On the outer edge of this emerald sea stood a modest thatched mud hut. It belonged to Ponnan, a tenant farmer. He lived there with his wife Veshu and their children, Balan and Ammini. Their life was humble but not unhappy. They survived on the lease of land from Rama Iyer, the Brahmin landlord whose properties stretched further than the horizon dared to show.

Ponnan was a devout man. Not just to his god, Bhairavan, but to his duty. He believed that fate had written his role before he was born to serve, to toil, to endure. And amidst all the harshness of his life, he often counted his blessings aloud. “Veshu,” he would say, chewing betel leaf as he looked at the glowing faces of his children, “Bhairavan has given us a good house, good health, and beautiful children. What more can a man ask?”

Ammini and Balan were the wild children of the fields. They knew every twist of the paths, every secret pond, and every mango tree in the orchard. On generous days, Theethu, the tree climber and caretaker of the coconut groves, would hand them a tender coconut with a wink and a smile. Life was golden, and time moved to the rhythm of swaying palms and the song of cicadas.

A Few Harvests Later

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Balan dropped out of school after the 4th attempt in the 7th standard. “Letters are not for me,” he said, scratching his head sheepishly. With Ponnan’s persistence, he found work as an apprentice to Chathunni, the estate’s chief driver. The promise was that, if he worked hard, he would learn to drive. But his duties often strayed beyond the four wheels and a steering, sweeping courtyards, fetching supplies, running errands for the big house.

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Ammini, meanwhile, continued to roam the fields like a dragonfly, carefree, uncontained. She was blooming into a dusky beauty, though she was blissfully unaware. Veshu would often yell, “Nee kochu kuttikkalae polae kalli nirthu, nee ippo our pennannu!” (“Stop playing a small child, you are a woman!”) But Ammini paid no heed. The land was her playground, the sky her roof.
One such morning, wearing a bright red skirt and a sunburst yellow blouse, Ammini skipped through the paddy paths, humming Thumpapoo peyyana. Her hand held a fistful of straw. The morning sun kissed her forehead, and her silver anklets kept pace with her joy.

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Bang! She was down. Muddy water soaked her clothes. As she sat up, dazed, she saw an outstretched hand.

A young man stood before her tall, fair, handsome, unfamiliar. A thick moustache adorned his upper lip, his oiled hair combed back meticulously. His shirt was tucked into his pants and he wore a belt – just like in the city. He stammered apologies, spoke of helping with her dress, his words tumbling over themselves.

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Ammini didn’t hear a word. She was listening to her heart thudding in her chest. Her cheeks flushed, her breath caught in her throat. She had never felt this strange, this alive. She enjoyed the sensation. The moment.
The next day, she returned. Same time. Same path.
He was there.

His name was Krishnan. He was the nephew of Rama Iyer, recently moved in, and working as a bookkeeper in a local accounting firm. He had come from a nearby village. Their discreet meetings grew frequent, then public. The tea shop knew. The barber shop updated. Gossips found fuel, and tongues wagged with relish.
At home, the storm had arrived.

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Ponnan and Veshu were distraught. Their worry was not about love, but what people would say. They reasoned. They pleaded. They hit her. Ammini only grew firmer in her resolve.
Ponnan was summoned. He folded his weathered hands before Rama Iyer, who stood like a statue in his verandah, judgment in his gaze. “Ithokkae Nirthikko” ( Stop all this ) Rama Iyer thundered. “Nee oru pulayan, avan oru Iyer.” (You’re a low caste. He’s a Brahmin.) The threat was clear. The divide was centuries deep.

Krishnan and Ammini decided to escape. To Kochi. A big city, faceless and forgiving. The last bus left at 9 PM.

That night, Ammini packed her few clothes into a cloth bag. As she tiptoed out, her anklets betrayed her. Dogs barked. Doors opened.
Ponnan, Balan, Veshu caught her before she reached the thorn fence which marked the boundary of their house.
She was dragged in.

Beaten.
She wept. Veshu wept. Ponnan stared at the floor, defeated. Balan paced like a tiger denied prey. Angry. Frustrated.
Imprisoned in grief.
At 9:10 PM, the last bus to Kochi pulled away into the darkness.
Krishnan was on it.
Ammini was not.

Years Rolled On

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Time did what it always does. It moves.
The fields gave way to boxy concrete houses. The narrow paths became streets. Ponnan and Veshu passed away. Balan, now a driver himself, built a tiled-roof house in place of their old hut. He married, raised children. The name Ammini was no longer spoken in the household. A memory folded and kept away.

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Palakkad, 1997

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In one of the big new houses of the colony, Priya had just moved in from Mumbai. Her husband, Ramesh, was from the family that had developed the land. They were doctors, educated, important. Everything was strange to her language, customs, food. She often found comfort in the stillness of her large bedroom.
One evening, while brushing her hair, she turned to her husband.

“Ramesh,” she said softly, “I’ve been hearing anklets. Every night. Same time. Same path. I shine a torch, but there’s no one.”
Ramesh looked at her with a faint smile. “Ghosts, huh?” he said lightly, avoiding her gaze.

But that night, as Priya slept soundly, Ramesh stayed awake. He too had heard it. So had the neighbours in the colony.
The rhythmic jingle of anklets. Through the courtyard, past the Thulsi plant and through the north side of the house before fading into the darkness.
Some said it was just the wind playing with old memories.

But the old folks whispered otherwise.
It was Ammini.
Still running, barefoot, breathless and anklets tinkling all in search of her Krishnan.