All in a day’s work

She is quite efficient, or at least that’s how she likes to see herself; though Boss doesn’t agree. She remembers how she left her regular office job to take up this, the housekeeper’s work. After two kids, she thought this was something she could do while keeping an eye on them.
However, it turned out to be quite a task. She wasn’t so good at it. In fact, come to think of it, she was just about average. Boss didn’t like that; being a perfectionist himself, ignoring goof-ups didn’t come easy and she bore the brunt of his anger afterwards.
Only yesterday before leaving for a meeting in a town close by, he had given her a list of chores to be done on a daily basis, just so she didn’t miss out on anything. She had looked at the list and wondered to herself how this busy man took the time out of his schedule to do this for her.
Anyway, she sees this as an opportunity to change his opinion about her forever. After sending her kids to school, she sets about working according to Boss’ list. So she tidies his pooja. Then she rummages through the fridge and the fruit bowl to check if anything’s going stale or wilting. Boss likes every fruit or vegetable to have that just-plucked-off-the-tree look. Never mind if it was bought a week ago. So she checks, reminding herself to give the wilting spinach leaves and a few oranges to the security guard downstairs.
Then she goes through the newspaper in detail to check if any discount sales are being held this weekend. She is also supposed to scan them, compare the prices being offered at different stores and list them out against her list of grocery items needed. Boss always shops over the weekend so she is supposed to keep that ready for him.
Once that’s done, she sets about mopping the house, making the beds, cooking and taking a shower. Usually Boss drops in for lunch but today she doesn’t have to worry as he will return by late evening. Today, she almost feels like a free bird. She just needs to fix something for her kids and herself. And the three of them aren’t so rigid about meals, unlike Boss. But then, where’s the comparison? They come from different worlds; Boss and she.
She is going by the list she had got and so far, has fared well. She fixes their lunch and gets down to cooking for dinner. Boss isn’t home for lunch so the dinner better be good!
Yesterday, a part-time maid had come __ she comes once a week __ to help her with more heavy duty work like cleaning the toilets, changing bed sheets and ironing. So Boss’ clothes are sorted. Everything is washed, ironed or folded and put away in his cupboard.
Then she leaves for school to fetch her kids. Once they come, she gets her well-deserved break from housework. Boss knows it, she is not doing it on the sly, and he has allowed her to as well, because she can lie down and help her kids with their homework at the same time.
By evening, girls from other households have started messaging her, asking her to come out for a walk. She goes through her list again. Cook: Done; Clean the house: Done; Light an incense stick: Done; Boss’ stuff in its place irrespective of where he left it: Done; Fridge, kitchen and toiletries checked for weekend shopping: Done.
She looks at herself in the mirror; Boss doesn’t like her looking shabby. “You represent me when you step out. So…” he had said.
Oh! Just as she is about to leave__her kids have gone ahead to play outside __ she remembers one chore she hasn’t done at all! She was supposed to empty his ashtray that sat on the patio table. Grumbling to herself she peers through the glass door that opens onto the patio and sees just one cigarette stub in the ashtray. “No! I’ve done enough for the day. Surely, one chore not done out of a list of about 30 won’t be such a big deal! Boss is a considerate man, he will be happy about the progress I made,” she tells herself.
So she steps out and spends an hour yapping with her friends while they pretend to be walking and keeping an eye on the kids who are also out playing.
As the street lights come on, the three of them return home and she notices Boss’ car parked in the garage. So he’s back! Why didn’t he call me to say so? She wonders. But who is she to ask? May be he was too busy to call.
There’s a spring in her walk as they rush home. She walks in, smiling, wanting to tell him how productive her day has been. He is out in the balcony, smoking. She reaches there almost at the same time as her kids who are yelling “Papa, you’re back!”
The three of them embrace and she waits to be drawn into this family hug when he lifts an eyebrow and goes: “You forgot to clean out my ashtray, didn’t you?” As she stands there wondering how to react, he adds: “Don’t make excuses about how busy you have been. One thing I tell you to do and you cannot remember even that! What do you do all day?”
She turns around and walks back inside, ruing the day she had started calling her husband Boss and he had started acting like one.

Please (me), pretty please!

