By Rishika Gupta
The door clicks open.
We both step in —
Me and my husband —
home from work,
bags in hand,
weariness clinging to our skin like humidity.
He walks straight to the dining table.
Dark wood, four chairs,
one creaking when leaned back —
he always leans back.
A steel tumbler of lemon water is waiting,
placed with the care of routine, not love.
He takes a sip.
I smile, greet everyone,
and disappear into the bedroom —
not to rest.
Never to rest.
I remove my stained pad,
wash up,
change into a modest Indian suit,
drape a dupatta —
not because I want to,
but because it’s expected of me.
Back in the kitchen,
my mother-in-law is already rolling rotis.
The belan taps rhythmically on the chakla,
the stove’s flame dances under the steel tawa.
I join her —
washing hands, tying hair, no questions asked.
My husband appears again,
now in his nightwear,
sits at the same wooden chair,
plate ready,
food hot.
My parent in-laws and brother-in-law follow.
Four plates.
Four people on the table.
Four servings of hot sabzi, dal, roti, salad, mango slices, pickle —
even chilled water.
Everyone eats.
I keep serving.
Eventually, I pour my lemon water — now warm —
grab a roti, finally.
Sabzi in my plate,
the first bite hovers at my lips when —
"My head hurts," he says,
"Can you get the medicine?"
I nod.
Leave my plate on the kitchen counter —
next to the drying coriander stems
and splashes of atta on the slab.
Fetch the medicine.
Bring water.
Return.
Before I touch my plate again —
"Beta, some sabzi for me," says my mother-in-law.
"Can I get dessert?" adds my brother-in-law.
I oblige.
Of course I do.
Then, as I go to lift my plate —
"Just wipe the counter first,"
she says,
"or there’ll be ants again."
I pick up the rag — it smells faintly of old turmeric —
wipe the counter clean.
Rinse the cloth.
Wash my hands.
In the background,
my father-in-law suggests,
“Maybe some tea will help his headache.”
I move fast.
Before anyone can assign me more,
I clutch my stomach —
first day cramps throbbing —
and slide into a chair with my plate.
Not my chair.
In this house, I don’t have a chair that’s mine.
First bite,
finally.
But the questions come faster than the chewing —
"Did you turn off the exhaust?"
"Covered the sabzi?"
"Put away the kheer?"
"Cleaned the slab?"
I nod, chew, nod again, swallow hard.
Food goes in.
Joy never arrives.
As they get up,
they drop off the leftovers near me —
bits of salad, extra mango slices, the last spoon of pickle —
not as love,
but as unfinished business.
No one offers me more roti.
No one refills the sabzi.
No one asks if I need anything.
Eating, for me,
is a task.
One more box to tick.
They move to the living room.
The clink of steel dishes starts again — my hands.
The tea simmers — my eyes on the pot.
The conversation flows —
laughter over how my sister-in-law is living it up in California,
sending pictures from Disneyland.
I don’t speak.
I don’t even exist in the frame.
I’m just… the one boiling the tea.
And then —
he walks in again,
my husband — the man who should have known better.
"Hey, if it’s not too much trouble,
can you make some aata halwa?
You like it too, right?"
I paused.
The kind of pause that doesn’t make sound,
but changes the air in the room.
For four years,
I’ve answered this moment with a smile,
with tired hands and a wooden spoon.
Tonight,
I didn’t.
"No,"
I said. Loudly I think.
"I’m on my period.
And I’m in pain."
The air stiffened.
The spoons quieted.
The steel bowls stopped clinking.
My words sat heavy in the kitchen —
not vulgar, just inconvenient.
"Just go and rest," someone muttered.
Or maybe they said, "Get lost."
Can’t tell anymore.
Someone drank my tea.
I was never asked.
But seven years later, the marriage still survives —
so maybe,
no one heard,
no one noticed.
That night,
I did ‘not’ make the halwa.
And nothing changed.
Because I did not
get to have the tea that night,
but what I did gulp down-
was a giant sip of guilt
….for not doing enough.