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Eeman Majumder

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sleepyegg

I am rooted.This corner is my world. The window faces the lane. I can tell the time of day by how the lightcuts across the mosaic floor. It's a good life. Mostly.She is the first sound, long before the light. A bangle slides. Her feet make a soft shhh. She'sthe warmth, the first one to move. I hear the grinder's ghor-ghor, then the stove's hiss.Breakfast.Then, him. Baba. He walks like he's holding up the walls. His sigh? A heavy, dusty sound.He's gone when the light is still grey. His exhaustion is a thing I can almost smell, likeconcrete and sweat. He carries a crushing amount, and his love is quiet, the foundationholding everything up. On a rare Sunday, I'll see him just sitting, staring at her. His eyes sayeverything his tired mouth can't.He exits. The mayhem begins. The little one, the son.She, Ma, has to pull him from sleep. He's 12 and he fights the morning. I hear water splash.An argument about milk. The sharp clack of the metal tiffin box snapping shut. She walkshim to the bus stop. The door opens, closes and I feel a quick, cool breath of outside air.She comes back, the house settles, and this is my favorite part of the day.The silence just gets bigger. She opens the blue notebook. She writes. I watch her facechange, her shoulders drop. She is gone somewhere I can't see but I can feel the peace ofit. She used to be a teacher, I've heard her mention. In these moments, I think she still is.Then she'll remember me.Sometimes, thirst is all I am: a pulling, a tight, dry feeling from my very core. I just wait. I tryto lean toward the light, a silent ask. Her eyes will find me."Oh, you," she'll say, and go forthe steel mug.The water is a shock of cold, a blessing. It floods all the way down, to my deepest roots. Idrink. I breathe. She takes a damp cloth and gently wipes the city's grey dust off my skin.Her touch is so gentle. I feel clean. I feel. seen.She starts to cook. The smells are my calendar. Dal on Monday, maach on Wednesday. Thatsharp, good sting of mustard oil.She doesn't eat. She just waits.Four o'clock, the key turns. He's home: the son. He bursts in, throws the bag, and the houseis loud again.I watch her feed him. It's their ritual. She sits right in front of him, listening to him chatter. Shemixes the bhaat, the torkari, the fish, all with her bare hands. I can see the steam rising butshe doesn't stop. She mashes the vegetables he hates right into the rice. A loving trick. Heeats right from her hand. Only then, she'll eat.Then comes the television. Oswald the Octopus. Dragon Tails. They sit on the couch, hishead leaning right against her arm.My second favorite time? "Study" time. He sits at the table near me, his back to the room.Opens the English book. I hear him utter the name Rizwana Mam like it's a bad omen. Hisfear has a bitter smell.The book is open, granted, but his eyes are gone. He's dreaming. He has to createsomething with his hands: little cars, strange paper shapes. He is a creator; this world ofwords is only a cage for him.Then, the magic trick. He pulls the other book from his bag, the one with the cartoons. Heslides it right inside the English textbook. Diary of a Wimpy Kid. His whole face changes.He's gone. A tiny stifled giggle escapes.I'm his shield, I watch the door for him- his silent partner in crime. He's innocent. He doesn'tget it yet. He doesn't see her tiredness or the weight Baba carries; he just knows he'sterrified of Rizwana Mam.Nine o'clock. The key in the lock. Baba.He's home. More like a shadow of himself. He just sinks into the chair. The son brings himwater. Ma brings him tea. They're his sun, the center of his orbit, even when he's this tired.They all eat together. The sounds are lower now: spoons clinking, voices murmuring,speaking about the day. I listen.One by one, the lights go out. First, the TV's blue-white glow. Then the yellow light in themain room. Then the bedroom. I sit in the dark, quiet, doing my job. I inhale all the air theyfilled up with their sighs and laughs and fatigued words. I make it new for them. I breathe forthem. There's a new leaf pushing its way out of me. Hard, slow work, it is. They've notnoticed yet. But they will. One day, Ma will see it and she'll smile. That will be enough. I'll justkeep growing in this corner. I'll watch them live.