishments.
A group of children were playing near the gate.
One little boy was attempting to climb the compound wall.
His friends stood below offering completely useless advice.
I stopped walking.
Because suddenly I wasn't looking at those children anymore.
I was looking at us.
Twenty years ago.
"Don't climb."
"I'm climbing."
"You'll fall."
"I won't."
"You absolutely will."
The boy ignored me.
Which was exactly what Manoj would have done.
Actually, that's unfair.
Ignoring advice was one of his greatest talents.
The memory arrived with surprising clarity.
Manoj perched halfway up the school wall.
Me standing below.
Already annoyed.
A normal state whenever Manoj was involved.
"Why are we climbing the wall?" I asked.
"Adventure."
"We have a gate."
"The gate is boring."
Looking back, that sentence explained most of his childhood.
The gate is boring.
Rules were boring.
Waiting was boring.
Common sense was occasionally boring.
Manoj approached life with the confidence of someone who assumed consequences happened exclusively to other people.
Which, annoyingly, was often true.
The flashback faded.
The present returned.
A scooter honked nearby.
I continued walking.
Shaking my head.
Funny.
I hadn't thought about those days in years.
Yet now memories kept appearing everywhere.
Like old relatives at a wedding.
Uninvited but impossible to ignore.
By afternoon, I returned home.
A mistake.
Because three aunties had arrived.
The village information department had apparently scheduled a meeting.
Tea was served.
Snacks appeared.
Questions followed.
Questions always followed.
"What is software engineering exactly?"
"I write code."
"For whom?"
"Company."
"What company?"
I answered.
Immediately regretted it.
One question became ten.
Ten became twenty.
By the end, I was fairly certain one aunty believed I personally controlled the internet.
The conversation eventually drifted towards old village memories.
As village conversations always do.
Remembering the past is one of the community's favorite hobbies.
"Oh!" one aunty suddenly said.
"Do you remember the temple festival incident?"
My mother laughed.
A dangerous sign.
I frowned.
"What incident?"
All three women looked at me.
The same way archaeologists might look at someone claiming not to know about dinosaurs.
"The festival chariot."
My stomach dropped.
"No."
"You and Manoj."
"Definitely no."
Their smiles widened.
The traitors.
I remembered.
Unfortunately.
The temple festival.
The decorated chariot.
The crowd.
The chaos.
The shouting.
The running.
And Manoj.
Obviously Manoj.
Every disaster in my childhood eventually led back to him.
My mother shook her head.
"That poor priest."
The aunties burst out laughing.
I covered my face.
"Oh no."
"Oh yes," said my mother.
And just like that, a memory I hadn't visited in years came rushing back.
The temple festival.
The day Manoj Varma convinced half the neighborhood children that we were helping the gods.
We weren't.
Not even remotely.
We were creating one of the greatest disasters our village had ever witnessed.
And somehow, as always...
Manoj escaped.
Again.
I should have known.
Some things never change.
- Writer
