Teacups
There was a crash as the finely painted teacup connected with the shining tile floor. Damnit, she cursed under her breath. Vinay would not need waking for another half hour, but her ruckus had undoubtedly served as an alarm of its own. Cursing more, she knelt to pick up the largest pieces from the floor. She had been moved into Vinay’s house for two whole months, and had arranged and re-arranged this kitchen many times over. Even still, things were not to her liking just yet. Even still, this kitchen felt like chaos.
She chucked the large pieces into the bin, and retrieved the broom and dustpan from beside her refrigerator. She swept the small shards from the floor into the dustpan, clucking her tongue at the loss. Lata had gifted the set to her as a wedding present — delicate white teacups with golden scalloped rims and pink roses dotted along the sides, all hand painted and lovely. The set was identical in shape to the set at Sowmya’s parents’ house, but painted more beautifully by far. Sowmya told Priya about the set during a weekend phone call, and Priya told her that they were “symbolic.” Priya did not explain how, and Sowmya did not bother asking.
Frustrated at losing one of the precious cups, Sowmya set the broom and dustpan aside with some force before remembering Vinay again and cursing herself a second time. Quietly and carefully this time, Sowmya retrieved another cup from the set. She poured herself a cup of freshly made coffee, relishing the smell before taking a sip. Sowmya knew she made very good coffee. And she knew it to be important. She had run her parents’ home for almost two decades, and she had learned that the way you started the day was even more important than the way you ended it. Sowmya added a teaspoon of sugar to her now-cooling coffee, and stirred slowly. She sipped lightly, walked to her stove, and bent over the pot of Perugannam, curd rice, and inhaled the fragrance of the dish. It was her favorite breakfast to cook, and Vinay’s favorite to eat.
The first time Sowmya had cooked for Vinay in their home together, he had praised her wildly for it. She had cooked him mango pappu for dinner and rava ladoo for dessert. Nothing special, and certainly nothing Sowmya hadn’t cooked for him at her parents’ home. Sowmya was taken aback by the praise, wondering if she’d done anything differently this time, though she knew she’d made it just as she had all the many other times she’d done. Vinay, sensing Sowmya’s confusion, admitted to her that after their engagement, every time he’d been to dinner at Sowmya’s family’s house, he had eaten, but not savored. Vinay went on to explain that her father unnerved him, making every visit slightly uncomfortable for Vinay.
Sowmya understood without question. Vinay had come to know a different version of her father than she had hoped. After the bride-seeing ceremony, Vinay had entered the family in its Post-Priya state. Sometimes even now, Sowmya’s father would tense when the subject was brought up. But he was getting better, Sowmya knew. Her father was shedding ounces of the stress and anger he carried on the matter every day. And for that, Sowmya was thankful. But, she still wished he’d carry on shedding a bit faster, for Vinay’s sake.
She went about setting the table for breakfast when she heard the soft pit-pat of Vinay’s feet gingerly descending the stairs. Sowmya reddened as he approached.
“I woke you, didn’t I?” She said.
He smiled. “I needed waking. It is okay. And this way, I can get some grading done until we must leave to visit your parents.” He inhaled the aromas wafting their way in from the kitchen. “Ahhh. Is that Perugannam?”
“Yes.” A smile creeped its way across her face. No matter what she put on the plate in front of him, he was pleased, but he shared her own soft-spot for this dish. The fact she’d made it today was somewhat of a consolation prize, however. A simultaneous thanks and apology for agreeing to spend his Saturday with her at her parents’ house. “Would you like some coffee?” She asked.
“Please, my dear.”
~~~*~~~*~~~
Sowmya was readying herself with Vinay, preparing for her parent’s house. She was brushing her hair and smoothing back fly-away strands when the phone rang. She moved to answer when Vinay, nearly finished and ready, said “No, I will get it, continue dressing.” Sowmya tied her curly hair into a low pony tail, and sprayed on two presses of perfume. She strained her ears to listen to what she could from downstairs. She heard only the murmur of her husband’s voice, but he was using a pleasant tone. She was fastening the clasp to a necklace when Vinay reentered the room. He held the cordless phone out to her, and smiling, said, “For you, my dear. It is Priya.”
Sowmya let out a squeak of delight. She hadn’t gotten a call yet this weekend from Priya, and was worried she wouldn’t find the time. “Hello? Priya?”
“Yes, I’m here. How are you?” Priya asked.
“I am well! Vinay and I are dressing now for lunch at Nanna and Ma’s house.”
“I see. You sound excited. Is…. Is Vinay still in the room?”
Sowmya’s eyes darted to the entryway, where Vinay stood, waiting. “Yes.” She answered.
“Okay. Ask him to leave. I’ll wait.”
Sowmya removed the phone from her ear. “Dear?” she called.
Vinay looked up. “Yes?”
“I will be a few more minutes with Priya on the phone, and I should straighten up my dressing table before we leave. Will you wait for me downstairs?” Sowmya asked.
Vinay looked slightly concerned, but agreed, and made his way downstairs. Sowmya waited for the sound of his footfalls to go away until putting the phone to her ear again.
“Do you still miss it? Does your new home still feel so strange?”
Sowmya hesitated. “Yes.” She said finally, and felt shame immediately. Her husband was more than just that, he was a friend to her. The sort of companion she’d hoped for, but never realistically expected. The overexcitement she felt whenever they visited her parents’ home made her feel guilty every time. It became the subject of many phone calls between Sowmya and Priya.
“Listen, it is okay. This transition is big for you. And it is coming so late in life. You needn’t feel guilty. But you need to make peace with your two homes. Keep making this home yours. Keep rearranging that damned kitchen, if you must. Find a way to make it yours, Sowmya.”
Sowmya took a deep breath. She felt this was easier said than done, but she would try to find a way. No, she would find a way.
She looked at the time on the wall-clock and sighed. “Priya, you have caught me at a bad time. We are running late, so I must go. But I want to know how Nick is doing! And you also, of course. So please call me back tomorrow if you have the time, okay?”
“Will do. Nick sends love to everyone. Goodnight.”
Sowmya heard the click, and then the dial-tone. She grabbed her handbag and joined Vinay downstairs.
~~~*~~~*~~~
Dinner with Ma and Nanna was short-lived. Lata and Jayant’s daughters both caught a cold, meaning the pair had to rush out as soon as possible from dinner. With only the two of them left with Sowmya’s Ma and Nanna, she knew she ought to wrap things up for Vinay’s sake. With a white lie about Vinay needing to meet with students in the morning to discuss projects, Sowmya was able to begin clearing the table with her Ma after only 3 hours of dining. But this was the part she relished. Being in that kitchen again, the kitchen of her childhood and up until now, the kitchen of her womanhood, was what truly felt like home. This kitchen was not chaos. In her mind, this kitchen was everlasting. This kitchen was a path she’d taken every day, a trail she would never forget the twists and turns to.
She set about putting away leftovers, piling rice high in deep dishes, and sealing them with plastic wrap to be put in the fridge. She stowed away curries and desserts, wrapping them all securely. She reached into the cupboard for another dish, but stopped suddenly. The idea came, and she immediately decided upon it. Her eyes gleamed, and she wore a satisfied grin. She picked up the delicate object and examined it in her hand.
She’d done it. She’d found her way.
~~~*~~~*~~~
Vinay was upstairs, waiting for her in bed. She was in her own kitchen now, facing the cupboards. She pulled the lowest one open. She pulled the small teacup from her purse, and placed it in the space where the one that had broken had been. She admired it next to the others for a moment.
“Symbolic.” She said to herself. She understood now.
