Misfits Inc

The day is warm and sleepy. The village lies under the sun, the fields slowly baking in the heat of summer. Kishan takes one last look around the fields – the earth is cracked brown like Madura’s feet, the stalks are withered and dying – before returning home for his afternoon meal.

The road back is filled with people and the host glare of sympathy. What would you have done in my place, he wants to shout at them. Anything to change their gaze, anything except their pity. The road is littered with the remnants of yesterday’s market. Madura would have been here, buying onions because they were cheap and potatoes for their starch. He saw her now, her torn red sari flicking around the corner, her brown hand holding the vegetable, examining it with a close eye, her mouth dark and cavernous as she haggled with the shop keeper. He shakes his head a little, his matted hair sticking to his sweaty forehead and the vision disappears.

His house is up ahead. A small shack, all that they could afford once the drought struck. Outside, a few bedraggled chickens run about pecking noisily on the ground. Among them sprawl a few men lazily. They are new to the village and as they observe him come, they laugh.

“Look…he’s come back home. Why bother? Your wife doesn’t want you anyway. See…”

But he’s shut them out. It’s nothing new, he hears it everyday. The door is slightly open. But even though he knows what’s going on, what would be going on behind that door, he still hesitates. Just for a moment to gather his head before slowly stepping in.

Madura is on the bed, her sari rucked up over her thighs. A fair skinned back hides her face from him and for that he is glad. He watched the thrusting for some time before turning away. The man’s grunts collide in that space between his brain and his ears and he can’t hear himself think, he can’t hear anything else – the hot breeze pushing up gales of dust outside, the jeers of the men, the soft click-clacking of a cart going by – even as he serves himself the food which has been set out for him. Two spoons of rice, a small bowl of dal and a little curd. He takes each mouthful and chews. The sound of his teeth grinding fills his mind, unconsciously trying to block the noises from behind. Take a mouthful, chew, swallow, take another, chew, swallow, chew, swallow, chew. And that is when he realises that the sounds have stopped. The food still in his mouth he turns around. Madura is sitting up, hair dishevelled, sari pulled down halfway to cover her knees. Their eyes meet. She makes as if to get up but he shakes his head. Swallowing quietly, he stacks his plate with the other dishes to be washed, cleans his hands at the tap outside, picks up his hoe and leaves for the fields, ignoring the catcalls behind him.

They need the money after all.