Writer-Subhash Setia, Translated by-Dr.Yogita Joshi

It took Manorama much longer than usual to make it to the bedroom. After the guests had left, the kitchen and dining table demanded a thorough cleanup, consuming far more time than she had anticipated. The hardest part was scrubbing the utensils used for the non-vegetarian dishes. She herself was a vegetarian, yet she had spent the entire day preparing non-vegetarian food for her husband and their guests. Tonight, she had even been left to clear away the wine bottle and glasses. Manohar had insisted that serving wine with dinner was the latest social norm. His boss had hinted as much beforehand, and Manohar was determined not to disappoint him.

Manorama had hoped that once the guests departed, her husband would lend her a hand in the kitchen so she could finish sooner. Instead, eager to demonstrate his loyalty, he had accompanied his boss outside to see him off.

When he returned, rather than stepping into the kitchen, Manohar stretched himself comfortably on the living room sofa and immersed himself in the cricket match playing on television. Manorama called out to him once or twice, but between the thrill of having pleased his boss and the roar of the television commentary, her voice never reached him.

By the time she had finished everything, she was utterly drained. Wiping her hands on her gown, she finally entered the bedroom. Manohar was already lying in bed. She had barely settled beside him when he reached out and pulled her close. But almost immediately he recoiled.

“Mannu,” he said, wrinkling his nose, “you should have taken a shower and changed your clothes first. You smell of spices.”

The words hit her like a bolt of electricity. Exhausted from spending the entire day cooking and serving, she stared at him for a moment before replying sharply,

“So, while you were eating, the food deserved nothing but praise. But now all you can smell is the spices on me? Men like you expect a wife to be a servant through the day and an apsara at night.”