Oru Viral Puratchi – En Kanavin Kadhai (A Story from My Dream)

The riverbank was alive with rituals. Families sat in clusters, offering prayers to their ancestors. The smell of wet earth mixed with incense filled the air. I stood with my offerings, waiting for my turn, when I saw her, a young girl dressed like a Brahmin priest, her face calm, her hands steady as she guided each person through the rites.

When my turn came, she began murmuring mantras, her lips moving quickly. I leaned forward, trying to catch the words, but they were no more than whispers, slipping away before they reached me.

“Can you say it properly?” I asked.

She didn’t look up. The same low murmur continued. My brows knitted.
“Enakku puriyala… konjam loud-a sollunga.”

She just mumbled faster. My patience broke.
“Enna pannra nee? Proper-a sollu!”

She didn’t respond. In that moment of frustration, my palm landed on her cheek. Smack!
“Enna da idhu… drama aatamariya?”

Her eyes widened, filled with fury. She hissed through her teeth, “Nee regret pannuva… paathukite eru.” And she stormed away.

A month later, in the noisy market, my brother and I were buying vegetables when I noticed a small bakery. Behind the counter stood the same girl. Her hair tied messily, face pale but determined. Beside her was a drunken man her father and two small boys helping her with trays.

I smirked, whispering to my brother, “See there… the great Brahmin priest is selling bread now.”
He frowned. “Who is she?”

I leaned in, “The same fraud girl from the riverbank. Mantra sollala, cheat pannitta.”
“Ada… aparam bakery-la bread-a?” He shook his head, irritated.

We bought a loaf of bread and gave her a hundred-rupee note. Her father, half-drunk, muttered, “Change illa… naan kasu kudukka maaten.” and tried to pocket the note.

“Appa… kudu pa!” she said firmly, gently taking the note back and counting the coins with trembling hands. She returned the balance to us without looking up.

I was about to sneer again when I noticed my brother staring at her, his eyes softening. He saw something I hadn’t the weight of her world resting on those thin shoulders. She wasn’t a fraud; she was just surviving.

After that, every time we crossed paths, it turned into an argument between me and her.
“Nee enga poi cheat panna pora?” I’d tease.
“Unakku enna venum?” she’d snap back.

But between her and my brother, something different bloomed. A shy smile here, a soft glance there.

One evening, the market buzzed with noise as usual, when I spotted them. My brother and that girl walking side by side. Not holding hands, but their little fingers gently hooked together. A small, secret connection.

I crept closer and whispered in his ear with a grin, “Idhudhaan… Oru Viral Puratchi-aa?”

They froze. Her cheeks flushed. My brother looked away, trying to hide his smile.

I laughed loudly, about to tease them more when suddenly…

…I opened my eyes. I was in my bed, heart pounding. It was all a dream. I sat up, the last words echoing in my head Oru Viral Puratchi. A revolution born not in reality, but in the fragile space between sleep and waking.

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