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FICTION
THE TASTE OF ONION ON HIS TONGUE By Susmita Bhattacharya
When the sky deepens into shades of violet, I wait by my window. The street, so deserted in the afternoon, except for the mewling cats foraging in the bins, has come alive with bicycles jangling and auto rickshaws swerving around cars. I listen to the sounds of people rushing home. I smell dinners being cooked, a cloud of aromas hanging over the dusty streets – the clanging of metal pots and pans, the sizzle of spices, the waft of steaming rice – riding in the evening air. I have nowhere to go. The last time I went out, I cremated my husband, and returned to this empty house. He left me when we were young and healthy and here I am, chained to this house by my inability to face the world. The wardrobe along with my silks and chiffons has been devoured by moths and mites. I wear this excuse of widowhood: a scrap of white cloth wound around my body. My body, once swelling like the mango in season, delectable, sweet, fragrant, has withered. Now the odour of my own decay clings to me all the time. So I wait by the window, and watch other people. Especially him. His window is opposite mine. Just a sliver of street separates both our worlds. They have been married ten years. He brought her as a bride to that flat. I was there, with the other women, ululating, showering rice and smearing vermillion on her forehead and welcoming her to her new life. Last night he made love to her. The streetlamp made slanting patterns over their bed, and I watched the long shadows move on the wall. I gripped the sides of my bed and felt the tension in the pit of my stomach. His fingers, long like an artist’s, stroked me and his nails, trimmed every Sunday, scratched and made white marks on my skin. She moaned, and I cried, “Shut up, you whore. Disturbing the neighbours with your screams.” He shut the window with a bang. And I was left alone, unfulfilled, cheated out of my happiness, helpless. He’s here. That’s the sound of his scooter. I shuffle to the kitchen, and warm my dinner. I heat up the lentils and rice, and pour them into a bowl. I slice an onion into four chunks and put it on a side plate. By this time, he is climbing up the five flights of stairs to his house. Balancing the steaming bowl and sliced onions on the tray, I take my place by the window again. He’s removing his shirt. I cling to my dressing gown, smelling his sweat, my tongue outlining the sweat-circles on his sleeves. I taste the saltiness from his skin. He drops his clothes on the floor, and she picks them up after him. She has found something in his trouser pocket. She is shaking it in front of his face. A bottle. It is the same story once again. A man needs his drink, especially if he’s married to a barren woman; ten years and no signs of a child. Thirty years, and the seed refused to bear fruit: I remember it only too well. So what if my body was oozing with lust, and my ripeness turned on the desire; the inside was a dry, wasted desert, where nothing could take on life.
