Reflection
Photo: Karan Madhok
Fiction: ‘She rubs the soap over her arms, her legs, her chest, then squeezes a dollop of shampoo and conditioner onto her palms before rubbing and lathering it on her hair. She wonders if this is what makes Shruti’s hair so luscious. Then, she thinks about Gagan, and wonders how many times they’ve showered together in this bathroom.’
“Give me a minute,” Rahul says, “Someone’s at the door.”
Ankita nods mutely, as Rahul disappears from the little screen of her laptop. In his wake is a plain black rectangle and the distant sounds of yelling, a little boy crying, sniffing, and then silence.
When Rahul returns, nothing is different about his demeanour. He drones about a “Project I need your help on.” Ankita peppers the conversation with enough mmms and okays to make it seem like she is paying attention. Rahul is her manager at work, and though they had spent the past year working together, she knew little about him beyond his love for cricket and the fact that he had two kids.
The moment the call ends, Ankita slumps back in her chair. She should get started, but she knows a mess awaits in the adjoining kitchen. Choosing to rip the bandage off, she feels the visceral urge to turn back as she sees the dirty dishes piled in the sink and the fruit flies flitting about the vegetable rack. Finally, she’s able to convince herself to pull up the sleeves of her t-shirt and turn on the tap, letting the water splash against the plates and vessels.
Suddenly, she catches sight of a sticky note that Shruti, her flatmate, had tacked on a shelf, before she had scooted off to Vijayawada. To do: Get a maid, it reads. When they’d first moved in together, Ankita had falsely perceived an understanding that they’d evenly split the household responsibilities: cleaning, washing the dishes, cooking, paying the bills. Over time, Ankita grew accustomed to Shruti’s long absences when she was staying at her folks’ or spending nights at her boyfriend’s, inevitably leaving the house under Ankita’s care. Ankita thought that she had made peace with it, though the sound of the wire brush she grazed against the stainless steel plate in the sink seemed to betray something else.
After a few minutes, the dish rack overflows with plates, pots tumblers, and the occasional mug. Ankita gathers the stray wet bits of chilli, leaves and rice from the drain and flings it into the black garbage bag that lines the dustbin. She turns to face the stove. At last, she can use a clean pot, a clean strainer, and fill a clean mug with hot coffee. She looks at her phone. 9.45 AM. Thursday. Seven unread messages. Ankita thumbs through the list; messages mostly from brands claiming to miss her, enticing her with discounts, rivalling to get her attention with sweet nothings. Her finger hovers over an unread group chat for a second before she locks her phone and places it down on the counter.
Some days, she would remind herself to pace around the living room for a few minutes, just to let Shruti know she was alive and well—though Ankita wasn’t sure if her flatmate really cared. What does Shruti care about apart from her boyfriend?
The bitter scent of the coffee feels reassuring, as she sifts through the noise in her head to find something to be grateful for; this was a “mindfulness exercise” that she had once overheard Shruti talking about with her boyfriend. Coffee. She stirs the contents of the pot with a spoon. The ends of her mouth twitch, and curve upward. She is grateful for coffee.
As she holds the pot above the strainer, pouring a thin stream into her mug, Ankita feels the dampness of her armpits. It has been two days since she showered. She only combed her hair and changed her t-shirt in the mornings, to avoid probing questions from the colleagues, the glowing boxes on her little screen who showed up for minutes at a time.
She sips her coffee loudly, letting out a theatrical “Aah!” with the first slurp. The grand reaction is only due partly to the taste of the coffee and largely to Shruti’s absence. Ankita never lingered in the kitchen or the living room longer than necessary when Shruti was around, choosing instead to retreat to her room immediately. Some days, she would remind herself to pace around the living room for a few minutes, just to let Shruti know she was alive and well—though Ankita wasn’t sure if her flatmate really cared. What does Shruti care about apart from her boyfriend, Gagan? Does she ever feel insecure about him? What were her parents like? Ankita had pondered these things before but never bothered to ask. Starting a conversation, probing into Shruti’s life—it didn’t feel like an option.
Now, her eyes drift to the closed door of Shruti’s room. Before she had left for her parents’ villa, Shruti handed Ankita a spare key, “just in case.” She’d never done so before.
Suddenly, Ankita walks back into her room, opens a drawer and fishes for the key. When she finds it, Ankita hesitates only for a second before sauntering across the living room and pushing it into the keyhole, turning and hearing the clack that indicates that it has been unlocked. An uplifting aroma greets her. The pearl white bed sheet and pillowcases are flat and spotless, and so is the blue duvet folded up at the edge of the bed. A small black table and chair sit in one corner of the room. The sunlight filtering through her lacy curtains seems different, softer than the one that takes over Ankita’s room—harsh and glaring. She realizes she’s only been here two or three times, when Shruti had invited her to show a big cockroach she had killed, and when Ankita had to ask about where she’d have to send the rent.
