Theyya Kochamma
by Salini Vineeth
When I first saw Theyya Kochamma1, I didn’t know she was a ghost. I was at the bus stop, scrolling Insta, Hanumankind blasting through my new headphones. The track was a total bop, and it sent me right into a trance. One moment, I was on the curb, and the next, I was smack in the middle of the road, my nose an inch from a bus. The conductor swung out of its front door like a pole dancer and started this whole TED talk on girls-these-days-with-their-mobile-phones. I was so shook that I jumped onto the bus.
Then, I saw her at the bus stop, looking straight at me. She looked like my Amma2.
“Ticket, ticket,” the conductor barked, and I said, “Next stop.” Maybe I could hang out at Abhi’s for a bit, I thought. I knew Abhi wouldn’t be highkey excited to see me. He would never let me enter his apartment gate. He would be like, “The association is super strict; if they catch us, they’ll make us register as a live-in couple,” and I was like, “What a bunch of sickos!” Anyway, Abhi and I always hooked up at my place or OYO rooms. They’re lit, iykyk.
I didn’t know Abhi lived in such a dump. The tiny elevator was super packed – a giggly toddler and her nanny, a bunch of Zomato and Swiggy guys, and a salty old couple. I wedged myself between the nanny and the old woman. The elevator stank of smoke, and everyone looked at me as if I were sus. I would’ve told them to mind their business, and especially, that uncle to find someone else’s boobs to stare at. But I didn’t want to make a dark scene and get Abhi into trouble. Anyway, they all dipped out at the next floor, and I was like, “Ah, thank God!”
Then I saw her again. In a corner of the elevator, puffing a beedi, her sari hitched up high and tucked into her waist. She threw her fist into the air and went like, “Gandhi ki jai.3” No, no, I wasn’t losing it. It was exactly what she said: no cap.
When the elevator door opened at the next floor, I dipped out as fast as I could.
“Bruh, what are you doing here?” Abhi was shook. I pushed open his door, dragged us both in, pinned him onto the wall, kissed his neck, and went down. His musk cologne killed the tobacco smell.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, stop it, OK? What’s your deal? I’ve told ya it’s not cool here. My roomie is gonna wig out,” Abhi pushed me out of the apartment and locked the door behind him. “I’ll call an Uber. Go home now. I’ll text you the OYO address.”
“Get lost! I am not down bad! Do it yourself in your OYO room!”
I jumped down two stairs at a time. I was about to cry fr. The jingle of glass bangles drove me crazy.
• • •
Back home, I called Amma, and she was like, “Ah, the princess has finally got the time to call me! Did you see my photo on the obituary page or what?” and I was like, why tf did I even call her? Good girls this, good girls that, marriage, settling down – I couldn’t deal with her drama.
But now, I had no choice. Before she drove me nuts, I spilled the tea. “I … I saw someone today; she looks like you. But … I think it’s a ghost.”
“Wh … what? Did you … you saw her? She has never appeared in front of me. Oh! It’s already mid-July, and I forgot. It’s all my fault. I’ll arrange for the Qurbana tomorrow itself—” As usual, Amma went on like yap, yap, yap.
“Listen to me for a sec! Who is she?”
“The ghost of Theyya Kochamma,” Amma said as if it was basic info.
“Theyya Kochamma?”
“Yes, yes, my aunt. My mother’s younger sister.”
“What? I’ve never heard of her. How come?”
“No one talks about Theyya Kochamma. I doubt if anyone even remembers her except me. Not that I want to, but Kochamma wouldn’t let me forget her. Every July, around her death anniversary, she starts throwing tantrums and won’t stop until I offer a Qurbana for her soul. This time, I forgot. Did she scare you?”
“No, no, umm … Maybe … She just stood there in a corner of … Umm …”
“Corner of what?”
“Why nobody talks about her?”
“In a corner of?”
“What’s the matter with you? In a corner of the bus stop, alright? So, what was her deal? How did she die?”
“Theyya Kochamma wasn’t a good woman. She lived a life of sin, and God punished her. That’s all you need to know.”
