Twenty-Eight Days by the River

It was sometime in the middle of May, when the heat in Kerala becomes so personal that even your thoughts begin to sweat, that I made a bold decision.

I decided that I would live.

Not the usual kind of living, waking up late, rushing to office, pretending to work, waiting for lunch, scrolling through the phone, coming back tired, and sleeping again. No…

I wanted to live properly. I wanted to collect enough memories in twenty-eight days so that even if the next ten years went dry, I could sit somewhere quietly and survive on those memories like an old man eating pickles with kanji.

So I applied for twenty-eight days of leave.

My manager looked at me as if I had asked for his ancestral property.

“What will you do for twenty-eight days?” he asked.

“Sir… I want to live,” I said.

He removed his glasses, cleaned them slowly, and put them back on—as if hoping my answer would improve in clarity.

It did not.

Still, somehow, I got the leave. I also managed to squeeze out an advance from the accounts department after giving them a long emotional explanation about “mental refreshment,” which they did not believe, but still approved.

With money in my pocket and unnecessary confidence in my heart, I stepped out thinking life was about to become a Malayalam movie.

The Plan to Live

Now, what does it really mean to live?

It is not going to Lulu Mall and spending money on things you don’t need. It is not sitting in a theatre watching a movie where the hero lives more than you ever will. It is not posting photos on Instagram with captions like “Living my best life” while checking likes every two minutes.

No.

To live… you must go somewhere where the air itself feels different.

Somewhere where the smell of wet earth rises after a light rain… where jasmine flowers bloom quietly in the corner of a courtyard… where the evenings are filled with the sound of crickets and distant temple bells… where the wind touches your face like a familiar hand.

“To live is not to fill your time… but to feel every moment filling you.”

With these thoughts, I decided to go to a village near Thrissur. A friend of mine had told me about a house there where rooms were rented out for visitors, a peaceful place, away from the noise of the city.

“Real living begins when time stops chasing you… and starts walking beside you.”

The house belonged to a lady named Sreelakshmi Teacher.

The First Shock of My Life

I still remember the moment I reached that house.

It was a traditional Kerala house with a small verandah, red oxide floor, and coconut trees swaying lazily in the background. The afternoon sun had softened, and a faint breeze carried the smell of mango leaves and something sweet—maybe payasam being prepared somewhere nearby.

I walked up the steps of the verandah.

And then I stopped.

Because sitting there, at a small wooden table, drinking tea… was not what I had expected.

I had imagined an elderly landlady, perhaps with grey hair tied into a bun, wearing thick glasses and speaking slowly.

But instead, there sat a young woman.

Confident. Bright. Graceful.

She looked at me with slightly narrowed eyes.

“Yes? What do you want?” she asked.

I became awkward immediately.

“I… I’m sorry… I think I came to the wrong place… I was looking for Sreelakshmi Teacher’s house…”

“I am Sreelakshmi,” she said calmly.

For a moment, I forgot what I had come there for.

“Sometimes life surprises you not by changing your path… but by placing something unexpected right in front of you.”

I gathered myself and explained that my friend had told me about the room for rent.

“Oh, yes! He called me,” she said, her face brightening. “Please sit down. Will you have tea? Do you take milk or black?”

There are some people… usually warm, open-hearted people… who make you feel comfortable within minutes, as if you have known them for years. She was like that.

By the time I finished my first cup of tea, I already knew so much about her.

She was not married.

She lived alone in this house, managing it with the help of a part-time maid.

The cost of maintaining the house had become high, electricity bills, repairs, taxes.

And more than that… she did not like staying alone.

“At night,” she said softly, “sometimes it feels scary. You never know these days… theft, problems… Better to have someone in the house.”

Then she added with a small smile,

“But a decent man is better. Less trouble.”

Within ten minutes, I forgot I was a tenant.

Within twenty minutes, I forgot I had come only for twenty-eight days.

Within thirty minutes, I started wondering if life had finally decided to be kind to me.

Within one hour, we were no longer strangers.

The Dangerous Agreement

Before leaving that day, I asked the most important question.

“How much should I pay?”

She waved her hand.

“Give whatever you like.”

That should have been my warning sign.

But no.

I insisted.

She thought for a moment.

“2000 rupees per day will be fine.”

I quickly calculated in my head… then stopped calculating.

