Checkmate

Shanta awoke with a jolt. Late afternoon sun was streaming in from her window. The sky was unusually dark for this time of the day. The sky was darkening by the minute. Pregnant with heavy clouds, a lightning bolt razored the sky. Ear splitting thunder followed in a beat. 

She peered out and swore under her breath. Nobody had bothered to take the clothes in. She hurried out to pick them before the rains started. Wind was blowing furiously as she reached out to pluck the garments. Tugging at the unrelenting clothes peg, her sola (a soft cotton saree worn by women in traditional families after their bath, for cooking) was flapping wildly as she reached it. Enveloped suddenly by the soft muslin cloth, a faint whiff of spices hit her nostrils and she inhaled the welcoming smell with a smile on her lips. A lifetime of memories was embalmed in this yellow piece of cloth; her life, her world.

Even today, the words of Krishna ji, her husband reverberatedthrough her ears as clear as they were spoken five decades ago. 

“Get up woman, don’t dilly dally, take over your duties”, he had thundered. And she had done just that.

This yellow piece of cloth had since then had been her faithful companion. Her sola, which she had wrapped herself in as a lissome 18-year-old, had seen her grow into womanly curves, had swelled with her as she grew round in her two pregnancies and now an armour to protect her shrivelled body from curious eyes. She closed her eyes as the bleached wisp of a saree covered her face and hugged her to itself. The faded aroma of her cooking —the spices that she ground herself daily, the khada hing (rock asafoetida) that she was particularly fond of using, the red chillies which she dried in the sun before using, the star anise, cinnamon, big cardamoms, cloves — everything that made her masala (spice) unique wrapped itself around her and she sighed with pleasure. This pale piece of cloth told her story as no one could!

Left to her own devices from day one, she had thrown herself into mastering the art of cooking. Newlywed and neglected, she had poured her passion into her cooking. She had seen her life go by through the curtain of smoke that had spiralled out of the wood stoked stove. She had seen all her dreams as a wife evaporate like the steam unfurling from the cooking vessels. Her gold ornaments handed over to the girls in the family. Her trousseau sitting idly on the racks of her wardrobe, waiting to be unfolded. Her bitterness somehow kept adding to the flavours of her cooking and she watched in amusement as it was devoured by all. Her non-existent relationship with her mercurial husband made her find sanctuary in her kitchen, amongst her beloved spices, her condiments and her seasonings. She immersed herself in her sola and made peace with what her destiny had laid out for her.

Though her husband’s heart always remained an enigma to her, her cooking drew him home for lunch like clockwork and she poured out her love in the meal that she had ready on the table at the stroke of one! Krishna ji savored the meal that she presented him with every day, ate without acknowledgement but wiped his plate clean and left for his store after a satisfactory burp. This daily ritual had continued for years and Shanta had found her voice through it, she spoke with her cooking. If she was happy, Krishna ji was treated with an unexpected delicacy which he acknowledged by asking for a second helping and if she was disturbed or upset, her meal spoke for itself. His austere bearing showed no signs of unbending even as he ate the frugal meal before him.

She sometimes wondered when had she found time to raise her two children she had produced with the man who never became her husband. Prasad, her elder was docile, subservient and barely stepped out of his father’s shadow. But her second son, eight years younger to Prasad, was a rebel. Shikhar was willful, roughish and followed his own heart. 

She had watched with spiteful envy as Prasad had married the beautiful Shobha. True to her name, she had added sheen to a tired household. Her youthful energy made Shanta feel jaded and old. Krishna ji’s eyes glittered the brightest by the sheen of Shobha’s dowry. He gracefully ‘allowed’ Shobha to add a blouse and a petticoat to her sola. “After all, she is not used to this tradition. She will feel awkward.”

Shanta had felt naked the day Shobha entered the kitchen for the first time, after their brief ‘honeymoon.’ She had wrapped her sparse sola around her tightly as Shobha had walked in the kitchen in her new sola, her face dewy fresh, her hairline filled with vermillion and wrists sparkling with gold in the morning sunlight.

Shunted to the background, Shanta had watched with bitter interest as Shobha had quietly but firmly taken full reins of the kitchen. But somewhere inside she was also celebrating. Finally, after years of slaving in front of the hot stove, she could cast off the albatross around her neck and she gladly cast off her tired sari and retrieve her life. “Better late than never,” she muttered to herself as retreated to her room.