While growing up, she was quite aware of her plain looks. However, unlike families where one child is discriminated against because of her skin colour or looks, she was the apple of both her prarents’ eye.
So much so that while she knew she may not ever bag the handsomest guy on the block, she was sure that her temperament will keep her happy wherever she went.
Once she had started working, she realized she loved her work and was pretty good at it too. Her career graph was going up steadily when she met him. After over four years of living on her own, a homegirl like her was craving family life and was glad to learn that he lived with his family.
They met at a restaurant. Much against her flatmate’s protests, she wore the very basic makeup she always did _ foundation, eye liner and some lip gloss. Her argument was that he should see her the way she was. She had also seen his photos and knew he wasn’t a looker either.
However, that first meeting lasted over four hours and she was convinced she had met someone special that day. One thing led to another and soon their parents were brought into the picture. She wanted a little more time to spend with him before committing herself but they were in a hurry and after some cajoling, so were her folks.
Once they were officially engaged, they started meeting more often. At a shopping mall one evening, he asked her: “Would you like to buy some sweaters?” And she went blank before asking: “Why?” She still wasn’t used to anyone else buying her stuff.
Another time, he mentioned: “You don’t wear much makeup, do you?” To which she agreed, adding: “ No, because I don’t socialize much and anyway, in my line of work, it’s more about comfort as we do long hours at the desk. They love me for my work, not for my makeup or the lack of it.”
A month after that, the date was set for their marriage. By then, they had met quite a few times and he had told her:”How many pairs of jeans do you have? I will hold a garage sale of those as soon as we marry and you move in with us.” Back then, she had argued and that was their first real fight. Later, he said he was only joking. Only if she had known then.
Once they were married, his mum would tell her what to wear. She would pick the sari and the jewellery to go with it. Initially she thought it was because they were newly-marrieds and she was expected to be decked up. But she was in for a shock. A few months on, her parents visited them and they were told, as she sat there, that she didn’t like dressing up and they weren’t happy about that!
Fate came to her rescue and she got pregnant soon. So the flow of directions receded if not completely stopped. Every time she tried broaching the subject with him, he would sheepishly admit that he agreed with his folks on how one needed to dress up for others. “You eat what you like but you wear what others expect you to,” he said.
A new job took him, and so her and their two kids, to another town and she hoped things would improve between them. They didn’t. He still found fault with her clothes, never happy with what she wore. Moving to another country seemed like a God-sent to her. Initially he complained about how she continued to be the plain Jane she felt deep down.
However, she was a good learner; albeit a slow one. As his company hired more staff and more people moved into their complex, she figured that she needed to get her act together. It was no longer about her comfort. He was a senior guy and as his wife, she needed to look the part. So she started buying clothes and shoes. She also started getting more traditional clothes from India to refurbish her minuscule wardrobe.. Once they were off to a casino. It was her first time and since it was going to be late evening, she dressed carefully. He looked her up and down but didn’t say anything as she came out, quite pleased with her effort. But as soon as they sat in the car and he had started it, he asked: “Don’t you think your lipstick is tad too dark?” Before she could even open her mouth, he went:” OK, forget it.” Needless to say, he had managed to ruin her evening.
His complaining continued relentlessly. When she picked clothes, he would look at her and go: “I hope you know you have thick upper arm..” or “You aren’t tall so I hope you know you shouldn’t be so keen on buying boots.”
Things came to a head one evening when she came out of their room, all dolled up in a saree with matching jewellery, heels and makeup and sat waiting for him. She smiled approvingly at her kids who had condescended to wear traditional clothes for the Diwali party at his company’s guest house.
He came out in a kurta-pyjama set and open-toed sandals. But wait a minute, “You wore this last time we went for a party too. With the same people!” she blurted out.
To which he said:” This is all I got from India. Anyway, they know me for what I do, because of who I am, not because of my clothes.”
As she locked the door behind them and climbed down the stairs, she knew ‘the twain shall never meet.’

