They call her "Bhua." Those who know her, and even those who don't. They say, see that rich and crazy Bhua feed her army of bonny cats. The cats sit around her, waiting for the fish heads, and then they purr and lick their paws clean. She buys them from our savings, but the savings are fast dwindling, and the cat count is rising.

I call her "Bhua" though she is my mom and not my aunt. I comb her waist-length hair and let her feed the cats. When they cry in the night like babies, she purrs to them as tears irrigate my muddy cheeks. As soon as the morning sun shines, I put on my disguise and sit shifting on my poky bones. To beg for her and the cats.

 

This is the Third Prize winner of Cha's "Misinterpretation" Flash Fiction Contest. Read a description of the piece by Hema S. Raman here.