 

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Shanta watched with derisive amusement as Krishna ji ate his food everyday without any demur. Shobha’s dowry made even the unpalatable, palatable. Her food, though lacked ‘soul’. Unlike Shanta, who cooked for the family with all her unrequited passion, Shobha saw it as a chore, something to do and get over with as soon as possible. Her interests lay somewhere else. She knew she looked alluring in her thin, transparent sola and the male gaze of the family was on her as she pottered about getting the food from the kitchen to the table. Krishna ji pretended not to notice her enticing form under the guise of eating heartily; Prasad openly appreciative and she knew what was coming in the lazy afternoon that followed and Shikhar, his eyes following her every move.

Shanta watched all this from the sidelines that she had been relegated to, since the day Shobha, her young taut body in a brand new sola, clinging to her generous curves, had held say over her domain, the family kitchen. It was a small price to pay, to shed the noose of that washed out piece of cloth, her sola. With barely concealed mirth, she took in the tableau played out in front of her, every day. Her nit-picking husband, who barely picked at his food the day it was not to his liking, now devouring lunch as if a Michelin star chef had preparedit; Prasad who never came on time for lunch, she had waited endlessly for days, for him to come and eat so that she could cleanup after him and retire to her room for a well-earned rest; now coming on the stroke of one! And Shikhar......the least said the better. A teen, with hormones going haywire, she did not even want to venture into that territory!

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Shobha realized in the first few days of her entering the kitchen that she could never match the cooking skills of her mother-in-law. No matter how she tried, the flavours were not the same. The spices did not taste the same. Her cooking lacked that ‘touch’.Her chappatis (flat wheat bread) did not turn out soft, no matter how much she kneaded and blended the dough; she could not roll them out uniformly, somewhere thick and somewhere too thin made her chappatis, an everyday roulette game; you never knew what was in store for you when you sat down for lunch ! Her dal (Indian lentil preparation) was too watery and in spite of using the same spices and condiments that her mother-in-law used, did not taste like hers, in fact was not even close enough. Her vegetables regularly missing the mark, were either over or under cooked; to the extent that most often than not, she could barely eat them herself.

But sure enough, she had them where she wanted. Her wet sari was her brahmastra- the ultimate weapon. Slowly the taste of Shanta’s cooking was replaced by her inviting and provocative moves. The top of her breasts visible through the wet drape, the curve of her waist flashing as she adjusted her sari, the flash of her slim ankle as turned to go back in the kitchen for refills, made them forget the taste of Shanta’s cooking. Her flirtatious way with Shikhar had him exactly where she wanted him to be.

As regular as clockwork, at the stroke of 2.00 pm, she would hear the bungalow gate creak open and Shikhar’s cycle being propped against the wall with hurried impatience. Within a minute, she would hear Shikhar shuffling towards the kitchen to savour the sight of her moving about in the kitchen wrapped in her ankle length sola, wet around her body by her sweat, with her figure etched out in crests and troughs.  

“What’s for lunch, Shobha bhabhi?”

“Your favourite....Tadke wali dal.”

“What? Again?”

“Shoo”, she put her finger on his lips, ......pressing herself lightly against him. “Yes, again. You will love it, I will feed you with my own hands,” she smiled up at him. 

Shikhar inhaled the aroma of spices that clung to her sari. The smell of her cooking, the tadka of ghee (clarified butter), mixed with hing, garam masala emanated from her and he was lost in dreaming about her in her wet clingy saree.

“Arre, You still here? Hurry up, I can’t keep re-heating your food,” she whispered softly.

He rushed to the bathroom before she changed her mind. He knew, she could not change out of her damp saree, till all her kitchen chores were over. She filled his world. He could not stop thinking about her. To him, the fragrant tadka of ghee (clarified butter) the crisp papad, the spicy chutney, the moist saree, the aroma of spices and condiments was sex. Her pallu slipping just that bit, allowing him to peer inside her blouse when she bent to serve him, the swell of her breasts as she straightened up, the curve of her waist as she adjusted her damp saree around herself, the flash of her ankle as she walked about gathering his lunch, was sex. The sight of Shobha bhabhi’s wet saree, the aroma of cooking, the fragrance of kitchen smells, her lush figure and her face flushed with perspiration, the vision of her undraping her sari in her room....and beyond, was sex.

 

Every afternoon after lunch, had him masturbating in his room wrapped in the thought of Shobha bhabhi in her moist yellow saree.

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Praniti measured the rice in the measuring cup. One third rice, two-thirds water, she remembered her mother’s words. Carefully tipping the rice in a vessel, she filled it up with water and set it to cook. Rice done. Now for the dal, sabji and the inevitable papads. It was too hot to slave over the stove, but not for her to give it a miss. Shikhar wanted a hot meal ready when he came home for lunch.She did not like cooking. The drudgery of it all killed her. Her morning routine never changed. After seeing Shikhar off and a hurried breakfast, the kitchen beckoned. The same dal, sabji, papad, chutney and chappatis. Every day without fail. No change. She hated it all. 

