The Life After

The Small Human Responsible for Future Problems

One thing I had forgotten about villages is that news travels faster than light.

Scientists should seriously investigate it.

Somewhere between breakfast and lunch, my mother acquired information that should have required at least three separate phone calls and a government database.

"Manoj's family shifted back to the old house."

I looked up from my plate.

"Oh."

Amma narrowed her eyes.

That woman could detect emotional reactions with military-grade precision.

"That's all?"

"What else am I supposed to say?"

"I don't know."

"Exactly."

Satisfied that she had failed to extract gossip, she returned to her sambar.

I continued eating.

Or pretending to.

Because unfortunately my brain had decided this information was interesting.

The Varma house.

Their old house.

Right next to the lane where half my childhood disappeared.

Funny.

For years Manoj existed as updates from relatives.

Then suddenly he was becoming part of everyday village life again.

Like an old television serial nobody expected to return for another season.

Outside, the afternoon sun had transformed the village into a giant frying pan.

Even the dogs looked exhausted.

I escaped to the veranda with a book.

Or rather, I carried a book.

Reading was ambitious.

At nine months pregnant, most of my attention was devoted to breathing and negotiating peace treaties with my spine.

The baby kicked.

I glared downward.

"Do you have hobbies?"

Another kick.

Apparently not.

Around four in the evening, I decided to walk.

My mother objected.

Naturally.

"Walk slowly."

"I always walk slowly."

"Don't go far."

"I physically cannot go far."

"Call if anything happens."

"What exactly is going to happen?"

She looked at my stomach.

Fair point.

I surrendered and left.

The evening air was pleasant.

Children were returning from school.

Women chatted near gates.

A few farmers headed home.

The village had begun its daily transition from work mode to gossip mode.

I wandered without purpose.

One advantage of village life.

Nobody questions aimless walking.

Eventually my feet carried me toward the old neighborhood.

The road looked smaller now.

Everything did.

The tamarind tree was still there.

The old well was still there.

Even the cracked compound wall where Manoj once attempted to demonstrate "advanced climbing techniques" had survived.

A miracle, honestly.

I smiled despite myself.

Then I heard crying.

Not dramatic crying.

The angry, offended crying unique to toddlers.

The kind that suggests somebody has committed a serious crime.

Usually involving biscuits.

I turned.

A tiny girl stood near the road.

Curly hair.

Pink frock.

Tiny sandals.

Very large attitude.

The child was staring at a fallen ice cream with the devastation of somebody witnessing civilization collapse.

Apparently the ice cream had lost its battle with gravity.

A tragedy.

I approached carefully.

The girl looked up.

Tears still present.

Suspicion activated.

Smart child.

"Hello."

No response.

Only judgment.

I respected that.

"Bad day?"

The girl pointed at the ice cream.

I nodded solemnly.

"Understandable."

Still no response.

The child clearly preferred observation over participation.

Another trait I respected.

I crouched slowly.

A process requiring approximately three business days.

The baby immediately objected.

Everyone in this family was difficult.

"You know," I told the little girl, "if crying could fix ice cream, I'd cry too."

The child blinked.

Considering.

Interesting.

Then she pointed at my stomach.

Directly.

Without hesitation.

Children have no social filters.

"Baby?"

I looked down.

Then back at her.

"Unfortunately."

The little girl giggled.

A tiny, unexpected sound.

Then immediately reached out and poked my stomach.

I gasped.

The baby kicked.

The child jumped back.

Her eyes widened.

Then she laughed.

Loudly.

Completely delighted.

"Again!"

"This isn't a television remote."

"Again!"

Apparently negotiation wasn't her strength.

She poked my stomach again.

The baby kicked again.

I stared.

The child laughed harder.

Wonderful.

My unborn child had already found allies.

"We're doomed," I informed both of them.

Neither cared.

The little girl suddenly grabbed my finger.

Just like that.

No permission.

No hesitation.

As though we had known each other forever.

Children are terrifyingly trusting.

Or terrifyingly confident.

Possibly both.

"What's your name?" I asked.

"Ishu."

I smiled.

"Ishu?"

She nodded proudly.

Then corrected me.

"Ishika."

The full name carried obvious importance.

I immediately upgraded my level of respect.

"Very nice name."

She looked pleased.

Then pointed toward herself.

"Ishika."

Then pointed at me.

I understood.

"Mounika."

The child frowned.

Clearly disappointed by the lack of creativity.

Before she could review my naming choices further, a familiar voice appeared behind us.

"Ishika."

I froze.

Of course.

Because apparently the universe enjoyed timing.

The little girl turned immediately.

"Papa!"

And just like that, everything became clear.

The curly hair.

The stubbornness.

The complete absence of caution.

Poor child.

She had inherited Manoj's personality.

Life was going to be difficult.

I slowly looked up.

Manoj stood a few feet away.

One hand holding grocery bags.

The other already reaching toward his daughter.

For a moment he looked relieved.

Then embarrassed.

Then amused.

All within three seconds.

A surprisingly impressive performance.

"I've been looking for her everywhere."

I glanced at Ishika.

The criminal showed no remorse.

Typical.

Manoj crouched beside her.

"You can't run away."

"Ice cream fell."

His expression softened immediately.

Ah.

One of those fathers.

The dangerous kind.

The kind completely controlled by tiny humans.

"I see."

"It died."

"I see."

"We need another one."

I almost laughed.

Look at that.

Problem identified.

Solution proposed.

Efficiency.

The child clearly had management potential.

Manoj sighed dramatically.

A man already defeated.

"I'll buy another one."

Victory.

Immediate victory.

The smile on Ishika's face could have powered the village.

Only then did she point toward me.

"Mounika."

The way she announced my name felt oddly important.

As though introducing two classmates.

Manoj looked at me.

I looked at him.

For a second neither of us spoke.

Then he smiled.

A genuine one this time.

"Looks like you've made a friend."

I glanced at Ishika.

The tiny traitor had already adopted me.

Apparently.

"Looks like your daughter has poor judgment."

His laugh escaped before he could stop it.

The same laugh.

Older.

Quieter.

Still familiar.

Funny.

A week ago Manoj was a memory.

Now I was standing on a village road discussing melted ice cream with his daughter.

Life truly enjoys unexpected plot twists.

And something told me this wasn't the last one.