Skip to main content

Meera

Meera stared at the back of her drunk husband’s head, as he leaned over the fireplace, turning something over in his hand. She couldn’t see what he was doing, but experience told her it couldn’t be something to look forward to. She took some cautious steps back, and parked herself into a corner of the room, crouched, pulled her sari over her back and waited in silence.

*
 
When she woke up, she was still curled up in the corner farthest away from the fireplace. He was gone. Her worn out red saree lay unravelled to a side. Slowly, gingerly, she made to get up, and her knees buckled. Her head swam and she slumped to the floor, throwing up, gasping. Meera sat there a moment, leaning against the peeling plaster, breathing deeply, eyes shut. She felt lighter. Purged. Was this how it was meant to be?

She breathed some more, and this time, her legs lifted her weight. She gathered her saree, and walked to the basin to inspect the damage. The imprint of his thick fingers on her frail fair cheek. Some dried blood just below her lip from the cut in her mouth. A burnt left palm from last night’s hot poker.

Nothing beyond the usual.

Meera stood for a very long time in front of the dirty, stained mirror in her little house, and marvelled at her own apathy towards herself. She glared lifelessly at her own soulless eyes. Was she dead? Was she alive? Who would know? Who would care.

She tried hard to remember last night’s fight, and couldn’t. ‘Must have been about money, of course’, she thought, wringing her saree to a side to be washed later, and splashing water on her face. ‘That wretched bastard, he drinks like a fish.’ Her stomach rumbled. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d eaten well. Back at her mother’s place in Sujangarh, perhaps. And yet she always seemed to be puking these days.

Oh how she longed to go back. But there was no money. And she knew not the way. She had been here ever since he had married her. Seven years is a long time. Meera was forgetting it all now.

She wiped clean the floor, put on the only other saree she had, and set out to work.

Her memsahib greeted her with the usual reproach. ‘Meera, if you’re late one more time, don’t bother to arrive. Hundreds of women begging for work out there. I’m not obliged to keep paying you for your tantrums.’

Meera mumbled an inaudible apology and went straight to the kitchen to wash the dishes. A loud gasp escaped her mouth.

‘What is it now?’ the memsahib snarled.

‘I burnt my hand yesterday, cooking for my man. The pan—‘

She fell to the ground.

*
 
Meera stared at the back of her drunk husband’s head, as he leaned over the fireplace, turning something over in his hand. She couldn’t see what he was doing, but experience told her it couldn’t be something to look forward to. She took some cautious steps back, and parked herself into a corner of the room, crouched, pulled her sari over her back and waited in silence.

Presently he turned, a red hot knife in his hand. Quickly closing the distance between him and his wife, he stood in front of her, leaning, his face inches away from hers, his cold bloodshot eyes boring into her gauntless face. Grabbing her hair mercilessly, he pulled her to her feet, slammed her into the wall, and reached into her blouse to retrieve the little pouch in which she kept her money.

“I’m pregnant.”

There was silence.

And then he slapped her again. Her lip began to bleed.

Smack!

The bloodshot eyes widened with the sting of the slap on his cheek, as tears welled up in Meera’s impassive eyes after years.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Picture Perfect

When you begin work on a painting, you set out on a long difficult journey to the end. Begin by thinking, sketching out on the canvas a rough figure of what you want. It’s an easy task, you've barely begun—you can always erase, redraw, alter, or even start over. Then comes the time for colours. And while there are hundreds and thousands of them to choose from, there are just a few, at times just one, that will be a perfect fit. Choices are tough to make—some may be right, others may go horribly wrong. Yet there’s no choice but to choose. After long toil and much sweat, you come up with the final piece. Some paintings will inspire. They’ll be so beautiful that they’ll leave a mark in your heart and mind for ages to come. Some will be soothing, others will make you smile. And then there will be those that will make you feel simply wasted. Pictures that will only speak to you of your incompetence and inability to make the right choices. Surprisingly, sometimes these may be the p...

My Best Friend

“How did she..?” “She had cancer.” “Oh...I’m so sorry!” I smiled. Sorry. Sometimes I felt envious of people merely for having this great comfort. They could be sorry about Suhana’s death. Just how sorry could I be? About having seen my best friend of fourteen years die? * It was seven months ago when Suhana’s first reports came in. Diagnosed with Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, terminal stage. By the end of two months, she stopped attending school—the constant chemotherapy having taken its toll on her general health. Her sleek, long, brown hair had begun to fall off in large clumps. Many nights, she would call me and cry and obsess about how her hair was going, “It's coming out in fistfuls and I don’t know what to do!” She would cry incessantly, and I would console her for hours on end. Every time I met her, she looked a little worse—the dark circles, the fatigue, the recurring nausea. I know she knew that she wouldn’t live much longer—but I also realized that she lived on my persistent...

Loving Vir

Have you ever felt real reverence, true-mad-deep reverence that it almost reached a point of worship? Where the other person could never be wrong, simply because it was HIM? I, for one, have known this sheer devotion. And it happened to be for the man I’ve idolised since I don’t even remember when. I fell in love with Vir Sanghvi. For those of you who don’t know, Vir Sanghvi is an advisor with Hindustan Times, and used to write a weekend column in the paper by the name of Counterpoint. I don’t remember who made me read my first Counterpoint in Sunday’s Hindustan Times, but my Sundays were never the same again. At first glance, Sanghvi impressed. At a second look, he left me in awe. The man was a genius. I hadn’t known anyone like him before—I’d never read a newspaper so unfailingly before. Then came the Sunday Brunch, and Sanghvi shocked me yet again. What in the world did he NOT know about?! All this time I’d spent thinking of him as a purely political writer, and Rude Food gave me a...