Flash Fiction: A Woman's Job
The whistle of the pressure cooker startled Hema from her daydream. Wait, which one was this, the second or the third? She did not want to take a chance, so she turned down the heat to let the potatoes cook slowly for a while. Better safe than sorry. She lit the other stove to boil water for her brother-in-law who would be coming home from the gym any minute now. He liked to have a glass of warm water with lemon juice and honey, for which Hema had to time his entrance every day to make sure it wasn’t too hot nor too cold, just the right type of warm so that he can drink it fast and get ready for college. He said it was good for his metabolism, although she never understood the logic behind it. The seller from whom she bought them every week was as rotund as his lemons. She filled a glass with the concoction, making sure not to spill, and set it to cool.
She picked out an onion and two green chillies from the vegetable basket. The onion had to be the perfect size, neither too big nor too small. If it was too big she would have to throw away the remaining because Ammaji did not like the smell of onions in the fridge; if it was small then she would have to pick another one even smaller to sort of balance it out. It had to be done with mathematical precision, or else the omelet would not come out perfectly, the way her husband liked it. He always complained if he found anything wrong with it, and not eat after the first morsel. She remembered how in her first week after marriage he had done the same to Ammaji, yelling and scolding her for not making a good omelet. He didn’t care how tired she was from the previous day’s work or how much time and effort she had put into making a good breakfast.
At the time, Hema had no idea how to even hold an onion in one hand and a knife in the other, and then bring them both together to perfectly chopped pieces. Her grandmother used to scold her mother for not teaching the girl how to do things around the house properly. Otherwise, who will marry her? Mother would always remain calm, though, and say that time will teach her everything. Her grandmother did have an amazing memory. Hema was often mystified by how, when chatting with the old ladies of the colony, her grandmother could remember the names and relations of people she had known ages ago, could still recount the scandalous incidents of their families, and easily dredge up old recipes passed down through her ancestors. Hema, meanwhile, was still struggling to remember the names of all her husband’s cousins.
At her in-laws, Hema had somehow gotten used to the fact that her sleep did not matter. Without an alarm clock, she woke up two hours before anybody else. Ammaji used to do all the early morning rituals before her, but then she began complaining of mysterious aches and ailments. So the tasks automatically fell on her. After making sure that she looked quite presentable—adjusting her saree and her wet hair; putting on red bangles and a bindi on her forehead— she would head straight for the kitchen. She was a very forgetful person, but she tried hard to keep in mind the important things. She would then proceed to put on some tea for the household. She had to make sure that the ratio of water to tea, and the amount of sugar and milk, was exactly perfect so that the blend would turn out divine. Or else she would get a lot of grief about it. Only yesterday Ammaji had remarked that somehow her tea would always be cold, even though everyone was served at the same time. She had to warm it up again and would be rewarded with silence.
With breakfast over, she had to think of lunch. She had decided on aloo parathas for today. She had to get everything ready in time, just as everyone left for the day. Anshu had an English test today, and she prayed that he would remember to put all his verbs and nouns correctly. She had sat up till midnight trying to make him memorize, but he was just like his father. Just the other day, she had repeatedly asked Varun to bring some medicine for her aching feet. But he forgot, as usual, insisting that he had too much work and other things on his mind.
Her bangles jangled against each other as she finished chopping up the onions and placed them in a bowl. She added a pinch of salt and cracked two eggs into it. She whisked it up firmly yet cautiously because Ammaji hated spilling anything on the spick and span counter. She was always being told not to leave extra water, dirty vessels, the oil jar, vegetable peels or cut lemons on the counter. She had a particular abhorrence for lemons, saying they left stains on the black granite. Hema could never tell the difference which stains were which. The eggs sizzled as she poured them on the pan, spreading it out as thinly as possible. Anshu liked his eggs thin and crunchy, while Varun wanted them fluffy and chewy. Ammaji did not like eggs at all. She was always satisfied with two fried crisp chapatis with her tea. She did not eat much anyway, saying it would affect her health, but Hema had understood why. After her husband’s death, Ammaji had tried to make herself as sparse as possible, to not be a burden on her son.
Ammaji ironed his clothes and polished his shoes, taking care of his every need, making sure he got the best of everything. Hema knew it was because she feared being kicked out one day, and not because she was suddenly fond of him. Of course, once Varun left, all that love and admiration would dissipate. Sprawling on the sofa to watch TV all day, she would order Hema to bring her another cup of tea.
Hema could hear the rest of the household stir as she opened the lid of the cooker and set it to cool. She arranged the eggs, the tea, the lemon water, and cups and saucers on a tray, before setting it on the dining table. Ammaji sat near the window doing pranayama, Anshu tried to study while he got ready, and Varun was in the shower. She went back in hastily to get started on her parathas. She kneaded the dough, added the potatoes, salt and spices, and began rolling. Ammaji’s voice floated in—”The tea does not have enough sugar!”—but she ignored it and continued to focus on her chore.
The aroma of the parathas filled the kitchen, along with the smoke which made Hema cough and sweat. She recalled how her mother would always complain about the smoke to her father, begging him to install a ventilator, but somehow that never happened. She had asked for one too, but Varun made excuses about expenses and other stuff, and she didn’t raise the topic again. As she mechanically did her work, she made a mental note of the things that had to be done. She had to remind Varun to pay Anshu’s fees again. She always kept the documents ready so that she would not be blamed, but still, somehow, he forgot. He could never remember anything even if it was right in front of him.
She had to remind him to call his sister on her birthday. She had to remind him to pick up the clothes for Anshu’s fancy dress competition. She had to remind him to take her shopping for her cousin Lakshmi’s wedding next month. She wanted to buy a nice sari for herself, preferably in blue. It was Varun’s favorite color. Anshu needed new shoes for school. And a wedding gift for Lakshmi. Maybe a mixer grinder, something useful for her after marriage. But she will have to ask her mother what Lakshmi’s family gave her in her marriage, and then buy something appropriate. Mother was good at remembering such things. She packed the two lunch boxes, a bigger one for Varun with pickles, and a smaller one for Anshu with yogurt. She rummaged around in the chapati box and brought out two stale chapatis for herself, added a dollop of jam, and went out to join the others.
Zainab M. M. has always loved to write fiction and freelance. Her work has been published in The New Indian Express, The Humming Notes, Introvert, Dear, Visual Verse, and other anthologies and websites. She is based in Visakhapatnam, India.
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