Lounge Fiction Special 2025: ‘Ocean of Spines’ by Prashanth Srivatsa

Sushmita throws him a grim look from the doorway.

“Are you going to make coffee today or what?"

“Not today." 

It is a ritual he has forsaken in order to sail the ocean. Every morning, it is he who prepares coffee for the family. Not a gracious act, but it is a tradition that has turned into an instinct. To the point where even the filter disobeys the touch of another. 

For the next four hours, he rifles through the books. At first, it is a passionate and nostalgic dive into his past. He chuckles at the middle-grade fantasies he’d devoured as an adolescent; smells the spines of the old classics his grandfather had handed him down in an act of inheritance. Some books he is surprised to find, like crumpled hundred-rupee notes in old pant pockets. But soon, the task assumes the shape of labour. He slows down with stories he does not fully recall. The characters are silhouettes and shadows, their names like billboards on a highway he’d driven through a long time ago. He reads entire pages before he can confidently mutter, this is not the one. 

At lunch, it is not Sushmita who announces her presence at the door, but Amma. His stomach grumbles. 

“We need to go to Shankar’s in the evening," she says at the table. Sushmita quietly gets up after her first bite, and returns from the kitchen with the jar of salt. She sprinkles a pinch on the sambar and gives it a stir. Amma does not pronounce her guilt. “Provided I find what I’m looking for," says Anand. 

“You’ve been acting edho very strange since morning," says Amma. “I have not even had my coffee yet, the filter is not working again. And what is with all the books on the floor? What are you looking for?" Anand plants a sliced drumstick between his teeth and sucks the sap.  “A story. I suddenly remembered a scene from a story a couple of days ago. It sounds so familiar in my head, but I just can’t place it. It has to be from a book I read."   

“If it is important, it will come to you," says Amma. “If it is not, stop wasting your time."

“It’s not important. But I just want to know which book it was from before it eats me alive." “Have you considered searching on the internet?" asks Sushmita. “You could just google the scene, you know." 

“Where would I be without you?" Anand snarls. “Of course, I googled the scene. I have asked about it on some of my WhatsApp reading groups as well. No answer."  

“Then maybe you’ve just imagined it," says Amma. Anand stands up, morsels of rice dropping from his fingers. “I did not imagine it, okay? I swear I have read it somewhere, and I am going to find out where."

“God, what has gotten into you today? Fine, at least tell me the scene. Maybe I will know." 

“No, leave it." He storms to the wash basin, ignoring Amma’s pleas to return and finish the lunch. The ocean swirls. The ship beckons. The captain obliges. 

                                                  *****

They drive to Shankar Mama’s in the evening. At the door, Amma holds Anand back. “Give me the box."  

“What box? I don’t have any box." 

“The box I asked you to carry to Shankar’s house. If you would get out of that dungeon of yours to actually listen to people, you’d remember these simple tasks." 

Anand exchanges a glance with his wife. Sushmita subtly shakes her head. There is no box, she wishes to say, but her lips remain pursed. She backs away, as though this is not a battle worth meddling in. She casts away her slippers and saunters into Shankar Mama’s home. Anand mutters an apology and follows his mother inside, who is grumpy enough for her brother to take note of. “I’ll get you the box next week," says Amma. 

“What, this one?" Mami peeks in from the kitchen, waving the small, steel box in her hand. “You gave this to us last week, ka. I am packing some carrot halwa in this for the family today. You’ll like it." 

Amma frowns, as though there is an explanation for this dilation of time that has occurred. Anand’s head starts to pound. “No, Mami," he says politely. “Sushmita and I’ve stopped eating sweets." He does not want the box anywhere near his house.

“What rubbish!" snaps Amma. “Since when do you not like sweets?" “Leave it, ka," says Mami. “That’s how this generation is these days. No sweets, no sugar. All protein, protein, protein." “We ate everything," says Amma. “Turned out fine only, no?" 

                                                    ***** 

Anand has not made coffee in three days. The online forums throw a blank. As does the local librarian. He prowls the library’s aisles like a cat that has dropped the tail of a mouse long dead. He visits a bookstore, and relays the scene to the curator. “That is a very specific memory," says the uncle. “I don’t think I have come across it. Are you sure it’s not from a movie or something?" 

“Quite certain."

“Sorry to not be of more help, Anand. But listen, feel free to look around, okay?" 

On the way back, in the bus, he deletes the social media applications on his phone. It is information overload, he is certain. He has been tirelessly consuming, consuming, consuming, and now he has forgotten the origins of this tender scene stuck in his head. How much longer, before even the scene is forgotten? He cannot let his memory win this battle. He cannot forget having already returned steel boxes in the future. 

Come night, after Sushmita has gone to bed, the scene winds up in his diary. A mess of visuals and scattered thoughts: the trees, the scents, even the shadows, until it consumes every waking moment. It is impossible that he can conjure this sliver of his past, and not remember to whom this story belonged. 

