Fiction: A woman has inherited a bungalow from her grandfather, but it bears memories of violence

Long before Appacha became Appacha, he was called Eesho. It was the night before Christmas when Mamma Mollykutty’s labour pangs reached a crescendo. The night carollers crooned their way through the dusty streets with their homespun drums, petromax lamps, and a rough-hewn star, mouthing film tunes, extemporised ditties, and some Christmas choruses perfunctorily wedged in between. Twice a year, the procession would make its rounds in the neighbourhood—once during Christmas and another time during Thiruvonam – with the only distinction being the replacement of the hero of the jamborees. During the latter, a fervid man would pull off a frenzied puli kali and during Christmas, it would be a mostly skinny Christmas Appooppan.

Puthenpurackel Thommi Tharakan strode up and down the veranda of the house, oblivious to the drunken rumpus created by the revellers outside, questioning if he had imperilled his 32-year-old wife by doing the deed nine months ago. She was a comely woman, and he couldn’t help himself. But comprehending that it was too late to undo what he had done, he could only pray that she was resilient enough to deliver the baby. No one gave birth at that age. His mother was fifteen when she had him,...

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