A Mouthful of Ashes

Kamla lowered her wooden stool onto the bathroom floor, and squatted down, even though her knees ached in protest. Today was one of the bad days. All the joints in her body had seemingly swollen to twice their size overnight. The dull, throbbing ache in her fingers turned to searing pain as she took her clothes out of the steel bucket in front of her. Gritting her teeth and invoking Rama’s name, she rubbed them with a soap bar. In any other part of Delhi, this greasy, yellow bar would be a relic. But in her apartment, where everything including her lifestyle was preserved from twenty years ago, it was just another household item.

 It was an impossible task, getting her clothes clean, but she kept at it, like always. Her oversized white bras had turned yellow from sweat, and the cheap dye in her underwear had faded, leaving white stains behind. Overcome by shame at her bodily fluids and the marks they left, she would always leave these clothes to dry on a hook in the bathroom. They would never see the light of day, and an odd damp smell would seep into the fabric. She would carry the odour with her all day long. Dust and grime had stained her white Sarees grey long ago. However hard she washed them, the original color never returned.  

After she was done washing, she went to the kitchen. It was frowsty, like the rest of her apartment. The exhaust fan had stopped working at some point, but there was no man in the house, so it had never been repaired. As a result, the walls of the kitchen were slick with oil stains, and soot. She cleaned the shelves with an old dusting cloth, and washed her hands. Then she made herself a cup of tea. As the tea boiled, she walked around the apartment, examining everything.

The calendar on the wall, with Lord Krishna and his consort Radha staring at one another, eyes full of longing, seemed almost obscene. Color rose to her cheeks each time she looked at the image. It was Thursday today. Every Tuesday and Saturday, she got down on her knees and scoured the floor vigorously, leaving a trail of water behind, as she dragged the old bucket with her. One of these days, she thought, she would slip on it and fall.

 It had been a long battle between her and the ashes, one that she had been determined to win in her youth. Her husband would bring some home, each time he returned from the factory. First they settled on his clothes, then they started seeping into the walls and the floor. She had scrubbed and scrubbed, till her hands turned red, but they seemed to be everywhere. She would felt their presence in the water she bathed in, in the food she ate and the air she breathed. She had known the battle was lost, when they settled deep into her husband’s lungs and he had died, trying to cough them out. 

She poured her tea into a cup and brought it out into the balcony. Dragging a rusted chair away from the sunlight, she wiped the sweat on her face with the pallu of her saree. She propped her feet onto the lower end of the railing, and took a sip of the hot, ginger tea

“Rekha!” She called out, from the balcony.

“In a minute, Chachi.” A voice from next door responded.

In the minute it took for Rekha to come out, Kamla examined whatever part of Rekha’s house she could see from here. The gardenias and lilies hanging over the railing were in full bloom. There were several other plants she couldn’t name. She only remembered these because Rekha had talked about them extensively yesterday morning. To make up for her declining memory, she would pore over the details of Rekha’s balcony every time she was here. She would notice every little change and repeat it to herself until the image in her head was a perfect replica of what she saw in front of her. Like the tea, it had become a part of her morning ritual. Her eyes moved around. Two of Arvind’s shirts and Sakshi’s school uniforms were hanging on the plastic stand. The windchimes dangling from the ceiling stood silent. In a corner, mustard seeds were left out to dry. A lizard scuttled across the open window. The varnish on the wooden door was peeling off, and the paint on the railing had faded in a few places. But otherwise, everything looked impeccable. 

“Namaste, Chachi.” Arvind, Rekha’s husband, greeted her from the balcony and broke her stupor.

“Be happy, beta.” For the past eight years, she had been saying the same thing to Arvind before he left for work, and it seemed to be working. 

 “Namaste Chachi. How are you today? How is your tea? You didn’t have to wait too long, did you? It took me fifteen minutes to wake Sakshi up this morning. I had to keep telling her to be a good girl, to get dressed on time, to make mumma happy and so on. It’s been two years since she started going to school, but it is the same drama everyday. I wonder when she’ll wake up on time, so I can stop all this cajoling. I also need some rest.”

Sometimes, it was hard for Kamla to keep track of the stream of words that came out of Rekha’s mouth. Rekha, with thick black hair pulled back in barettes, the remnants of yesterday’s kajal smeared across her eyelids, wearing a light pink kurti stained with water where she had rubbed her hands. was the complete antithesis of Kamla. It was nine in the morning, and Rekha hadn’t even taken a bath yet. When she thought about these contradictions, she could never explain the unadulterated affection she felt for Rekha and her family.

