Five litres of Kerosene
By
Mina Vora
Riddhi looked at the huge blister on the back of her hand. Opening the tap, she let the cold water run over it.
She had finished the last of the ‘Burnol’ a long time ago. Blemishes and scars in different stages of healing, dotted her arms, face, and portions of the bare waist, left uncovered by the sari. The hands that had so recently been adorned with Mehendi were rough, cracked, and scarred.
Fear, the only emotion she was conscious of, loomed over her like a shadow, following her around as she went about her chores for the last time. Hanging out her sari to dry she wondered what would happen to it after she was gone.
Later, sitting on the window ledge, she looked out at the road below, her hands toying with the ‘mangalsutra,’ around her neck. She looked down at the shiny black beads, the symbol of matrimony. Tomorrow, if she was still alive; she would complete six months of marriage to Rakesh Mehra, a medical representative, working for a pharmaceutical company.
Riddhi gently stroked her stomach and the child within. She hadn’t deemed it necessary to tell Rakesh or his mother about it, nor had she tried to consult a doctor.
She looked at the mangalsutra again. The only gold ornament Mummyji had seen fit to leave on her. She had forcibly removed the rest of the jewellery the day Riddhi had walked into the house for the first time.
Riddhi knew that if she lived, the torture and abuse would continue, maybe even more severely now that Mummyji knew that Papa had mortgaged his house to get his only daughter married and had nothing left to give her. Nothing left to satisfy the ever-increasing demands of Mummyji.
Nowhere to turn to, nowhere to go. And now, the child.
Maybe it was all for the best. She looked at the can of kerosene again. She thought about the unbearable pain and wondered if she would be able to bear it with dignity. That was one thing she wasn’t going to give ‘Mummyji.’ The satisfaction of seeing her scream and beg for mercy.
Her thoughts turned to Rakesh. A husband in name only, because a piece of paper said so. A husband who stood by helplessly and watched his wife being tortured. A husband who averted his eyes when it became too painful for him to see his wife begging for mercy. A husband who satisfied his physical needs on her, hurriedly and guiltily, when his mother wasn’t around, as if the act was an act of shame and not an act of love, involving two people joined in matrimony.
The green, plastic, five-litre can of kerosene stood in the corner, taunting her. Five litres of kerosene. Bhaiyaji, will five litres of kerosene be enough to burn my daughter-in-law with?
Five litres of kerosene. Would it be enough? Some of it was sure to spill on the floor, even if she tried her best not to struggle. Supposing it wasn’t enough, and she was left half…? The thought was too terrifying to dwell on. She fingered her cotton sari, feeling the texture, to see if it would burn fast. The pain? Surely not worse than six months of mental abuse and physical torture?
She felt her heart hammering in her chest, till she felt it would burst out. Beads of perspiration covered her blood-drained face.
She cradled her stomach tenderly. His life will end before he is even born. Was she being fair to him? Maybe if she ran away before Mummyji returned from the market? Go to a home for battered women, perhaps? She had heard that such places existed. If she asked around, maybe someone would help her. Or maybe if she went to the police…
If the police did help her, then what? She had nowhere to go, no way in which she could earn a living and support the child. Papa had no money and enough problems of his own. And with his weak heart, the shock would probably kill him anyway, whatever the outcome. Was she taking the coward’s way out? And if death was the solution, was getting burnt alive by Mummyji the answer?
What was the use? She had thought this through a hundred times ever since Mummyji had come home with a can of kerosene yesterday. A can of kerosene when they used gas for cooking when there was no ‘Primus’ stove in the house.
Today was the day, she was sure. Mummyji had been nice to her for the first time since she came here and insisted that Riddhi stay at home and rest while she went out and bought the vegetables. Rakesh’s hands had trembled when he picked up the morning cup of tea, the cup rattling in the saucer. He had avoided making eye contact with her till he left for the office, earlier than usual, almost rushing out in fear and denial.
Riddhi got down from the windowsill and hurried to her bedside drawer. She took out a foil of ‘Crocin’ tablets. Eight tablets left. Meticulously, she removed the tablets into the palm of her hand. Maybe they would help in numbing the pain. Taking a glass of water, she gulped down the tablets at one go. Lifting the mattress, she took out the letter she had written earlier. A farewell note to her father and another letter that would seal Mummyji’s fate if she died.
