A silence fell. The temple bell rang for the evening Deeparadhana (offering of lamps). Then, from a nearby house, a distant TV played an old movie. The song floated through the humid air, as if the universe was cueing it:
Come, O butterfly… dance on the tip of my finger…
The bee in the soul is restless…
“You idiot,” she whispered. “I didn’t care about the landlord’s son. I cared about the man who spoke in songs.”
The old bus groaned to a halt at the Kavala (junction). Unni stepped down, his polished shoes sinking slightly into the red mud. The air smelled of wet earth and chembarathi (hibiscus). He was no longer the boy who left this village, but the moment he heard the distant, rhythmic thrum of a chenda from the temple, he was undone.