Ankita’s eyes now fall on the books that lay on her table: The Girl on the Train, Wuthering Heights and Fahrenheit 451, books that Ankita had heard about, but never bothered to read herself. She knew that these books are somewhat respectable literary choices. There is a pen stand, an extension cord, a half-used candle, and a diary that sits near the books. The room feels incomplete, still undecorated, and Ankita knows that it is only a matter of weeks before Shruti deserts the place, maybe leaving her a banana cake, leaving her in the lurch, scrambling for another flatmate.
Her eyes stray to the cupboards, all their doors shut with the keys still inserted in the holes, until her gaze stops at an acrylic keychain. It’s a photo of a shirtless man, his back turned to the camera. As she gets closer, Ankita notes the jet-black hair, fair skin, and the visible muscles, and she can confirm that it’s a photo of Gagan, Shruti’s boyfriend. She inspects it for a while, noting his tan lines. There’s a faded lipstick smudge on the acrylic. Ankita licks the tip of her thumb and rubs the lipstick smudge away.
Later that evening, Ankita sits on the sofa as she listens to her mother’s voice on speakerphone rattling off about a third cousin’s daughter who has eloped. The story is followed by a statutory lesson. “Weddings should always be sacred, celebrated, between families.”
She leaves the door of the room open as she goes back to open her laptop. It is almost time for her next meeting, one where she’d be expected to list off everything she’s done over the last two days. She sits at her table, sips her coffee, and mechanically smiles and waves at the colleagues that show up, one after another, on her little screen. She taps her feet below the table impatiently. Her turn arrives near the end of the meeting, and she talks about something she has spent “all morning” working on and makes sure to end her barely-a-minute-long explanation with “I will solve this by today.”
Her words are met with half-hearted nods on the little screen.
There is a heavy cloud forming in her brain when she clicks the red button to leave the meeting. She folds her laptop close, marches into Shruti’s room and the cloud disappears just as mysteriously as it came. She sits on the edge of the bed and stares at the diary on the table. After a few seconds, she picks it up, flipping through a few pages before landing on one.
Dec 14th, it reads. I found a golden skin care tip today. Always apply products from thinnest to thickest. For normal type skin (which I think I have), glycolic acid, vitamin C and retinol is recommended. I’ve been a dedicated moisturiser girl.
She flips through a few more pages. On Dec 23rd, it says. I’m in Hyderabad now. I haven’t gotten my eyebrows done and I have a wedding to attend tomorrow! I’m also meeting Raju babai and Deepa pinni today so I don’t think I have the time. Ugh, this is all stressful. I wish Gagan was here.
Ankita shuts the book close, abandons it on the bed and goes to inspect the keychain. She turns the key and is met with a cupboard stacked with books, scattered clothes, and some vinyl albums of BTS.
K-pop? She had no idea that Shruti was a fan. Neither of them were the kind to play songs out loud in the house when the other was around, or to sport any merch. As she stands quietly in front of Shruti’s cupboard, Ankita ponders on more similarities between them. They’re both soft-spoken, nearly the same skin tone, the same height.
For the rest of the day, Ankita pushes buttons on her little screen, attending to a series of calls and messages, forgetting to eat breakfast and lunch. By 4 in the afternoon, hunger pangs stage a coup in her tummy. She hurriedly pours some dosa batter onto a hot pan, makes a hole with her finger on the small hill of milagai podi on her plate.
There’s a notification on her phone that reads, “Chai?” She has received nine such messages since she stopped replying on the group chat that consisted of several of her colleagues. For a few seconds, she considers taking up the offer and stepping out for a leisurely walk and a chat, but that train of thought comes to an abrut stop. Surely, they’d forgotten she was a part of the group; and on the off chance that they hadn’t, she neither had the ability to lie nor a thoughtful explanation for her absence.