Putting the notes in an envelope, she went out to the small balcony and, leaning over, tossed it into the neighbour’s house.
Now she was ready. Heart pounding, the pulse drumming in her ears, she waited.
Then, as time drew nearer, gradual as a mist creeping in on a cold winter’s day, icy terror clutched at her heart leaving her gasping for breath, for life itself. The death that she had been so eager to embrace up until now as a friend had suddenly turned into a frightening foe.
It still wasn’t too late to make a run for it. At least she would be alive. Where there was life there was hope.
Breathing fast; not waiting to put on her slippers, Riddhi rushed to the door. A scream escaped her mouth as she heard the outside door rattle. Mummyji was back!
Her chest heaving, Riddhi leaned on the bookshelf for support, staring at Mummyji, her eyes open wide with terror, her knees barely able to support her weight.
Mummyji locked the door from the inside and purposefully tucking in her sari, switched on the stereo. Loud music filled the room, as she dragged a screaming Riddhi into the kitchen.
“I’m pregnant, Mummyji!” shouted Riddhi, in a last attempt to save herself. She felt the blister on her hand burst open under Mummyji’s tight grip. The water seeped out and she felt searing pain course through her hand.
‘I’m not going to be able to take the pain of the fire,’ she thought, looking around desperately for a way out.
Mummyji’s grip on her hand tightened as she unscrewed the cap of the can, releasing it only so that she could hold the can with both her hands and splash on the liquid that would snuff out her life forever.
‘This is it,’ thought Riddhi. Saying a silent farewell to her unborn child, she made no attempt to run away from the lit matchstick in Mummyji’s hand. As the flames hungrily chewed up her sari, she raced towards Mummyji and caught her around the waist in a grip that would unlock only when she was dead.
As she felt the flames envelop her, she heard the terrified screams of Mummyji, trying to break free from her grip, fighting for her life, and she smiled.
Visions of her father and her dead mother flashed before her eyes, and she finally collapsed in a heap, her charred body still tightly clutching a writhing Mummyji, in a vice-like grip.
Five litres of kerosene, enough for two.
By
Mina Vora
Riddhi looked at the huge blister on the back of her hand. Opening the tap, she let the cold water run over it.
She had finished the last of the ‘Burnol’ a long time ago. Blemishes and scars in different stages of healing, dotted her arms, face, and portions of the bare waist, left uncovered by the sari. The hands that had so recently been adorned with Mehendi were rough, cracked, and scarred.
Fear, the only emotion she was conscious of, loomed over her like a shadow, following her around as she went about her chores for the last time. Hanging out her sari to dry she wondered what would happen to it after she was gone.
Later, sitting on the window ledge, she looked out at the road below, her hands toying with the ‘mangalsutra,’ around her neck. She looked down at the shiny black beads, the symbol of matrimony. Tomorrow, if she was still alive; she would complete six months of marriage to Rakesh Mehra, a medical representative, working for a pharmaceutical company.
Riddhi gently stroked her stomach and the child within. She hadn’t deemed it necessary to tell Rakesh or his mother about it, nor had she tried to consult a doctor.
She looked at the mangalsutra again. The only gold ornament Mummyji had seen fit to leave on her. She had forcibly removed the rest of the jewellery the day Riddhi had walked into the house for the first time.
Riddhi knew that if she lived, the torture and abuse would continue, maybe even more severely now that Mummyji knew that Papa had mortgaged his house to get his only daughter married and had nothing left to give her. Nothing left to satisfy the ever-increasing demands of Mummyji.
Nowhere to turn to, nowhere to go. And now, the child.
Maybe it was all for the best. She looked at the can of kerosene again. She thought about the unbearable pain and wondered if she would be able to bear it with dignity. That was one thing she wasn’t going to give ‘Mummyji.’ The satisfaction of seeing her scream and beg for mercy.
Her thoughts turned to Rakesh. A husband in name only, because a piece of paper said so. A husband who stood by helplessly and watched his wife being tortured. A husband who averted his eyes when it became too painful for him to see his wife begging for mercy. A husband who satisfied his physical needs on her, hurriedly and guiltily, when his mother wasn’t around, as if the act was an act of shame and not an act of love, involving two people joined in matrimony.
