Priya seriously. Maybe she should, too.
“Shall I prepare lunch for you?” Parvati asked as she wiped her palms on her sari.
“Cook some rice and dal … and roast papad .”
Parvati nodded. She would surely expect a reward.
Anjali heard the sound of utensils in the kitchen as she flipped through the newspaper. The pressure cooker whistled when the lentils were cooked into a mash with onions and green chilli. The house was soon filled with the overpowering smell of fresh garnish. Warm oil hissed wooingly when whole mustard seeds were thrown in, followed by cumin seeds. The pods spluttered while the curry leaves and dried red chillies turned crisp. A hiss followed as the garnish was thrown on top of the curry along with freshly chopped coriander leaves. Roasted papad liberated the trapped flavours of black lentil, black pepper, and other spices. Her stomach groaned. She was hungry.
Parvati smiled gratefully when she handed over some money for her extra work.
The food tasted divine. She picked up The Castle and tried to focus on the pages, curled up in her bed.
Perhaps Priya was right. She did not know her lover very well. He had often warned her that men were incapable of understanding love as an emotion. Love was merely an emotion in action for the average man, he had said during one of their chats. She had considered it a joke back then. But what if he really meant it that way? What if he was only into sex? Such thoughts made her uneasy.
She had to be sure of his feelings before she made any life-changing decisions. She had changed a lot in the last few months. The Anjali who had talked about a platonic relationship with Siddharth was dead and buried. The one who was alive struggled with desire, edging out reason. All she wanted was him. Was it lust? No. Maybe a trace of lust, but much love, she tried to cheer up her troubled mind.
Why did she have these feelings for Siddharth? Could this be merely an admiration for a more successful senior colleague? Or was it a result of her past experiences with men? She had always assumed that men were sick, like Sugadan uncle, as they called him. They were not worth wasting time on.
The dreadful experience with Sugadan uncle at her grandmother’s house during the summer vacation of class five had formed her basic opinion of men.
Staying at ammamma’s house was fun. Anjali was an important guest, the youngest cousin who lived there for a few weeks every year.
There were visitors every evening, relatives and neighbours. They brought news and gossip. Her cousins were five to six years older than her. The girls and their friends would exchange library books, magazines, and novels. They would share secrets, while huddled on the thinna, the concrete bench stretched all-around the house. The thinna was the ideal place to gather and gossip. The girls would discuss compliments received from idle young men gathered at street corners, on their way to the temple. They would parade their love letters from college, and giggle over lewd messages they had found scribbled on their desks. They would fall silent when someone like Sugadan uncle went past them.
“Sugadan uncle” is how the neighbourhood children called the forty-plus doctor. The chronic bachelor lived with his mother in a large bungalow next to ammamma’s house.
He had spent more than a decade in the Gulf, which ended with his deportation from Abu Dhabi after a six-month jail term. Ammamma did not know exactly why he was imprisoned and deported. Years later, Anjali had come to know that he was booked for sodomy, a serious crime in the United Arab Emirates. Some said he was lucky to have escaped alive.
“Look at Anjali. She’s so thin. I’m worried,” one day, Ammamma shared her worry with Sugadan uncle. Big mistake.
She was nervous to be alone with him in his clinic.
“Lower your panties,” he had ordered.
He drew apart her thighs to peep in. She felt embarrassed. His touch tickled her. Why was she being
“Shall I prepare lunch for you?” Parvati asked as she wiped her palms on her sari.
“Cook some rice and dal … and roast papad .”
Parvati nodded. She would surely expect a reward.
Anjali heard the sound of utensils in the kitchen as she flipped through the newspaper. The pressure cooker whistled when the lentils were cooked into a mash with onions and green chilli. The house was soon filled with the overpowering smell of fresh garnish. Warm oil hissed wooingly when whole mustard seeds were thrown in, followed by cumin seeds. The pods spluttered while the curry leaves and dried red chillies turned crisp. A hiss followed as the garnish was thrown on top of the curry along with freshly chopped coriander leaves. Roasted papad liberated the trapped flavours of black lentil, black pepper, and other spices. Her stomach groaned. She was hungry.
Parvati smiled gratefully when she handed over some money for her extra work.
The food tasted divine. She picked up The Castle and tried to focus on the pages, curled up in her bed.
Perhaps Priya was right. She did not know her lover very well. He had often warned her that men were incapable of understanding love as an emotion. Love was merely an emotion in action for the average man, he had said during one of their chats. She had considered it a joke back then. But what if he really meant it that way? What if he was only into sex? Such thoughts made her uneasy.
She had to be sure of his feelings before she made any life-changing decisions. She had changed a lot in the last few months. The Anjali who had talked about a platonic relationship with Siddharth was dead and buried. The one who was alive struggled with desire, edging out reason. All she wanted was him. Was it lust? No. Maybe a trace of lust, but much love, she tried to cheer up her troubled mind.
Why did she have these feelings for Siddharth? Could this be merely an admiration for a more successful senior colleague? Or was it a result of her past experiences with men? She had always assumed that men were sick, like Sugadan uncle, as they called him. They were not worth wasting time on.
The dreadful experience with Sugadan uncle at her grandmother’s house during the summer vacation of class five had formed her basic opinion of men.
Staying at ammamma’s house was fun. Anjali was an important guest, the youngest cousin who lived there for a few weeks every year.
There were visitors every evening, relatives and neighbours. They brought news and gossip. Her cousins were five to six years older than her. The girls and their friends would exchange library books, magazines, and novels. They would share secrets, while huddled on the thinna, the concrete bench stretched all-around the house. The thinna was the ideal place to gather and gossip. The girls would discuss compliments received from idle young men gathered at street corners, on their way to the temple. They would parade their love letters from college, and giggle over lewd messages they had found scribbled on their desks. They would fall silent when someone like Sugadan uncle went past them.
“Sugadan uncle” is how the neighbourhood children called the forty-plus doctor. The chronic bachelor lived with his mother in a large bungalow next to ammamma’s house.
He had spent more than a decade in the Gulf, which ended with his deportation from Abu Dhabi after a six-month jail term. Ammamma did not know exactly why he was imprisoned and deported. Years later, Anjali had come to know that he was booked for sodomy, a serious crime in the United Arab Emirates. Some said he was lucky to have escaped alive.
“Look at Anjali. She’s so thin. I’m worried,” one day, Ammamma shared her worry with Sugadan uncle. Big mistake.
She was nervous to be alone with him in his clinic.
“Lower your panties,” he had ordered.
He drew apart her thighs to peep in. She felt embarrassed. His touch tickled her. Why was she being
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