the day she swallowed glass
by Ronita Chattopadhyay
That morning, she knew she would get the divorce summons from her husband. Actually, he had stopped being her husband a long time ago. Those papers, innocuously titled ‘High Court Form No (P) 5 – Common Form of Summons for Settlement of Issue’, were also proof of that. “Is this what he really thought had happened? How much of this was him and how much of this was his lawyer’s doing?” she wondered. The words on the pages began swimming before her eyes. There was a heaviness in her heart. She felt the beginnings of a massive headache, a throbbing pain that started from her right ear and threated to spread across her forehead like a marauding army. She looked around for a bottle of water.
He got into the lift, anxious and fumbling. He was late again. He hated going to the office every day, the hour-long travel by car sometimes made longer by bad roads and the increasingly unseasonal rains. He had gotten used to work from home. But now, the company demanded that all employees report to the office six days a week. There were whispers of waning profits and downsizing. He could not risk non-compliance. He would also need to stop at the supermarket on the way back or order online if he got home late. He was still new to figuring out groceries and meals. She used to handle all this. Eating takeouts had lost its charm sooner than he had imagined.
The guard at the gate nodded at him as he made his way to the parking area for the block of apartments. The guard looked subdued, not his usual over-cheerful self. He noted this, but did not dwell on it. He had enough things to worry about.
She got up and walked to the kitchen. All the bottles were empty. All the shiny glass bottles that her sister had ordered for her. “No more plastic bottles. They are not good for you,” she had proclaimed. Her sister, who had moved in with her, who had never filled the plastic bottles or the glass ones.
The guard stared at his hands for a long time. He didn’t know what else to do. The day had started like any other day. He had noted the household helps who came in the morning, told one that red was her colour, asked another when he would get to taste her cooking, and another whether her useless husband was actually of any use to her. He had told one of the flat owner’s wife – a young bride – that she should wear tight jeans more. Then he had stepped out to drink his morning tea. He had taken longer, lingering at the tea stall chatting with other people. He had come back and learned that a scooter had been stolen. He got scolded mercilessly. He was probably going to be fired.
“How many bottles should I fill now? Some of them or all of them?” she asked herself. A call from her colleague reminded her that she also had a deadline. “You know… you need to do your part so that I can do my part,” she was harshly reminded. “I shouldn’t be doing any of this. You managed to talk the boss into making me do this,” she thought and didn’t say. She sighed as she got back to the drawing room that also doubled as her work space and opened the laptop. A headache and a deadline. Great. She poured water into a glass and kept it close.
He was now in his seat, looking at the list of things scheduled on his google calendar. He got a message. He needed to figure out the time to take her for a meal. They were now beginning to go out in public. It was a change from furtive meetings in hotels over a year. It had been fun. But he now wanted things to be less adventurous, to not always be checking if there was anyone familiar around. He got up and went to the kitchen which had the office water cooler in one corner. He returned with a small plastic cup filled to the brim.
Her colleague had also switched on her laptop in her home. She sent a couple of emails just to show her dedication to work. Then, she opened Netflix and selected When Life Gives You Tangerines. Kdramas were her latest fix. She settled in for an enjoyable time.
He suddenly felt a sharp pricking sensation in his throat. It became sharper, causing excruciating pain. The plastic cup slipped from his hand. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t call out for help. The pain began to spread. A trickle of blood appeared and began to move down, soiling the white collar of his shirt. He slumped over the table, its edges also stained crimson.
The guard, meanwhile, was drinking daab juice*. He had repeatedly asked the man who sold the tender, green coconuts outside the apartment gate to give him one for free. Irritated, he had handed him one. He sipped the slightly sweet, soothing juice through a plastic straw. And then his throat began to hurt. He felt a sharp sensation. It was like a bee had stung him inside his throat. It didn’t make sense. The next moment, he fell unconscious, dead, beyond the need to comprehend.
Watching the kdrama had made her hungry. It was time for some fruits. She was on a diet. This meant six small meals in a day. She opened her fridge and saw a small box of cut papayas. And then, she saw a bottle of cold pressed juice. She wavered between the cut fruits and the juice. The juice won even with its high natural sugar content. “Its natural content,” she reasoned. She liked the small bottle. She took a big gulp and then looked at the bottle again. “This looks cute,” she thought. That was her last thought.
She finished typing her part. She knew there were gaps. But she let it be. “If she says anything, I will answer back,” she thought. She was done with being quiet and submissive. “I will become tough,” she said out loud. She gulped down the remaining water. And then she noticed it – a crack at the bottom of the glass. “Have I swallowed glass?” she wondered. An image appeared unbidden. Of her mouth and throat being the night sky. Of insults and humiliation and discomforts faced becoming glass dust and slivers, becoming stars in that sky.
*Daab: green/tender coconut; daab juice refers to the coconut water it contains
Photo of Ronita Chattopadhyay
BIO: Ronita Chattopadhyay (she/her) is an Indian poet and writer. Her micro prose chapbook Preparing to be Wrecked was published as part of an anthology (Grieving Hope) by Emerge Literary Journal. Her work has also appeared in The Hooghly Review, Akéwì Magazine, streetcake magazine, Porch Lit Magazine, FemAsia, among others, and anthologies by Querencia Press (Winter Anthology 2024), Sídhe Press (To Light The Trails - Poems by Women in a Violent World), Rough Diamond Poetry (The Body anthology, 100 Poems for the 21st Century) and Bare Bones (My India, My Gods). She loves mountains, books and tea.