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Fiction

Passage on a Monsoon Day

MUNEERA PARBEEN
SOME people believe the milk gourd is a fruit from heaven.
It is not entirely unfounded, this belief.
Some clerics say that old books mention milk gourd is one of the few exclusive vegetables that will be available in heaven, alongside a long list of heavenly things. Meena did not know if she believed this entirely but she knew that the milk gourd was a good vegetable; it kept one's stomach cool. In the countryside that's what grew aplenty in winter.
The decision to cook gourd today however had nothing to do with such a rustic choice. Or the heavenly merits of the bland vegetable. It was the only thing handy and available on such a God cursed monsoon day.
And quite unexpectedly gourds were growing this time of the year, instead of the winter. It was a year of the unexpected.
As she sliced the long balloon shaped vegetable into large chunks on the curved knife called boti in front of her, Meena's vision grew blurry from sheer fatigue. But she had to keep her eyes open. One wrong move and the sharp curved knife could slice her fingers into fine shapes like the gourd she was slicing into thin pieces.
At the thought of the knife's imminent danger, her thoughts turned to the nightmare of existence called her life.
This rotten fate was not just hers alone. It was every' woman's and Meena wanted to scream as she thought of it. First you grow up and hide yourself from every foreseeable danger around you - don't expose yourself to men - lest your reputation is at risk, don't go out without a veil around your head - lest you are deemed too modern and loose, don't go out alone at night - lest, again, your reputation gets a big blotch of ink on it... blah blah blah
And now, what was the use of such careful upbringing when danger haunted one like a nemesis and there was no shelter? she thought.
"Morar Kopal," she cursed at herself in anger, slapping the boti on its side to the ground as she tried to get up in her fury, only to stop half way and support her growing belly with her hand.
Meena was seven and a half month's pregnant and as the scorching sun above her head toasted her senses, all her body wanted to do was to give up. Simply lie down somewhere quietly and give up on every thing.
How she had dreamt of embroidering cotton vests and little dresses as she waited for her baby to arrive. How she dreamt of the moments she would spend with her husband deciding on a name for the baby...
Now she did not even know if her husband was still alive. Or if she would
make it alive.
Angry tears threatened to flood her eyes and she struggled to turn her thoughts to something less decaying. She needed to focus on the present. Meena settled her earthen bowl of gourd pieces under the small shed housing the makeshift open stove, and picked up another empty one to get some water. TO BE CONTINUED NEXT WEEK