Beast of Burden
"Where is my dress Durga?”
“Is the Tiffin ready?”
“My handkerchief is not in the pocket of my pant.”
“What do you do the whole day? Cannot even iron a tie evenly?”
“There are so many debris in the bin. The sofa sheet is wrinkled.”
“What are you doing hah?”
“I’m bored with same Tiffin. My table is astrayed. You did not lock the roof door properly at night. You should clean the toilet regularly. See how ferocious the fan blades are looking. Cannot you wipe them up?”
“What else do you do the whole day?” I suppress the query that I never dare to ask. I know it is the most prohibited question for any “good woman”, yeah so called “good wives”.
I want to scream at his elephant ear – “I wake up with the alarm even when sleep keeps my brain dizzy, my limbs pain in strain for daily drudgery and ask for more rest, more sleep. I get refreshed soak all the clothes that you my dear hubby had just taken care to throw in the floor near the machine. I start cutting vegetables, washing rice pulses fish or meat or anything that is included in your food list. I work like a spring machine hearing nothing, caring nothing for the hunger that irks my stomach.” I want to gush out but words are as numb as me or I lack the vigor to utter them. So it continues as it is.
On the mid way of my cooking my beloved spouse shrieks out, “Durga where is my sandals?”
His feet are so big in comparison to me that there is no question that I may have worn them. Every time when he mounts the bed, he just throws them carelessly inside the narrow gap of divan. And it is my morning routine to take the duster’s handle and then bending on my knees and thrusting my head in the deep dark of dust to rescue those precious pair while he meditates on the bed with a irritated freaking face yawing and cursing my low efficacy in this expedition.
Something smells bad.
Oh God! The curry.
I just pull out the sandals and my head get a heavy bump.
“Oh Durga cannot you work cautiously. What a mess you create in trifle.”
I have no time to hear his unavailing lecture so I run to kitchen to find my hard-toiled curry is burning and over pouring rice gruel disarrays the oven without caring a fig for my partner’s next reprimand. I try my best to control the situation with wartime sincerity but the freaking order panel starts its course again at my bewildered ears.
“Durga, where have you put my towel?”
“You’ve put it somewhere at night after using.”I just shouted from kitchen wishing not to leave my battleground.
“I always put it in right place.” He grumbled.
But the sound of clashing utensils and cracking of cumin seeds in oil just ignore the whimper.
I prepare his tea, toast and boiled egg and hurried to table. After all he needs a healthy breakfast.
I put them on the table.
“Your breakfast.”
I utter and rush to kitchen feeling the squalling in my belly and rebellion of my tossing brain. I have been working from dawn in an empty stomach.
But I just pay no heed. I have no time for it. I have to finish my cooking and prepare his lunchbox proportionately maintaining the fine balance of carbohydrate, protein, sugar and saturated fat. And foods are to be cooled before putting in airtight container. Otherwise the leakage proof gutter will be damaged and lost it elasticity as well as utility very soon.
Those gutters! How easily they get damaged unlike the women like me who are not allowed to get damaged.
Is it?
I recall my mom. She used to tell often when I used to fondle with my elastic hair band and she to comb my hair .
“Durga never pull the elastic too much, it will lost its elasticity and will tear.”
“Don’t wrench any relation out of its capacity. Anything related to capacity and tolerance will break one day.” She mumbled on.
I astonishingly turned back finding her forlorn eyes smothering in unknown pain and self pity.
“What’s up mom?”
“Nothing”. Her tone dropped. I then wished to kiss her pale shrunken cheeks. My mom. My dear mom.
Sometimes I also feel so – on the verge of breaking of my tenacity as if cracking out of pan, scattering all over howling shouting creating a mess.
But I swallow my anger, hatred, humiliation day after day and say nothing.
Beast of Burden.
“Durga what is the hell of you? You keep the breakfast open on table. Just care a fig for health and hygiene. How many times have I to tell you this?”
I say nothing just twinge like a stricken beast with silent mortification.
I assume he comes to breakfast table as early as I turn my back to kitchen what he usually do every day. So I feel no need to put a lid and even if I do so I have to rush back with the sound of pulling chair to open them off.
I just mute myself and allow him to throw up his grievance, disgust on me. And then he leaves finishing his breakfast, slamming the polished wooden door behind me.
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EPILOGUE
Durga holds her breath for a second and blinked for sometime as if to adjust with the vacuum of sudden freedom. Then she cleans everything on the table and cheek the lock carefully again and again. She washes up the kitchen and rooms arrange everything in order.
Then on a thali she arranges her food and came to the balcony. This is her time ,she does not allow anyone to usher in. She needs sometime to just sit and think and chew.
This is her everyday’s routine. When she was a new bride she was more energetic and lively. She indulged in household chores even out of her capacity to please her husband.
Was she successful? Did he ever feel pleased and blessed?
She takes a morsel and peeps outside the bars. The streets are now busy handling the hustle and bustle of moving throng and vehicles. Durga likes to watch these in with her languid motion. She has already lost her appetite and feeling dizzy. The clock is turning to 11 and she have to take bath finishing her meal. She looks out.
A bulky man with a pot belly is thrashing the van driver who is already struggling to move his van with huge burden of goods. It is impossible for the skinny bone decorated weak man to paddle the van with feeble foot pressure.
But the plump man who cannot bear his own body weight and cannot move a inch without gasping for air continuously keeps charging the van man of laziness and condemning him with harsh words.
Beast of Burden.
Durga forgets to finish her food though she is starving. She thrusts her head on the bars and awaits with bated breath for the catastrophe – what will happen next?
She feels terrible. Excitement hammers her brain shivering all over her body. Her eyes widens as if to envision her own destiny.
Can he bear the load?
Will the paddle move?
Will he…?
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