But when Rekha interrupted her thoughts, it surged through her again. That warm, pleasant feeling.

“Chachi! What are you thinking? Did you hear what I said?”

“Yes, yes. Who else listens to you but me?”

Their light banter and laughter echoed through the streets, and the pain in her joints became a distant concern.

“Arey Rekha beta, did you try that recipe you were telling me about? I forgot to tell you yesterday, but if you add just a tiny bit of heeng to it, the taste improves tremendously. That’s how my mother used to make it.”

“Your mother? You never talk about your family, Chachi. That is not fair. I keep telling you about Arvind, Sakshi, my own parents but I feel like I barely know anything about you.”

“Old memories, child. Nothing worth remembering. Acha, tell me, now that Arvind got promoted, he must be working longer at the office, no?”

And so the conversation continued until the sun rose high above them and it was difficult to sit outside. Her pallu was completely drenched with sweat. She had been fanning herself with it. The dregs of malai in her tea cup had crusted around the rim. Rekha went back inside to take a shower, and Kamla returned to her own empty house to contemplate.

It was not even April yet. Soon, they would have to stop their daily ritual because of the heat. In the first couple of years, Rekha had suggested coming over.

“No excuses, Chachi. If you don’t like the extra effort, you just sit back and relax. I’ll make tea for both of us and we will talk in peace. Do you know how harmful the rays of the sun…” 

Kamla’s alarmed reaction had dried the words in her mouth, and Rekha had never brought it up again. Kamla did not want Rekha or Arvind coming to her place, but it was for completely different reasons than the ones Rekha assumed. Rekha thought she was ashamed of the condition of her house. The poverty and the drabness. She let Rekha think that, because the truth seemed harder to explain.

She was not poor. She had been, most of her life, but for the past ten years, her son had been depositing money in her bank account every month. It was a small penance for leaving the house after his father’s death and never returning. He spoke to Kamla on the phone sometimes, but his assurances to visit were always half-hearted. Kamla didn’t blame him. She understood.

 The truth was, she didn't feel alone in this house. Over the years, the misery and abjectness that had followed her all her life, had grown into a living, breathing entity who always stayed by her side, and shared her living quarters. Shaped by the dust and ashes, fueled by her anger, it had taken away her husband, and her son. And so, she kept her distance from other people. The day she became careless, she was afraid those grime-covered walls would swallow her whole too. She brandished her mop and dusting cloth as weapons. Once a month, the guard would bring her groceries from a nearby store, and she would pay him some extra money for the effort.

She chopped onions, and boiled daal on the stove, and thought about adding heeng to it. Rekha’s curiosity about her mother had caught her completely off guard. She didn’t like talking about her past. What was there to tell? She barely remembered any details but her mother, long dead, remained a specter in her life. She used to read out the Garbh Gita to Kamla. “You must have lied and cheated in your past life, that’s why you are born a woman,” she would say. “It is in the Garbh Gita.”

“You always need to be a good girl, Kamla.” That had been one of her favorite things to say.

Good girls always listen to their elders. When the boy’s parents had visited hers and decided to take Kamla along, she had agreed because the elders had wanted her to. At fifteen, Kamla was married. Good riddance. Good girls always know what their husbands want. So when her husband had wanted to leave home, and come to Delhi to find work, she had known. She had heard the tone of his voice, and seen the pleading look in his eyes and she had known what he was asking of her. She had gone to her in-laws and said, “Ma, Bauji, we can’t live here any longer. We need to go to the city, if we have to live better.” And so she had become a terrible daughter-in-law, but she had absolved her husband of his guilt. The relief in his eyes had been palpable. Good girls keep their mouths shut. In the cramped, one room apartment in Delhi, she had done all the household chores without a word. She had managed every expense with the meager salary he brought home, and had worn the same three Sarees one after another, without complaint. When he would come home at night, she would let him lay on top of her even though it hurt. When he would shout at her, she would lower her head in silence, letting him get rid of the frustration he felt working long hours in the factory.

She had done everything her mother asked. So where had she gone wrong? Good girls never have bad thoughts.

She clutched her rudraksh mala, like a drowning man holding onto driftwood. Along with the mop, it was another one of her weapons. Penance for her current life, so she wouldn’t be a woman in her next one. So she wouldn’t be a widow if she was. And so she wouldn’t be born blind.

