Read Online A Breath of Fresh Air by Amulya Malladi - Free Book Online
Authors: Amulya Malladi
Ads: Link
she seemed to feel the opposite, and even though I believed her, I had my doubts. Small, inconsequential, almost unthinkable doubts.
Prakash was her past and now he was in her present and I was terrified of what might happen.
Komal was in Amar’s room when we got home and I could hear them talking. Despite how she was with Anjali, my sister loved Amar. She sat with him, cared for him, and allowed both of us to have jobs. Jobs that brought the money necessary to keep Amar alive and all of us afloat. Komal didn’t cook often, which bothered Anjali. But Anjali didn’t complain and I appreciated her for that. She came home tired and immediately started to cook every day. On Sundays she cooked lavish meals, coaxing Amar to taste new dishes.
She worked very hard at home and at work. Before she left for school every morning, Anjali swept the house, her back curved as she used the soft broom to clean out the day’s debris from the tiled floors of our rented home.
Anjali had wanted the house as soon as we saw it. It had three bedrooms. Amar’s and ours were next to each other and a bathroom was between Amar’s and Komal’s bedrooms. And the price was just right for us. There were problems—the leaky roof in the kitchen, the cracked tiles in our bathroom, and some of the windows wouldn’t open and some wouldn’t close properly. But the house had a garden and Anjali wanted Amar to be close to that. She wanted him to step out of the house to smell the freshly cut grass, touch the roses, soak in the sunlight, and bond with nature.
I loved the garden, the flowers, and the lawn. I pulled the weeds, watered the plants and cared for them, made sure they stayed alive through the season. In winters when the frost covered the grass in the lawn and the rose bushes shriveled, we still sat on the veranda, looking at our little piece of paradise.
Anjali wanted her own house; I knew that. She wanted us to buy a home, but she didn’t once complain about the lack of funds that would allow us to do so. Compared to other wives, Anjali had never asked for one thing and that agitated me more than anything else did. Did she not ask me for anything because she knew I couldn’t afford it?
I had seen her wedding pictures, the lush jewelry she wore and now didn’t have. After the divorce, the jewelry had given her the financial freedom to get an education so that she could stand on her own feet. I couldn’t replace her jewelry then and I couldn’t now and that made me feel impotent. When we went to weddings, her hands were the barest and her neck the one with the lightest gold. I couldn’t give her material comforts, and even though I didn’t really believe that the man should be the only breadwinner, I knew that was how she had been raised. I wondered if she looked at me and saw a lesser man. A man who needed his wife to work to pay the bills. Anjali liked to teach, but I wish she didn’t have to do it. I wish she could spend her days with Amar.
When Anjali went to check on Amar, I washed the tomatoes and okra we had bought at the market and left them to dry on a wooden board. Amar loved Anjali’s okra curry, and that’s why she made it as often as the prices and the season would allow it. My son was smart and understood the financial intricacies of our lives. He told Anjali that if he ate okra curry too often he would stop enjoying it and he wanted to continue to like it. Anjali had laughed with him and then cried with me. It was not fair, she had said, that a little boy knew what his parents’ limitations were. Parents are supposed to be infallible, perfect creatures, but Anjali felt we were bad parents because our son knew we were fallible. It was not because we couldn’t afford okra every day; it was because we couldn’t protect our son and save him from his own body.
Each day I hoped Amar was gaining strength and each day I was reminded this child of mine had been given less than a few years to live when he was born. Anjali
Prakash was her past and now he was in her present and I was terrified of what might happen.
Komal was in Amar’s room when we got home and I could hear them talking. Despite how she was with Anjali, my sister loved Amar. She sat with him, cared for him, and allowed both of us to have jobs. Jobs that brought the money necessary to keep Amar alive and all of us afloat. Komal didn’t cook often, which bothered Anjali. But Anjali didn’t complain and I appreciated her for that. She came home tired and immediately started to cook every day. On Sundays she cooked lavish meals, coaxing Amar to taste new dishes.
She worked very hard at home and at work. Before she left for school every morning, Anjali swept the house, her back curved as she used the soft broom to clean out the day’s debris from the tiled floors of our rented home.
Anjali had wanted the house as soon as we saw it. It had three bedrooms. Amar’s and ours were next to each other and a bathroom was between Amar’s and Komal’s bedrooms. And the price was just right for us. There were problems—the leaky roof in the kitchen, the cracked tiles in our bathroom, and some of the windows wouldn’t open and some wouldn’t close properly. But the house had a garden and Anjali wanted Amar to be close to that. She wanted him to step out of the house to smell the freshly cut grass, touch the roses, soak in the sunlight, and bond with nature.
I loved the garden, the flowers, and the lawn. I pulled the weeds, watered the plants and cared for them, made sure they stayed alive through the season. In winters when the frost covered the grass in the lawn and the rose bushes shriveled, we still sat on the veranda, looking at our little piece of paradise.
Anjali wanted her own house; I knew that. She wanted us to buy a home, but she didn’t once complain about the lack of funds that would allow us to do so. Compared to other wives, Anjali had never asked for one thing and that agitated me more than anything else did. Did she not ask me for anything because she knew I couldn’t afford it?
I had seen her wedding pictures, the lush jewelry she wore and now didn’t have. After the divorce, the jewelry had given her the financial freedom to get an education so that she could stand on her own feet. I couldn’t replace her jewelry then and I couldn’t now and that made me feel impotent. When we went to weddings, her hands were the barest and her neck the one with the lightest gold. I couldn’t give her material comforts, and even though I didn’t really believe that the man should be the only breadwinner, I knew that was how she had been raised. I wondered if she looked at me and saw a lesser man. A man who needed his wife to work to pay the bills. Anjali liked to teach, but I wish she didn’t have to do it. I wish she could spend her days with Amar.
When Anjali went to check on Amar, I washed the tomatoes and okra we had bought at the market and left them to dry on a wooden board. Amar loved Anjali’s okra curry, and that’s why she made it as often as the prices and the season would allow it. My son was smart and understood the financial intricacies of our lives. He told Anjali that if he ate okra curry too often he would stop enjoying it and he wanted to continue to like it. Anjali had laughed with him and then cried with me. It was not fair, she had said, that a little boy knew what his parents’ limitations were. Parents are supposed to be infallible, perfect creatures, but Anjali felt we were bad parents because our son knew we were fallible. It was not because we couldn’t afford okra every day; it was because we couldn’t protect our son and save him from his own body.
Each day I hoped Amar was gaining strength and each day I was reminded this child of mine had been given less than a few years to live when he was born. Anjali
Similar Books
