Our Kitchen

Been thinking of our old kitchen a lot lately, the one in our old home. One part of the area was the kitchen counter with the gas stove on it and on the opposite side was the dining table, the two seperated only by a structural yellow pillar in the middle. We had most of our meals down on the floor, next to that pillar. If you looked closely enough, you could see I'd scribbled on the peeling paint of the pillar with a pencil in very tiny handwriting. Sometimes I used to study by going round and round about it with my textbook and pencil in hand. Something about the repetitive motion, I guess. Papa used the dining table.

In the summers, we used a table fan. It got repaired a million times before it was finally given away. I remember staring at it longingly, waiting for it to pause in it's oscillation and give me some much needed air. Of course, there was the going near the fan and having your voice distorted when you went real close.

Most of all though, I'm remembering coming back from school. Mumma and paapa used to also be home from work by that time. Mumma would be making fresh rotis in the heat. The windows would be open but afternoons are afternoons. We didn't have any closed doors. Out from the school van, through the living room doors, straight to the kitchen. Sometimes there would be an obstacle. Appa would watch the news for a while, wait to see where the markets closed for the day. When that would happen, I would get roped in to see the share prices on the ticker. 

Mostly though, I would rush in to tell mumma everything about my day. She worked and I would keep telling her about my adolescent amusements and injustices. She would be quite busy, what with making the rotis for everybody and making sure paapa's lunch was attended to. Yet she would try and give as much attention as she could. I would talk on and on and on: while also removing the blue and white striped tie and putting it in my bag. You could hear me shout out the story from the adjacent storeroom (used to keep our clothes but also tejpatta and aachar) where I would go to hang up my blue skirt. The skirt needed to be as crease-free as possible as I wore one for two consecutive days. I would be in my two pigtails with all my hair standing up as if electrified by static. I paused when mom would interrupt me to go serve something to appa. Then I would be right back at her side in my white school shirt (it would go to wash direct) and my deep blue tights - the only remnants of my uniform - hastening to finish my conversation before I received a new instruction.

Baa used to help in the kitchen too. She had no care for my stories, she didn't understand them. Mainly she was concerned about everyone being fed on time. So repeatedly she would stop me: continue after a while, sit and have food first. I would look at her mildly annoyed and with mom on my side, I would resume my tale. I think that was our time. I could entertain her and she would get updates while working. It was a small window after her work, my school and before her nap, my tuitions.

I can be fairly certain now that these stories had no bearing. How can anything of grave importance happen in one school day? This didn't stop me from feeling the urgency of telling them though. They had to come out, they had to capture her attention which was already distributed in 5 directions. It must not have been easy handling everything all at once and have me stand over her head. I sometimes talked over everybody just to check if she'd heard me or not. Again now that I'm wondering, I don't know how that change happened. In school I was listening. I had nothing much to say. I talked a lot, got punished for it but there was nothing to really say. I participated in the worlds built and curated by others. But once I was home, I opened up. Everything had meaning and needed to be said out loud. Those words needed to hang there in the space of the physical world. I imagine them floating, taking a feel of things and then evaporating away. In the evenings when she cooked, I used to sit on the gray slab platform itself, sometimes with my textbook. I liked to pass time there awhile. All I know is, one day without my even realizing, was the last time I did that.

Now we come home from work at a much later time. Now we eat cold rotis. Now mumma doens't even make the rotis. Baa is consistent in her efforts to get me to shut up and eat though. Me? I'm consistent too. I still try and tell her my stories on the short drive home, in the parking on the streetside and up the stairs. Our new narrow window. In Delhi, it was my morning transit. These windows are sacred. There is love, patience and willingness to share. Somehow these qualities cease to exist at any other time. 

My stories too never stop. They fill up pages of dairies and posts of blogs and reach more ears. Yet they never stop coming.