“Good girls never have bad thoughts. Do you hear me, Kamla? If you ever look at another man in a wrong way, you will be born blind. It is in the Garbh Gita.” Her mother’s voice echoed in her ears.

Sometimes, she wanted to read the Garbh Gita just to see how much of what her mother said was actually in the scriptures, but she was afraid of finding out.

It wasn’t really her fault, she told herself. It had just happened. One night, she had been picking up her Sarees from the railing where she had put them out to dry. Out of curiosity, she had leaned across the railing as far as she could, and had peered into Rekha’s house. She was searching for Rekha, she told herself. Through a gap in the curtains, she had seen Rekha and Arvind embracing. She had watched, as they kissed each other gently. As their lips met, guilt and longing had surged through her. Guilt, for invading a moment so intimate, and for not looking away even though she should have. Longing for a life she had never had, and a love she had never felt. A love she had ached for, all through her youth. She had never been kissed. It was blasphemous for her to be thinking such things, especially at this age, when her husband was dead.

It had been equally blasphemous for her to think these things while he was still alive. Often, she had searched for warmth in his eyes. He had brought her here, to Delhi, He had given her a son. He had given her a better life, had done everything he could. He had never raised a hand on her, and had never had any affairs. Three years before his death, he had even brought a refrigerator to the house, and she had wept when he was not looking. Even now, she cleaned it thoroughly every day. But he had also shouted at her multiple times, and days had gone by when they did not have any conversation.

She had never known what had been missing from her life, until she had seen Rekha and Arvind the other day. A warmth and tenderness she could only imagine. And so, she would clutch harder at her rudraksh mala and would chant Rama’s name as frantically as she could. She would do it as many times as she needed to, to remove those visuals from her head.

During her conversations with Rekha, she had started asking about Arvind, and about their marriage, trying not to appear too eager. She would watch Rekha and Arvind in their balcony, laughing at inside jokes or squeezing each other’s hand during their evening tea. And every few nights, she would lean across the railing to catch a glimpse of what she had seen the first time.

She had always wondered why she loved Rekha the way she did, but she was scared of finding out the answer. She told herself Rekha was like the daughter she never had, and so she was happy for Rekha. But a part of her wondered if she was living vicariously through Rekha instead. And if that was the case, what did she make of her own life?

She dismissed these thoughts from her head. It was time for her evening prayer. She sat down in front of the little temple she had built in the cleanest portion of the house. There were idols of Rama, Sita, Ganesha, Laxmi and a portrait of Durga. She would clean all of them periodically. She sat on a battered white mat, which looked as if it was on the verge of falling apart. But like the rest of the house, it had remained sturdy through the years. She sang Bhajans for every God she could think of, followed by 108 repititions of the Rudraksh mala. She chanted until her arthritic fingers turned numb, but her heart was not in it today.

Back in the kitchen, she prepared her evening meal. When she had heard about Arvind’s promotion, she had been overjoyed. Rekha had handed her some sweets from her balcony. She had eaten one yesterday, and saved the rest for later. In a rare moment, she had prepared some nariyal laddoo yesterday, and had packed them in the Tupperware container Rekha had sent. She had planned on giving them to Rekha today morning, but she had chickened out. What would Rekha think? Tonight, she put the container out on the kitchen shelf so she would see it multiple times in the morning, and hand it over to Rekha.

The restlessness she had felt all evening was growing now. As she stepped into the balcony and peered into Rekha's house, she felt like a child reading an obscene magazine. There were raised voices coming from Rekha's room, and she strained her ears to listen. She wasn't expecting this. Familiar with the happy couple she usually saw, she found the scene in front of her distressing. Rekha was shouting at Arvind and Arvind was shaking her shoulders. She wondered if Sakshi was asleep, since the ruckus was loud enough for her old ears. As a glass smashed across the floor, she gasped audibly. She attempted to lean back into the shadows, but Rekha’s steely eyes met hers and Rekha closed the curtains.

Standing alone in the balcony, she stared at the unyielding window again. She felt the cold wind rush against her face. “Rekha”, she called out, loud. And then again, and again, her voice growing quieter with every subsequent “Rekha”, until it was nothing more than a child’s whimper. Unsettled, she came back to her room and kept the Tupperware container in the fridge. She left her dinner uneaten and went to bed. Lying alone in the dark, at sixty-three, she cried while trying to nurse her first heartbreak.