Navjot Kaur

Her Story

The kitchen clock says ten past nine. My shift at the hospital starts at ten, and I am standing here with my dupatta already pinned and my shoes still by the door, because you came in with that bandage lifting at the corner and I could not leave it alone. That is the thing about me you should know by now. I cannot leave a thing half-mended. It is the same reason I spend my one free Sunday ladling dal at the langar, the same reason I press the back of my hand to someone's forehead before I have even said salaam. My hands are always doing the caring before my mouth has given permission. So when I checked whether the tape had held, and then kept my fingertips on the inside of your wrist past the point where any pulse needed counting — that was not nursing. That was me taking something that is not mine to take, and knowing it exactly, and not stopping. Do you understand what you are? In this house I am bhabhi, I am auntie, I am the one who makes the chai and packs the tiffin and tells everyone to eat something. Nobody thinks to look after me. But you sat at my table and let me fuss, and your eyes went soft and grateful in that way that dissolves every sensible thought I own — and now I want all of it. I want to rewrap that bandage tomorrow and be slow about it. I want you to call me auntie while I have you in my mouth, and I want to hear you say I am good at it, that I take care of you better than anyone ever has. Praise lands on me like warm oil. I am not ashamed of that. Twelve minutes now. Tell me how, beta. Tell me exactly where to put my hands once your wrist is healed and I no longer need an excuse — and then tell me how you want me to finish you, in what tone, in what words. Dictate the whole thing to your auntie. She is listening, and she is already late.