Reimagined Rituals
The pressure cooker’s shrill hiss sent Siddharth storming to the kitchen. What’s this woman’s obsession with Rajma? “What the hell?”
“Language, Sid!” Wiping her hands on a towel, she turned off the gas.
“It’s Siddharth for you!” Crossing his arms over his chest, he leaned against the door. “Where’s Dad?”
“There was an emergency at the hospital.”
“And the cook?”
“She left.” The woman pointed at a casserole. “Your lunch. You can come in, you know.”
“Of course!” He shrugged, “it is my house.” Stomping in, he yanked hard at the cupboard, tugged at the cutlery drawer, and banged a stainless-steel plate on the countertop. But before he could reach for the casserole, a fork slipped from his hand and landed on the floor. She winced and limped out of the kitchen, saying nothing.
Ugh, fussing over such a tiny thing! Whistling a peppy tune, Sid helped himself to a generous serving of pasta. He took a fresh fork from the drawer, but when he bent down to pick up the fallen one, he gasped. I’ve fucked up. The next instant, he was outside the master bedroom, knocking mildly. He nudged it open and entered when there was no response.
The last time he had been in this room was three months ago… before the room became hers. She was curled under a sheet, sniffling, but sat up straight on hearing a faint cough. “What’s wrong?”
He placed a bandage next to her. “Is it still bleeding?”
“Don’t worry.”
He thrust his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Can I… hmm… I was wondering… why do you make rajma every Sunday? Please. I want to know…”
A warm smile appeared on her wrinkled face. “Like you’ve your Sunday pasta ritual… Rajma was ours.”
“Ours?
“Anjali’s and mine?”
“Anjali?”
“My daughter.”
“Is she with your husband?”
“Yes.” Her eyes turned cloudy as she sniffled. “I lost them in an accident. She would’ve turned thirteen this year, the same age as you.”
Sid rambled. “I-i-i am sorry! I don’t think Papa told me… Oh, he might’ve, but, you know, I-”
“I know,” she smiled. “For the past five years, I’ve been making it every Sunday-”
“-hoping she’d come back.” Sid completed her sentence.
He knew the feeling. He had stuck to their pasta routine after losing his mother to cancer four years ago.
When Papa wanted to marry again, Sid felt betrayed. He bawled and screamed and blackmailed, but what could he do? So, he resorted to the next best tactic–giving her the cold shoulder.
Sid stood twisting his lips, before storming out. She wondered if she should leave him alone or follow him. When she finally stepped out, her lips quivered. Pointing at the dining table, Sid smiled through his tears. “How about starting our own ritual? A fusion meal. Rajma chawal and pasta?”
Her voice broke the tiniest bit, “Siddharth, do you really mean this?”
“It’s Sid for you,” he smiled, hugging her hard.