Ginger Tea

Content warning: violence

The moment I saw him uncork his second bottle of whiskey, I knew. Before me, in the kitchen mirror, I could see him reflected, face red and puckered, gravy still dripping from his beard, his legs parted to accomodate the stool on which he had kept his bottle, bloodshot eyes bulging at the veins. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Gurpreet bend down to retrieve the dish soap can that had rolled away under the sink. She paused midway, half - bent, half - straight, obstructed perhaps by the huge belly, taut and round, home to what would, at last, keep my husband from drinking all day. I should probably have hurried from the stove to pick it up instead. Should have offered to do it at least. Or perhaps, I should have asked her to go back to her room and rest, tell her that I would do the dishes. But I stood there, silent by the stove, scraping away at the grease on the bottom of the pan until the veins stood out in my arm, hurrying it up so that it wouldn't dry up, and left didcarded. Beneath her kameez, Gurpreet's feet were blue and swollen, her toe rings pressed down on the skin, leaving it's imprint on her pink flesh.

With one final moan and grunt, Gurpreet straightened herself, dish soap can in hand, a sheen of sweat glistening on her forehead, her knees shaking slightly under the sink.

' You had one job, ' I heard myself hiss. ' Couldn't even cook a simple chicken without making it stick to the pot. '

For a while, all I heard from the other end of the kitchen was the tap water flowing down in gushes, hitting the dishes as it fell, and Gurpreet's glass bangles tinkling as she rinsed the steel. I stopped the scraping for a second so that I could hear her retort when it came, but it didn't.

Looking up at the mirror again, I saw that his head was lolling back now, drool wetting the cushions, the glass of whiskey still in his hands. Beside his drooling face, I could see mine, a reflection that repelled and disgusted me so that I wanted to double over, push my fingers down my throat, and throw up till I died. The lower lip, gashed and swollen, hung like a ripped off band - aid, almost hiding my chin. The nose bent at the hill at a crooked angle, the bone still not healed, the pain still there. One front tooth wasn't there, and the second was decaying. I stared like a ghost at this picture, letting the grease dry in the pot.

The water stopped running. 

' Don't you bark at me, jiji. '

Gurpreet's retort at last. ' You dare do that, and you are in for a rough night. '

A rough night. A leather belt lashing my back until the kameez ripped and the skin split, drawing blood. A rough night. A calloused knee pressing down on my throat until my vision was darkness and everything was pain. A rough night. Coughing up blood in the bathroom sink, trying to be as quiet as possible, and then wetting myself in bed. A rough night.

Grabbing a bottle of water from the rack, I emptied it into the vessel to let it moisten. Pushing it aside, it's bottom screeching against the marble counter, I turned to look at Gurpreet.

' I have had too many rough nights to care for another.'

I stared her down, arms crossed across my breasts, my head burning behind my eyes, daring her to say something, anything at all, so that I can scream at her or tear her hair and show her that I was not afraid.

But, she didn't. 

She simply turned away, clanging open one drawer after another, a rapid urgency in her movements, a desperation in her grunts, and shutting them with so much force, that I jumped and my head hurt. Once all the drawers were opened and shut, she repeated the process, clanging open the same drawers all over again, and banging, banging, banging. Banging, until I screamed at her to stop.

Slapping her hand on the counter, so that three of her bangles shattered and fell tinkling to the ground, she turned to me. 'Have you misplaced the dish rag?'

The question was so sudden and unprecedented that I almost laughed. ' What did you say? '

' Have you misplaced the dish rag god damn it? '

Have you misplaced the dish rag?

That was what she was asking. If I have misplaced the dish rag. She was screaming at me about a dish rag. A baby in her diapers was screaming at me about a dish rag that I had taught her where to keep.

I rushed at her, my fists out, ready to kill her, ready to kill her with that baby inside, ready to finish it all before everything crumbled. Grabbing a fistful of her hair, I pulled her face close to mine, so that she could feel me breathe, know my life and my existence and the bile in my throat when I saw her. Her dainty mouth opened in an O as she drew in her breath. Her thick arched eyebrows crinkled, her rose like lower lip trembling over a scream. I wanted to tear out every single strand of that hair, punch and punch that nose until it was battered and bleeding, until she was as ugly as me, as aching as I was. I wanted her to scream as loud as -

A crash. A crash from the living room. I jumped again, letting go of her hair. She tumbled backward, gasping, aghast, her braid in a mess, her ample bosom heaving in fright. Unable to look at her pretty fear, I turned. 

He was lying on the floor, his hand thumping his back, retching all over the carpet, the glass of whiskey in shards on the floor. Gurpreet pushed me aside as she rushed to him, hastily covering her head, leaving me alone in the kitchen full of grease and bitterness. My knees knocking, I leant on the counter, my breath coming in shallow gasps, my hands trembling so hard that my head reeled. 

I was doing to her what he has been doing to me.

