Pray

We got a half hour to pace with comfort repetition, I chose the stairs, the railing, my father
chose the outside, whimpering in sympathetic return, a cult like natural imitation, at the dog’s
bouts of sneezy, heaving separation anxiety, my mother in the context of the lively gasps of
the heating pans, the sterilized metal spoons, the clank of relief, catharsis after safely
placing a pot of dal onto the kitchen platform and soon after a brief little chuckling wash/rinse
of fingers from being too lenient and up close to the underpot carbon residue, it also was
obligatorily medication from the solely indulgent and heavily uninformed, parasitic kitchen
and it’s heat that always created a sort of a squeeze to anybody’s lungs, usually the bad
kind.

“Where’s your father? The stove’s just run out. It just won’t turn on. I’ve still got a freshly
chopped bowl of okra that needs to stir fried and a bowl of onions that might go black
anytime now.”

I walked down each stair, taking time with each to constantly review and reflect over the
angle of my feet, after a ton of those sorts of movies that have their main get offs and
viagras as these little plot points whispered in the thuds of these cardboard cut out, googly
eyed characters either having quiet bathroom breaks, or walking down a tapestry curled
stairway, with a little seductive metal hooker pole on the side, confident with no purpose.
That’s how I came to know that the right way to eat a burger all clean, was a choice, to only
hold it with the finger tips of three, the index, the thumb and the middle finger (the slimmer
and simpler the burger, the better it seemed), while the other two just either lay propped up
like antenna or propped down like they were to exist awake for another sequel of the
mcdonalds, my mother called the positioning, a pouting deer head on somebody’s wall
above the mantel piece, since it was protruding (an ode to the nails I never really came
about trimming, until the third week when they got all mixed up with the wrong sort of wispy
fabric), like a weather-cock could direct anybody from the kitchen to the living room and was
terribly adorable and antique, and since we both loved antique from afar, I kept staring at
ones with the plagued owner stories usually, while my mother gave me a sort of sidenote to
not touch anything before going over to the neighboring pans and pots section. Oh no, she
had faith in my fingers, I was fifteen, I wouldn’t go as far to let an apple roll off of my four
fingers, cause I’d catch them with all five, that’s commitment and dedication to mundane and
not silly arrogance, especially after that one time when I was six that I plopped my animal
purse onto a gold silver lining trophy at a furniture place while spinning right in between the
sagging cold bosom of the air conditioning vent, cause right before, I saw this table lamp
sorta thing on a beach rod table stand, some in pink, some in blue and I noticed the blue one
even though I was predominantly always horny for the pink, cause it looked like a swimming
pool with all the bdsm jaws shit that you’d expect, or pleasantly like a morphed object in one
corner of the birthday land, up on top of the Faraway Tree, the bubbles from below and the
little murky jelly like period clots on the bottom were shaped like tiny sleeping fish, they’d
always be sleeping in my head, that’s for sure.

“He’s outside, on the phone.” I stood on this line of cement, that made all the difference
between the inside and the outside of the kitchen.
“So? What’re you doing here, inside, huh? For your omlete or something, that’s what you
need, to to go out and tell him that the cylinder’s done with me?”

“He’s on the fucking phone, I don’t want him to fucking kill me.”

“Again with the profanity? You’re not in a hollywood movie, for fuck’s sake, you’re not in
Hollywood. And, for god’s sake, go and feed that dog of yours, will you? I don’t know why
he’s got to be this starking mad to begin with. Should’ve not let your uncle talk us into his
cute little eyes. Fuck his bald head and his cheap track pants.”

“We’re also out of dog biscuits. Remember yesterday? Also, a bit of education here, you
don’t need a fucking Hollywood certified resident’s badge to curse, for fuck’s sake.”

“Skipping out on it makes you real happy, doesn’t it? He’s your dog too, you know? You
could at least talk him out of barking and sticking up his voice up into people’s asses. I
mean, look at it this way, I’ve been up at six am, fucking without a shower or a change of
clothes, sorted through the greasy laundry, you might have a UTI btw, okay you’ll probably
shower today so it’s whatever, then the fucking garbage disposal and then this fucking bitch
of a maid isn’t gonna show up, so guess what? I’m scrubbing today, bringing out your
father’s dumb fucking, cheapo artificial flowers, his car keys while he’s just watching tv and
telling me how the dosas aren’t that great today, meanwhile I’m fucking chopping up onions,
yelling for you to brush your teeth and scrub your face with that soap, I-”

“What is going on here? Why are you giving your mother a tough time, huh? If it’s about
breakfast, maybe you should accomodate for today, what do you say? The dosa is pretty
good.” He plopped the phone onto the sofa nearby, like he didn’t profusely use it, ever.

“It wasn’t even about the breakfast, I actually do like dosa, I was just-”

“Your mother has been up really early, cooking for us, the least we can do is maintain peace
and solitude, in an hour, they’re gonna be here. Are you going to be wearing that and
screaming like this, right in front of them as well?”

“No, her shirt’s fine, I picked it out for her, it was the cleanest, the longest and it also suits
her. There’s a bigger problem here, the gas cylinder’s run out. I still haven’t made the bhindi
masala, the onions have turned black, the chicken’s still slimy and it just won’t cook any
further.”

“I wasn’t yelling at her this time. I swear, daddy I was nice, I was as patient as I possible
could’ve been, she really gets to ya and she’s just so incredibly mean and bitter-”

“Being exhausted after working and sweating it out in that kitchen from six am is me being
mean? How many things should I cater to? You’re seventeen, you should be helping me out.
But hey, when she was told to shell the peas, pluck and wash the spinach leaves, I didn’t let
her-”

“Hey, hey, don’t let anything bother you. You’ve got a heart rate too, it isn’t good for the
palpitations, go about doing what you’re doing, don’t listen to stuff and don’t let it get to you-”
“No, you don’t understand. She’s tardy, she’s got some really really questionable hygiene,
she curses too, you know, the f-word, she’s really in dire need of guidance, all that she can
get. I really just want to spray her with a hose, and scrub her from toe to foot, cause I’m
pretty sure even the way she showers is-”

“Shut up and get in there! You’re being worse than a child! You’ve asked for me and I’m
here, aren’t I? So, get in there and I’ll be right behind you, do you understand? Work on
chopping up some cucumbers for the salad. And, you, how long has it been since you last
showered, huh?”

“I don’t remember, daddy.”

It had been two weeks.