“Where I come from, we dip our pakoras in our chai,” I said proudly, demonstrating to prove a point. Everyone laughed. I used the edge of my saree to dab at the perspiration on my forehead and realized my two children and husband were making fun of my small-town antics. Like they always did.
I cleared the table, helped them wear their bag packs, one kiss on the cheek, thrice over, and a final farewell later I got back to my daily commitments as a housewife. Despite what my big city neighbors and family said to me, I enjoy my routine. Especially the part where I get to perch my feet up on the coffee table and devour my chai-infused pakora.
The rest of the day of a housewife goes by in a blur- lunch, homework with the kids, dinner, TV time with the kids, and the only time when we get to collectively catch our breaths is bedtime. For when I tuck my children into bed with fluffed up pillows and hand-woven blankets, I narrate the finest stories, ones that leave their eyes wide and mouths agape. Just before sleeping, they ask me when and how I read these stories, and where they can find them, I explain calmly, “Where I come from, we don’t need books to live stories.”
Read more such stories here.
