Maitreyee Nayar
The whistle of the cooker pierced through the morning,
sharp and final—like news no one wants to hear.
Light filtered through the window,
not golden, but jaundiced,
like illness pretending to be sunrise.
I lay still.
My left cheek was stuck to a pillow soaked in salt,
eyes puffed, lungs heavy—
as if grief had slept beside me all night,
and left without saying goodbye.
I dreamt of her again—
Amma’s lap, the only place I’ve ever felt forgiven.
Her fingers combed my hair, slow and silent,
and for once, my cursed skin didn’t itch.
There was no rot, no stain. Just her and breath.
But dreams don’t last where scent of drain waits.
Morning shoved me into myself again.
I pushed off the bed like peeling away grief.
A new rash bloomed angry on my wrist.
“Aah,” I hissed—
as if my body was punishing me
for daring to rest, even in sleep.
By the time I found ointment,
the clock was already screaming: 8:00 a.m.
Two drains on my list today.
Pain would have to wait—again.
I pulled on another set of clothes,
stiff with yesterday’s silence.
That’s when she came in, carrying tea.
Her love steaming, gentle.
Her voice not loud, just... hoping.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“Stay away… Amma.”
My eyes escaped hers like guilt escaping truth.
“My skin’s gotten worse,” I lied.
It wasn’t just skin.
She stood there for a moment—
close enough to feel like home,
far enough to remain untouchable.
I drank the tea in gulps that burned,
stepped out the door
like a man walking back into prison after parole.
The road to my spot pulsed with life—
vendors shouting, cars honking, scooters speeding past—
and yet I moved through it unseen,
wishing I could peel off my whole identity.
The drain yawned open—dark, alive—
and I climbed in like I owed it something.
Cracked and red, my fingers dug into the filth
as if searching
for the version of myself
that used to believe in better.
By noon,
I had forgotten how to feel anything at all.
By evening,
I had made enough to buy potatoes, rice,
and the illusion of survival.
I came home to find her
sitting across from me on the floor—
just a few feet away.
We shared dinner, plates spaced with care,
so my sores wouldn't reach her air.
She didn’t ask how my day went.
I didn’t ask how hers did.
We chewed in silence,
as if speaking might reopen wounds
we both pretend have healed.
She looked sad—
from the ache of loving me from across the room.
Yet I know, when dawn returns,
she’ll still rise, barefoot,
to steep love and hope into a cup of tea
and place it between us—
as if its warmth alone
could bridge the distance my skin has grown.