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Not sure when this was written (but most likely sometime between 3/2010 and 2011)
Last night's biryani and my breakfast of chai and roti churns in my stomach, slowly crystallizing like a brick of butter. I feel weighed down, unable to move, unable to escape. My forced smile remains in place, steady, firm. I try not to flinch when he sits beside me, because I shouldn't. I can't. But the betrayal lingers on my mind, burrowing itself into every thought, trying to express itself in my eyes. But I blink back these tiny, wet secrets, with enough salt to burn. My hand transforms into a fist, my fingers clenched tight....
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The sliced onions were stirred into the besan mixture and dropped by the spoonful in the sizzling oil. The gentle patter of rain drops against the windows reminded her how if this had been 19 years ago, her children would have run in screaming, drenched to the bone after playing outside in the gentle summer rain, for her garma garam (warm) pakode, that they would then dip in the icy, cold mint chutney. Burning their tongues in excitement. But now her children were grown and far from home. These pakode were a way to honor those times, to help her cope, to help her escape into the past, when she selflessly gave everything up for the happiness of her children. The sixth chime of the new, ancient looking grandfather clock she'd insisted they buy because it reminded her of the one she'd had growing up with in India, jolted her out of her reverie. She scrambled to open the windows and turned on the exhaust fan to help the fumes escape. At least one of them would make it to freedom. As she tidied up, she heard the garage door open and she ran to get him a glass of ice cold water, checking the temperature with her wrist first. He habitually accepted her offering, so accustomed to the service that a single thought of gratitude didn't even enter his mind. Ratna resumed her kitchenly duties, setting the table with the warm pakode and mint chutney, along with dal, chawal, and sabzi, before requesting her husband to join. Without a second thought, Aman heaped the food onto his plate, complimenting it as he ate. He asked her about her day, paying partial attention and then told her about his. Four minutes later, silence seized the table, unannounced, lingering until the end of their meal. Not waiting for Ratna to finish, Aman went to wash his hands and tend to his computer. Ratna tidied up and retired to the comfort of the family room. They were two strangers--strangers she had met at the VT train station. She didn't remember too much of what they had looked like. All her....
Last night's biryani and my breakfast of chai and roti churns in my stomach, slowly crystallizing like a brick of butter. I feel weighed down, unable to move, unable to escape. My forced smile remains in place, steady, firm. I try not to flinch when he sits beside me, because I shouldn't. I can't. But the betrayal lingers on my mind, burrowing itself into every thought, trying to express itself in my eyes. But I blink back these tiny, wet secrets, with enough salt to burn. My hand transforms into a fist, my fingers clenched tight....
-------
The sliced onions were stirred into the besan mixture and dropped by the spoonful in the sizzling oil. The gentle patter of rain drops against the windows reminded her how if this had been 19 years ago, her children would have run in screaming, drenched to the bone after playing outside in the gentle summer rain, for her garma garam (warm) pakode, that they would then dip in the icy, cold mint chutney. Burning their tongues in excitement. But now her children were grown and far from home. These pakode were a way to honor those times, to help her cope, to help her escape into the past, when she selflessly gave everything up for the happiness of her children. The sixth chime of the new, ancient looking grandfather clock she'd insisted they buy because it reminded her of the one she'd had growing up with in India, jolted her out of her reverie. She scrambled to open the windows and turned on the exhaust fan to help the fumes escape. At least one of them would make it to freedom. As she tidied up, she heard the garage door open and she ran to get him a glass of ice cold water, checking the temperature with her wrist first. He habitually accepted her offering, so accustomed to the service that a single thought of gratitude didn't even enter his mind. Ratna resumed her kitchenly duties, setting the table with the warm pakode and mint chutney, along with dal, chawal, and sabzi, before requesting her husband to join. Without a second thought, Aman heaped the food onto his plate, complimenting it as he ate. He asked her about her day, paying partial attention and then told her about his. Four minutes later, silence seized the table, unannounced, lingering until the end of their meal. Not waiting for Ratna to finish, Aman went to wash his hands and tend to his computer. Ratna tidied up and retired to the comfort of the family room. They were two strangers--strangers she had met at the VT train station. She didn't remember too much of what they had looked like. All her....
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