Nothing to say.

The news spread through the tiny village. Marykutty’s daughter had returned from the city suddenly; showing up at her home after quitting the job at the shrimp factory. Now this was no scandalous news in itself, but the rumour was that she had shut herself inside the house and refused to talk to anyone, not even her mother. Neighbours were stirred; concerned voices whispered that the girl’s eyes were as vacant as that of a dead fish. She looked a little ‘gone’ too. “Something must have happened” they whispered to each other as they stood in queues at the water taps. And they all agreed on what that ‘something’ must be; nodding with eager sadness, the tinge of pleasure they felt inside on hearing the news surprising them and filling them with shame. “Poor girl”, a middle aged woman said loudly.

Marykutty, an old widow, was bewildered. Rosy had gone to the shrimp factory three months ago. It was two hours away by boat and bus so she had decided to stay at the rooms provided by the factory owners for the women they employed. It was back breaking work; bending over crates of cold, stunned shrimp, peeling it carefully from morning till night. Her skin peeled away in the ice cold water, the numbness spread to her neck, her legs and kept her awake shivering, even at night sometimes. Her clothes and hair acquired the lingering fish sea smell that floated all over the factory premise. The work was hard. But Marykutty knew and Rosy knew even better that they needed the money. So she had stayed on; coming home once a month to hand some money to her mother. If Rosy’s departure had saddened Marykutty, her sudden arrival and the change in her crushed the old woman. Rosy refused to utter a word to anyone. Sometimes she came out her dingy room, the only bedroom in the house, to get food and then sat on the verandah with her plate of rice, picking absently through it. Many people came and went; all shaking their heads in sympathy. But Rosy acknowledged no one. Her eyes were fixed on something invisible; demons no one else could see.

At night, Marykutty hugged her daughter close and with tears asked her what had happened to her. But Rosy remained frozen. Rumours smoked around the little village; Rosy had had an affair with an ice plant worker, No, it was a supervisor. “ something must have happened”, they repeated among themselves.

Rosy’s silence did not break with time. She ahowed no willingness to speak even after a year had passed since her return. Marykutty went to work as a maid again; dragging her ailing knees to the house of a wealthy man in the neighbourhood in return for food and spare change. She had made her peace with her daughter’s silence; “let her be”, she told neighbours and relations who tormented Rosy. The mystery suppounding Rosy’s silence waned as more months passed. Elopements and a burglary captured the villagers’ attention.

Then oneday, a man from the city reached the little village in search of Rosy. The old men who sat around at the boat jetty directed the stranger to Marykutty’s house; a little upset at him for not giving in to their questions. He talked at length to Marykutty outside her house, standing near the tattered fence. Neighbours watched as Marykutty shook her frail head and went inside. The man had come to take Rosy away. He had made a mistake he said, but he wanted to make amends. “ I will marry Rosy”.

The villagers were dumbfounded. They waited outside Marykutty’s house;the men, the women, wailing children and curious boys. The mad had gone to the teashop nearby and was sitting there smoking a beedi, letting his tea go cold while the Marykutty talked to her daughter.

Marykutty got out from the house and went in search of the stranger. She led him out of the teashop. Rosy had refused. She wouldn’t say why, but refused; her head shaking, her face set firmly. The stranger pressed some money into the old woman’s hands and left to catch a boat back home. Much talk went on in the village that night. Old women lamented as they sat outside their kitchens; scrubbing fiercely at dishes as their voices rose; agitated.

The man who operated the little ferry walked silently as usual to the boat jetty at dawn next day. Rosy was already up at her house, packing her meager belongings to go back to work. She had talked all night to her old mother and said goodbye before setting off for the factory again. Those at the jetty saw her getting on to the wobbling wooden boat. The engine whirled as diesel smell rose and merged with the cold breeze. Rosy sat still on the little boat as it carried her away to the city; her eyes fixed on the palm fringed coast at a distance, calm, reassured.