In the heart of dawn, he wakes up sweating from a nightmare, where he has forgotten his own name, and goes on a long journey to uncover it. In the darkness, he takes deep breaths. He tries to recall the capital of Libya as an exercise. Tripoli. He tries Ethiopia next. Addis Ababa. Repeats a litany of random historical events. He even mutters his own name for consolation. Finds a morsel of peace. But, no. Too easy. He decides to list all the States and Union Territories. Forgets one state, realises a while later that it is Nagaland. Berates himself for it. Sensing his unrest, Sushmita rolls around, half awake, and wraps an arm around his waist. “You look like you ran a marathon in your sleep."  

He shrugs her hand away, slips out of bed and begins to pace the room. 

“This has gone on for too long, Anand," says Sushmita. “Don’t think I can’t see it. What is happening with her is not something you can avoid. But you…at this rate, you’ll lose your mind." 

“Maybe I’ve already lost it."

She takes a deep breath. “Do you remember my visa interview for Paris?"

“Of course. You forgot your appointment letter." “And I didn’t even remember where at home I’d left it. I cried on the phone to you. This trip meant everything to me at work. You asked me to calm down. You scoured every room. Turned cupboards inside out. You found it. And you rushed to the centre with the letter. Only — 

“In all the rush and panic, I forgot to carry my wallet," he completes for her. She smiles. “I came out and paid for your auto. And I got my visa." 

He remembers the chaos of those hours. The upending of their home to uncover a single piece of paper. He senses where Sushmita is getting at, but she needs to know the truth. “I lied to you, Sush. It was not I who found the appointment letter that day. It was Amma." 

                                                          ***** 

He senses he is close to finding the story. It cannot evade him forever. He has read many books, but they are not infinite, and he is catching up to his own history. Returning to his grandfather’s cavernous room, Anand feathers the spines of the books scattered on the floor, as though they are a spell to reveal a secret he has lost the password to. A photo of his grandfather looms over the bookshelf, a reminder of where the stories came from. He is smiling inside the frame, almost in mockery.

The scene flickers in his mind. Fades and reappears and fades again. The fingers of his mind struggle to cling to the loose strands of the tale as they slip away. He scrambles to look for his diary. It is missing. 

“Did you see my diary?" he asks Amma, the finder of all lost objects. She is sitting at the dining table, solving the Sunday crossword in the newspaper. The light of the sun angles in from the balcony, casting her bent frame in shades of gold and bronze. Her greyed hair with the russet relics of henna sway like a garden of lilies and hibiscus against the morning breeze. 

She doesn’t look up from the paper. “No, I have not," she says, the pen swaying between her fingers. And when Anand doesn’t take the battle forward, she adds in a low voice, “Unless it’s urgent, I’ll look for it in some time." 

He watches her struggle with the crossword. She has never needed help. But she has always squeezed into the empty spaces carved open by the people in her life, and given them what they wanted. It is why he has refused to tell her the story. If she cannot give him an answer, he will shatter. He retreats into his grandfather’s room, and rummages the scatter of books for his diary. Looks beneath the pillow in his bedroom. Scours the hall and the kitchen. Nothing. 

An hour later, he returns the books to their shelves, and the cardboard boxes to the loft. He has conceded defeat, but for the last glimmer of hope. At the dining table, Amma is still buried in the newspaper. “Did you find the diary?" he asks. 

“What diary?"

His mouth opens and closes. He continues to stand there, in that half space, between truly being there, and having left. “Do you want to hear the scene?"

Amma looks up from the newspaper. “You’re still looking for that bloody book?"

He shrugs. “Okay, tell me." 

He narrates the scene before he can forget it. When he’s finished, she turns her face towards the balcony, beginning to excavate the muddy slopes of her thoughts. She is his grandfather’s daughter, after all. The stories were her inheritance before they became his. A minute later, she gives a gentle shake of her head and says, “No, kanna. I don’t think I ever heard a story like this before." 

Anand sighs. Amma has already returned to being buried in the newspaper with a scowl on her face, the pen swinging once more between her fingers. He turns to leave. 

“Wait, wait. Before you go, can you tell me what Kohima is the capital of?" He stops in his tracks. “Nagaland," he says. 

She frowns at the crossword, as though it has tricked her by hiding in plain sight. “Right, that fits perfectly. Thanks da kanna." She begins to scribble down the letters into the little square boxes. Her smile is beatific. 

Sushmita appears from the bedroom, drying her soaking hair with a towel. She is carrying something under her arm. “I found your diary on the toilet stand last night. Do you shit reading your own thoughts or what?" 

Anand does not reach for the diary. Instead, he says, “Do you want some coffee?" 

Prashanth Srivatsa is a writer from Bengaluru, India. His debut novel, The Spice Gate, was published by HarperCollins in July 2024. 

This story was selected from submissions received in an open call for an original work of fiction for Mint Lounge.

Also read: Fiction Special 2025: ‘No End’ by Ruth Vanita