Discover Shernaz’s poignant short story on DifferentTruths.com, exploring marital friction, medical anxiety, and a woman’s powerful reclamation of family narrative.

Each morning dared her to rise. To rally her muscles and gear them up for the tiring day ahead. Her day began early, planning and preparing breakfast for Suresh. It had to be on the table at seven thirty sharp, or he would go off in a huff without eating.

If he came in late, it was okay; it was because an urgent call held him up. His mornings were his own. A leisurely cup of tea, which she took to him as he strolled in the garden; next in line were WhatsApp messages; lined up behind them were phone calls… Then, of course, a few warm-ups, shaving, bathing…

“Sharmita, where’s my towel?”

“I can’t find my charger. Where have you put it?”

She was the custodian of his negligence, the minion to his lordship, the curator of his comfort.

At each bellow, Sharmita would drop what she was doing and run to his side. She preferred to trade early morning fatigue for a few hours of peace, free of his tantrums.

Of late, many mornings had become an ordeal. Feigning breeziness, flying around in the kitchen getting breakfast ready for him, putting on the stove at each demand, and making sure everything was as he liked, she felt clamped down. 

Yet, every two days, she would hear, “I am in a hurry. I will not have breakfast.”

Today too, Suresh said so in a gruff voice and hastened out of the room.

This wasn’t the Suresh of their early years of marriage. Their mornings tuned into bhajans or soft morning ragas; the aroma of tea wafted in the kitchen – more heavenly considering Suresh made and served it lovingly. She made breakfast, and he devoured it ravenously.  Those were mornings nuanced with love and togetherness – the bedrock of a marriage.

A visit to Dr Taraporewala in Mumbai had shattered his world. He had been advised to undergo bypass surgery, and he was stubbornly set against it.

“I’ll go in for holistic therapy; follow a strictly regimented diet, but don’t talk of surgery. I am telling you, Sharmi, I will not come back alive from the OT.” His voice trembled; his eyes pleaded.

That shut her up.

His happiness, his health, had become the measure of her life. For six months after that fateful visit to the doctor, she had eaten what she gave him. Erasing her own tastes, she had submitted her palate to his kind of food, so he wouldn’t feel he was singled out at the table to eat insipid fare – salt-free and fat-free.

His cholesterol levels had dropped; their weight loss was considerable. That is not all they had lost. There began a slow erosion of his good humour, his cool demeanour, and his endurance. An inescapable silence hung around him. He wore a mask of self-deprecating humour while being completely drained and disconnected.

For some weeks now, every two days, she would hear: “I am in a hurry. I will not have breakfast.” Occasionally, he would skip lunch or dinner.

Today too, Suresh hastened out of the room, repeating the words she had come to associate with her shortcoming. Those guilt-inducing words hung in the air, confounding, weighty and ringing, to be cleared out with the untouched breakfast. 

Instead, they stayed with her like the bitter sediments of filtered coffee.

Sharmita had run out of options. Her anxiety drizzled over the bowl of cereal, fruits, and paneer sandwich. She religiously scrolled YouTube to cook healthy and nourishing meals. What had gone wrong? Could his errant moods be the side effects of medication? Should she speak to his doctor?   Perhaps he needs professional advice. 

Alone with her at night, he would allude to death. He feared it was waiting for him grimly. He constantly worried about ‘what will happen to you and our children when I am gone’. She would put her hand around him as they stood at the window, repeating her reassurances, trying to anchor him to hope. She tried to absorb his terror, shielding it from others.

The phone buzzed her out of her daze.

“Hello, is that you, Nandita?” That was one of his rakhi sisters.

He had half a dozen of them, each one believing she had his well-being and happiness at heart. Like many a sister-in-law, they tried to boss over Sharmita. As if his own sisters weren’t enough, she had to deal with the draining dynamics of his adopted ones.

“Yesss… Thodi to sharm karo. Why can’t you feed your husband well?”

“Bechara, aaj bhi mere paas aya tha. He was famished and asked me to make him some aloo parathas. Dina and Gita also said that he often goes to their places to have chhole bhature, mutton curry rice, suji halwa…

What Nandita told her was shattering and made her furious. It was a gut punch. It landed on the most defenceless part of her psyche, staining the very core of her heart. An unexpected twist that made her feel betrayed and scared about the change in his personality was undergoing. Was the man who sat at the dinner table, listlessly pushing food around his plate and making quiet, self-deprecating jokes, real?  Or was the vulnerable father and husband of their private moments the genuine one?  This fractured, confused persona terrified her. Was he trying to speed up his death?

Frustrated, furious and piqued, she lashed out at Nandita.

“Are you out of your minds? Don’t you care what your recklessness will do to his health?”

Sharmita’s eyes sparked fire. “Does his life mean nothing to you? Is this a joke? You are conspiring with him behind my back. This isn’t love. You are undoing everything I put my life on hold for, for over half a year.”

Her words flowed like lava through the phone. “I am warning you, Nandita. If this continues, it will be the end of our relationship. I will talk to Suresh tonight. And if you truly care for him, all of you stop poisoning him out of misplaced affection.”

There was a sharp, throaty gasp from Nandita.

Sharmita cut off the call.  This was gross duplicity, undermining her nurturing dedication.

The unearned words Nandita had spewed out hovered over her laboured breathing. She would take Suresh to task.  Was his love and concern just a fake currency? Or was he shortchanging his health for the counterfeit concern of others? Perhaps this aggression wasn’t at all about food but a conscious rebellion against his impotence at this sudden turn of fate.

Questions whirled around in her mind. She wasn’t just hurting now. She was going to ask for accountability from every person in this charade that was counterproductive.

She stood at the table, phone face down on it. She wasn’t ready to see the screen light up with defensive or vitriolic messages. She would take back the reins of her husband’s safety.

Taking a deep breath, she calmed her agitation. No longer pressed down by the urgency to explain herself or fight back, she went into the kitchen and brewed herself steaming coffee. The aroma had a crisp, revitalising note. It helped her determination.

She would step away from under their shadow to rescue herself and her husband’s deviant diet.

The fetters of her silent acquiescence finally shattered.

She did not wait for Suresh to offer hollow excuses, nor did she waste another breath arguing with the lingering echo of Nandita’s venom. Walking into the room where he sat, she simply laid the truth bare. It was not an ultimatum but a rescuing of his dignity.

For the first time, Suresh saw the shadow he had been hiding under. Reflected in the mirror were her resilience, his stubborn defiance and that desperate revolt against his own incapacity. 

Sharmita did not look back.  She simply took her husband’s hand and, with it, control of the kitchen, reclaiming the narrative of their lives.  They would finally build something genuine on the firm foundation of their love.

Picture made by AI

Shernaz Wadia

To Shernaz Wadia, reading and writing poems has been one of the means to embark on an inward journey. She hopes her words will bring peace, hope and light into dark corners. Her poems have been published in many e-journals and anthologies. She has published her own book of poems “Whispers of the Soul” and another titled “Tapestry Poetry – A Fusion of Two Minds” with her poetry partner Avril Meallem.