Perfect

Then

7.00 pm

I could hear the sizzle of the oil sputtering as my mother tempered the lentils. My eyes roved over and over our living room, making sweeping passes at first, then alighting on individual furniture and objects. I estimated that the edge of the sofa was the correct distance from the wall. I checked that all pot lids were placed the correct way up, that all electronic devices were closed shut and all throw-able objects were out of sight. And yet when the sound of the lift caught my ear, the ancient elevator creaking upwards and landing on the fourth floor with a thump, my heart beat faster and my mouth went dry. No matter how many things I added to my check-list and how many things I anticipated, there was always something new that could come up and did in fact on a regular basis. And that 'something new' would result in my father violently injuring my mother on a regular basis, around twice or thrice each week.

I rushed to open the door as the bell rang, keen not to worsen my father's temper by keeping him waiting. I used to try and predict his mood by the number of times he rang the bell or by the tone of the ring (did it sound like he was angry already?) but the system was too inaccurate and I gave it up. I still tried to read his face though, as if by gauging his mood at first glance I could stave off what was to come. Today he entered with a question.

'Is that a mustard seed tempering I smell?'

'Yes.' my mother called from the kitchen.

His voice rose. 'I knew it! I could smell it when I entered the building! What are you using it for?'

I stood in between them, my head swivelling from one to the other's face, frantically trying to read facial expression, tones and undercurrents, wondering what fresh horror this was, wondering when and how to interject most effectively.

'I'm tempering the lentils of course!' my mother replied casually surprised.

'NO!' my father roared, with all the ferocity of a mad bull. 'NO!NO!That is not how it's done! Lentils are tempered with cumin seeds! Don't you know even that much?'

'But this is how your mother taught me!' my mother had the temerity to reply back and turned away from the stove to face him. She turned just in time to see him charge at her, the mad bull let loose from the pen. She managed to move out of his way as he reached the stove and flung the pan of hot lentils at the wall behind her. She ducked and he roared.

'I don't like it with mustard seeds, I only like it with cumin. Why do you defy me?'

My mother began to cry, fat tears rolling down her cheeks, her lower lip turned out as she blubbered apologies for her 'mistake.' I ran to her,as much to comfort her as to put my ten year old body between them in the hope of preventing further violence and bodily injury, my mind adding one more item to my 'list' - 'lentils are only to be tempered with cumin seeds, never mustard seeds.' I prayed fervently for a reprieve and glancing up at my father I saw the madness in his eyes recede slightly as he turned around and strode off towards the bathroom.

I comforted my mother as best and as quickly as I could. We worked together to clean up the kitchen and spilled food. Then as she couldn't stop weeping and that was sure to set my father off again, I took the executive decision to send her off to the spare bedroom. Poor mum. It wasn't her fault really. She never could remember all the rules. I really should know more cooking and keep a better track of things.

Pulling open the refrigerator I took out some eggs and bread. I lit the stove. I measured exactly two teaspoons of oil. I chopped the onions fine, diced not sliced. I prepared scrambled eggs exactly the way my father preferred them, the steps gleaned from several such incidents over the years. I served them with perfectly toasted bread. And exactly as I had anticipated my father and I ate in silence. He did not call for or ask about my mother and thankfully she did not emerge from the spare room. And so I salvaged the day and turned in for the night.

Now

7.00 pm

I still prepare scrambled eggs the same way I learnt to twenty years ago. I serve them with perfectly toasted bread. Your bread is cut in a thin slices and I place one slice beside a small serving of eggs directly on your high chair tray. At eighteen months old your independent streak has kicked in and you insist on feeding yourself. You make a mess but I'm game until you look right at me and with one sweeping movement you fling all the food off the tray and onto the floor. And suddenly I'm not thirty years old, not a mother. I'm ten years old, heart beating fast, mouth dry but rooted to the spot, frozen. And then just as suddenly I unfreeze and the rage suppressed for all those years rises up in me and makes me rise physically from my seat. 'The eggs are fucking perfect!' A voice inside my head screams. You look up at me curiously, wondering why I am standing and I come back to the present, to this moment with you, my beloved child. I strive to keep my voice calm, even as the echoes of my past still sound in the throbbing of the blood in my limbs.

'I wish you wouldn't throw food. Would rather have cereal instead?'

You assent enthusiastically, nonverbally. I clear the perfectly prepared scrambled eggs off the table and off the floor and dump it straight in the bin. Then I pour milk over cereal in two bowls and serve us. As you splash your spoon merrily about, more milk and cereal ends up on you than in you. I eat peacefully, grateful for our perfect messy meal.