SAME DIFFERENCE: A long story in short

She is sure he is going to be very happy with her today. She just knows it. As she looks around their 2-bedroom apartment, she feels life couldn’t get any better. Everything is in its place, tidy. The kids have done their homework, have had milk, have come back from playing and are watching TV. She is waiting for him, with tea.
In fact, she thought, the day itself had started well. For starters, she had woken up ten minutes before her usual of 5.45 am. Then, the kids had crawled out of bed as soon as she had pulled up the blinds in their room. So they had ended up reaching school well in time. The school was a stone’s throw away so she had been walking them for the past four years that they had been in that city. Not to forget that she fetched them too but that’s understood, isn’t it?
After that, she vaguely remembers humming to herself as she had unloaded the washing machine to take the laundry to the drying area dedicated to her block of flats, fixing her husband’s breakfast, running to their bedroom when he couldn’t find the socks he needed and tidying up after him as he polished off his first meal of the day and left for work.
Then, she was on her own. After a good 3 hours of running around like a headless chicken. She had fixed her own breakfast and had sat down to eat with the radio tuned in to her favourite morning show and made a mental note _ which she edited a few times _ of what she needed to cook for the next two meals.
That her kitchen had an open plan was a blessing for her. It meant she could cook while keeping an eye on the current soaps on TV. Two solid hours in the kitchen and she knew she had done herself proud. She had fixed the lunch _ a typical North Indian meal of roti, rice, dal, 2 vegetables and salad. And she had prepared the sauce for pasta for dinner. Not to forget the cleaning up that needed to be done.
She could have taken a shower and then sat down with her book. However, she had soon remembered she needed to get a loaf of bread if she planned to serve garlic bread with pasta. No problems, she told herself, the supermarket was right across the road from where they lived.
Another half an hour gone, and she was back, with a loaf of bread and the excruciating pain in her left heel that she had been experiencing on and off. But what’s a little pain if that brings smiles on the faces of your loved ones, she had told herself.
She couldn’t sit down with her book, not yet. The laundry had to be brought back, folded, and put in place. That done, she remembered she had promised to darn some socks of his. Once at it, she also remembered she needed to darn some other kiddy clothes too.
Not one with nimble fingers, by the time she was done, she realized it was close to lunch time. She had just about enough time to serve his lunch and put it in the microwave before having her own and rushing off to school.
She met him at the door. She smiled at him and got a “hmm” in response. “Still at his office in his head, isn’t he?” she told herself as she limped down the stairs. “Never mind, he will be fine by evening,” she tried convincing herself.
And here she is, a long day later, waiting for him in anticipation. She hears his key turn in the lock and seconds later sees him walk in. She grins at him; he doesn’t see her and stomps in instead to plonk his bag on one of the chairs. She waits for him, with tea, hoping to spend some time together in their balcony, hoping to exchange stories of how their respective days went. He comes out; dressed in the kurta-pyjama she had laid out for him.
She smiles again, and he says, probably his first words since morning: “How come you gave me tea in a different mug today? Did you break those other ones?”
And she knows then, that today isn’t any different. It wasn’t, to begin with. It is the end of just another day in a thankless job. Or is it the beginning of another?

Pictures with(out) captions

Today she is home and wants to sit down with ma and look at family photos taken over the years. Ma is reluctant. And for a reason. There are too many memories she wants to revive. But Ma has always put away the unpleasant in that dark corner of her heart where she can conveniently ignore it and pretend it doesn’t exist.

But how can a mother explain that to a 9-yr-old? So they sit down at the family computer and begin from the beginning. One cursory look and she complains: “How come you haven’t put captions? You are sure you will remember all the occasions when they were taken?” “Yes, beta,” reassures Ma.
There are pictures of forts taken at her parents’ honeymoon. One or two photos also have her Ma somewhere in the background so she isn’t too keen on looking and they move on.

Then there is one of a malnourished, zombie-eyed infant. Ma looks away. It is of her first-born, now 10 and a fairly active boy. Back then, three pediatricians had failed to diagnose that her milk wasn’t enough to fill his tummy. Ten years on, Ma still lives with that guilt, more so, as her husband holds it against her. He feels she wasn’t bonding with her child to convince Mother Nature enough and sort out her malfunctioning mammary glands.
The next one has her and her elder brother, chubby by then, having his mundan (tonsuring ceremony). “He was so cute!” she goes. “Yeah!” Ma says to herself,” but it wasn’t enough for your dad to not shake that 11-month old boy and slap him too.”

