One Foot In The Grave

IV

Ahalya saunters in the kitchen, holding the ladle and searching the cupboards above for black pepper. She has a habit of labelling all her spices, and this box seems to be misplaced. The argument from the morning holds a little space in her mind. But Vishwa is the opposite of her. Loud Urdu voices from the television prove her point (since her husband knows not a word of that language and keeps watching the channel for the last hour). At first, she thinks he's been watching the people move, but it's a news channel and the reporter with a long, silver beard was doing nothing but narrating the news.

She finds the black pepper-box in the bottom right cupboard and grabs it before it vanishes again. While she second-guesses about putting the extra spice, the pressure cooker whistles for the third time. She bobs her head until the whistle ends, kills the flame and puts the cooker away on the kitchen table. Cooking always enticed her. Since her mother used to work late in the bank, she would return from school or college and cook for both of them. She prides in the fact that her mother loved her cooking more than her own. After the marriage, cooking became a responsibility, not that she's complaining. Vishwa is always happy to help, but she finds comfort in doing this alone. And she could never explain why.

The warmth in the room is rising as her skin slightly prickles. She stirs the gravy along with the pieces of potato. Its complexion looks intensely orange in the argentine room. She lifts the ladle, draws a bit of gravy with her finger and tastes it. Perfect. Then, she dances her tongue inside her mouth and decides against the pepper. Too much spice can spook the old woman.

"Is the food ready?" Vishwa's voice breaks her thoughts.

She twists around and sees him standing at the door. The smile he usually carries is gone, and he looks different without it—more crippled and detached from her. She hates it. No one likes to be detached from the person they love. Definitely, not for a second time in one lifetime. This isn't the first time they've argued in recent times and she could sense the cracks in their relationship expanding, finding their roots. A strange sensation subdues her body. Fear? Guilt? She isn't sure anymore.

"Almost," Ahalya answers and turns back.

She could tell he left. Part of her hopes he didn't and would come forward, hold her from behind, and apologize. She clears the sweat on her forehead and puts the few strands of her hair away. Her fingers pause when they trace the back of her ear, their tips touching the thin, distended scars. They were from when they first moved into this house—from the days Vishwa considered leaving his mother independent isn't a problem. He actually thought she was on a path of redemption. He changed his mind later though; he had to.

Ahalya still remembers the day she was attacked like it was yesterday. Carrying a plate of food into the old woman's room, opening the door with shaky hands and finding the room empty and losing her sanity—everything is fresh in her mind. The memories associated with that woman wouldn't depart so soon. Vishwa told her his mother had moved on, so they assumed she was done with the sketches.

She stepped into the room, only to get attacked from behind the door. The woman was waiting for her. Ahalya remembers being pinned to the floor, the scattered rice glued to her left cheek, while she was blocking the woman's face using her free hand. The woman kept yelling, 'How do you know my father?' and 'Why did you draw those sketches?' repeatedly, and Ahalya choked on her breath. She knocked Ahalya to the floor and held her by the ears as if she was a doll.

It took Ahalya several minutes to move any part of the body. Her face reddened and burned in pain. Her nose began bleeding, body trembling with adrenaline. She had to wiggle backwards and kick the woman in the side. Once clear of her grip, she rushed out, locking the door on her way out and leaning her weight against it. For every kick the woman left on the door, Ahalya shivered three-fold. The screams of that day were hellish; indescribable.

Ahalya shakes the memory away, turns the stove off and from the shelf under the table, she picks a faded green plastic plate. The clarity of these remembrances scared her sometimes. This woman sought to kill her two times, and Ahalya knows she's only losing sleep thinking about her. She fills the plate with steamed rice and serves the curry on the right. "The food is ready," she shouts.

Her right foot traps in a loop of tapping the floor as she waits.

Vishwa walks in after a few minutes and takes the plate. He doesn't look at her. She wants to grab his hand and say, 'Maybe it's better if you eat first?' Then she sees the sketches in his other hand and says nothing. Somehow, by a daunting confusion, she remains quiet, studying the slender, erratic white lines on the granite top of the kitchen table. The sketches made her numb. She can tell he's planning to stay longer today. She doesn't like it. To be honest, she prefers him to drop the plate and return. Holding the woman in the house is one thing, but spending time with her seems self-destructive. He claims she has no effect on him and that he's enjoying her vulnerability, but Ahalya knows that isn't true. It never was. This woman always got her claws into him. He's bleeding; they're bleeding and he's too blind to see it.

Ahalya watches him leave, then moves to the sink and washes her face. The touch of cold water fetches life into her bleak skin. What can she do but wait and trust the man she loves?