Birthday
It is her birthday.
She returns home late from fetching her son from his tuition class, which gnaws a hole from her husband's pocket every month. He dashes to the front of the television set and seats himself without so much as locking the door, leaving her to complete the task herself.
Her husband steps past the metal gate next, after buying lunch for the family. He has been retrenched for five weeks.
Once he enters the kitchen, she accuses him of buying a green, wrinkled bittergourd because it will taste bitter. The whitish ones with smoother skins do not taste as pungent, she tells him, not for the second time. The children do not favour dishes with the vegetable when it is bitter.
He makes a sound of acknowledgement, and she repeats herself, for fear that he has sought only to silence her. The same complaint gets on his nerves, and he tells her to purchase bittergourds herself the next time if she is so particular. She claims that it is his fault for not heeding her words, because she has added a clause that he can choose not to even buy the ingredient.
Their voices bounce off the ceramic tiles lining the kitchen wall, muffling the quiet splashes from where the maid tries to keep a low profile while washing the fresh-bought fruits. The blame is pushed back and forth until he snaps.
She keeps quiet.
He has not bought any lunch for her, because she did not tell him to. All she does is empty her son's and youngest daughter's food from disposable bags into their plastic bowls, calling them in to collect their meals. Even the maid has a packet of chicken rice.
Her other daughter slips into the kitchen, refraining from rubbing the salt in by biting back the accusatory remark that she was not woken up the night before. She had expected her mother to tell her the time, at the very least, not caring that she would have lashed out from the midst of sleep-induced crankiness.
In the study room, she reminds her son and littlest daughter to complete their homework. But once her back is turned, they dissolve into conspirational whispers that never do revolve around their studies.
An hour later, she retreats into the kitchen. This time, she has bread and butter for lunch, with a cup of instant coffee.
It is her birthday.
She returns home late from fetching her son from his tuition class, which gnaws a hole from her husband's pocket every month. He dashes to the front of the television set and seats himself without so much as locking the door, leaving her to complete the task herself.
Her husband steps past the metal gate next, after buying lunch for the family. He has been retrenched for five weeks.
Once he enters the kitchen, she accuses him of buying a green, wrinkled bittergourd because it will taste bitter. The whitish ones with smoother skins do not taste as pungent, she tells him, not for the second time. The children do not favour dishes with the vegetable when it is bitter.
He makes a sound of acknowledgement, and she repeats herself, for fear that he has sought only to silence her. The same complaint gets on his nerves, and he tells her to purchase bittergourds herself the next time if she is so particular. She claims that it is his fault for not heeding her words, because she has added a clause that he can choose not to even buy the ingredient.
Their voices bounce off the ceramic tiles lining the kitchen wall, muffling the quiet splashes from where the maid tries to keep a low profile while washing the fresh-bought fruits. The blame is pushed back and forth until he snaps.
She keeps quiet.
He has not bought any lunch for her, because she did not tell him to. All she does is empty her son's and youngest daughter's food from disposable bags into their plastic bowls, calling them in to collect their meals. Even the maid has a packet of chicken rice.
Her other daughter slips into the kitchen, refraining from rubbing the salt in by biting back the accusatory remark that she was not woken up the night before. She had expected her mother to tell her the time, at the very least, not caring that she would have lashed out from the midst of sleep-induced crankiness.
In the study room, she reminds her son and littlest daughter to complete their homework. But once her back is turned, they dissolve into conspirational whispers that never do revolve around their studies.
An hour later, she retreats into the kitchen. This time, she has bread and butter for lunch, with a cup of instant coffee.
It is her birthday.