“Bruh, your dead aunt just manifested in front of me, OK? I gotta know more.”
“I have told you not to call me bro.”
“Alright, alright. Now tell me.”
So, Amma told me the ghost’s lore: Thressyamma, aka Theyya Kochamma, was married off at sixteen, widowed at nineteen, eloped with some hobo, returned a year later, hooked up with many guys, lived alone, and died in a car accident.
• • •
The next day, after her usual cringe good morning message, Amma hit me up with some good news. “I have arranged for a Qurbana. Kochamma won’t bother you anymore.” I sent a thumbs up. “Have you eaten? How’s your work?” she asked. I killed WhatsApp.
So, I went about my day, totally chill, trusting Amma’s ghostbusting skillz. I had no clue that Kochamma cared two hoots about Amma’s Qurbana.
Around midnight, I started getting this really dark vibe. I was highkey scared. I opened the bedroom door, and there she was, Theyya Kochamma, perched on the kitchen counter, gobbling my avocado ice cream. “Hey, you dumb ghost! Quit eating my ice cream,” I wanted to yell, but no voice came out. I slammed the bedroom door and called Amma.
“The ghost is back. She’s eating my avocado ice cream.”
“What!? Didn’t the Qurbana work? Maybe she’s angry that I forgot. I should’ve been more careful …” As usual, Amma started talking to herself.
“Why is your ghost haunting me?”
“Don’t call her my ghost; she is not ancestral property. Your ice cream might have lured her in. She loved butter fruit, umm … I mean avocado.”
“OK, OK. Tell me what to do now. That ice cream cost two hundred bucks.”
“Ah, now you’re worried about money! What did you tell me when you bought that fancy earphones? ‘My company stocks are hitting the roof,’ right? And every week you go shopping, how many shoes do you have? Don’t get me started on your clothes. When will you start saving money? You aren’t a spring chicken anymore, OK?”
I was kinda tempted to hang up on her if not for the ghost in my kitchen.
“Oh, come on, it’s a Boss Bluetooth headphone, not some ‘lame earphones.’ Anyway, forget it! What do I do now?”
“I don’t know. Just stay wherever you are and let her eat the ice cream. I’ll come there tomorrow; I’ll fix everything.”
Oh no, no … It was bad news.
“No, no, you don’t have to come. Just tell me what to do. Like, have you got any prayers or something?”
“Ha! So, now you want prayers, huh? Will you perform exorcism, too? Don’t try your crazy ideas on her, OK? I will meet the priest and find some remedy. Don’t do anything until I get there.” For a change, Amma hung up on me.
I opened the door just a crack. Theyya Kochamma looked up from the ice cream tub, scrunched up her nose, and stuck her tongue out at me. I shut the bedroom door, swigged a few shots, and was soon zonked.
• • •
Oh, man, the next morning, I was fried. My head weighed a ton. I literally crawled to the refrigerator and opened the freezer for some ice. The ice cream tub was back in the freezer, and Theyya Kochamma had left me a spoonful. Aww … that was lowkey sweet.
The ghost had crashed on my couch, and she went like brr, brr, snoring like an engine. Maybe it was the vodka, but I smacked her real hard with a broom. She sat up, hammered, counting stars. LOL.
I was like, “Hey, what do you want?” and she was like, “Gandhi-ji is the greatest of all. He’s the only hero I worship. Gandhi, oh my Gandhi …” and I was like, what the hell? I asked her again, and she went on and on about Gandhi. Why was she talking about this Gandhi guy? Maybe I was losing it.
But this wasn’t the time to stay cooked. Amma was coming. I threw out empty bottles and cigarette cartons, cleaned the house, hid my i-pills, and washed weeks’ worth of laundry. The whole day, Kochamma watched me from the couch, puffing her beedi and going yap-yap about Gandhi. She disappeared when the doorbell rang.
• • •
“What’s that smell? Are you smoking?” Amma was her usual salty self. She scrunched up her nose, and it made her look exactly like Theyya Kochamma.