Ankita washes her hands before heading back into her flatmate’s room. She steps into the bathroom, sees the rows of pink and orange scrubs, soaps, and shampoo that sit neatly arranged on a shelf. She flips the switch on the heater, and without waiting, turns on the shower. She takes off her wet t-shirt, pyjama pants, and undergarments, leaves them on the floor beside her feet as she soaks in the water. She rubs the soap over her arms, her legs, her chest, then squeezes a dollop of shampoo and conditioner onto her palms before rubbing and lathering it on her hair. She wonders if this is what makes Shruti’s hair so luscious. Then, she thinks about Gagan, and wonders how many times they’ve showered together in this bathroom. She reaches out to a black bottle labelled shower gel—evidently the only men’s product in the otherwise colourful group—and clicks it open, deeply inhaling the scent. As Ankita showers, her eyes wander around the bathroom. She notices the sparkling white corners, the air freshener packet hanging discreetly behind the toilet, and the assortment of oddly shaped soaps. She mentally notes all the brand names she sees.
There’s a white towel on a rod that she grabs and dries her body with. She ties it around her chest as she steps on the mat, and strolls out and into Shruti’s room and to her dresser. She opens it, and is met with a careful collection of serums and creams. She picks one up, an expensive-looking bottle labelled “glycolic acid face toner” and dips two fingers in, gently massaging it onto her cheeks and forehead, staring at the reflection in the mirror on the dresser. There is a small puddle that has formed on the floor, from her dripping wet hair. She begins to hum a song—“Butter” by BTS—as she places the bottle back on the shelf and picks another one up. A Vitamin C serum.
Later that evening, Ankita sits on the sofa as she listens to her mother’s voice on speakerphone rattling off about a third cousin’s daughter who has eloped. The story is followed by a statutory lesson. “Weddings should always be sacred, celebrated, between families.” Ankita has learnt to repeat the expected things about her life every night after her mother finishes her monologue; just enough to satisfy her feeble mind. Today, as she does so, she is distracted by the supple skin on her arms. She periodically pokes and pinches it.
After the call, there is a silence in the living room that seems to ring louder than usual. Ankita grabs her phone, places an order for a burger and some fries, and waits patiently. Once it arrives, she takes a clean plate from the kitchen and walks into Shruti’s room. She sits on her bed as she unpacks the food, and arranges it carefully on the plate she’s now placed on the table. Then, she lights the half-used candle. She walks over to the cupboards and grabs the keychain. She places the acrylic photo against the stack of books on the table, across from her. Ankita feels her heart quicken as her eyes trace Gagan’s body. It’s strange, she thinks briefly, how real this feels.
He laughs at Ankita’s recollection of the brown dosas, feigns concern about Rahul’s kids, speculates aloud if anyone truly enjoys working the job she does. An hour passes, and then two, as their conversation ebbs and flows, takes shapes and forms, never boring them.
Ankita hits a button on her phone and a melody fills up the room. She smiles, tucks her hair behind her ear and takes a big bite out of her burger.
“Hey babe, how was your day?” Ankita imagines Gagan’s deep, comforting voice. She’s heard the words several times, usually accompanied by a kiss on Shruti’s forehead.
But now, they’re meant for her. She hears it clearer, louder, addressed to her from across the table.
“It was okay. Long day at work as usual.” As Ankita chews her fries, she describes the dosas she accidentally burnt, and recalls the distant sounds she heard in Rahul’s house.
Gagan knows exactly what to do, what to say. He laughs at Ankita’s recollection of the brown dosas, feigns concern about Rahul’s kids, speculates aloud if anyone truly enjoys working the job she does. An hour passes, and then two, as their conversation ebbs and flows, takes shapes and forms, never boring them. The wax of the candle has shrunk by half. Ankita feels incredibly thirsty by the end of it, having drained her throat by talking, laughing, grunting, and singing. She feels giddy.
She glugs water in the kitchen, until she is convinced that she’s adequately hydrated. Back in the room, she blows out the candle and pulls the blue duvet at her feet up to her chest, and the smell of lavender and vanilla emanating from her hair lulls her to sleep.
Ankita wakes up the next morning, greeted by Gagan’s light snores and the sunlight that caresses her face. She turns towards the window and closes her eyes, basking in it for some moments before sitting upright, stretching her arms. From across the living room, she can hear faint, incessant dings most definitely from a laptop. Half-heartedly, she wonders why her flatmate is ignoring the sounds.
She takes a deep breath and reflects on what she should be grateful for this morning.
***
Aditi Chandrasekar is a product manager by day and a writer by night. She studied creative writing at the Bangalore Writers Workshop and has previously written content and copy for HackerRank, The Optimist Citizen, and Kokuyo among other brands. Her fictional work has been published in The Punch Magazine, Fleas On The Dog, and shortlisted for the Rama Mehta Writing Grant. Apart from writing, she thoroughly enjoys hiking, playing scrabble and eating Korean food. You can find her on Instagram: @kabhikabhiatthi.
