Food For Soul
The sky was a melange of pink and grey as Gayathri parked the car in front of the house. Laxmi was waiting for her on the porch, her ivory saree pinned neatly, her grey hair in a bun. Ignoring Laxmi’s look of disapproval at her casual clothes, Gayathri walked straight into the kitchen. Opening the refrigerator, she started taking out the ingredients needed.
“Did you soak the channa last night?” she asked, searching for the grated coconut.
“Yes,” said Laxmi, pointing to the covered bowl beside the sink.
The chickpeas tinkled like beads as Gayathri poured them into a pressure cooker. Snapping the lid shut, she placed it on the stove. On the other burner, she placed a saucepan of water. Only a cup of tea could appease the headache triggered by a sleepless night.
“We are supposed to be fasting,” reminded Laxmi, her eyes on the bubbling pan of water.
Gayathri glared at her. Unblinking, Laxmi looked back.
Gayathri removed the saucepan, placing it on the counter with a bang. Laxmi winced but stayed quiet.
“You didn't get grated coconut for the poriyal?” asked Gayathri, taking out the chopping board.
“Everything needs to be fresh,” replied Laxmi.
“I am cooking his favourite meal early in the morning, aren’t I? What difference will it make if the coconut is pre-packaged? If I start grating it now, the food will not be ready by the time punditji comes.”
“I will scrape it. You get the curry leaves,” Laxmi placated.
While Laxmi set up the scraper, Gayathri walked out of the kitchen into the tiny garden behind. Plucking the curry leaves, she let their aroma loosen the tightness in her chest. God, how much she hated this day, this house and that kitchen. All she could hear in that kitchen were tears and broken dreams.
The chirp of a bird reminded her of the time running away.
For the next hour, the two women worked silently in tandem. The only sounds in the kitchen were the sputtering of spices, the grating of the knife on the chopping board, and the utensils clanging. Soon, the small room was redolent with aromas, the nuttiness of poriyal mixed with the spiciness of the channa and the greasiness of the puris.
The clock hands showed ten as the pundit ji, after belching his blessings, left with the fat envelope of dakshina clutched in his fist.
Gayathri, who had remained silent with her jaw clenched, turned to clear the dishes when Laxmi lightly touched Gayathri's shoulder.
“Thank you for helping today. His soul will be at peace. Come and eat now. You must be ravenous. I know how much you love channa-puri.”
“His soul can rot in hell for all that I care. I did this only for you. Because, even though you have been free for the past three years, you think you owe something to him.“
A loud rumble from her stomach interrupted Gayathri’s hot words. Ignoring it, she picked up her bag and said, “The thought of eating the channa-puri made for the ritual to free his soul makes me want to puke.”
Laxmi saw her daughter leave with a heavy heart. She knew Gayathri hated Laxmi for doing shraddha for her husband. For Gayathri, to pray for the soul of a man who had only given abuse to them was a betrayal. But Laxmi couldn’t reveal the truth to Gayathri.
That the rituals were Laxmi's penance for praying to the Gods every day for her abusive husband’s demise.