Ablutions

By Ruma Chakraborty

There, done. 

Hands washed, cleaned, not satisfied, the process is repeated again. 

This was the eleventh time he silently kept track. 

These ablutions had caused embarrassment, guilt, and shame earlier. 

Now, it was de rigueur. 

He washed his hands, mechanically, over and under, over and under, the soap suds lathered up and lost steam. 

Washed off, yet not satisfied. 

His family lived uneasily.

A frantic wife of a husband with OCD among other things had petered off to a resigned- to-her-fate one. 

Children who avoided any contact or identification.

Geriatric parents trapped in their own demented world. 

A sickeningly mundane family, almost socially invisible but for his condition. 

The jibes, taunts of the chitteratti had all but subsided. 

He relieved that day in the ticker tape of his mind. 

He held on to him, clasping his hand in his. 

He tried to haul him up. 

"Why are you doing this? Don't do it, Bro.

Just hold on, just hold on."

"I was her favourite. She loved me. Then you arrived. With you, came intense poverty. Now she can't see me, beyond you. I plucked her out and crushed her. 

You can have the leftovers, when I am gone,” he sneered. 

He opened his palm. Splash!

He didn't know how to swim. 

He walked away, trapped by the action. 

He now washes his hands and hopes to wash away the memories too.

By Ruma Chakraborty