Some Porridge For Her Son

She sat on the dirty floor with her one year old son in her lap. He clutched the end of her sari in fear as his drunken father hurled slurred expletives at them both. She on the other hand sat stone still, but looked vacantly at her son’s legs, grown thin like twigs and arms, grown thin like twine. Today, the husband was angry because his useless wife did not make enough to buy some salt for the house. He could not eat the bland porridge. It was so watery too. The woman had no respect. Look at her! Sitting mute! There was defiance in the very way she looked at the floor. So great was his anger at her and her salt-less porridge that he threw the plate to the floor, letting the rice grains scatter all over the floor. With that, he swayed and staggered out of the little hut. The wife looked gratefully at the spilled porridge. Had the drunken husband eaten it, there would have been nothing left for her son. Soon, she began to scrape the porridge off the floor to feed the child. Her vision was blurred with unshed tears. Her mother often said, one must not cry if there’s even a single grain of rice in one’s hand. But then, her mother did not live with a tyrannical husband who thought she was worthless, despite toiling away in the sun each day. What would she know about tears? As she placed a small morsel in her son’s mouth, she noticed how the dirt from the floor was mixed with the porridge. She did not care anymore that she had rice in her hands. Her mother’s words did not make any sense in the world she lived in.Right there, in front of her one year old child, she burst into tears. And the tears never stopped.Copyright Petrichor and Clouds 2013 at petrichorandclouds.blogspot.com Please do not reproduce the material published here.