Published at Monday, April 15th, 2019 - 13:12:12 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.
My friends congratulated me for getting such a slave, when they were hard pressed for far farm labour. One day, when he finds a chance, he would run away with whatever he can carry, they warned. I shook my head. My wife was happy. She could use his free time for helping her in the kitchen, shopping or simply as escort, as she never liked to go out alone. They started calling the boy our son. We had no issues and, at heart, I was not averse to adopting him. Of course, I did not mention it to her.
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