On days like these I feel boorishly burdened in this business of womanhood. So here goes the tale. Today was the third day that our maid gave us a cold shoulder. Having done the dishes for two days, had been grinding and a third day for a row was never in anticipation. To thank the male members of the family, who have been roped in for the outdoor responsibilities of the house, like fetching milk and groceries, the rut of the dirtier duties befalls on me. Laundry and cooking are practices that do not soil your hands much, but when it comes to doing the dishes all hell breaks loose.
Since all the members in my family are meat eaters, and that too crazed compulsive ones on days when fish curry or roasted meat is served, the sight of a plate that counted its calories is not so pleasing. Fish flints that look like fossils to egg shells broken and discarded into twos to the beefy bones of some animal dead and consumed by now can be the greatest, greatest punishment ever for a staunch vegetarian. But then in my case, there are not much choices left at my will. I got to do the dishes, when the maid goes absconding in the alibi, of having fallen ill. It seems to be one of the many conditions of the the "peaceful co-existence pact" that I signed with other members of the family. In my absence, it becomes mom's call of duty, which I avoid giving her. For most of the times she is fatigued and the guillotine of guilt stabs me so badly, that I am left with no options to pull myself out.
Today was one such day when I thought that I was on an excavation exercise in an old civilization which had gorged on its animals. Having held my breath as if out on an underwater mission, I did the dishes, with all the dead tissues from yesterday's dinner and today's lunch molesting my patience. The silent prayer that went out was for a brighter day tomorrow.
Since all the members in my family are meat eaters, and that too crazed compulsive ones on days when fish curry or roasted meat is served, the sight of a plate that counted its calories is not so pleasing. Fish flints that look like fossils to egg shells broken and discarded into twos to the beefy bones of some animal dead and consumed by now can be the greatest, greatest punishment ever for a staunch vegetarian. But then in my case, there are not much choices left at my will. I got to do the dishes, when the maid goes absconding in the alibi, of having fallen ill. It seems to be one of the many conditions of the the "peaceful co-existence pact" that I signed with other members of the family. In my absence, it becomes mom's call of duty, which I avoid giving her. For most of the times she is fatigued and the guillotine of guilt stabs me so badly, that I am left with no options to pull myself out.
Today was one such day when I thought that I was on an excavation exercise in an old civilization which had gorged on its animals. Having held my breath as if out on an underwater mission, I did the dishes, with all the dead tissues from yesterday's dinner and today's lunch molesting my patience. The silent prayer that went out was for a brighter day tomorrow.
