amrutapatil
1
I did not plan to meet her, nor she me. It must have been providence at the steering wheel. A “Heyheyhey” of recognition, the grocery bag shifted from crook of the arm to outthrust of hip. Having balanced thus, Gitane reached her hand out to shake mine, met me with all the hearty affection that a woman you once jilted in love can meet you with. The heartiness is a weapon too. “Look how well I fare without you.”
Her butter rack guiltlessly holds camera film and contact lenses. Sopped over soup. Frozen bowl with icing smears. The vegetable rack has a fresh wound of watermelon. Grapes tryst in newspaper and string. Careless and abundant, her refrigerator is an invitation to a feast. Its deep freezer opens with Bluebeard’s last key. The one that will not shed its stain. It is a morgue. Stacks of fish with glazed stares.
Gitane’s knives are sharp and she wields them skillfully. A stylish sweep and the heads are lopped off bodies. Practiced curve of the forefinger and she pulls the fish out of a fish. Hollow fish shaped caves lie bathed in seasoning. Their innards commune with tea leaves in the trashcan. She laughs hard over lettuce hearts, distracted blade splices skin. Thin surge of red and her finger is in her mouth, then in mine. I watch her, feisty executioner. I cringe when she wipes her fingers on her apron belly.
2
There is a blanket ban on preserves here. Pickles are oil on the corpses of vegetable. No olive either. And certainly no tequila with gum pink worm. It wipes out a big repertoire from an already skinny vegetarian kitchen, but Anandita cannot be persuaded. Shriveled things floating in brine make her sick to the stomach. They remind her of her friend Shaz’s family house. A jar in the kitchen held grey tissue that turned slowly in formaldehyde. Shaz’s mother’s hysterectomied womb.
The stale ice here bears no bloodstains or drag marks with fish scales lodged within. Anandita’s deep freezer smells like her soul. Upbeat, sterile, crisp blast of air. Her kitchen counter is white like her cutting board, like the walls. She can smell the direction of breeze in a sprig of coriander and she can smell faraway chilli fields on a cold December night. She eats prudently and she lives parboiled and measured. Cross your lettuce hearts with a dash of vinaigrette or hope to die. I can only see the roughage course down her system, scrubbing her down like a loofah. She is clean, clean, clean, inside out.
“Have you eaten?” she asks sharp. Clingfilm oscillates over yogurt. The table is waiting. All surfaces are wiped clean with sponge and warm water. Pair of ants investigates the swipe marks. “Have you eaten?” she asks, tired. Disembodied voice now has Anandita attached to it. There is only one answer to that question, and it doesn’t matter if it is true or not. “No.”
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I did not plan to meet her, nor she me. It must have been providence at the steering wheel. A “Heyheyhey” of recognition, the grocery bag shifted from crook of the arm to outthrust of hip. Having balanced thus, Gitane reached her hand out to shake mine, met me with all the hearty affection that a woman you once jilted in love can meet you with. The heartiness is a weapon too. “Look how well I fare without you.”
Her butter rack guiltlessly holds camera film and contact lenses. Sopped over soup. Frozen bowl with icing smears. The vegetable rack has a fresh wound of watermelon. Grapes tryst in newspaper and string. Careless and abundant, her refrigerator is an invitation to a feast. Its deep freezer opens with Bluebeard’s last key. The one that will not shed its stain. It is a morgue. Stacks of fish with glazed stares.
Gitane’s knives are sharp and she wields them skillfully. A stylish sweep and the heads are lopped off bodies. Practiced curve of the forefinger and she pulls the fish out of a fish. Hollow fish shaped caves lie bathed in seasoning. Their innards commune with tea leaves in the trashcan. She laughs hard over lettuce hearts, distracted blade splices skin. Thin surge of red and her finger is in her mouth, then in mine. I watch her, feisty executioner. I cringe when she wipes her fingers on her apron belly.
2
There is a blanket ban on preserves here. Pickles are oil on the corpses of vegetable. No olive either. And certainly no tequila with gum pink worm. It wipes out a big repertoire from an already skinny vegetarian kitchen, but Anandita cannot be persuaded. Shriveled things floating in brine make her sick to the stomach. They remind her of her friend Shaz’s family house. A jar in the kitchen held grey tissue that turned slowly in formaldehyde. Shaz’s mother’s hysterectomied womb.
The stale ice here bears no bloodstains or drag marks with fish scales lodged within. Anandita’s deep freezer smells like her soul. Upbeat, sterile, crisp blast of air. Her kitchen counter is white like her cutting board, like the walls. She can smell the direction of breeze in a sprig of coriander and she can smell faraway chilli fields on a cold December night. She eats prudently and she lives parboiled and measured. Cross your lettuce hearts with a dash of vinaigrette or hope to die. I can only see the roughage course down her system, scrubbing her down like a loofah. She is clean, clean, clean, inside out.
“Have you eaten?” she asks sharp. Clingfilm oscillates over yogurt. The table is waiting. All surfaces are wiped clean with sponge and warm water. Pair of ants investigates the swipe marks. “Have you eaten?” she asks, tired. Disembodied voice now has Anandita attached to it. There is only one answer to that question, and it doesn’t matter if it is true or not. “No.”
Poll Rate this entry