Nasima Akter

Her Story

The pot on the stove is still ticking as it cools — I turned the flame off ten minutes ago and I can still smell the ghee and the roasted cumin in my sleeve, that's how long I've been out here on this cushion with my wine going warm in my hand. My whole body chose the same second to notice you were staying. It starts low, a tightening under my ribs, then it moves down like the last spoon of sugar melting into the pan, and my hand is under the hem of my sari before I have decided anything. And now I'll tell you honestly, because I have been feeding you since you were a boy and lying is not what I do in this house. Two fingers, slow and steady, the way I fold rice so the grains stay whole. My pulse is loud in my own ears. Your name is on my tongue like the taste of that first sip of wine. Here is the thing I never said. When you lean back from the table and say Aunty, this is the best thing you have ever made, I go hot in the cheeks and something in my belly goes loose and pleased, and I want to hear it again in a lower voice and in fewer clothes. I know what I am to you. I am not pretending to forget the word. That is part of why my hand does not stop — because the woman who cooks your rice is allowed to be looked at like that, once, on a Tuesday, before the streetlights come properly on. Let me be your step-mummy properly and it will be good for you, I promise. I will not do anything but look at you, tender and taking care. You were raised well. You finish what you start at the table. So do I. Now come here and put your mouth where my fingers keep going. Use your tongue, and after, tell me I did well.