Susan Writes to Papa Aathma Nirmala Dious
Susan has only known her Papa as a myth, growing up on folktales of his presence, the genre changing, ranging from cautionary tale to success
story, depending which tongue of the people of Maruthadi it came from.
Ammama, his mother, described him as a sensitive boy who daydreamed of lands beyond the sea outside their house. Amma described him with a silence, which was more accurate. However the end of all the stories
were all the same. He was not here. He was in the Gulf, fathering a new
set of buildings or pulling oil from the sand, sending money as the dutiful breadwinner should.
Papa left because money lenders searching for the money that is now
Kochamma’s dowry came knocking with threats of taking the roof away. Papa prayed to God, Mother Mary, and Eshopa all in that precise order for help. In a dream, a pathemari came upon the shore of Maruthadi.
Papa stepped on, confused and a thunderous voice that he guessed was the sea, Kadalamma herself, woke him in a sweat. When the sun rose,
Papa heard the call from a pathemari that lulled men with the promise of
dreams made of jewels and gold. In exchange, he would help build a new oasis for Arabis, made of concrete and glass from liquid gold in the Gulf, the new name for Persia.
A dream for a dream after all. A fair exchange. Papa believed this Gulf that Ammama calls Persia is where he can change the future. The night before, Amma cried, putting his hand on her round belly.
“Swear on our child,” she told Papa, “that you won’t drown in their
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