“Okay,” I said.

“Happiness has a strange habit, it quietly switches off your brain.”

And that… was my biggest mistake.

Those Beautiful, Dangerous Days

My room had a window that opened towards the Karuvannoor puzha.

Every morning, I woke up to a soft breeze coming straight from the river. The sunlight would fall gently on the water, making it shine like someone had scattered gold dust on it. Coconut trees leaned slightly as if they were also enjoying the view.

I would lie on my bed for a long time, doing absolutely nothing.

No phone. No office. No stress.

Just the river, the breeze, and a strange peace.

“Some mornings don’t need purpose… they only need presence.”

Around 8 o’clock, I would go out.

“Good morning!” she would say, already holding tea.

And then began our daily routine of serious discussions, Kerala politics, rising prices, why everyone wants to go to the Gulf, why government jobs are still considered heaven, and why life refuses to follow any plan.

At lunchtime, she would serve food. Lunch was simple but dangerous.

Simple Kerala meals, but when you are hungry, sitting at a wooden table, with rice, sambar, thoran, fish curry… it feels like a feast.

When you eat like that every day, you start believing you deserve it.

Afternoons were for reading and sleeping.

And every time I lay down, she would peep in and say,

And every now and then, she would peep through the door and say,

“Don’t get up… rest properly!”

That sentence alone can make any man emotionally weak.

Evenings were the best part.

We would walk slowly to the banks of the Karuvannoor puzha.

The river would flow quietly. Sometimes children would play nearby. Sometimes fishermen would return. Sometimes nothing would happen at all.

And that “nothing” felt like everything.

We would sit there for a long time.

Talk a little. Stay silent a lot.

And occasionally… she would look at me… and then look away.

“Silence between two people can sometimes speak louder than a thousand words.”

The Expected Disaster

Less than a week passed.

And then… what usually happens in such stories… happened.

I could not hold it anymore.

One evening, during our walk, I told her how I felt.

She listened quietly.

Her face did not change much.

It was as if… she had expected it.

She gave a small, polite smile.

As if to say, “Why are you making this serious?”

As if she had already written that scene in her mind.

The Last Day

Time passed quickly. Too quickly. Before I knew it, my leave was over.

As I packed my bag, a strange emptiness filled me.

She sat on the sofa, wiping her eyes.

“You will come again, right?” she asked softly.

“Yes,” I said. “Of course.”

Then suddenly, I remembered.

“The money… how much do I owe you?”

She avoided my eyes.

“Later… you can give later…”

“No,” I said firmly. “Friendship is one thing. Money is another. Tell me.”

She hesitated.

Then slowly opened a drawer.

Took out a paper. And gave it to me.

I looked at it. Then again.

Then adjusted my glasses.

Then looked again.

Room rent: 28 × 2000 = 56,000
Food & other items: 28 × 2000 = 56,000
Miscellaneous: 52,000

Total = 1,64,000 rupees

I felt my soul quietly leaving my body.

“This cannot be correct!” I said, stunned.

She looked at me with complete sincerity.

“It is correct.”

I could not understand.

“For the room… we agreed 2000 rupees…”

“Yes… but food… tea… milk… fruits… snacks… electricity… special items…”

“For living fully for 28 full days !”

She explained everything calmly.

As if it was all perfectly normal.

I looked at her face.

There was no guilt.

No hesitation.

Only clarity.

“Not every smile hides kindness… sometimes it hides calculation.”

I stood there… silent.

I did not argue.

I did not shout.

I wanted to argue.

But her face was so sincere… so peaceful… that I began doubting myself instead.

“Sometimes the greatest shock is not the amount… but the confidence with which it is presented.”

The Escape

I did not have that much money. Not even close.

So I did what any sensible person would do.

I panicked. Then I called a friend in Thrissur.

“Emergency,” I said. “What happened?”

“I lived too much.” He did not understand.

But he sent the money.

I paid.

Picked up my bag. And escaped.

Yes… escaped.

At the End

As I sat in the train, staring out at the fading green fields, I did not feel angry.

I did not feel cheated.

I felt… educated.

“Some lessons are not taught… they are billed.”

I had gone to live. And I had lived. Fully. Expensively.

And slightly foolishly.

And even today… when I think about those twenty-eight days…

I smile.

And then…

I check my bank balance.