Maa-Beta

Mummy’s Situation

I still hear the cooker. That is the thing about our house. Even when I am on the tenth floor of the bank with a glass wall behind me and Pune burning white outside, some part of me is still in Aundh, listening for the second whistle. It means she is there. It means the kitchen is hers. It means the day has a centre. My name is Arun, and I have spent twenty-seven years pretending I do not notice the centre. Thursday began like every other Thursday that wants to trick you. Light through the mango leaves. Dust on…