Maimoona and Shakeela

 March 15, 2026.

I was walking towards Kanhangad on a hot Sunday evening when I met a smart woman. She was selling fish while sitting confidently at the nearby bus stop. She looked close to 50, was wearing a nice saree, with matching gold jewelry, and a bindi that suited her face. Beside her, there was a cat who resembled Pinki, a street cat that I have been interacting with since 2023.

I have this habit of talking to people who are simple by nature. So, I started talking to Aunty as the bus was supposed to reach only by 5:15, and we had 30 minutes left on the clock. We initially started noticing each other when I touched that cat.

“Does she have any children?” I asked Aunty.

“They all got killed in different accidents,” she replied. Indeed, the number of street cats that die in accidents is a high proportion. One of the street cats that we raised, Pinki, also died in an accident two months ago.

I glanced at the cat once again. It had a slightly louder voice than the Pinki I used to know. By the way, Pinki is a common name I assign to each female street cat that has been a part of our family since 2023. Even now, there are two Pinkis at home: one raised by us, and the other, her good-looking grandmother, taken care of by our neighbor, Athira.

So, without hesitation, I asked the name of this cute-looking cat, who must be five years old, with brown and white patches. Her name was Maimoona.

“Maimoo,” I fondly called.

“Did you have chai?” I asked Aunty. I usually ask this to auto drivers and aunties who work by the road, just to remind them to have food or drinks on time.

“No, but I asked for a person to get me chai,” she replied. A few minutes later, that man came with her chai and snacks. She offered me chai. However, I had to politely refuse as I had just finished drinking a liter of water after traveling to Bakel Fort.

Sadly, the drinking water facility by the Archaeological Survey of India at the fort was not working. In addition, they hiked the prices of the books by their publication division from Rs 100 to Rs 280, due to which they have canceled selling books since they are waiting for the new orders. I did raise a written complaint about the water and spoke to them about why such a huge price for books will be counterproductive. Barring these two issues, Bakel Fort was a nice memory.

I saw scenic views of the beach from different angles, sat under the mango trees, gave a mango to a child, and walked around the fort for around 90 minutes.

Then I walked another 2 km before reaching this landmark where Maimoona and Aunty were sitting.

“What’s your name?” I then asked Aunty.

“I’m Shakeela,” she said with a smile.

“What are you doing here?” she asked me. I told her about my sister who is studying at the Central University of Kerala. She also asked me about my job and was impressed by the work-from-home aspect of my work.

Her house was just 500 meters away from the stand. Every morning, she starts selling fish around 6 am, and finishes by the time the last Islamic call to prayer (Bank Vili in Malayalam) is undertaken. She has been doing this work for the past 15 years.

“So, how much do you earn per day?” I asked her.

“I earn about Rs 10,000 to Rs 15,000 every day,” Shakeela Aunty responded. I told her the sad truth that many of the educated youth in Kerala are earning Rs 15,000 to Rs 30,000 a month. And many more are earning even less. For a moment, I even wondered whether she meant Rs 1,500.

In the meantime, she offered me delicious snacks which resembled pazham pori (banana fritters) that were cut into small pieces. I grabbed a bite or two and shared with Maimoona.

“I’ll be giving it to Maimoo anyway,” she said in her nice Kasargodan slang. I love the way normal people speak Kasargod Malayalam.

Last night, the aunty who made Pathal and Chicken Chukka for me also asked if I am enjoying the food (barkath undo?) in the Kasargodan way.

She insisted on the need for more pazham-pori-like snacks in quantity, but since my stomach was full, I politely refused, though the taste was good.

Meanwhile, in the twenty minutes that we spoke, she attended to three customers, two of whom bought Mathi (Indian Oil Sardine) for Rs 100 and Rs 80 respectively, and one bought Ayala (Indian Mackerel) for Rs 200.

Shakeela Aunty also has a husband, a daughter who is married, and a son who is studying a diploma course.

As we were talking, another person came near us, wearing a blue shirt, similar to the one I had in 2014, which I wore for the Each One Teach One (an educational programme for less privileged children) event. A second later, another college student passed us, wearing a Diesel bag, one that I had during Plus Two years.

When Shakeela Aunty was busy dealing with customers, a shared auto came our way. I hopped in. As I was about to leave, I looked at Shakeela Aunty and waved goodbye with a small smile.

She smiled back and shook her head with a subtle acknowledgement.

Will we meet again? I do not know. But the twenty minutes I spent with Shakeela Aunty and Maimoona will remain a special memory in my mind.