A Cup of Tea by MX Steele

Sumati looked out through her grimy kitchen window. Paint peeling off the buildings, moss-covered roofs; laundry fluttering in the breeze, met her unseeing eyes. Here and there a window was open, its shutters pulled to one side – blank testimony to the woman who stood and gazed at them.

How many years had she stood staring at this very scene?

Maybe twenty, she surmised. Whatever, it was a long time, a very long time. Too long and a big waste to spend your life looking out at descript old buildings, she chided herself. Then again that little snapshot was hers and she felt an odd kinship with it. She knew every window, every balcony. She knew when another piece of plaster fell of any building exposing the bricks within. She even knew if the people changed in the houses by the laundry they hung out.

She shifted a bit as perspiration ran in rivulets down her back. Behind her the TV was on – some politician was giving a speech in Delhi, his voice droning on and on and giving her a headache. For the life of her she couldn’t understand why her husband sat transfixed. Maybe that is why they called it the idiot box.

“What happened to my chai?” queried his petulant voice.

Silence greeted his query; she continued staring out of the window. The crows were flying low over the rooftops. The sky was ominous and pregnant with low grey clouds.

Hmmm, she thought distractedly, rain again I had better get in the washing.
A drop of hot water splashed on her hand from the boiling pot on the stove. Instinctively she jerked it away and used her saree pallu to dab at it.

“Arre! Are you getting my tea or not?” his voice rose in irritation.

She turned around measuredly to look at him. He sat on the leather couch with his back to her, slouched down on its inflexible surface. Even though she could only see his bald head, she knew exactly what he was wearing; his loose white cotton pajamas which he bought every two years from P.N. Varajkar on Girgaum Road and his once white cotton vest (only from VIP and only the ones with half sleeves). Seriously, why did he even make the effort to say something, when she knew exactly what he was going to say even before he said it. Her sister called it being married for so long, she called it being boring. Well she had better get him his tea or his next words would be: Can’t you even get a cup of chai ready in time?” She turned back to the stove, her hand reaching out to the bottle of tea leaves on the counter.