The green, plastic, five-litre can of kerosene stood in the corner, taunting her. Five litres of kerosene. Bhaiyaji, will five litres of kerosene be enough to burn my daughter-in-law with?
Five litres of kerosene. Would it be enough? Some of it was sure to spill on the floor, even if she tried her best not to struggle. Supposing it wasn’t enough, and she was left half…? The thought was too terrifying to dwell on. She fingered her cotton sari, feeling the texture, to see if it would burn fast. The pain? Surely not worse than six months of mental abuse and physical torture?
She felt her heart hammering in her chest, till she felt it would burst out. Beads of perspiration covered her blood-drained face.
She cradled her stomach tenderly. His life will end before he is even born. Was she being fair to him? Maybe if she ran away before Mummyji returned from the market? Go to a home for battered women, perhaps? She had heard that such places existed. If she asked around, maybe someone would help her. Or maybe if she went to the police…
If the police did help her, then what? She had nowhere to go, no way in which she could earn a living and support the child. Papa had no money and enough problems of his own. And with his weak heart, the shock would probably kill him anyway, whatever the outcome. Was she taking the coward’s way out? And if death was the solution, was getting burnt alive by Mummyji the answer?
What was the use? She had thought this through a hundred times ever since Mummyji had come home with a can of kerosene yesterday. A can of kerosene when they used gas for cooking when there was no ‘Primus’ stove in the house.
Today was the day, she was sure. Mummyji had been nice to her for the first time since she came here and insisted that Riddhi stay at home and rest while she went out and bought the vegetables. Rakesh’s hands had trembled when he picked up the morning cup of tea, the cup rattling in the saucer. He had avoided making eye contact with her till he left for the office, earlier than usual, almost rushing out in fear and denial.
Riddhi got down from the windowsill and hurried to her bedside drawer. She took out a foil of ‘Crocin’ tablets. Eight tablets left. Meticulously, she removed the tablets into the palm of her hand. Maybe they would help in numbing the pain. Taking a glass of water, she gulped down the tablets at one go. Lifting the mattress, she took out the letter she had written earlier. A farewell note to her father and another letter that would seal Mummyji’s fate if she died.
Putting the notes in an envelope, she went out to the small balcony and, leaning over, tossed it into the neighbour’s house.
Now she was ready. Heart pounding, the pulse drumming in her ears, she waited.
Then, as time drew nearer, gradual as a mist creeping in on a cold winter’s day, icy terror clutched at her heart leaving her gasping for breath, for life itself. The death that she had been so eager to embrace up until now as a friend had suddenly turned into a frightening foe.
It still wasn’t too late to make a run for it. At least she would be alive. Where there was life there was hope.
Breathing fast; not waiting to put on her slippers, Riddhi rushed to the door. A scream escaped her mouth as she heard the outside door rattle. Mummyji was back!
Her chest heaving, Riddhi leaned on the bookshelf for support, staring at Mummyji, her eyes open wide with terror, her knees barely able to support her weight.
Mummyji locked the door from the inside and purposefully tucking in her sari, switched on the stereo. Loud music filled the room, as she dragged a screaming Riddhi into the kitchen.
“I’m pregnant, Mummyji!” shouted Riddhi, in a last attempt to save herself. She felt the blister on her hand burst open under Mummyji’s tight grip. The water seeped out and she felt searing pain course through her hand.
‘I’m not going to be able to take the pain of the fire,’ she thought, looking around desperately for a way out.
Mummyji’s grip on her hand tightened as she unscrewed the cap of the can, releasing it only so that she could hold the can with both her hands and splash on the liquid that would snuff out her life forever.
‘This is it,’ thought Riddhi. Saying a silent farewell to her unborn child, she made no attempt to run away from the lit matchstick in Mummyji’s hand. As the flames hungrily chewed up her sari, she raced towards Mummyji and caught her around the waist in a grip that would unlock only when she was dead.
As she felt the flames envelop her, she heard the terrified screams of Mummyji, trying to break free from her grip, fighting for her life, and she smiled.
Visions of her father and her dead mother flashed before her eyes, and she finally collapsed in a heap, her charred body still tightly clutching a writhing Mummyji, in a vice-like grip.
Five litres of kerosene, enough for two.
Support Minakshi Desai
