A cup of chai

Nakul had tried repeatedly and failed.

The lighter had run out of sparks. He just could not light the stove. He then picked the matchbox and hurled it into the wet-waste. ‘It’s wet so that’s where it fucking goes’, he told himself. It was he who left the kitchen window open last night. Of course, he couldn’t be upset with the rain.

Nakul was angry and frustrated, not for the first time today.

He stood in his kitchen, gripping his waist, exhaling sharply and not knowing what to do. He then noticed the grime on the stove—oil stains and crumbs of cooked food from god knows when. Impulsively, he stretched to his left to grab the scrubber and the dish soap from the sink. He squeezed the soap on the stove and started scrubbing it. The stains were stubborn. So his scrubbing got vigorous—stove shaking, milk vessel trembling and a high grating screech, caused by the metal legs of the stove rubbing on the granite platform. He kept going. The vessel tumbled over, splashing the milk everywhere, and its sharp handle landed on his foot. He felt a stinging pain as he saw a prominent gash.

Nakul stopped. He dropped the scrubber in place. And looked down at the wound without bending. It had started to bleed. There was milk everywhere on the floor. He let out a sigh and limped away from everything.

He felt ready to open his termination email. He had no choice now but to tend to himself—chai or not.