Moving on, she points at a picture showing her granddad cutting a cake while Ma holds her brother. She, an infant then, sits on the table, right next to the cake, watching as only kids can. “When was this taken?” she asks. “Your baba’s (grandfather’s) birthday,” Ma says, adding inwardly “also when your dad yelled at me right before clicking this shot. I won’t let you look closely but if you did, you would see me all teary-eyed.”

There are few happy photos too; of the times when Ma and Papa weren’t in the same town. But those aren’t many. Another one, from another town, is from a Holi when she and her brother were 2 and 3 respectively. Ma is sitting down and the two of them are laughing hysterically while pouring pink colour on her. “We had such fun even as babies!” she exclaims. “Of course!” adds Ma, adding to herself: “That was before your Pa reprimanded me for having too much fun and not keeping an eye on the clock.”

There is one of a party, with 3-4 couples in the frame. “You look so good in a saree, why don’t you wear it more often?” she grumbles. Ma smiles and says in her head: “Your dad had reminded me that day how I looked so much fatter in a saree. That’s why.”
The last one from that city has the four of them at a pizza place. It was their dad’s last birthday in town. They are all smiles and she says: “We left the town soon after, didn’t we?” Ma adds: “Yes (and good we did because a week after this celebration, your dad had grabbed me by my throat and pressed me against the wall as he yelled expletives in my face. I should’ve seen that as a sign and moved out too).”

There’s no picture for about a year after that as dad went abroad and then refused to have them join him. Then there is one from December that year as he came home, carrying gifts. “That’s also when your grandparents had to literally force your dad to take us along,” thought Ma.
A photo shows the four of them on their first weekend out in the foreign land. They are at Wimpy’s. “We are all smiling; I wonder what we were talking about,” she says. Ma thinks: “I don’t remember either but I did hear from your dad if that was the only t-shirt I could think of wearing.”

There are also lots of photos from their first visit to the local zoo. ”That’s our first-ever visit to the zoo, right?” she asks Ma who smiles and thinks:”Yes, and also the time I heard your dad complaining to his mum on the phone that he was forced to take us out despite being tired.”
There are sundry birthday pictures of the two kids too. She doesn’t need any explaining for these ones but Ma looks, and for the first time, notices how dad isn’t there in most of them. Yet, he is a good dad while she has either been a bad mom or one who tries too hard.

Case in point: Lots of pictures from visit to a game park when grandparents visited. “We can have fun anywhere so long as you, dada (elder brother) and I are together,” she says. Ma tells herself:”And that’s the latest charge against me: That I bond too much with my kids.”
“It’s almost dinner time now. Let’s get going (or your dad will give me an earful for being late),” says Ma, getting up and walking away as she mentally puts away all the memories --that her daughter has inadvertently raked up – where they belong, in that dark corner.

You get what you get and you don't complain

I observed him carefully as he walked to the door. I knew that time was running out but suppressed the urge to check my watch. I took a deep breath and started counting in reverse under my breath. "Ten, nine, eight, seven..."

I knew he would reach the door before I reached one. He is a man of habit, my husband. Sometimes when I am talking to him about something urgent while he’s shaving or in the shower – that’s the only time he lets me talk to him – I feel as if he has counted the number of times he will run the razor over his cheeks or scrub himself with loofah.

“Whose key is this in the lock?” he is yelling at me, just as I expected. “I have my house keys. And how would I know? You’re the one who wakes up first. It’s the second day today that that has happened,” I say, with an innocent look on my face.
He scowls as he flings the key inside the house and leaves, banging the door shut behind him. I put away the key for another day and make myself my princely breakfast of toast and tea. It is about time; my phone should ring any minute. And it does. It is him. “I forgot my phone at home. Will you look where it is?” I look at my tea for a while and say, “where you always leave it. How come you forgot?” as I pull his phone from under the cushion of the couch I am sitting on. Then I feel I am being too harsh so I add: “Don’t worry; I will go give it to Manish (our neighbor and his colleague) right away if he hasn’t left for office yet.” And as promised, I finish my breakfast and take my own sweet time to go next door. Of course, Manish has left for office.

