The Story Hour by Thrity Umrigar Read Free Book Online

off so he look more relax. He sitting in chair and I feels him staring at me. But when I looks in his face, his eyes shift away from me, as if I a piece of leftover food he sick to look at. Again he ask, “Why you do this wicked thing? I give you everything—food, saris, house. This is how you repay me? By doing the suicide?”
    I want to say: This is why I do the suicide—because you have come to see me Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and today and not one time you say my name. Not once you give me the kind touch or say one good word. Not one time you looking at me like I your wife. I seen you look at the butter chicken in the restaurant with more loving than you look at me. I want to say: My family was poor but full of love. My dada prideful of me, my ma call me jewel of her eye. When she young, my sister, Shilpa, follow me like a tail. In my village, everyone say my name. Lakshmi, come do this. Lakshmi, show me how to do that. Lakshmi, you so smart. My teacher always pet my head. Even Menon sahib, our landlord, tell me I am as if his niece. That’s why only he puts me in charge of Mithai. He always pinching his son and say, “Munna, see how Lakshmi so good at the maths and accounts. You must learn from her.”
    I want to say: In my village, the earth is red and soft. When rainy season come, it like a green sari cover my village. The earth smelling so fresh and clean and sweet. I want to say: What this cold, hard place you bring me to? Half year, no leaf living on trees. And ground so bitter and cold, nothing grow. And where the people go? When we driving to the Costco, not one person walking on the street. No melas, no old man selling roasted peanuts, no childrens laughing-playing, no stray dog running round and round, no sweet cow sleeping on pavement, no crow cawing on tree, no nothing. Just long, empty road of silent. You brings me to this upside-down place and you set me in corner like old suitcase. And then you say, “Why you do the suicide?”
    But I says nothing. So husband make big breathing sound. “Okay, talk, don’t talk. I don’t care,” he say.
    How hard his words is. I feel the tears in my eyes and I open-close eyes fast to make them stop. But he sees and he bends near his chair and pull out tiffin box from cloth bag. “Here,” he say. “Rekha sent food for you. Goat biryani and gulab jamun.”
    Minute he say gulab jamun, my stomach make loud noise, like angry dog. He hear and look so surprise, I begins to laugh. “That Rekha smart.” He smile. “She know what you like.” He bring out spoon and plate and put biryani on it. “Eat,” he say. “Nurse complain to me yesterday you not eating their food.”
    I makes the face. “Not food,” I say. “It is plastic. No chili powder, no cumin. This is dead people food.”
    He look around. “Be quiet. The white people take insult if they hear you. This their home you are in.”
    I say nothing. I am eating half with spoon, half with hand. It is first time today I eat. After few minute, I look at husband. “Thank you,” I say.
    But he shake his head. “Eat slowly-slowly. Otherwise you getting sick and they keep you longer here. Big problem at restaurant, not having you work. When they going to discharge you?”
    I don’t know meaning of word “this-charge” but I don’t want to say. He not even waiting for me to answer. “I had to hire my friend Prithvi’s son to be waiter in restaurant,” he say. “Stupid fellow, know nothing of being server. All mistakes he is making. Saturday, two customer take off without paying. I need you to come to work quickly.”
    I feels good, my husband missing me. I feels good with biryani in my stomach. So I feels the courage. “How much you pay Prithvi’s son?” I say.
    Husband look surprise and then he say, “Minimum wage.”
    â€œWhen I come back, you pay