In this short story, Tara Menon shares a poignant tale inspired by her mother’s stories of growing up in a joint family home in Kerala.
We slipped out onto the forested area behind our house. The South Indian night was cool and perfumed with jasmine. In 1947, the days were cool, too, and in that era, my grandparents owned the whole street. We, seven cousins, all of us girls, looked at the pinpricks of starlight shimmering in the dark sky. The youngest was twelve years old, and she was almost as tall as the oldest, the eighteen-year-old, who held a gas lantern and led the way. We should have had better sense than to slip out at night, but nothing bad had ever happened to us. The chirp, chirp, chirping of the invisible creatures, the crickets, was audible in the otherwise silent night.
The oldest cousin put the lantern down on the ground. We formed a circle and clasped the hands of the girls beside us. We sang and danced, twirled, clapped, and stretched our hands up for the stars to come down and twinkle in our palms. When they wouldn’t descend, we stamped our feet in protest. Our braids swayed to and fro, whipped around, and spun along with us. Our long skirts rustled with our movements. When each song ended, we became still, except for the smiles that flitted across our faces. The fun was worth the punishment we’d receive if our empty beds were discovered.