The Mahapatras were a class apart. Literally. Twenty years in the city and they were yet to venture out of it. Or, to the other end of it. Their life began and ended in the two televisions sets they had -- one in their bedroom, the other in the other bedroom. Real conjugal togetherness had long given away to the virtual reality of shows. What tied them together then?
Breakfast. And dinner. Or, the ritual of one serving it to the other. Death breathes its life in them. While the husband chewed each bite diligently, the wife measured it out in an utter sense of dutiful detachment. The perfection of it was poignant. She knew if the dal tonight was too thick for his taste by the look of it. Or if even if he did not know, that he would need another helping of rice.
While news and sports channels kept him hooked after work, daily-soaps and cookery shows engaged her during her work hours. The house was slowly decorated in dust, cleverly pushed off but never completely cleaned. The glitter off the screen shone through the solitude of the space. Their's was a love story fit for the camera. Not a word other than need, not a gesture other than nothing.
This is the love rediscovered the day Mrs Mahapatra lay dead in her sofa, the TV on, the cup of tea gone cold. The lock turned, the door opened, and Mrs Mahapatra did not say, 'I have switched on the geyser' as she walked towards him with a bottle of water. He knew.
Death is often studied to be the great leveller. Mr Mahapatra was never the kind to be able to articulate how much it revealed of his habit of a wife.
Breakfast. And dinner. Or, the ritual of one serving it to the other. Death breathes its life in them. While the husband chewed each bite diligently, the wife measured it out in an utter sense of dutiful detachment. The perfection of it was poignant. She knew if the dal tonight was too thick for his taste by the look of it. Or if even if he did not know, that he would need another helping of rice.
While news and sports channels kept him hooked after work, daily-soaps and cookery shows engaged her during her work hours. The house was slowly decorated in dust, cleverly pushed off but never completely cleaned. The glitter off the screen shone through the solitude of the space. Their's was a love story fit for the camera. Not a word other than need, not a gesture other than nothing.
This is the love rediscovered the day Mrs Mahapatra lay dead in her sofa, the TV on, the cup of tea gone cold. The lock turned, the door opened, and Mrs Mahapatra did not say, 'I have switched on the geyser' as she walked towards him with a bottle of water. He knew.
Death is often studied to be the great leveller. Mr Mahapatra was never the kind to be able to articulate how much it revealed of his habit of a wife.
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