It was a pleasure to burn the taut skin of the eggplant, see it shrivel and blacken with the heat. The smell reminded me of home, when my mother would make this chutney, standing over the stove, the sweat gleaming on her skin, while she deftly turned the vegetable evenly charring the purple curves. She looked lovely, her pale skin soft and dewy, cooking with love for her family. As the aroma filled the kitchen, I switched off the flame, laid the cooked eggplant on a plate to cool, and reached for the cleaver.

I looked out the window at the verdant yard. The wildflowers were blooming, raining down the sloped boundary in a riot of color. The chipmunks were out and about rooting in the grass and the resident badger scampered purposefully to his burrow. I could hear the faint gurgling of the stream that cut across the front yard, and the warbling and twittering of the birds whose names I didn’t know. The westerly sun poured in, warming my skin, and I lifted up my face, closing my eyes and thinking, another spring has come, another awakening of hope from the long winter gone by. We had moved into this house just two years ago, a mid-century dream in a beautiful property, far from the city and the madding crowd. It sprawled low along the land, the trees towering over the roofline, with an open and airy interior where the spaces flowed into each other. I dreamed of the children growing up here, making memories that would last a lifetime. I had wanted to move closer to the city, but he liked the quiet and unhurried pace of the countryside. I didn’t care much because I wanted to be with him.

Picking up the cleaver, I recalled the cut of his barb, as I sliced the onion thin and fine, chopped the green chilies and crushed the garlic, diced the tomatoes and minced the cilantro. Last night he had said, “You are fat and your body is flabby, your taste in clothes is bad, and you look sloppy. I do not find you attractive anymore. The women who work out at the gym are fit and strong, they dress smart and look good.” He had also said, “I have nothing to say to you. We have nothing in common. We live in different worlds, you and I and I no longer like you.” I hefted the cleaver feeling its comforting weight. This morning I had taken a hard look in the mirror. No, I’m not fat, I had said to myself. No, I’m pleasing to look at, I had assured myself. I have birthed three children. I have stretch marks on my tummy and thighs. My waist has thickened as have my hips, my face seems the same, but my eyes are sad. My skin is still soft and supple but has become thinner and more sensitive. I will not grace the covers of Vogue, but what I have to offer as a wife and mother has worth. My work in the house is unseen and mostly unheard. Invisible and in the shadows, I am not missed by my children except when I am not around.

I stood in the kitchen lost in thought, reliving what I had felt last night, as I told myself I still love him. We have been married for 16 years now. We had met at work. It wasn’t love at first sight, it wasn’t even until a year later that we started to live together. I asked, Why me? and he said there is no other. “You’re smart, and you’re beautiful. You’re funny and I love your smile. I’ve never met anyone like you.” I fell in love with him for his sharp intellect. I liked how he seemed understanding and mature. I said, “I’m older than you by a decade. My age will show soon. I want to have children and I want to be a good mother. I have no ambitions for a career but will get a job if I need to. I will be your partner.”

Now, my daughter is eleven years old and my son two. I had wanted another child because I had lost my first-born. He had been a beautiful boy, perfect in every way, with a head full of thick black hair, and a dusky complexion that offset his dark brown eyes. But he died within four hours of taking his first breath, and the blackness he left behind never went away. It gnawed a hole in me that deepened with the years, reminding me of a love unrequited, a debt unpaid. I had kissed him goodbye as the nurse held him. He had looked peaceful and happy, not knowing my grief and sorrow for his fleeting life. And I had thanked him for allowing me to bear him, to feel a love I had never felt before.

I peeled the charred skin off the eggplant, added the other ingredients and mashed it all gently. I remembered the last time I had made this chutney. We had invited a few friends for my son’s second birthday. It was as I was bending to pick him up that I heard a terrible wrenching sound from my lower back. I cried out and collapsed. He came home and railed at me. He said, “This has come at a really bad time, I have a lot going on at work. If you had been exercising as I have been telling you to this wouldn’t have happened.” I reminded him that I had helped him the previous weekend clearing the yard of fallen leaves and twigs and moving heavy branches. I said the strain of it must have caused this and he scoffed at me. He stood by watching as I struggled while healing. My daughter would help me up from bed, bringing hot and cold compresses and massaging my back when the pain was intense. I told myself he is stressed because of work, as I sharpened the cleaver.

I cut into the chicken, the blade slicing through bone and fat clean and swift. It made me nauseous to see the blood and gristle. I don’t eat meat but I cook it because he enjoys it. He diligently takes his supplements every day. He has vanquished his sweet tooth with his iron will. He works out in the gym regularly and is buff. He has transformed his body and is proud of his muscles. He is in the prime of his life, and he knows his power.

My son calls for me, and I wash my hands. I cradle him as he cuddles. I inhale his sweetness and tell myself things will get better, our children are our glue. Then I remembered. I had been away tending to my mother. She had broken her shoulder and needed help. After I returned I discovered that he had brought a woman home, cooked dinner for her, and gone out with her several evenings. I asked him why and he answered, “What do you expect me to do when you are away for so long?” I looked the other way because there was nothing I could say. I was pregnant with my boy. And I would do right by my mother if I had to do it over again.

