By the mossy green well

Photo by Pixabay from Pexels

Once upon a time, there was a little boy and his sister. They were very close to each other, maybe because they were close in age, or maybe because they shared the same chores around the rambling household.

They had to be up before dawn to draw water from the mossy fern-lined well near the paddy fields. He would run along the mud banks criss-crossing the paddy fields in his valli-nikkar (suspenders of sorts) with a "Brrrrrrr......." emanating from his pursed lips, imitating an engine. She would traipse along behind.....with pot-fuls of water swinging from her dark lanky arms.

Then there was the mad rush back to freshen up and race to school. They would squat cross-legged on the ground and trace the alphabets on the sand. Whenever he got caught for some childish misdemeanor, she would watch from afar, eyes scrunched, as acha rained sharp smacks on his hand with a thin branch broken off the kilichundan maavu that grew on the outskirts of the compound.

Then, life intervened....seventy years of it...universities, spouses, children, homes, careers, egos, cold wars.....and they drifted apart....

Today, she is dying. And he is by her side.

Cold wars forgotten
Bruised egos forgotten
Broken promises forgotten

He slipped into the darkened room, sat by her bedside and held her hands. She looked up, a weak smile weaving through her bloated features...eyes misted over...and, once again, it was just the little boy and his sister, by the mossy green well.