A Stranger in the Room by Sudha Subramanian
Image by Sharath G for Pexels
Ammai was just over four feet tall. She tucked the lone strand of hair behind her ear and brushed her forehead twice to clear it before sweeping a glance across the living room.
Pulling the saree from over her shoulder, she secured it around her waist.
“Ah! My beautiful Devendra saree,” her eyes brimmed with joy as the varied shades of blue shimmered in the evening sun. It was her favorite color, and she loved the smoothness of the fabric on her skin. Her fingers preened the pleats of the saree between her legs before she heaved out of the couch.
Her strides were short and hurried. The yellow teddy bear with a stain, the big brown radio, and the plastic flowers in a vase greeted her from the large enclosed glass case. She turned the corner near the door and marched towards the couch when a movement alerted her.
“Huh?” She scrunched her nose, swung behind the wall and darted her head out to take a peek.
A stranger stood at a distance.
Ammai cupped her mouth, stopping herself from screaming.
A baby cried at a distance, and a blender came alive from the neighbor’s kitchen.
She hurried to the other end of the room to her cozy spot, chewing her nails.
Ammai’s hands shook as her fingers dug into the fabric of the couch. Sanskrit hymns dawdled at her lips, but her eyes skittered to the door. The stranger’s image pricked and pocked at her senses. She shifted in her seat, waiting for the stranger’s fading shadow.
“Ey,” her voice found a space to squiggle out of her throat.
No one.
The autorickshaw roared in the nearby street.
Ammai bounced her hand, cupped like a fan.
Maybe she was mistaken. What was the Sanskrit hymn she was chanting? Ammai’s fingernail nibbled at the side of her brow.
The evening sun cast shadows of the Neem tree. The leaves curled over her foot and danced along her greying veins. Ammai played with the tips of the stems when the creak of the door alerted her. She lurched forward, crossing the yellow teddy bear, tugging at her saree, and waited near the wall. The crack of the door frame gave her a perfect view. She ducked her head and peered through it.
No one.
Was she mistaken? She paced around in circles rubbing her elbows before marching towards the door and turning the corner.
The stranger jeered at her.
Ammai’s heartbeat rose to a crescendo. She held her chest and hid behind the Almairah when someone tapped at her shoulder.
Ammai jumped.
“Ammai,” Sudha called, “what are you doing here?” The teenager was busy humming tunes.
“Shhh,” Ammai motioned her to be quiet, “there is a stranger here!” she whispered.
“In here?” Sudha pointed to the room.
“Yes,” Ammai tapped her chin, “I hope the stranger doesn’t take away my sarees.” Ammai’s eyes narrowed.
Sudha held Ammai’s arm and led her inside her room.
“See, Ammai, there is no one here,” Sudha chuckled aloud.
“No, no,” Ammai dragged Sudha to the spot she saw the stranger earlier and pointed to the stranger.
“Can you not see it?” She hid behind Sudha, mumbling under her breath.
“This?” Sudha moved aside, giving Ammai a full view of the stranger. “Ammai. That is you.” Sudha put her hands up, “You are looking at yourself in the large mirror,” she grunted.
“Can you not see that she has already taken my Devendra saree?” Ammai’s voice shook under her breath.
“See? Same saree, same style of saree with the pallu tucked in the waist, the same top knot of the hair,” Sudha sighed, “that is all you.”
“You all don’t understand,” Ammai shook her head, “she has already taken my stuff.” Ammai stuck her hand out and pulled out the wired red and white basket from under the bed. She slid her fingers in and leafed through the spine of the folded lot.
She counted.
“Are they all here?” Sudha raised her brows.
Ammai counted again. She was unsure.
Sudha put her hands up and stormed out of the room.
“That woman is still there,” Ammai curled herself on the bed, “she will take all my things,” she mumbled, “nobody believes me.” She adjusted the saree pallu.
She loved the saree color. Her father bought her one when she was very young. The lines with the zari dots along the edges were so luxurious.
She sighed, closing her eyes, willing to chant some Sanskrit hymns.
What was the Sanskrit hymn?
Her eyes wandered to the door.
She decided to take a walk, and ran her fingers through her hair.
Ammai opened the knot, held the lock into a tight grip, and tied it back. She tucked the stray strands behind her ear and patted the invisible dust from her saree, smiling at the color.
Was there someone who wanted to steal her sarees?
She forgot so much these days.
She had better check the sarees in the basket when no one was looking.
“My Devendra saree,” Ammai smiled.
What was the Sanskrit hymn?
Sudha Subrmanian (she/her) is a writer of Indian origin living in Dubai. Her short stories and articles have found space in newspapers, magazines and anthologies. When Sudha is not writing, she sings to plants, hugs trees and watches the birds, bees, butterflies that visit her garden.
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