“Nope. Not me; it’s your ghost.”
“Stop calling her my ghost. Where is she? Is she around?” Amma scoped my one-bedroom apartment.
“She was here like just five minutes ago; maybe she doesn’t like your aura.”
“Yeah, whatever that means. It’s already dusk. Why haven’t you lit a candle? And … Where is the photo of the holy family I gave you?”
Oh man, I had totally forgotten to clean the prayer niche and place the holy fam’s photo there. When I moved in, Amma had set up a corner of the living room with candles, a cross and a snap of Jesus-Mary-Joseph. But whenever I made out with Abhi on the couch, they stared right at me, and it gave me the ick. So, I locked them up in my cupboard.
“Bring me the photo, let’s pray.”
Amma dusted the prayer niche and placed the picture of the holy fam in it. She lit a candle and muttered her prayers. I yawned.
“Do you even go to church? No wonder Theyya Kochamma came to you,” Amma said after her prayers.
“Why are you so hung up on church? I don’t know what God has to do with Ghosts.”
“You’re just like her – no faith and full of arrogance. You know, all my friends’ daughters are so good. I feel like my skin peeling off with shame when people send me your photos … and …”
“Yeah, blah blah … get off with your sermon,” I muttered.
“What did you just say? Have you started mocking me, too?” Amma was about to crash out on me. But then, Kochamma appeared on her spot.
“Look, she’s back!”
“Where? I can’t see her. Where is she? Where?” Amma ran around the apartment as if she were possessed.
“Here, on the couch.”
Amma jumped at her bag, fished out a bottle and started sprinkling water on the couch. “The priest has spiked the holy water with some powerful prayers.”
Kochamma laughed and flicked the water off from her sari.
“Is she gone?” Amma asked.
“No, she’s still there.”
“Now?” Amma went feral, sprinkling water everywhere.
“Nope. Nada. She ain’t afraid of your holy water.”
“Hmm … I should’ve known. When she was alive, she wasn’t afraid of God. During the Sunday mass, she would sneak out and climb the butter fruit tree in the rectory. No one dared to stop her. What to say? She was a loose woman, taking lovers, living alone, drinking, and smoking.”
“Boyfriends, drinking, smoking; so that’s the definition of loose women. Yeah, makes total sense!”
“See, you’re just like her. God is seeing everything. You’ll pay for your arrogance.”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re right. You’re the goody-goody type. What good came out of that?” Oof … I had lost my filter for a sec. Amma threw the holy water bottle at me and stormed into the only bedroom.
The whole time, Theyya Kochamma was watching us as if it was a lit show.
“Are you happy now?” I asked her.
“Gandhi ki jai!” She punched the air.
• • •
In the next few days, I completely lost it. Theyya Kochamma crashed on my couch all day, reading my magazines, puffing beedi and yapping about Gandhi. Meanwhile, Amma, reeking of her Dubai perfume, smothered me. She would start her day with prayers: sitting, standing, kneeling, singing, chanting, and clapping: loud enough to wake the whole damn street. Throughout the day, she would drag me for nothing: “What’s this stuff you’re eating? Tastes like dog food.” “Oh my God! Your face wash cost more than a thousand rupees!” “Your hair isn’t even gray. Why do you color it? Don’t you know you’ll get cancer?” “Your house is a dump; no wonder it attracted a ghost!” Then, she would start cleaning: arranging and rearranging my cupboards, scrubbing and rescrubbing the floor, mopping and dusting, as if it would shake off the ghost. After cleaning, she would start a cooking frenzy: peeling, chopping, frying, stirring, tasting, and sulking.
“Has she gone?” “What about now?” “Is she still there?” Amma would holler, running around the house like a headless chicken. Theyya Kochamma would laugh her head off.
The remote work was already driving me crazy af. Now, it was worse. Amma would waltz into my room while I was on my work calls. She would stand smack in front of the camera in her nightie, holding a knife, a broom, and a ladle. And she would be like: “Are you hungry?” “Do you have laundry?” “What will you have for snacks?” “Should I clean your toilet?” All that in front of my colleagues. Big yikes!
