Cardamom Tea

Every small town has a story. Some more fascinating than the others. Some entertaining. Some downright disgusting. And some scary. This was what was going through her mind as she stepped out of the car one early winter afternoon and stood silently taking in what was going to be her home for the next few years. In the backdrop of the setting scarlet sun, the one storey white bungalow looked larger than it was. Some sort of an unkempt garden was partially visible behind the building. She politely waited till her husband and the driver unloaded their luggage from the top carrier of the blue Safari that had transported them from the city. Once the luggage was carried through the door, she walked in with the coyness of a new bride, excited at the prospect of having her own home. She was reasonably bright, but not extraordinary. Moreover, she was devoid of career aspirations.

Soft spoken and malleable, she did not have much of a say even in her own matters. Her opinion was not sought when her father arranged for an alliance with him, within the short notice of a week. Didn’t her father know best? He had brought her up singlehandedly after all. She had lost her mother at the tender age of two and did not have siblings. As a child she was shy, often withdrawn, and kept mostly to her room, busy with her dolls, colouring books or lessons. In this respect, she perhaps unconsciously mirrored her father’s behaviour since her mother’s death. Unfortunately, her father did not cope well and never could recover from the loss. His helplessness was so palpable to her even as an infant that she stopped depending much on him for her daily needs. She took up the reigns of the scattered household when she was nine, and tall enough to reach the gas burner in their kitchen. Overnight, she went from cooking and feeding her dolls to cooking and feeding her father. Nothing else changed. Fifteen years later, when she stepped into the one storey while bungalow, she was expected to cook, clean and pick up after another man.

(2)

She settled in slowly but surely. She had never lived with anyone apart from her father. Some of her schoolmates had vividly described to her the thrills of early marital bliss and though she was mostly bereft of expectations, a part of her was slightly disappointed as how far moved from such imaginary harmony her reality was. He was away at work for the most part of the day and came home for his meals which he expected prepared, heated and plated. He was gruff during the meals, but that was the time he interacted with her, venting to her about his boss, and how he had been passed over in promotions despite being the most competent and most deserving. She was not expected to react but silently sympathise. At other times, he mostly ignored her. Overall, however, in a couple of weeks, she reached a conclusion that despite being rough around the edges, he was not really a bad sort. Another two weeks hence however, when he would first strike her, she would realise how wrong she was.

One afternoon, she stood in the kitchen, brewing her favourite cardamom tea, while Lachhmi, their maid washed utensils at the sink. Lachchmi was both vibrant and talkative, however, all her efforts to make idle conversation about the pichchliwali bhabii, (the erstwhile occupant of the bungalow) were thwarted by her cold, guarded demeanour. When she offered Lachchmi tea, Lachchmi refused but emphatically told her how the pichliwali bhabii also loved cardamom tea and would keep brewing it many times throughout the day. She was distant and distracted with the memory of last night when he had thrown his plate containing rice and dal at her as it contained no salt. She shuddered to think how his hand had struck her face once and then twice. She did not have the energy to interrupt Lachchmi’s monologue. Lachchmi, on the other hand, mistaking her apathy for interest, gushed out a lot of details about how beautiful the pichliwali bhabii had been, and how she would always drape fresh cotton saris, red in colour and smear vermillion across her forehead, flash her heavenly smile and go about her domestic chores. How she had loved cardamom tea and incense sticks and the house always smelt divine when she had been around. Then how she got sick and died. It was terrible how a vivacious life like hers slowly ebbed, and how she slowly became pale and bloodless, unable to enjoy the little things like her tea. Her husband doted on her, of course. But then he was helpless in the face of fate and could only stand and watch as his beloved wife passed.

