A Day In The Life Of An Indian HouseWife | Day-2 | Flash Fiction Series


The wrappers littered on the study table disappeared like someone swayed a magical wand. The absolute disarray at the footwear stand was ordered by sizes, as though there was a spell casted from the sky when we went to sleep. There are wide opened mouths exclaiming and eyes beaming with surprise every evening. Should I take them as compliments and pat myself on the back? Sometimes I wonder if things are purposefully made to go awry, simply to test my ability to surprise them. Who would be satisfied with mere praises? As thought they are marking you correct with a red pen. The ones who work just for compliments are those who already have enough for themsleves in their kitty. I have nothing, except validations.

Somebody forgets to put their clothes for laundry and somebody forgets to flush. I have to silently take over the cumulative work of others. The basic duties that every human has towards his/her own health and hygiene can be left undone only if one is so privileged, only if there are no questions about it. When do we think that folding the blanket is not as important as rushing to a place on time? Only when there is some kind of a preset automation that does the work in the background. Isn’t it? That’s how they describe the characteristics of a machine. Otherwise, the sun would rise an hour earlier for everbody else, like it does for me since the past 30 years.

No number of mechanical inventions will relieve me of bending, reaching to the far corner under the bed to find the missing cap of the water bottle. The work isn’t over yet. Who would fill the bottles and place them in the refrigerator? Is this why washing powder advertisements on TV now cleverly feature modern looking working mothers in the age of washing machines? So a working mother has to come back after a long day, stuff the clothes in the machine, and after that she has equal amount of work as I have. Who forbids men from operating washing machines? So, they invented machines and sold them to women again, which still makes it the woman’s work.
This house, its functioning and the lifespan of this marriage is thriving on one thing, that is, my mild temper. They’ve turned my tantrums into sweet blessings. I don’t even know if I mean that. My resentment has no potential to harm even a single living organism. My anger, my rancor, are dwelling in their place. They will be and go away without notice. Just like how I am dwelling in my position. I will pass away when the time comes and my duties will be called off with my death.

Read : Day-1


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