What was I trying to paint? I step back and study the painting on my easel.
"This looks super sad?" Nia says, walking beside me, munching chips.
"W... what?"
"Your painting." She turns the empty chips packed upside and exhales. "All I see is a lot of grey on the canvas. All cool at the gallery?"
I nod and drop the brush into the vase.
She slumps into the sofa and twiddles her thumbs on the phone screen. "Is there food?"
"I'm tired, honey. Could you fix yourself —"
"FINE. Not hungry." She plugs her earphones, closes her eyes, and taps to music I can't hear.
I'm too drained to yell back. She was a nice kid, simple and undemanding, until last year. Maybe she misses Keshav — it wasn't her fault it didn't work out between us. She's sixteen now. Should understand why we divorced.
I place the tawa on the burner, feel the warmth with my palm and drop a wad of butter over the frozen Kerala paratha — she likes the excess butter dripping off — just like Keshav. "Any preference for curry?" I flip the paratha, "Curry?" I lean out from the kitchen.
She snorts and returns to the phone, rubbing her finger lightly under her nose — Keshav's habit.
"Tofu?" I raise my voice to be heard over the earphones. "Tofu and beans?"
She frowns and unplugs the earphones. "Anything is fine for fuck —"
"WHAT!"
She stomps to her bedroom and slams the door. The tawa sizzles, and I flip the Paratha. Too late; it's burned. I discard it and start over. Wish I could start over, too.
"Grab a bite, Nia," I yell at the closed door.
My phone buzzes — it's Revati. It's quarter past ten. Why is she calling so late?
"Hey, Rev."
"You're at home?"
"Yup."
"Did you get the closure notice? I emailed it to you."
I shudder and grab the dining chair for support.
"Reena? You here?"
"Uh-huh."
"Shall we talk tomorrow?"
"How long do we have?"
"By this month's end."
"They gave us just one week?" The phone slides off my hands. I pull out a dining chair and rest my head on the glass top. Somewhere on the floor, Revati's voice jitters and fades.
"Mum." I feel fingers through my hair and squint at the light. "You all right?"
I nod, clutching my hair for the faint headache.
"Here." She cups my chin and tips a glass of water over my lips. "Did you take your meds?"
I gulp and wipe my mouth with the back of my palm. "I forgot." Her plate is still on the table with the paratha, now cold. I glance at the clock: half-past twelve. "Had dinner?"
"Not without you."
She carries the plate to the kitchen, and the microwave beeps. I scroll through my phone and re-read the notice in the email.
"Let's eat." She places the plate in front of me and breaks the paratha in two, blowing the heat off her fingers. "Sauce or pickle?"
"Pickle."
