By Neel Anil Panicker
After twelve tortuous and torturous hours battling giant waves, the body, bruised and battered and sans any sustenance, the senses assaulted by an avalanche of ill runs that included skirting around blood thirsty whales and myriad other water borne dangers, Kamla heaved a sigh of relief, when, summoning the last vestiges from her reservoir of strength, she hurled herself onto the rocks, her frosty fingers barely holding on to slippery terr firma.
The next moment she blanked out, and remained so until several hours later, a few fisher folk sighted her while carting their boats out to sea at the crack of dawn.
Later that evening, her head still slightly wobbly, she found herself staring into the faces of a group of fisherwomen and beyond them, the indecipherable chatter of men and children, all speaking a tongue quite alien to the Tamil she knew and grew up on till the age of seventeen, the year she boarded the ill-fated boat that was to take them to a newer life in distant Australia.
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Three Line Tales, Week 195