three micros

by Swetha Amit

The Midnight Escapade

I sit on my bed reading a graphic novel when I hear the front door open and close. The clock on my bedstand shows a quarter to midnight. Moonlight streams through my window, casting eerie shadows on the walls. I look out to see Pa walking down the driveway carrying a bag. A surge of panic washes over me. I slip out of my room, hearing Ma snoring peacefully in the adjacent room. She has just recovered from a bout of flu, and I don't want to wake her. So, I return to bed, waiting for Pa to come home. I can't focus on my graphic novel. I toss and turn for a while. Eventually, I feel drowsy and drift off to sleep.

Pa sits at the breakfast table the next day. The aroma of fried eggs wafts toward me as I enter the dining room. He greets me as usual before burying his head in the newspaper. His hair is slightly disheveled.

"A storm is approaching the bay next week," he remarks.

Ma sets the plates of slightly burnt toast on the table. Pa relishes its crisp taste, but I find it bitter. They discuss climate change with vigor. Ma's face has regained its radiance. I glance outside. The birds are chirping, and the sun is shining brightly. It appears to be a normal Sunday morning, but I know it is not. 

It has been a week since Pa began his night escapades. I wonder how Ma never noticed. This Saturday night, I decide to follow him. I shiver in my pajamas, clutching my flashlight. The roads are relatively empty except for a car or two driving past occasionally. I keep a safe distance from Pa. We are about eight blocks from home. The houses are smaller in this part of the neighborhood. He stops at a one-story home and knocks on the door. I crouch behind a bush and watch with bated breath. A woman opens the door. Her hair is tied in a bun. Her face is round, and she is wearing a pink nightgown. I notice the woman's belly is big. Pa hugs and kisses her on the lips. An owl hoots. I drop my flashlight on the grass and give a little yelp. Pa and the woman are still kissing, like he used to kiss Ma. I run until I reach home. My heart is pounding loudly. My quads ache. My head hurts. I can't sleep tonight.

The next day, they discuss the weather at breakfast while Pa eats burnt toast. The smoky smell triggers a wave of nausea in me. I drop my glass of orange juice, and the floor is splattered with broken pieces of glass. They look at me in surprise.

“Are you okay?” Ma asks.

I nibble on my nails and nod faintly.

"You appear tired. Let me clean up the mess," Pa offers.

I can't look him in the eye. I step outside for some fresh air.  I can’t hear the birds. The sun disappears behind the dark clouds gathering. A gust of wind tousles my hair. It will take a while for Pa to clean up the mess.  I wait for the storm to arrive.

Washed Ashore

The relentless waves battered the whale shark trapped in the net. It was an unusually cloudy day. Men, women, and children were gathered on the beach, recording videos of the struggling flat-headed whale shark. My Dad and I walked over from the lifeguard tower to assess the situation. He always emphasized the importance of understanding what a rescue operation for a sea creature entails.

"Their loved ones must be pining for them in their homes beneath the waves," he said.

When Dad and I moved closer to the water, I got a better view of the whale shark. Its dark gray body was studded with white spots like twinkling stars in the night sky. I watched the murky gray ocean toss the helpless mammal repeatedly, like Mom would turn the fish in the frying pan over the fire. Dad said it was caught and injured in the fishing net, which the fishermen used to catch shrimp or crabs.

 "Those whale sharks or dolphins get trapped and sometimes die if not rescued in time," Dad frowned.

Dad was my ocean superhero. Every day, he took his place in the lifeguard tower, watching over the choppy ocean with a hawk's eye. He understood the shifting tides and their powerful currents, which could ensnare unsuspecting individuals.

"You can never predict the ocean," he would say. "It's deceptive and has a way of luring you into its salty depths if you aren't careful."

The waves now resembled a hungry monster battering the whale shark over and over again.

Dad spent long hours at the beach, rescuing panicked swimmers and ensuring beachgoers did not wade too deep into the water. He returned at sunset. I'd wander on the shore, collecting shells and watching the crabs. I worried the currents might entice him. But I didn't need to. Dad knew the ocean like the back of his right palm.

I wondered why he wasn't there when my five-year-old sister Mina drowned. When Mina went missing, Mom moved about like a zombie. She thrived in the hope that my sister had been rescued by a boat and that they would contact us. Two days later, the waves washed her body onto the shore. Mom initially went numb. Then, she let it all out—words my nine-year-old ears shouldn't have heard. Her accusations roared like the ocean on a stormy day.

"If only you did not have that goddamn fucking meeting and left that lifeguard tower empty," she hollered.