I was doing to her what he has been doing to me.

When had I become capable of striking such fear, of wanting to kill people, to kill babies -

Maybe I had never wanted that baby to be born. Maybe I had loathed it from the moment it was there. Maybe I was jealous. Maybe I didn't want Gurpreet to have what I never could, to give him what I never could.

Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

Maybe I wasn't human anymore.

        ************

Picking up the bucket from under the stove, I held it under the tap until it was full to the brim. Outside in the living room, Gurpreet was asking him to put all his weight on her, cooing to him like she would to a child, wiping the vomit from his chin. I waited until they had left the room, then, coming out to the living room, I plucked the stool from the carpet. Stowing it away, I rolled the carpet up, his puke smearing my fingers, the stench making me sick. Upturning the bucket of water on the floor, I mopped up the whiskey, and when a stray glass shard cut my thumb, I didn't wince at the sting. Straightening up, I stuffed my thumb in my mouth, the zing of my blood spreading down my tongue. 

Turning around, I saw Gurpreet standing at the door, her fingers rubbing her forehead, a grimace of pain on her face. 

' Hold the bin while I clean up the ashtray, ' I said, picking it up and handing it to her. 

Taking it from me, she asked, ' Guess how much I got from the nānās? '

The grannys. Clapping their hands and screaming songs to the air, laughing all over their whiskey and chicken rolls, their daughters and daughters in law thrusting their progeny at my face, falling over each other in drunkenness.

' How much? '

' Fifteen thousand, ' she chuckled. 

' Oh. '

I opened the lid of the ashtray, scraping the stubs into the bin. 

' I am gonna buy this kameez I saw at Raymond's the other day. ' Gurpreet's face was full of gloating.

' Don't be a fool, ' I shushed. ' He will use it for cigarettes and vodka. '

' Not if I give him a child. ' She smiled. ' Which I am going to do, ' and she touched her belly, her face suddenly as radiant and happy as a full moon. 

I didn't reply. To reply, you must breathe, but I was gagged by the simple, delightful happiness in her eyes, so full of hope, so full of dreams. Things I had never known. Things I would never know. 

' Is he asleep? ' I asked instead.

' Not yet. '

'Oh. '

Done with the ashtray, I turned around, taking the bin from her and planting it by the back wall.

' Ginger tea, ' she said suddenly.

' What? '

' Ginger tea. Helps with the hangover. '

' Okay, ' I said. ' I will make some. '

Retreating to the kitchen, I set some water to boil. In the living room, Gurpreet had sat down on the sofa, her legs stretched out, her hand pressed to her temple, massaging it. She was a child. Only a child. A child who still thought that when she gave him a child, he would make her his malika, his princess, and love her everyday. Who thought that her beauty would last, her child would be her's, and our husband a loving man. A child. 

Smashing the ginger in the mortar, I added it to the tea, covering it with a lid. Maybe she could be my child. Maybe she could be my daughter. I could protect her from him - I knew how to. I could take all the beatings for her - this child full of hope and dreams. It wouldn't hurt me to have a broken nose smashed in, or a cut lip cut off. I could help her in her labour. I could help her raise that baby. I could be the baby's nānā. I could be her Maa.

Pouring the tea into a steel tumbler, I carried it outside. Placing it on his whiskey stool, I pushed it towards Gurpreet. 

Sitting up, she stared at me. ' What? '

'Ginger tea, ' I said. 'Helps with the headache.'

Gurpreet kept staring, her mouth making that beautiful O. Something flickered in her eyes - that hope again. That light. 

' I thought you hated me, ' she whispered. 

My heart ached in my bosom. Going up to her, I turned her face up to me. She looked into my eyes, and for a moment, I thought I saw fear in them. Did she think I would strike her again? 

I let my fingers stroke her hair, tucking the soft brown strands behind her ears.

' Do you want to call me Aai? '

Her eyes widened as I cupped her chin, letting a fat tear roll down my blackened eye. Her cheek grew warm against my hand as her eyes welled up with tears too. I knelt before her, waiting waiting, waiting for her to say something. To say anything at all, so that I might hug her and kiss her and tell her I loved her. But she didn't. She simply touched her belly, letting the sobs overwhelm her words, letting hiccups overwhelm her sobs. Then, leaning down to bury her face in my shoulders, she whispered, ' I am so scared, Aai. I am so scared. '

 Aai . She had called me Aai . Maa. Mother.

My heart bloomed in my chest, and an unknown warmth spread to my lips. There was something knocking at my chest, a spring like joy spread down my spine. I wrapped my arms around her. My whole being buzzed with something I couldn't name - was it hope?

I buried my face on her hair as he cried into my shoulders.

' I am here, my dhi, ' I whispered. I am here. I am here. 

The ginger tea grew cold beside us. But, her headache would go away, I knew. I would make it go away. And once it is gone, I will make another cup of ginger tea.

And we will drink it together.