Abi
There are some memories you don't tuck away in old diaries or forgotten photo albums.They will stay with you no matter where you are or where you go. They live in smells, in songs, in the golden hue of sunlight through banana trees.
Palur, my childhood village, was one such living memory — a mosaic of innocence, dirt roads, mango trees, and summer secrets.
I was five when the summers began to matter. Because that was the summer Abhananth first came back from Muscat with a toy car, a Sunfeast packet I wasn't allowed to touch, and the biggest smile I had seen on a boy who wasn't from Palur. He was my cousin, yes, but that word barely carried the same boundaries it did later in life.
Every summer, Abhananth and Arya would arrive like monsoon clouds. The whole house would light up. The cousins would all gather, running barefoot across the compound, while that old radio in the hall played melodies in crackling pitch.
But for me, it was just about him. Always him.
He was different back then — gentle, warm, effortlessly kind. He always remembered what I liked. He would sketch Dora — yes, that Dora the Explorer — with his stubby pencil fingers and gift it to me on the day he left. Every. Single. Summer.
And I would fold it and keep it under my pillow. Guarded like a treasure map. His Dora drawings weren't even good. Her eyes looked like potatoes. But he made them for me, and that was all that mattered.
There was one year — I think I was seven — when I had a fever the entire week he visited. Everyone thought I wouldn't even notice he was leaving. But I dragged myself out of bed just to wave goodbye. And you know what he did? He ran back, placed a crumpled paper in my palm, and whispered, "Abi, Dora doesn't need a backpack. She needs a suitcase. She's going abroad."
And I laughed. Even with a 102-degree fever, I laughed.
That's how he used to be. Not the stranger who now asks, "How is college?" and walks off. Not the cold, formal, third-person in my life now. Yes, thats what we have become now.
I wish I could forget Palur. I wish I could forget the way he used to press jasmine flowers into my hand because he heard I liked the smell. Or how he once got scolded for taking the blame when I broke a pickle jar.
But memories are cruel that way. They only sharpen with time.
After he turned thirteen and the visits became rare, something shifted. He grew up too fast. Came back taller, quieter, wearing watches and acting like smiles cost money. And I… I was still short, still curvy, still Abi who laughed too loudly at her own jokes.
I remember the last summer he stayed more than two weeks. I was ten. He was fifteen. He barely looked up from his phone. That year, no Dora. No goodbye. Just, "Tell Grandma I've left," to Arya. And gone.
I cried that night. My grandma held me and said, "They named you both similarly because someday… you were meant to be together."
I giggled between sobs. I believed her. Somewhere deep down, a seed was planted. Not hope. Just… longing.
Years passed. My grandma's words turned into inside jokes I shared only with myself. Sometimes I'd whisper them to the wind, half wishing it would carry the message to him.
But of course, he never noticed. Never remembered.
And then came the day that ruined everything. The day Grandma died.
Abi(18 years old)
COVID had torn through the town like a silent monster. Hospitals full. Oxygen low. And my grandmother — my anchor, my storyteller, my only hope — was in her deathbed in a room where only one person was allowed.
It was Abhananth who is with her now.
I wasn't supposed to hear what they are talking but i couldnt help myself. He is back almost after 2 years, just to visit Paati, as he loves her more than his parents. Due to some protocols, we were not able to speak freely, though even if everything was fine, he wouldnt have spoken to me like our old days, but still i wanted to hear his voice, his true thoughts, because only with our grandma, he is his true self.
She spoke first, her voice broken and breathless, "Abi… marriage… promise me… she needs someone. She's always… alone."
And there was no answer from him for the longest time.
Then, almost coldly, he spoke those words, which shattered my whole heart, which had built so much hope and love since my childhood.
"Grandma, she's like my sister. "
Present
From that day, there has been a small emotional hole in my heart. Not because he said no. I had never truly expected a yes. But because that was all I ever was to him — an obligation. A child. A cousin.
Even my love — quiet, burning, pure — wasn't enough to be seen.
I went back to Palur after her death .The house was so empty. We were going to sell it.
I opened my old trunk. And guess what I found?
A paper. Torn, yellowing. Dora, drawn lopsided. With a suitcase in one hand and a map in the other.
And written in a kid's scrawl: "To Abi, we'll meet again in summer. – Abha"
I didn't cry. I just folded it again. And i have been carrying it with me since then..as a reminder of who we were once..
Some loves begin in summer. And sometimes… they never really leave, even if the people do.