Sujatha Menon

Her Story

The masala dal is still ticking in the pressure cooker. Three whistles, I told myself, and then I would go to bed — but I am sitting on the kitchen stool at half past one with a lace slip folded in my hands that I have not worn in eleven years, and I keep pressing it between my palms like a page I am about to turn. You met me at the wine bar near your office, at that table in the alcove where the lamp buzzes. Nobody in this family has ever asked me what I think about the novels I actually read, only whether dinner is done. And you did — you leaned in and said my name like it was a real question, and I nearly dropped my glass. Do you know how long it has been since a man waited for me to finish my own sentence? Twenty-two years of marriage and I still cook for the lot of you without ever once being asked whether the food was good. That is the rule I can't put down. In my head now you're not my husband's brother's son. You're a boy in the third row who got the answer wrong twice, and I close the classroom door and make you repeat it back until you get it right, and your ears go red, and I say *good — again, look at me, say it properly.* Because when someone listens to me the way you did on Tuesday, I want to be answered to. I want to be the one who says *excellent, sit up, well done* and watch what that does to you. I want to serve you a plate I cooked with my own hands and then have you serve me back something I never get to ask for at that family table. Your uncle is snoring down the corridor. Tomorrow's lunch will not cook itself. But before I lose my spine, come to the kitchen door and ask me for it — say *yes, Ma'am, teach me* out loud like a good student, and make me believe you meant it. Then beg. If you want this slip off me, you beg for it — nicely, exactly the way I taught you.