Fiction: Sudha Subramanian

Sudha Subramanian

You Called Me Eternal

 

Jyothi - light

Akka, you called me Jyothi that humid September afternoon. You tenderly caressed my swollen eyes and blistered cheek despite Naana’s relentless banging on the door.

Megha - cloud

Akka, you called me Megha after a late-night party that cold December. The house reeked of tobacco, and Naana swayed like a twig caught in a storm. Your moist eyes searched the dark-bellied clouds hugging the mountains.

Arnav - Ocean

Akka, you called me Arnav that monsoon evening. The grocery contents speckled the grey floor. Naana’s eyes were sinister red while his fingers fumbled with the belt. You whisked me away to the beach, and you wondered how deep the ocean was.

Akshaya - eternal

Akka, you called me Akshaya that windy November noon.  The plate flew across the room, slicing the thick air. Naana balled his fists and charged towards me. The walls shook with his grunts and lightning flashed in the sky. You grew and grew, breaking through the ceiling, towering over the roof, till your head grazed the clouds. You looked like the Himalayas laden with snow. Wings jutted from your shoulder blades and flapped. And then you lifted me in the air, leaving behind Jyothis and Arnavs.

 

Shanthi - peace

Akka, you called me Shanthi that cool January morning. With laugh lines on your face and butterflies in your hair, we hugged trees and listened to songbirds. No one trashed our songs, no one crossed our path. We didn’t laugh, but we held hands and breathed.

 

The Way Paati Finds Home

The way Paati mumbles Sanskrit shlokas as if they were a mathematical table, the way she ties, opens and re-ties her hair into a knot, clearing her face of any stray strand, the way she picks on the shadows cast by the dancing curtains wanting to grab them, the way she surveys the kitchen, lifts the steel vessel by its side-handles and pours out the freshly made dosa batter into the garbage bin, the way she tells us how she likes her food, separates the rice and vegetables in her plate before making mushy rice balls and pops them into her mouth, the way she goes into the bathroom, removes her clothes, forgets to wash, dashes out - undressed - and screams there is a great big beast lurking in the dark, the way she accuses all the Gods and Goddess adorning the picture frames for sitting in shiny thrones and doing nothing about her problems, the way she scratches her head, stares at her son and wonders who he is, the way she curls up in bed, holding her favourite saree - the one she claims her father bought - feels the fabric between her fingers, hugs it to her chest, closes her eyes and says, I am home.

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Bio: SUDHA SUBRAMANIAN lives in Dubai with her husband. She was a columnist in Gulf News for over fifteen years. Her words have appeared in many newspapers and magazines. Her short stories have found space in anthologies and in many international literary magazines. A complete list of all her publications can be found on her link tree : https://linktr.ee/sudha_subramanian

She is an amateur birder and a tree hugger. Connect with her on X @sudhasubraman or on IG @sudha_subraman or on Bluesky @sudhasubraman.bsky.social

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Setu, July 2025