Reflection
Aditi Chandrasekar
‘Give me a minute. Someone’s at the door.’
Ankita nods mutely as her manager 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 comes back from the episode, there is nothing different about his demeanour. He drones about a ‘project I need your help on.’ Ankita peppers the conversation with enough ‘mhm’s and ‘okay’s to make it seem like she is paying attention, but she doesn’t actually register much except for a few words – big sales deal, landing page, United Airlines, APIs. That should be enough to start with, she thinks.
She hits the red ‘Leave meeting’ button at the edge of the screen, and slumps in her chair. Unwillingly, she drags her feet to the kitchen adjoining the room, and feels a visceral urge to turn back as she sees the dirty dishes piled in the sink and the fruit flies flitting about the vegetable rack. She sighs, pulls up the sleeves of her t-shirt and turns on the tap, letting the water splash against the plates and vessels. She catches sight of a sticky note that her flatmate has tacked on a shelf, before she scooted off to Vijayawada.
‘To do: Get a maid,’ it reads.
After a few minutes, the dish rack overflows with clean-looking stainless steel plates and pots and 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.
Thoughts about the day's work begin to gather, annoying and unwelcome, like the fruit flies in the kitchen. Ankita takes a deep breath. The bitter scent of the coffee feels reassuring as she sifts through the noise in her head to find something to be grateful for; 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 2 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.
Ankita stands still except for the repetitive movement of her arm bringing up the mug to her lips. She sips loudly, letting out a theatrical ‘aah!’ with the first slurp. She stares at the closed door of her flatmate's room. Before she left for her parents’ villa in Vijayawada, Shruti handed Ankita a spare key, which Ankita felt was a sweet gesture, not knowing why.
Suddenly, she walks back into her room, opens a drawer and fishes for the key under numerous papers and clips and things. When she does find 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. The aroma that greets her is uplifting. 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 realises 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 – copies of The Girl on the Train, Wuthering Heights and Fahrenheit 451 – books that Ankita had heard about, but never bothered to buy and open up and read herself; books that she knew were 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, to go stay with her boyfriend or her parents, 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 a keychain – an acrylic one. It’s a photo of a shirtless man, his back turned to the camera. As she gets closer, Ankita notes the jet-black hair, the fair skin and the visible muscles and she can confirm that it’s a photo of Gagan, Shruti’s boyfriend.
She leaves the door of the room open as she goes back to open up 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 couple of 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 is at the fag end of the meeting, by which time she has already turned off her camera, typing away some or the other excuse about ‘bad network.’ 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.
Ankita feels as though there is a heavy cloud forming and settling in her brain, when she clicks the red button. She folds her laptop close and marches into Shruti’s room. The cloud disappears just as mysteriously as it came. She sits on the edge of the bed, picks up the diary from the table, and flips 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. ‘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 - BTS, Taylor Swift, Amy Winehouse.
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 feels like they are kind of similar. Soft-spoken, nearly the same skin tone and the same height.
There are a series of calls and messages and pushing buttons that Ankita attends to, on her little screen, throughout the day, forgetting to eat breakfast and lunch. The pangs of hunger stage a coup in her tummy at 4.00 pm. 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.
Ankita washes her hands before heading 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. Ankita turns on the switch against 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, and then she thinks about Gagan, wonders how many times they’ve showered together in this bathroom.
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, Ankita is distracted by the supple skin on her arms. She periodically pokes at 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 where the cupboards are, grabbing the keychain. She places the acrylic photo against the
stack of books on the table, across from her.
Ankita hits a button on her phone. Taylor Swift’s mezzo notes fill up the room. Ankita smiles, tucks her hair behind her ear and takes a bite out of her burger.
‘Hey babe, how was your day?’ She hears Gagan’s voice. She’s heard the words several times, usually accompanied by a kiss on Shruti’s forehead. Now, she hears it clearer, louder, addressed to her from across the table.
‘It was okay. Long day at work as usual.’ She stares at the reflection of the candle flame. It dances on the lines of his back. As she 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 and say – he laughs at her recollection of the brown dosas, feigns concern about Rahul's kids, speculates aloud if anyone actually 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 glugs water in the kitchen until she is convinced she’s adequately hydrated. Back in the room, she blows out the candle, and gives Gagan a gentle peck. She 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 sounds – incessant dings most definitely from a laptop. Ankita half-heartedly wonders why her flatmate is ignoring the sounds, as she takes a deep breath, and reflects on what she should be grateful for this morning.
***
Shortlisted for the inaugural (2024) Bangalore Writers Workshop R K Anand Prize
Jury: Indira Chandrasekhar, Jahnavi Barua, Saikat Majumdar
Conducted with Bangalore Writers Workshop, Atta Gallatta Bookshop and Out of Print Magazine
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