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I kissed your lips, laced with blame,
You kissed my palms, stained with shame.
Our vows sown in your gardens soil
Burnt fiercly and vanished like your lamps oil.
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In the coastal village of Neelapuram, where the Arabian Sea clawed at laterite cliffs, Arjun and Meera’s love was folklore. Their first meeting was accidental—a collision at the Theyyam festival, where Meera’s mural of *Bhadrakali* caught Arjun’s eye. “You paint Gods but dare not look at me?” he teased, his smile sharp as a sickle. “Gods don’t glare like they’ll burn my house down." she retorted, her chin lifted. Her walls broke when he bought her flowers the next day. Arjun came from a long line of kings and warriors, their lineage etched in temple plates and coconut groves and Meera, she came from the line of artisans who painted life into cracks and toiled under the sun. Her parents were dead leaving her the gift of art, a dilapidated house and a small patch of betel nut plantation.

Their courtship was scorned upon, the villagers seethed. Yet, Arjun and Meera found themselves in each other's embrace hiding away from everyone. Arjun’s father thundered, “Touch that low life again, and I’ll disown you.” Meera’s neighbors spat at her threshold: “Seduce a Nair prince, will you? Wait till his mother curses your womb.”

The next monsoon, they were married. Eloped against the wishes of families and the villagers, the rain masking their footprints. Arjun traded his silk cushions for the worm eaten floor of Meera's house and Meera traded her temple mural commisions for mending his frayed shirts.

Their home, "Vasantham", was a crumbling cottage nestled among wild hibiscus and betel nut trees. Meera’s murals of dancing Yakshis adorned the...