Published at Monday, April 15th, 2019 - 12:45:11 PM. Farm House. By Freida Rivers.
My wife had gone inside the Vadakkunnatha temple of lord Shiva in the centre of the town, originally called Thrissivaperur. The Englishmen called it Trichur, for convenience. I dont think there is a town, more lovely than my Trichur, majestically rising above the surrounding land, for miles, and Shiva overseeing the area like a sentinel. The temple with its massive walls and the spacious ground beyond, is surrounded by the ring of shops, similar to the man- made Connaught circle in New Delhi.
When my wife came out from the temple, we were silently facing each other.Who is he? I dont know. He has not eaten food, since long, he says. She took out a rupee note and was about to give it to him, when I intervened. Come boy, I will give you work, I said.I ignored my wifes silent protest. We all came back to our house, not far from the town, in a picturesque village farm. I ordered my wife to give him enough food. Afterward, I took him around the farm house and directed him to cut out all the bush on one side where I intended to plant the big banana trees.
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