Untangle

By Sreelekha Chatterjee

Greyness of monochrome realism in my world reigned, both inside and outside. A pale-cheeked man grabbed several frozen-white plastic bags of over-masticated-bubblegum-pink chicken from the freezer behind the counter. Only a moment ago, I ordered four chapattis and potato curry in this roadside eatery—a five-star one flaunted on the board. Closing my eyes, Shyam’s ashen body—nested in my mind’s monitor—surfaced, lying on several blocks of ice, awaiting his son’s arrival from abroad. His body as taut as the chicken released from the packets. Rigor mortis of the deceased, heart stiffening of the living.

Peeking inside the kitchen, I spotted another man, probably the chef, marinating the small birds with vibrant spices. His cerise cheeks a sudden contrast. Versimilitudinous images floated. Shyam’s body was smeared with sandalwood, the fragrance of perfume lingered, inviting a numinous identity just like the aroma of masala on the chicken.

Shyam was lying on the hospital bed post–heart surgery, when his family introduced me as an untrained caregiver. Aaya, the family called me, but he always addressed me by my name.

A charming seventy-something with unusually black hair and bold jaws, on a thin frame. With a half-glance toward me, his virile eyes held a smile, a transparent symbolism of his inner desires. I wondered whether my eyes gave away my intimate stirrings. Throughout the day, he would be surrounded by his family. His wife always stared at me with the I-know-it-all look before Shyam would manipulate her attention with his groans of bodily discomfort and how he longed to go back home. If his wish had been fulfilled, I would have continued my duty at his residence. But fate had other plans.

A sudden hunger pang rumbled in my stomach, followed by a salivating mouth on seeing the bright-red hunks of raw chicken threaded onto massive four-foot-long iron skewers. Shyam was always the quiet one, an undemanding patient, except his eyes beckoned me with a secret wink. One day he pulled me close, whispering incoherently in my ear, while his weak, indefinite lips brushed against my cheek—a solicitous, suggestive gesture toward debased hopes. My twenty-year-old heart catapulted like a frog, missed its breath steps, while dry lightning escaped between our body clouds. Liberated almost instantaneously from his grip, I stabilized myself away from him. That was the only time.

Butterflied chicken bodies were lowered down into the fiery inferno of a clay tandoor oven set on the front porch. Probably, the same heat as the fire chamber where Shyam’s body was wheeled. My eyes fogged up, blurring my vision. His wife had suddenly held my hand, her nails digging into my skin—“For the past forty years, I had balanced it all. The temptations weren’t easy to tackle. But it all ends in flames, you see.” Carefully charred and smoked, resulted in meat tender and juicy. Overcooking turned it mushy, chalky.

Telltale food color bared on bronzed-up chicken. Halation of inner fire self-revelatory. I ordered bone-in leg pieces.

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Sreelekha Chatterjee is an award-winning short story writer, poet, and editor from New Delhi, India. Her stories have appeared in Kitaab, Ink Pantry, Mad Swirl, The Piker Press, York Literary Review, Friday Flash Fiction, Literary Cocktail Magazine, Underbelly Press, Cranked Anvil, and elsewhere.

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