I spend my days cleaning the house _ Rishi likes the floor so clean you can see your face in it __ and cooking. He also doesn’t like an outsider touching our things so I don’t have any domestic help. I do everything on my own. Around lunch time, he calls every day so we can discuss the menu for dinner. Rishi is a complete foodie and he likes home-cooked meals. So I try finishing the rest of the chores before his call.
I used to be a fairly social person but that seems like another lifetime now. I did have my facebook account, like everyone else. But Rishi didn’t like my chatting and slowly I felt cut off from the rest of them. Even people I had known all my life drifted away when I stopped going out. Nobody ever visits us so I see faces other than my own and Rishi’s only on the weekends when he takes me out. What we do on the weekend is up to him.

Today, his call comes at noon sharp. He makes his ‘suggestions’ and I write everything down so I don’t forget before I get on with the cooking. He likes things his way and even a small digression annoys him.
I should be glad that we don’t have kids yet; despite being married for a good four years. Also, despite how for Rishi having sex is like some would have warm milk at night; we have been at it almost every single night since we married. He insists that sex keeps couples ‘connected’ and I wondered initially if he was punning but then Rishi is a man of few words, unless he is screaming. In fact he’s not a man of few words out of choice. Over the years, I have realised he hasn’t read enough to be able to say the same things differently. So sex is demanded with a “Come here,” every night.

I am drifting so let me get back to work. I cook, do the dishes, wipe and mop before getting laundry and folding or ironing them, as need be. Once I have put them away, I have to check one last time that I have finished all my chores of the day or Rishi will blow his fuse.
After making sure everything’s in its place, I set off to deck up for him. Rishi likes me well-dressed. I cannot be sloppy, not even when I am sick. In fact, I cannot be sick because it unnerves him. He complains and sulks.

Today I have picked a red blouse and black jeans. We bought the blouse when Rishi was in a particularly generous mood and had taken me out shopping. When he’s like that he can buy me an entire store. The only condition being that I praise what he likes. I have to appreciate the fabric, the stitching and how it complements my complexion or he sulks.
I shower, and get ready. I apply foundation, blusher and lipstick. Then I go back to the kitchen to make tea for us. I am pouring the tea when I hear his key turn in the lock. He walks in, and takes his ten steps towards the chair where he will oh-so-delicately place his satchel. Then he will take his 12 steps to our bedroom where he will change into the ironed clothes I have laid out for him.

Five minutes later, he joins me on our balcony where I have brought the tea and a bowl of snacks. I seem dressed to go out while he has changed into his pajamas. But that’s not a point of debate. That’s how he likes it and that’s what he gets. He leans against the railing and lights a cigarette. He looks at the tray and says: “Whatever happened to the mugs we had? Why did these strange ones come from?”
I look up and ask: “What are you talking about? I don’t go shopping on my own, you know that, so where will I get new mugs from?” He obviously doesn’t believe me and goes to the kitchen to rummage through all the drawers. Soon enough he is back, describing some mugs to me. “Those were beige and white and had black lines criss-crossing. These are in solid colours,” he says. I give him a blank look.

We finish our tea in silence, like we always do, both of us lost in our own worlds. Then I go back inside the house while he carries on smoking. I put away the clothes he has flung carelessly on the couch in our room. Then I sit down to plan tomorrow’s breakfast and also what prep I need to do tonight. He likes typical Indian breakfasts and as you would’ve understood by now, in our house, Rishi gets what he asks for.
Once I have warmed the dinner, I call out to him. He looks at the clock and says: “It’s only 8 pm. Don’t we eat at 8.30 every evening?” I say: “You told me we will eat early today!” He looks at me, defeated.

I serve him his soup and sandwiches. He looks up in disbelief and yells: “Didn’t I tell you to make pulao and kofta?” I pick up my notebook from the kitchen slab and open it for him. I turn to today’s page and show him: “See, you gave me this notebook because I always forget so I have been writing everything down, with the date. See for yourself.” He doesn’t need to look so he eats silently.
I sit down with my plate but he has already finished his dinner so he gets up and leaves for his position on the balcony. The exact spot where he has been standing for his after-dinner smoke ever since I can remember. I put away the leftovers and go off to change.

