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FICTION
THE MOLES OF THE ANGEL By K.R. Meera Translated from the Malayalam by Ministhy S Angela was murdered in front of her children. It was her husband who killed her. He plunged the knife into her creamy, voluptuous stomach. When it was buried to the hilt, he pulled it out and drove it in again. She writhed like a serpent as the blood hissed and spurted. She was drenched in sweat and her hair stood on end. A groan emerged from her and the gleam in her eyes dwindled. Angela became silent and still; and slipped into an eternal sleep. When the killer was sure that she was dead, he turned to face the children. They had glued onto each other in terror. He stared at the younger child with visceral hatred. She was not of his bloodline. He looked compassionately at the older one. She was of his blood. Sighing once, he moved away with determined steps. Outside, the desolate day wrapped the transparent wedding gown of the rain – stained with Angela’s blood – around itself. The room filled with the unnerving smell of blood. Like a black raincloud, fear spread darkness and iciness. When the children realized that they were completely alone and that their mother would never wake again, they screamed loudly. They were the orphans left behind by their murdered mother. They embraced her crimson body and shuddered in horror as the droplets of red glued onto them. The elder child, eight-year-old Ann, was the one who informed Narendran. He was breaking into a cold sweat as his advocate elaborated on the punishment for being a loan defaulter and highlighted the thin possibility of an appeal. When Narendran heard the heartrending cry, “Uncle, my Papa killed Amma!” he disbelieved his ears. It appeared to have emerged from a tunnel forcibly shut at both ends. Narendran felt dizzy. “What is the matter, Narendran?” the advocate enquired. Narendran swallowed with difficulty. In a tremulous voice he said that an erstwhile lady subordinate of his was no more. The advocate murmured his sympathy. Narendran walked out – his feet seemingly stepping on blood and getting glued on the floor. Jaya Mohan, the copywriter of his failed advertising firm, and a few other workers were waiting for him. Narendran leaned onto Jaya Mohan’s shoulder. “Angela died…” Jaya Mohan recoiled in shock and stood dumbstruck for a while. Then he sighed deeply and told the others. TWO That day, the sky had resembled a hired killer disguised in black oil, waiting in ambush. Angela left the office at twelve thirty, after applying for half-day leave. Reaching the school in her Kinetic Honda, she sought the principal’s permission to take her children away. Their eyes sparkling in joy, the children had raced across the verandah. They were dressed in