She still couldn’t figure out why Shikhar insisted on coming home every day. He had even picked their home was near his office, so that he could save time on commute. She had tried telling him to carry packed lunch, but he had dismissed the idea immediately. He liked coming home for lunch. She envied the wives whose husband’s carried packed tiffin. How did they spend the day? Watching TV? Reading? Or maybe lunching out with friends? Shopping? Oh! the possibilities were endless; how lucky they were that they had the whole day in front of them to do as they pleased!

Flushed by the heat, she swiped her forehead with one end of her pallu. The yellow sari that she wore for cooking. She had been amused by her sister-in-law’s insistence that she wear a particular saree after her bath, for cooking every day. Sola, she called it. Their family tradition. Though dismissive of old customs—she did not believe in following any rituals— she had given in good-naturedly. It took little to make the family happy. Besides, Shikhar’s eyes lit up every time he saw her in that saree. He would hold her close, rub his face into her palluand inhale the aroma of spices and masalas that her solasmelled of. 

“Hmmm, heavenly ....”.he would whisper, caressing the pale pulpy cotton with his fingers. 

It baffled her to see his obsession with this thin piece of cloth that hugged her figure tightly for most part of the morning; till lunch was over and kitchen closed for the day. She hated towrap herself in it every day; the saree slowly losing its sheen and fading with use. But Shikhar insisted that she wear it for cooking everyday. Something about his growing up years.....

 

The whistles of the cooker jerked her back to present. Rice was done. She looked around her cluttered kitchen with dismay. Her maid had still not turned up, guess it meant the utensils and cleaning was her job too, today. She hurried with the rest of the lunch. Papads— again a mystery, why every day? — could be done just before serving lunch for them to remain crisp.

 

She heard Shalini enter the kitchen. Their PG. Praniti wanted some company as she was alone most of the day. Shikhar had reluctantly agreed and so Shalini had come to stay with them.As long as Shikhar rarely saw her, he was happy and could ignore the fact that someone was occupying the outhouse. Shalini gave her a ‘once-over’ as she saw the solaand turned away as if to wipe off that visual of Praniti’s.

Shalini was a post graduate student; doing her doctorate along with some part-time work. She chipped in with the kitchen chores whenever she had time. Though Shalini could not cook to save her life, Praniti welcomed her help, it saved her labour and time. She could not tell anyone in the family about Shalini entering the hallowed ramparts of her kitchen. Shalini was from lower caste, so to speak; she was not a brahmin, but it made no difference to her. She knew it would cause a furor in the house and Shikhar, the brahmin would throw a fit if he came to know......so it was an unspoken secret between theladies. They spent compatible mornings, cooking or talking together whenever Shalini had time and she would melt away towards her room as soon as they heard Shikhar’s car turn in the driveway.

Making space for Shalini, Praniti got busy with the rest of the meal. She found it fascinating that Shalini loved making the chutney. Infact, she would insist on it. Unlike her, Shalini only grinded it on the sil-batta (grinding stone), instead of using the mixer. Seeing her slaving over the stone, grinding and mashing the ingredients, it was as if she was exorcising some devil from her being. 

 

Like clockwork, at the stroke of two, she heard Shikhar’s car entering the gate. Wiping her hands on the napkin, and carrying the plate of papad’s she went to the dining room. The table was set. Dishes were in place. Lunch was ready and waiting for him. Piping hot chapatis, clove enriched rice—she had added cloves at the end, just as he liked them— she wanted to make him happy as she was in a happy mood today; moist jeera aloo and the fragrant tadka dal filled the room with their aromas. Shikhar looked at the spread on table and came near her. Drawing her close, he sank his head and inhaled into her sola; something he did when he found her particularly alluring.

“Hmmmm.....the meal looks delicious,” he mumbled. 

“Mmmmmm.....”he swooned with his eyes closed.

 

She saw with detached interest as Shikhar wolfed down his meal. The routine never changed. The daily lunch was followed by a daily snooze after a daily bout of love-making.

“You are smelling even more delicious today,” he said, pulling her to him and tearing her sari off her. Sinking his face into the cloth, he rubbed it all over his face. The smellier the saree, the more aroused he became. She could never understand his obsession with the sola and the cooking smells. She looked at him with renewed interest as his eyes faded into faraway, as if the saree and its smell was reminding him of some other era.

 

She smiled to herself. It was over ....all too soon. Shikhar rolled over, fast asleep. For the next one hour, he would be dead to the world. Gathering her saree around her taut naked body, she left the room and quietly slipped into Shalini’s room.

The banyan tree in their backyard shook violently as a flockof birds flew upwards in the sky.