I have a whole collection of lingerie. That’s one thing Rishi loves buying for me. In fact I think I have more of nightwear than anything else. That’s also because, like Rishi points out, it’s for his eyes only. He also told me why he married me. It wasn’t for my wit or my degrees that had me working at a big corporate house. He married me for my figure.
I am done but I remember I haven’t brushed my teeth so I saunter off to the bathroom. I close the door and turn towards the basin when the door opens and he walks in. “What are you doing?” he asks. We don’t have bolts or locks on our doors. That’s because in his world, there’s nothing like privacy amongst family members. Anyone can walk into the bathroom, you could be peeing but your dad can come in to shave. Your mum could be in the bath and you could walk in to brush your teeth.

He stands there watching as I brush my teeth and he goes: “Come here” as soon as I am done. So I go.
A few hours later, I am literally hauled off the bed so my eyes open wide and he asks: “You know my cigarettes are gone! There’s not even one left in the packet now. What will I do tonight?”
I look at him again and ask: “You always get a new carton when you are down to two packets. No one comes to our house so where can cigarettes go?” He clenches his teeth but leaves my arms and goes to prowl all over the house. I go back to my corner on the bed and sleep.

When I wake up the next morning, he is gone. I know he has gone to get his cigarettes so I make our morning tea. I have just sat down with my tea and Marie biscuits when he is back. He takes his mug out of the microwave and thunders: “I don’t believe this. A different mug again?” I look at him and say: “What is happening to you? You asked the same question last evening too!” He says: “Come on! I wouldn’t be caught dead drinking from an orange mug!” and he goes through the kitchen drawers again. And I sip my tea peacefully.

Six months on, Rishi’s condition has deteriorated. He looks at everything with suspicion. He has started forgetting a lot. He says something to me; asking me to cook this or wear that, and then denies ever having said it in the first place. His work is also suffering because some days he forgets to take his cell phone, on other days it’s his car keys or his watch. I am getting worried now so I have called his parents over. They are taking him to a psychiatrist today.

I have tidied the kitchen. I am putting the tea mugs in place when they come back. They give some pill to Rishi and put him to sleep. They sit me down and tell me: “The doctor says he might be schizophrenic. Such a brilliant boy and he is so sick. We know what a dedicated wife you have been. You have always done whatever he told you to. But we have to look out for you too. You are still young; we cannot allow you to spend your life with an ill man. Rishi will have to be put in a mental asylum so there isn’t much else you can do for him. So why don’t you move on in life?”

A week later, I have packed my things. My in-laws live in another town so there is no point in retaining this apartment. They are leaving in the evening and are taking Rishi along so I have gone through the house with a fine-toothed comb. I have sorted everything out. I have regularly been throwing away Rishi’s cigarette packets that I was pilfering, in the trash bin. My mother-in-law has been extremely sympathetic; almost regretting the fact that they aren’t doing much for me. I touch their feet before I step out.
I don’t stop the tears of joy streaming down my face as I leave my gilded cage. I fling the duplicate house keys into the bush. Then I yell for my neighbour on the ground floor as I wait for the cab to arrive. Prerna comes, hugs me and says: “Where will you go now that your husband is a certified freak? I have known you for so long and it bothered me that you weren’t even allowed to be friends with anyone.” I hope I look shattered when I tell her: “If I can leave my own household, what’s there to hold me back. I could go anywhere!”

I fish a carefully wrapped packet out of my bag and offer it to her. “You could’ve kept these tea mugs. I told you I have a whole collection. But you didn’t listen. You’ve been borrowing mugs from me for so long now. You won’t take your own tea mugs back, those beige and white designer ones? Somehow I cannot believe your husband let you swap them.”
I manage a tight smile as I get into the cab that has just arrived. Before leaving, I tell her: “It took me this long to learn but in our house, Rishi always gets what he asks for.”

Killing me softly

She sat in the Starbucks cafe, sipping her coffee and staring out of the window. The blood-stained knife lay next to her handbag, covered with her blue silk scarf. She almost berated herself for removing ‘incriminating evidence’ from the scene of crime. And then laughed inwardly when she remembered how the blood was her own. You can’t be prosecuted for slicing your forefinger, can you? She chided herself.