After I got off my shift, I would try to sneak out, but Amma would be like, “Where are you going?” “Who are you meeting? “There are no vegetables.” “Take me with you, I need to do grocery shopping.” I knew she was shit scared to be home alone with Theyya Kochamma.
Theyya Kochamma wasn’t a total L like Amma. But she was a boujee. Some nights, she would go missing, snagging my party wear, purses and heels. The next morning, my stuff would reappear, smelling of cigarettes and cologne. She was sure slaying it out there at every drip party in the city, and I was stuck at home with Amma. Man, how I wished I could tag along!
“I think Kochamma has left. You can go home.” I said, but Amma wouldn’t buy it.
“No, she’s here. I can feel it. I can’t leave you two together.”
“Why? She doesn’t creep me out anymore.”
“That’s not the point. At first, I thought she was here to harm you, but she’s not. She’s here to have fun with you. If I leave you two alone, she’ll land you in trouble. When she was alive, she tried really hard to get me into trouble, buying me things, introducing me to boys, and taking me out to movies. I liked it, too, but thankfully, my mother found out in time and talked some sense into me. Otherwise, I would’ve turned out like Kochamma. In the end, she turned crazy, you know. She would roam around the village all day. Then, in the evening, she sat in the toddy shop, drinking and blabbering about Gandhi. She believed Gandhi was alive and had asked her to marry him.”
“I think she’s still in love with Gandhi. LOL.”
“So, the point is, I’ll leave when I am convinced that she has left!” Amma dropped the bomb.
Days passed. No cigarettes. No booze. No sex. Man, I was fried. Finally, I turned to my bestie, ChatGPT, who always understood the assignment.
“How do I shake off a ghost who has crashed at my place?”
“To exorcise a house ghost, you may try cleansing rituals such as:
- Smudging: Burning sage, palo santo, or camphor can remove the negative energy.
- Salt: Sprinkling salt around the perimeter of the house and on windows can repel ghosts.
- Garlic: Keeping garlic pods and smoking the house with garlic can get rid of the ghost.”
Theyya Kochamma ate our cleansing rituals and left no crumbs. Man, she got real pissed. My clothes came back with holes, our food turned salty, our milk always split, and our plates and glasses shattered on the floor, like Kaboom! She was giving crazy vibes.
I told ChatGPT what happened, and he suggested another way – instead of trying to fry the ghost, we should create good vibes by fulfilling her dreams.
“Did Kochamma have any unfulfilled dreams?” I asked Amma.
“Oh! That woman’s motto was ‘live life queen-size.’ So, I doubt … Umm … There’s one thing. The day she died, she wanted to go to a movie, a rerun of Avalude Ravukal. She came home to pick me up, and my Amma blasted her for taking me to an adult movie. She called her a loose woman and accused her of spoiling me. Kochamma called Amma names and stomped off to the toddy shop. She died that evening. Maybe if I had gone with her, she wouldn’t have died.”
“You should totally watch that movie with her. That’s the move. Bet!”
• • •
I found Avalude Ravukal4 on YouTube, and we three watched it. Kochamma and I stared at the screen while Amma squirmed at the bedroom scenes.
The movie really ticked Amma off. “Oh, how could that girl sink so low? Anyway, she got the punishment!” Amma said afterward.
“You’ve gotta be kidding. You think it’s the girl’s fault that she got raped?” I asked.
“Then whose fault? Girls should know how to control themselves; whether a leaf falls on a thorn or thorn falls on a leaf, it’s the leaf that gets damaged. Not just in the movie, in real life too.”
“If you have something to tell me, say it to my face.” I don’t know what ticked me off.
“I have nothing to say. I don’t want to have this conversation with you.”
“Oh, come on, Just say it! Or, I’ll say it. You think my life is a wreck. Everything I do is wrong – the way I dress, talk, eat, laugh. I am fucking sick of your judgment.”
