Fiction: Semba and Maari discover the strength and solidarity in being fisherwomen

Anbu poked his head inside the house, calling, “Semba?” She was not there. By some instinct, he jogged to the deserted tenements a few blocks away, climbed up two flights of stairs to reach the terrace. He had heard Maari grumble about how her sister disappeared to the terrace of the buildings on and off.

The wind almost knocked him off his feet when he got there. The humid air made his eyes water and he rubbed them to see clearly. She was standing with her back towards him, facing the sea. Her sari’s pallu was billowing behind her and the setting sun gleamed through a tear, the size of a coin, on it. Her blouse hung loosely off her shoulders and her hair tumbled out of her loose bun.

Anbu smiled. Semba was the most unkempt woman he knew. She turned when she heard his approaching footsteps and faced him, her eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. “Maari wants you at the…” he started, but couldn’t finish the sentence. He took in her overgrown eyebrows; her long, curving eyelashes; thin nose, and lips that were beginning to form a smile. This was the first time he was paying attention to her...

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