Dad stood in a corner, biting his lip until it bled, his face as white as stale milk and his eyes downcast—a pitiful figure caught in remorse and regret for being unable to save his daughter, the apple of his eye. Perhaps she had been too trusting of the foamy waves that cradled her tiny feet as she picked up shells. Like Moana, she waded into the water as if it were a sandy path. It felt strange to look at my sister's lifeless body, so unlike her lively prancing. Even a year later, I could vividly remember that sight. Seaweed was tangled in her hair. Her eyes were closed, her hair damp and muddy, and her face appeared peaceful, like she was in a deep sleep.

I wondered how the ocean could be cruel to innocent beings who placed their blind faith in it. Yet, it wasn't kind to even those who considered the sea their home. I gazed at the appalling condition of the whale shark. A surge of rage coursed through me like an electric shock. I wondered if my sister was entangled in some fishing net, too. Mom was never the same. Some days, she would gaze at the ocean with an expression I couldn't understand. Or she'd verbally abuse Dad, causing the house to erupt into heated arguments.

The rescue crew arrived, primarily locals and fishermen. They carried sharp knives and gathered around the nearly lifeless mammal to cut the nets.

"Can I help?" I asked the men.

"Not a job for a young lad like you," one of them replied.

Once the nets were severed, they used all their strength to drag the creature into the water. I observed the incredible effort it took to move such a heavy animal. I didn't think I could ever push a whale shark. They shifted its body inch by inch as it slid on the sand. I watched the tide coming in and the waves enveloping the whale shark in an embrace. The rescue crew left the whale shark to be claimed by the ocean. I was relieved to see it moving slowly. The rescue crew shouted gleefully, seeing the whale shark find its rhythm and eventually become a speck. The crowd at the beach dispersed after applauding the rescue crew and clicking more photos. Dad and I hugged each other, tears streaming down our faces.

When Dad and I got home, Mom wasn't there. We called out for her, wanting to tell her about the whale shark. She wasn't in the kitchen or out in the yard. In their bedroom, her clothes were gone, along with her blue suitcase. There was no food. The house felt empty and unbearably silent.

Dad punched the keys on his mobile and then shook his head resignedly.

"She's not coming back," he said, rushing to the beach.

 I followed him. It was getting dark, and the beach was practically empty—except for a few couples. The waves were still choppy. Dad said he spotted a figure amidst the waves.

"Mina," he called out and darted into the salty mass of water.

I stared at him, feeling a surge of panic in my veins.

"Dad, please wait," I shouted. 

The roar of the waves drowned my pleas as he plunged into them. I stood on the shore, letting the water curl around my toes. I didn't dare venture further but anxiously waited for Dad to emerge from the slush of the murky gray water. 

Remnants of Sweet Lassi

I craved sweet lassi—the sweet lassi I watched Grandma make as a little girl. The sweet lassi that included two cups of yogurt made from fresh whole milk. The sweet lassi with 4-5 tablespoons of sugar, Grandma always emphasized adding only when the yogurt base was smooth. The sweet lassi she made by churning the yogurt using a wooden churner with her wrinkled, creamy brown hands. The sweet lassi that was frothy and garnished with saffron and cardamom powder. The sweet lassi neither too thick nor too watery. The sweet lassi, which Grandma would taste first before serving it in an earthen mug. The sweet lassi that cooled down my parched throat during oppressive summers. The sweet lassi that Grandma lured me with when Ma and Pa would argue behind closed doors. The sweet lassi, which left remnants of frothy white cream on my lips. The sweet lassi Grandma lovingly wiped from my lips, her hands carrying the scent of cardamon. The sweet lassi, a soother that removed the bitterness of my lonely childhood, and eventually, broken home. The sweet lassi, a refuge during my adolescence when my friends would be out on dates. The sweet lassi that kept me sane and eased my squeamish stomach while studying for final exams. The sweet lassi that I found too sweet and syrupy in Amritsar Dhabas while visiting the Golden Temple to celebrate my academic results.   The sweet lassi, a taste and flavor I could never replicate after Grandma was gone. The sweet lassi, a favorite among guests at my wedding feast. The sweet lassi I tried to make for my husband, where the consistency was either too thick or too watery. The sweet lassi, where I struggled to smooth the yogurt base, ended up with lumps. The sweet lassi, where I accidentally added salt once, turned out bitter. The sweet lassi I made using the blender because my hands hurt holding the wooden churner. The sweet lassi I tried making for my children never elicited a joyful reaction, but a polite nod with their glasses remaining half full. I craved my Grandma's sweet lassi, which I could never emulate, the perfect taste lingering only in my memories. I craved Grandma’s sweet lassi, the recipe probably submerged in her ashes, I emptied in the Ganges River many years ago.

Photo of Swetha Amit

BIO: A Palo Alto-based writer, Swetha is the author of three chapbooks. Her works appear in Had, Ghost Parachute, South Florida Poetry Journal, Cream City Review, Oyez Review, and others. (https://swethaamit.com) Her stories have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, and Best Small Fiction.