“Don’t act like you’re a victim. All my friends’ daughters are living a modest life, obeying their parents and God. But you? You live as you wish. Have you ever thought what people will say? People always blame the mother. Your drinking, smoking, and your boyfriends; people say it’s all my fault. And you put everything on that stupid Instagram of yours. Do whatever you want, but at least don’t announce it to the whole world.”
“Oh, wow! That’s epic. So, you want me to be like all those girls, giving off happy vibes even when they’re going crazy. Or better, I’ll be like you, get all those bloody beatings at night and bring him breakfast in bed. I am not a coward like you.”
“Don’t talk about your father like that. He’s the one who provides for us,” Amma said, tears rolling down her cheeks.
“Maybe for you, but not for me, not anymore … and you …you—” Words stuck to my throat. I looked at Theyya Kochamma for support. She just threw her head back on the couch and closed her eyes. Did I make her cry too?
• • •
As it turned out, watching the movie was a dumb move. Kochamma became highkey obsessed with YouTube. She binge-watched old Malayalam flicks. She was in total feels after watching this movie, Chemmeen5. It’s the story of this girl, Karuthamma and her rich bae, Pareekkutty. I had lost my cigs and booze; I would go crazy if she hogged my TV, too.
“Is there anything else she wanted to do?” I asked Amma.
“Huh! She would always talk about taking me to the toddy shop. But I knew Amma would break my legs. So, I never went with her.”
“Wait … wait for a second. Maybe Kochamma will leave if you had a shot with her?”
“Shot? What shot?”
“Umm … I mean liquor. Have a glass with her; she’ll leave us alone.”
Theyya Kochamma rolled her eyes at me from the couch. But I couldn’t think of a better excuse to fix myself up with some vodka. I dragged Amma to Madhuloka on the next street. Man, she lost it when she saw all those gurls buying booze!
• • •
I laid out three shot glasses on the living room floor and poured the vodka into them. Amma took a sip and wrinkled her face.
“What’s this? Acid? I am not drinking it.”
“It’s just vodka. Wait, I’ll mix it with juice; it will taste better.”
Amma sipped the vodka juice while Theyya Kochamma and I gulped shot after shot as if it were a drinking game.
“You know why she isn’t leaving me? She is angry with me. I was her favorite niece. What did I do, huh? Pushed her away, made fun of her, like everyone else. It wasn’t an accident, you know. The night she died, she went to the toddy shop after fighting with my Amma. Some pervert tried to take her home. She shouted at him and ran away from the toddy shop. He chased her in his Ambassador and hit her. When the police told us all this, my father said, ‘She deserved it. We won’t claim that loose woman’s body.’ The police buried her somewhere. I don’t even know where. That rich bastard got away easily. If I had gone with her to the movie, she wouldn’t have died. No, she wouldn’t have been murdered. I would never forgive myself for that. You’re right, I am a coward. Kochamme, I am sorry … I am soooo sorry.” Amma rested her head on my shoulder and sobbed for a while. “OK, tell me something, you smoke ganja? You use drugs? I am scared, Molu. I am so scared about what will happen to you,” Amma said, still sobbing.
“Oh, come on! I don’t do drugs. Weed, yeah, maybe one or two times. You gotta chill, OK? I won’t turn out to be like your Kochamma. I know my game; I have no plan to get run over by a perv,” I said.
“You’re a smart girl, I know. My smart, smart, smarty pants.” Amma giggled.
• • •
The next morning, I woke up with a hangover, and Theyya Kochamma wasn’t there.
“I think Kochamma is gone.” I shook Amma up.
“Let her go, let her go and be free. I also want to be free. Call your father. I am going to divorce him. Call that bloody fellow. I’ll stay here with my daughter. Get me another glass of that vodka juice! I loooove that magic juice.” Amma shoved her glass in my face. At that moment, I knew I had roped in a bigger problem than poor Theyya Kochamma.
My life, as we know it, was over. Period.
Copyright © 2026 by Salini Vineeth
