Fiction from Anita Goveas

Photo: Harpreet Singh

Pluck, scrub, crush

In the morning, we heat leftover rotis, roll them up like swaddled babies, and chew, chew, chew until we can choke them down. The little one dreams of the velvety feel of fresh coriander, its pungent citrus scent, gathered from the flourishing plant, but nothing green thrives here, nothing raw and unpolished survives.

In the afternoon, we submerge in composition, we burnish our grammar, we refine our spelling, O-B-E-Y, Y-I-E-L-D, C-O-M-P-L-Y, until the cramp, crimp, cramp in our fingers tingles and grows. The middle one dreams of stretching luxuriously, limbs tumbled across a whole bed until the new sun spreads dawn like melting ghee, but we all sleep together with no space to roll.

In the evening, we brush our teeth until they gleam, our hair until it shines, pluck, pick, pluck our eyebrows until they sting. The oldest one dreams of hair so short it needs no primping, and the feel of air dancing across an unburdened neck as tired arms unfold and soar, but the window screens are nailed shut against invading pests and the only currents flow sluggishly from the fluttering fan.

In the morning, we boil the milk for chai, we crush, crish, crush the obstinate cardamon, we scatter in the bitter cloves. The little one dreams of the orange flesh of unprocessed turmeric root harvested straight from the ground, the stain flooding across earth-crusted fingers, of chopping and hewing into uneven pieces to liberate the glorious glowing colour, but the knives are safely locked away and everything has a purpose and nothing goes to waste.

In the afternoon, we practice our maths, we marshal the numbers, we harness the equations, A-B-C, W-X-Y, x-y-z. The middle one dreams of shimmying to bhangra, of vah-vah-vooming and hip shaking to Laila Main Laila until the dusk rolls in but the music that surrounds us plinks like glass breaking and we can’t find the beat.

In the evening we cream our faces, we pat, pit, pat our loosening jaw skin, we smooth under our eyes. The oldest one dreams of wobbling in a rickety boat, jowls shaking, of finding balance on an untameable sea, but the wind outside swoops-swish-swoops so fiercely we dare not peek.

In the morning, we scrub, scrib, scrub the pots, we scour the pans, we buff the tava. The little one dreams of peeling back cinnamon bark, of tight curls of sweet-earth-savoury, of spice dusted fingertips, of taste and fragrance and zest and linger, but the vegetables are waiting and must be stewed, steamed, simmered until they fall apart.

In the afternoon, we pore over Marathi, we review our Hindi, we cram in French A-I-K-A, S-U-N-O, E-C-O-U-T-E-Z. The middle one dreams of palms slapping against thirsting tabla, chalks scraping into hankering paper, paint lashing against craving canvas but there are no abundant colours, only white and black, and paper is for holding all our words that no one will read.

In the evening we rub, scrub, rub gram paste into our darkened elbows, slather neem onto oily faces, smear curd onto dry limp hair. The oldest one dreams of the purr-whirr-purr of aircraft engines, the rattle of windows pushing against opposing molecules, the shiveryness of the escaping ground viewed from up high but our skin, our bones, our marrow is too delicate to expose, and here inside in the safe warm dark is where we should stay.
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Anita Goveas is British-Asian, London-based, and fuelled by strong coffee and paneer jalfrezi. She was first published in the 2016 London Short Story Prize anthology, most recently by the Cincinnati Review. She’s on the editorial team at Flashback Fiction, and tweets erratically @coffeeandpaneer. Her debut flash collection, Families and Other Natural Disasters, is available from Reflex Press, and links to her stories are at https://coffeeandpaneer.wordpress.com.