In this short story, Sowmya V.B. translates a powerful tale making the reader question the way they live their lives now and push them to explore deeper.
“I haven’t witnessed a party like this among our people,” Kamesu declared, chewing a chicken piece.
“You are right. This is how a real party should be. Why should we limit ourselves to country drinks like palm toddy and mahuli always?” Beesuru nodded in agreement, sipping alcohol.
“Don’t praise me too much. I am just giving a party that I could afford,” Narsayya replied. He attempted to brush off the compliments, but was, in fact, blushing.
“No, my friend. Beesuru’s comment is appropriate. Who among our people gave a party like this before, with biryani, chicken 65 and what’s the other one? Ah, yes, noodles?”Kamesu said again, swaying back and forth, clearly inebriated.
It was a moonlit winter night. These men were chatting, sitting around a campfire on cots woven with coarse cotton strings. Except for one or two, everyone in the group was young, and no one appeared to be particularly bothered by the cold wind blowing from the forest into the village.