Image credit: Pexels.com

Mrinalini was making a cup of coffee in her kitchen. Though she was a habitual coffee drinker, she also believed that there were few things to beat a steaming hot cup of coffee on a crisp winter morning. This was her cherished ritual on all weekdays, only the brew changed with the season.

As she stirred the spoonful of instant coffee into her cup, her eyes fell on her measuring cups and measuring spoons lying helter-skelter on the kitchen counter. She had neglected to put them away last night. Straying away from her nightly organising routine always made her feel a little guilty the following morning. Today her thoughts were straying to her mother’s kitchen. Ma had a set of measuring cups just like hers – stainless steel, sturdy but unremarkable. Did Ma ever leave her kitchen disorganised before bed? She did not think so. The clink of the steel spoon hitting the sides of the ceramic cup filled the otherwise quiet kitchen.

Ma had taught her everything she knew about cooking and baking. Mrinalini distinctly remembered the first day she tried her hand at making rotis on Ma’s insistence. Baba liked rotis for dinner on winter nights. ‘Ish! Gol holo na!’ Her mother chided her for not being able to make a perfectly round roti. ‘How will you manage your life and your family if you can’t even make a round roti?’ Ma had scolded her when she gave up after a few failed attempts. It had been a constant refrain throughout her growing-up years.

She took the cup and went and sat in the west-facing balcony of the second floor, next to the potted bonsai of the Indian banyan. The balcony looked over the street that led to their house. This house was Subrata’s ancestral house. Subrata’s grandfather had bought the plot, and his father had built the house. Subrata had been born in this south Kolkata house with the red oxide floor and the stained glass windows. Mrinalini too had spent a good part of her life in this house. It had been thirty years since she’d married Subrata. She had stepped across this threshold as a twenty-five-year-old, looking forward to putting her training to use and making a successful home. Thirty years! Time had disappeared like motes of dust at dusk.

Steam rose from the cup she held close to her lips, lost in thought. It fogged her glasses. When her vision clouded, as it did when she welled up, she remembered to take a sip. ‘Aah, refreshing,’ she thought to herself. These moments of quiet were precious to her. She had a time slice of about thirty minutes between Subrata leaving for work and the domestic help’s arrival. These quietly relished minutes alone with her thoughts would be over by next winter. Subrata would retire from his banker’s job in three months. Mrinalini sighed softly as she set down the cup on the table in front of her.

Thirty years had gone by with Subrata in relative happiness. She supposed outsiders looking at her marriage would say it was successful. Thirty years of being a good wife, a doting mother, and a dutiful daughter-in-law. She had cooked, raised two children, and earned considerable local repute as a home baker. And yet, she had failed at one thing as a homemaker – just the one. Her rotis were never round! She picked up the cup again and took another sip. The bitter brew scalded her tongue. Mrinalini liked her coffee strong.

The evening of Subrata’s first birthday after their marriage sprang up in her mind. She had baked a cake for him. Her mother-in-law had raised her eyebrows and said, ‘Bah! Tumi cake banate paro!?’ It was a rather uncommon skill for middle-class housewives back then. She had felt a stab of pride even though her mother-in-law’s comment was more an expression of mild surprise rather than direct praise. She wondered why she was dwelling on the past today. Every sip from her cup made her more and more nostalgic as the dappled sunlight filtered in through the bougainvillaea creeper she had planted in a pot and trellised across the roof of the balcony. A slightly chilly breeze made the bright purple flowers dance and made Mrinalini shiver. She pulled the loose end of her saree over her right shoulder in an attempt to cover the goosebumps on her arm. Her red and white sankha-pola bangles jangled as she did so.

The bonsai and bougainvillaea pots sat next to each other in one corner of the balcony. Mrinalini had brought the bonsai from her parents’ place after her mother passed away. Ma had tended to it with care, making sure it didn’t grow too big by trimming its branches and roots often. Its foliage had been perfectly shaped when she had inherited it. She didn’t think she had done a good enough job of looking after it. She was not very good at controlling its growth. However, she liked to take credit for the blossoming bougainvillaea. The papery petals of the flower were like a burst of fireworks in her covered balcony.

‘Shobjiiiiiii!’ the vegetable vendor called from the street below as he pushed his cart through the neighbourhood. With the last sip of the coffee, she embraced her thoughts once again. She had seen this man and heard his voice for several years now. Nothing much had changed in this neighbourhood over the years. She wondered if the vegetable vendor ever thought about the sameness of his life. Miranalini inadvertently stole a glance at the clock on the living room wall. The maid would be here any minute. She could have five more minutes to herself. There were no cake orders to fulfil that day.

The sharp sound of the doorbell rang through the empty house, jolting her out of her reverie. ‘Boudi,’ the maid called out to her from the street below. Mrinalini hurriedly put down the empty coffee cup and prepared herself for the busyness of the morning.