Flash fiction, Vijayalakshmi Sridhar

I heard you became a father again

A son this third time. Here. Take a laddoo. It is from your favourite shop. Jalaram’s. Motichoor. Not the Besan laddoo that you upturned a plateful during our third year Diwali celebration, leaving floury bits all around, like a bomb explosion. That day my heart sank at your disrespect.        

There she is – your second wife. Here. Feed her a laddoo. She needs to be lauded. For producing a heir. For helping you shed your skin as my husband, the cover for all the love shared for thirteen years. You said I must learn from her, by drinking her urine, borrowing and sleeping on her pillow to absorb lessons on how to be a ‘good’ wife. 

Where is your mother – the evil goddess who held your dubious honour aloft? Has she ever played any role other than being a yes-woman, refusing to see my side? You’d say I planted the bone of contention in the first place. In your eyes, she is infallible and tolerated all my mistakes too. You owe her for today. Celebrate with a laddoo.

Why am I at your son’s naming ceremony with a box of laddoo? Why laddoo? Because by its shape it represents the universe. The fried flour pearls are the human lives; the sugar syrup is the love that is supposed to give the binding. Fried cashews and raisins are the good and bad tidings and the cloves- those spicy bits are the real deal. They are the tests for love. 

Fine, don’t buy all this. Don’t fret about guilt and conscience, duty or the failure of it or the energy exchange that has happened all these years in the give and take between you and me, just come forward. Take a laddoo. 

Come on, take one; Make a move.