Then, overwhelmed with grief, he had sold his house and left abruptly, never to be heard of again. Lachchmi must have said a lot more, but she was not listening. Slowly sipping her tea, she contemplated whether her husband’s behaviour was normal, acceptable. Whether every marriage had teething problems where the couple got used to each other’s eccentricities and preferences. Whether it was normal for a husband to strike a wife. She justified to herself that it was no big deal. It must happen everywhere, she told herself, while her gut protested in silence. She desperately wanted to share her predicament with someone, but since her childhood she had never shared her problems and now she was just used to not making a hue and cry about herself. Her dad cut a helpless, sorry figure, and she did not have any close relation who could advise or support. She sighed and wondered if her life had been different had her mother been alive. She sipped her tea and took in the aroma of the freshly ground cardamom. It was her comfort fragrance and never failed to comfort. Slowly her anxiety dissipated.

(3)

By the time summer came, she had resigned herself to her fate. His act of striking her had become a regular affair. He just required an excuse. Compliance and rebellion had the same effect on him. He hurt her every night without fail. She understood clearly that she had become a victim of domestic abuse. She forgot she could protest, even ask him to stop. She would grit her teeth and bear the brunt of the hitting, sigh and move on to the next day to make tea, cook food and serve him. But strangely enough it did not affect her life. She told no one and shared with no one. If anything, she urged Lachchmi to tell her more about pichliwali bhabii. She gave her money to buy incense sticks which she would light every evening. Unconsciously, she started wearing more red. He remained chiefly disinterested in the part of her life which did not concern him and did not observe the little changes.

She gathered from Lachchmi that the Pichchliwali bhabii had started a small but independent business in the sleepy town. She had not only supported Lachchmi by regularly paying for her son’s tuition, but she had also actively sought out and helped many women who were going through hardship or facing abuse. Her kind face and cheerful smile were dearly missed by all and sundry. There was hardly any life in Lachchmi’s neighbourhood that she had not touched. She stood up for the weak and aided the poor. Quite a woman pichliwali bhabii was. Her face would brighten as she knew more about the woman. She thought about the woman and wished she were more like her, fierce, independent, compassionate and kind. What was she after all? She wistfully sat by the window that evening and thought about her lacklustre life. She went to brew some cardamom tea to cheer herself up. It is then that the incident that she would recall vividly even years later happened.

He was back unexpectedly and had been ringing at the door for quite some time. She had not heard the bell as the kitchen was the farthest from the main door. When she ran and opened the door, it was a little too late. He bustled in hastily, his face purple, eyes livid. Drops of perspiration had gathered on his forehead owed to waiting outside the house for the extra five minutes that had seemed like eternity to him. She moved aside and mumbled an apology, but to no avail. He pushed her to the floor, roughly. She was hurt but unsurprised. While she was still down, he bent on her to slap her tight across her face, one and then twice. He then dragged her by her hair to the kitchen. She whimpered in pain; every muscle in her body tightened. He let go of her at the door of the kitchen and she breathed a hasty sigh of relief. However, her relief turned into ten-fold terror, when she saw him take off his leather belt with a resolved face. She made efforts to clutch something behind her to get up, but there was nothing but the cold, damp floor. She shrivelled her body and closed her eyes, a shriek escaping her mouth as she tightened her eyelids in anticipation of the leather belt making contact with her skin. Only, it never did. Then she heard a metal clang to open her eyes. She saw him bending over and clutching his eyes and moving from side to side in pain, the choicest of abuses flowing out of his mouth. He will never be able to see again in his life and his right hand will forever display an ugly burn injury. It took her a second, but she realised that the pan in which she had brewed her favourite, hot cardamom tea was lying on the floor and his clothes were wet with the scalding beverage. Before she could fathom the entire situation, she was overpowered by the fragrance of cardamom tea and incense stick. She vaguely recalled not having lit any. This was exactly when she saw her. The figure was blurry as it glided away from her, clad in a sari unmistakably red in colour. She wanted to say something, anything, but she was so exhausted, she could not keep her eyes open. As she lost consciousness on the cold, damp kitchen floor thoughts flooded her mind. Every small town had a story. Some more fascinating than the others. Some entertaining. Some downright disgusting.

And some unbelievable.