Funny, how she carried the knife with her. After all, it wasn’t the first time that she had cut herself. But it was one of the few times she hadn’t done it deliberately and definitely the first time she realized what was happening to her.
Now, with her bloodied finger dressed, she sat mulling over coffee, perhaps she was stalling the drive back home. It would be hours before he got home and she had all the time to clean up. After all, the blood must have left a trail in the kitchen, to her bedroom where she went to get her bag, to the main door when she clicked it shut behind her and the driveway. There must be some in the car as well. As she mentally retraced those steps, she recalled the direction her own life had taken.

She was the youngest among three daughters. Her parents, unlike most in the North of India with a brood of girls to marry off, doted on her. So she really had no excuse for suffering from any sort of complex. Yet she did. Mostly because she was so aware of her plain looks. She wasn’t lacking in the brains department though and should’ve been happy with that. But, she reasoned back then, her sisters had both – beauty and the brains. So why did her folks deny her what was passed on so naturally to the older two?
Her sisters never resented how she was pampered, and even spoilt. In fact, they did the same – being so much older than her. However, she saw it all as sympathy. She felt they were being kind to her because they had everything; they pitied her for her lack of looks.
It pained her when she saw them being kind to her; when her dad hugged her, she saw sympathy in his eyes instead of the love they had for her.
So she took to cutting herself. She would steal her dad’s razor blade and slash her upper arms. Initially she made horizontal cuts that merely scraped her skin. On her 16th birthday, she gifted herself with a proper cut. She hoped her pain will ooze out with the blood. It didn’t. But it helped her forget; albeit momentarily.

She spent the next few days covering up. Her mother did notice something was amiss but mistook it for a teenager’s mood swing and even instructed the older two to let her be.
That gave her all the time to plan her next cut. Every time her parents appreciated her craft work, her painting or her writing, she returned the compliment with a cut on her body. Upper arms and thighs were good places to cut, as she learnt with experience. Those were spots she could hide and still revel in looking at when alone.
An almost hysterical laughter broke her reverie and she found herself back at Starbucks. She looked at her coffee and told herself it wouldn’t suffice. She hadn’t eaten a morsel since morning and got some cake to go with it. But she wasn’t ready to eat, not yet. She felt almost childish for having ‘splurged’ on a slice of cake which she didn’t even want to eat, almost echoing his words in a situation like this. She also felt guilty about having spent so much time lost in her own world. “What is wrong with you? I don’t understand how you can go away, in your mind, like that,” she heard his voice in her ears and realized she had started thinking like him. Nobody would even have noticed; she knew it, yet she felt as if someone was watching her and reading her thoughts. So she busied herself with rummaging through her bag. She knew what she will find in it -- her wallet, the same one she had fished out about an hour ago at the doctor’s, her car keys, her hand sanitizer and a lip gloss.
That’s when she noticed she hadn’t got her phone on her. For a second, she was paralyzed. What if he called her? Wouldn’t he get mad at her if she didn’t answer it? But wait a second, how would he scream at her if the phone was at home? Then she understood how the knife came to be with her. She must’ve run with it when she left home, not realizing it wasn’t her phone. And had brought it in there too! She quickly dunked the scarf-wrapped knife in her bag. She didn’t need to have it sitting next to her to pick up the thread where she had dropped it.

It amused her how she even managed to drive; considering what looking at blood does to her. In the morning, she had fainted. And almost every time before that.
Back in college, her slashing had drastically come down as it was easier to hide behind books. She had taken English literature for her BA and was in Delhi. By then her eldest sister was married and the other one worked in another town. So she was alone with her folks and there wasn’t even an oblique comparison coming her way from relatives or friends. For her post-graduation, she opted for journalism. That, after she had found out that one needn’t become a reporter. She could slog at the desk; unseen by others and that’s what she liked about it. Her dad always encouraged her to write because he felt she was good at it. She grew up thinking he said so because he felt sorry for her. When he said: “Write regularly so you get better at it,” she heard: “Write regularly because your looks won’t get you anywhere anyway.” Yet she wrote, just so he wouldn’t breathe down her neck.

She did pretty well at college and landed a job soon after. Those were the best five-odd years of her life. She cut her hair, turned her wardrobe upside down and opened herself up to others. For once, she loved what she was doing and noticed others did too. And when strangers appreciated her for her work, she didn’t see sympathy in their eyes. That’s when her cutting stopped completely.
Then she met him. He was everything she wasn’t but craved to be. A smooth-talker, a sharp-dresser, he was a double MBA and worked at a big corporate house as the finance head. They met through a matrimonial site where her dad had surreptitiously registered her.