I chopped and diced the bell peppers and onions, mixed the masala for the curry, and set the chicken to marinate for an hour. There were only the rice and the salad to be prepped, and then I would be done. I wondered how the night would unfold. Will he play with the children tonight? Will he talk to me about his day? Should I start a conversation about how I feel? Or should I let things be? Will he, as usual, say he needs to work? I wondered when and how things had come to such a pass. I washed the cleaver, turning it this way and that, catching the glint of light along the razor-sharp edge. I hummed to myself softly, a song of passion, about love that binds two people, yet liberating. But I had learned that love is a double-edged sword. It can sting or it can soothe. It can heal or it can rend. It can lift you up or it can hurl you down. It can set you free or it can weigh you down.

I hummed softly as I caressed the blade, the song that I remembered from my youth, of love that never grows stale, of love that matures with your wrinkles and graying hair. I remembered what he had said one day. “You look old. You should color your hair. I look young but you look like my mother.” You’ve let yourself go.” I asked, “Can’t you look past that at me? Why does it matter what your friends and colleagues think?” And he was quiet, saying everything without saying a word. It saddened me to learn this is how he sees me. I told myself that Time is a friend and not an enemy, Time erodes, and perhaps sometimes corrodes, but these are the marks of the life I am living, and I am not ashamed of them. I will not disguise or hide them.

The rice boiled over and I strained the starch, basking in the heat of the steam on my face. I opened the can of chickpeas and rinsed off the brine, flinching as it sharply stung the gash on my palm. I had cut myself the day before, crying, remembering – our son had broken a wine glass. He had lost his temper and cuffed him hard on the head once, twice, thrice. I had rushed to pick him up not saying anything but looking my question at him. and he was silent, again. The oil was sizzling and I began to fry the chicken. I had mastered the art of multi-tasking, at least in the kitchen. I started on the chickpea salad. There would be just enough time to wash the dishes and clean up before my daughter returned from school.

I wiped the cleaver dry and balanced its weight in my palm. It was a painful pleasure to run my finger down the edge, watching the drops of blood bloom in its wake, the deep red against the pale skin of my hand. And I remembered how my daughter had screamed as a child at her first sight of blood when she scraped her knee. She was inconsolable and I was distraught. but it was a wound that would heal in time, maybe leave a scar, but surely the first of many to come. And I felt a deep drowning sorrow for all the wounds she would receive in her lifetime. And I wanted to warn her of all the things she should be wary of, to protect her from all the bad in the world, to keep her innocent, safe and young. But I can only stand by and hope for the best for my children.

My son has just woken up and is crying for his bottle. I wipe his tears and rock him in my arms. He begins to quiet down while my mind races. I remember the day he was born, how full of hope and joy I was; how contented I felt when I saw his wrinkled face; how blissfully happy I was as I nursed him. He lay in my arms, smiling in his sleep, and I felt my body tremble with a blind visceral love that blotted out my pain and consumed me. I begin to lay the table. My son busies himself playing with his toys, and my daughter is curled up with a book. I savor this restful pause. Another day was coming to an end, and soon he would be home. Our interactions had become transactional – related to the house or to the children, about the bills to be paid and the things to be done. I don’t recall the last time we had really talked with each other, about our inner lives and thoughts, and about the state of the union. I’m heart sore at the lost companionship.

He works hard and is very good at his job. He’s considered a superstar. He toils long hours, constantly setting new goals. He believes in improving himself and learning new skills. He said, “We have different values. Im logical, practical and analytical, but you are driven by emotions. I am a doer, a mover, and a shaker. I want to acquire and achieve, scale new heights, but you are content with who and what you are.” I loved him for his vim and vigor, his drive and ambition, not knowing they would work against me. I admired his determination and resolve, not knowing they would reject me. I respected his intellect and acuity, not knowing they would scorn me.

I love springtime! It energizes me after the long hibernation. I think of when we used to go in to the city for dinner on the weekends, and walk along the Charles River holding hands. We would talk about everything and nothing, and I would exult in his warmth. Looking into his eyes, I would see laughter, I would feel his touch with passion and tenderness, and I would hear his heart through his silences. We were together not because we had no choice, but because we chose to be. We would be drunk with the possibilities, and dream impossible dreams.

The cleaver rests on the counter, lying in wait for its next victim. I have thought through everything very carefully. I will find a place for the children and me, when we reach the city.

Madras Courier originally ran as a broadsheet with a poetry section. It was a time when readers felt comfortable sharing glimpses of their lives through verse. If you have a poem you’d like to submit, do email us at editor@madrascourier.com.

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The Madras Courier is the first newspaper to be established in the Madras Presidency, British India. Published on October 12, 1785, it was the leading newspaper of its time. Selling for a princely sum of one rupee, it thrived for three decades.

Two centuries later, this legacy is revived digitally. Today, the Madras Courier serves a global audience of curious, intelligent readers interested in South Asian affairs. We curate interesting stories that enhance our understanding of the world in meaningful ways.