There are musty cupboards set up against the walls in the old house. Each cupboard has a key. Each key has its place. The glass cabinet has a long brass key that goes in the fridge. The ice box has a key that goes in the cup on the wooden shelf. The almirahs have keys that are tucked away under a nondescript napkin, or behind a cream jug.
The house has an air of comfortable creakiness. A steely grey expanse of backwater is visible from the deep passage running through the rear. An occasional salty breeze rubs against the bright yellow curtains and brings a sea-smelly smell through the window.
The dark, curly-haired maid sits in the ante-kitchen humming an old tune as she scales a fat tirutha. She trims its fins, gouges out its entrails and dices it thick and fleshy. Red, yellow and orange coloured spices are laid out on a quarter plate by the gas burner. The fish will be cooked slowly on a low flame.
The curry bubbles, slivers of oil running through its body in pale veins, till finally a rich aroma fills the kitchen and it is done.
Lunch is a merry affair, with lots of serving around and plenty to eat. Boiled red rice, a dark green 'vegetable’ and mango salad casually make their appearance on the table. For a while nothing is heard but the soft dink of steel against china and the odd burp.
Two dogs lie at the door. They are well behaved and do not step in. They wait patiently outside for their meal— leftovers from the big one.
The old maid clears up. A dreamy afternoon calm has settled over the old house. Somewhere in the yard a cricket sings and 'peace comes dropping slow' within.
And within...
