tidied up the front room while Suraj skipped into the kitchen and out through the back door to brush his teeth in the washing area in the courtyard. Within seconds he was back. He eyed the leftovers from last night and his stomach growled loudly. Tara walked up to him and hugged his thin frame.
“Give me some food, Didi, please.”
“I can’t, Suraj,” said Tara in a pained voice. “You have to get the water first or that wicked witch will have another excuse to starve us.”
Suraj’s shoulders slumped and a sad expression clouded his face.
“Why can’t Layla go? It’s so unfair!”
Tara kneeled and took his hands in hers.
“Because I am asking you.”
Suraj nodded, still looking sullen. His expression was a mixture of anger and deep sadness. He eyed the stale chappatis once again and then, without a word, picked up the empty earthen pot and walked out the back door.
“Come back soon and I’ll have fresh chappatis and sweet tea ready for you,” said Tara as they walked out to the backyard. She scattered grain to the five chickens and rooster as she watched Suraj shuffle out the gate. Tears sprang to her eyes and she bit her lip hard to stem the flow, determined not to give in this early in the day.
Tara then tended to their cow, Bela. Her mother, Parvati, had brought the cow as part of her dowry when she had wedded their father, Shiv. Bela was chocolate brown with white spots, soft brown eyes, and a large, wet nose. Bela gave less milk these days, but it was still enough for them. It seemed she, too, was pining away for Parvati.
As Tara milked Bela, she told her about the cobra visiting her in the night. Warm milk streamed through her fingers and into the bucket as she expertly pulled on the cow’s teats. Bela stood quietly, swishing her tail to drive away the inevitable flies that settled on her back. As Tara reached the part when the snake had caressed her forearm with its forked tongue, Bela licked Tara on the cheek. Tara almost fell off the stool. She raised an eyebrow in surprise, but Bela was lazily chewing the cud as if nothing had happened.
“Bela, I wish you could talk,” said Tara, standing up and stroking Bela on her broad, brown back.
“TARA, you miserable girl, where’s my tea?” bellowed Kali.
Tara gave a start and, grabbing the bucket of milk, ran out of Bela’s shed. She raced into the kitchen as fast as her slim legs would allow.
“What took you so long?” Kali demanded.
“Sorry, Mother,” said Tara, almost choking on the second word. There was not the remotest resemblance between her mother and this evil witch. “Bela’s stall was a bit messier than usual. I cleaned it as thoroughly as I could,” she lied.
“I want my tea in the next five minutes or else. And then make some chappatis for your father before he leaves for the fields. I have a bad headache and I am going to lie down for a while. And yes, feed my Layla, too. Mind you don’t skimp on the ghee. She’s growing and needs a lot of nourishment.”
“Yes, Mother,” said Tara obediently, her eyes lowered, a storm of emotions raging inside her. Suraj and she were growing too, yet Kali starved them at every opportunity and took great pleasure in it.
Kali turned and walked away to the front of the hut and lay down on her cot with an audible sigh. Tara sat fuming, her hands clenched, wishing she had the strength to fight back. You’re a coward, said the voice inside her. I know, she sighed.
Tara poked the ashes in the three-sided, raised, earthen platform that served as their stove. She struck a match to light the thin twigs and as they caught fire, she blew on them, adding a few dung cakes. Soon, a strong fire crackled, spreading a warm, earthy smell throughout the hut. Tara put a shiny steel vessel on top of the platform to boil water for tea. She kneaded cream-coloured wheat flour with salt and water to make dough. While she prepared tea, her father entered the kitchen and sat cross-legged in front of her. His eyes had a vacant look.
“How are you today, Tara?” he asked.
“I am fine, Father,” she said, pouring tea into four glasses lined up in front of her. “I’ll give Mother her tea and be back to make your chappatis.”
She walked to the front room with the tea and put it by her mother’s cot.
“Would you like something to eat?”
“Go away and don’t disturb me,” snapped Kali.
Tara was only too happy to get away from her. She went back to the kitchen, put a flat skillet on the fire, and drizzled a spoonful of ghee. The clarified butter spluttered and sizzled, sending out a mouth-watering aroma that made Tara’s stomach ache with hunger. She rolled out the dough into a perfect round on a floured wooden board with a long, wooden rolling pin. She flipped the uncooked chappati onto the palm of her right hand and in one fluid movement transferred it to the skillet.
As the first chappati puffed up, a huge golden ball filled with steam, she had to use all her willpower to stop from grabbing and stuffing it into her mouth. She took a huge gulp of the tea to quell her hunger pangs and immediately blinked in pain as the hot tea scorched a trail down her throat. Her heat-hardened hands did not need tongs to flip the chappati. When it was ready, she deftly pinched its edge and transferred the golden-brown sphere to her father’s steel plate, where he had already put a dab of pickles and an onion. It subsided into a flat round as the steam escaped. She started making the second one just as Suraj walked in, balancing the earthen pot on his head. He looked tired, and the day had just begun. He put the earthen pot by the door and bounded to her side.
“Make me one too, Didi. I am so hungry,” he said, smacking his lips.
“Sit down,” she said.
She placed a glass of tea in front of him and wordlessly looked at her father, asking permission to serve Suraj the next chappati. Her father nodded.
He looked so cold and aloof. She yearned for the love that she used to see in his eyes when their mother had been around. Had he forgotten that they were his children? Did he not love them anymore?
Where have you gone, Father? Who is this stranger in front of me? I don’t know you at all, thought Tara as she continued making chappatis and dropping them into her father’s and Suraj’s plates alternately.
“I am HUNGRY. Give me some food,” demanded Layla, flouncing into the room, her fat cheeks jiggling.
She sat down with a thump next to Suraj and eyed his plate hungrily.
Shiv stood up and announced that he was off to the fields. In a moment, he had disappeared.
Tara continued cooking, knowing that a few extra chappatis would be needed for their lunch.
“That’s mine,” whined Suraj.
Tara looked up. Layla had stuffed a bit of Suraj’s chappati in her mouth and was chewing furiously.
“You greedy pig,” whispered Tara glaring at Layla. “I’m not going to give you any more.”
Layla was Kali’s daughter from a previous marriage. Being an only child,