While she wouldn’t call it love at first sight, the meeting was out of the ordinary. In hindsight, she felt she was happier about the fact that he liked her than that she liked him too.
By the time they got engaged, she had told him everything about herself. Even about her cutting. He had smiled and told her: “Now you needn’t hurt yourself. You have me in your life,” and she was relieved that he understood without making too much of a fuss about it.
Soon after their wedding, he had landed an offer in the US. There was no question about her staying put in Delhi, all by herself, so she quit. The next few months went in a flurry of visa application, shopping and leaving for Washington, DC.

In the States, they got a small apartment, courtesy his company. She spent her time cooking, cleaning, reading or watching TV. But she wasn’t raised to confine herself to household chores and it bothered her. Once she thought of looking for work and ran the idea by him but he blew his fuse. “Why didn’t you discuss this with me before our marriage? I didn’t know you would want to work even when I am doing so well? Why can’t you be happy for what you have instead of pining for what you don’t?” Her pleas that it was more about what she wanted to do for her own self fell on deaf ears.
So she gave up. Around that time, she started dreaming of cutting herself again. And around the same time, he got a knife sharpener. On seeing her raised eyebrow, he said: “Was going cheap at the store, so…you get me all your kitchen knives and I will show you how good this is.”

That was the day she started cutting herself again. Not because she secretly wanted to but because she was ‘clumsy’, as he put it. All the knives were so sharp that a nick here or a cut there became routine. Initially, she protested. To which he said: “This will happen unless you learn to chop properly. You think all Amercians have bloodied fingers? But you refuse to learn! So don’t blame me for your faults.”
All that while, he continued to do well at office. It was she who retreated more and more into her shell. And the inadvertent cutting continued. She couldn’t even hide a knife away because, as she was to learn, he knew how many were there. And she never had the courage to sneak an extra one into the house without his knowledge. So scared she had come to be of his yelling.

He also kept a tight check on her cash. At any given time, she didn’t have more than what would buy her a coffee – and a slice of cake, like she did that day. She did have an ATM card but he knew she wouldn’t use it without asking.
Today, she had used it at the doctor’s. Maybe he would start calling her once he got a message from the bank about that transaction. But she didn’t have the phone; she tried to calm her fraying nerves.
She thought of this morning. In the kitchen, she had made a huge gash on her left forefinger. The blood stopped so long as she kept it under a running tap but gushed out every time she turned to go dress the wound. That’s when she felt she was blacking out. She slid down on the floor, grabbing the kitchen roll as she did so. When she came to, the blood was still flowing. That’s when she must’ve run from there, fetching her bag and grabbing the knife instead of her phone. When the receptionist at the doctor’s asked her why she had the knife with her, she had no explanation to offer. “Because you are slow,” he would’ve reminded her.
Before her accident today, he had literally stormed out of the house when she had broached the topic of her wanting to work again. “You were always a shirker. No wonder then that you didn’t achieve much in life. You choose to run away from responsibilities. You think it’s easy to work outside?” he had yelled. “But didn’t I work when I met you,” she tried reasoning. “You are good enough only for cutting yourself. Do that and spend your time blaming me for it,” he had said before leaving.

Those words triggered another memory; of his words, said even before their marriage, and she went cold. He knew about her cutting. He had assured her she had him so she needn’t cut herself anymore. But, he hadn’t meant what she came to believe! He had meant, “You don’t need to cut yourself because you have me (to do it to you).” The penny dropped and for the first time she saw the cruel smirk behind that charming smile. He felt better by controlling her. He had been sharpening her knives, to make it easy for her. He knew her so well that she would’ve succumbed sooner than later. But she wouldn’t. Not this time, she thought.
“Are you done yet?” asked someone. She looked up. It was a man laden with food. He obviously needed to sit more than she did. She smiled at him and said: “You bet I am!”
With that, she picked up her bag, and left. She got into her car and headed towards the Indian Embassy to seek help.

PS: I wrote this for a contest.