For since I read about May in Ayemenem, I wished every month was May. I lived by Meenachal and grew younger by 17 years, knew exactly the taste of the banana jam of Paradise Pickles and Preserves and could feel my hair tied in a Love in Tokyo wearing an airport fairy frock. By the night, I’d be a lady with polished shoulders, polished with high wax shoulder polish, holding a transistor radio. Another day, I am in a picture looking away, at the river through the elongated windows in my ears. Don’t ask me how it was possible. But it was. So effortlessly possible. And there was more. I called out to Estha Pappy Chachen Kuttapen Peter Mon again and again to no response. I heard the far away man shouting while I coughed alone in the loneliness of my room. I wrote letters about Kohinoor to my dear ones which I sometimes did not send. I felt the grasp of Pappachi’s moth tighten on my heart when I felt helplessly victimized in a situation. I found an abode in Ayemenem to escape when I wanted to, smelling the air thick with the river. I lived several lives and forgot who I was or if there was something like an I. I could even be the history house sometimes whispering into the ears of curious children. I was the boat that grew in the wilderness and was found one day to be taken back to the river. And when I closed the book, I closed my eyes for long to not come back, to keep living there.