Though she rushed out the door as quietly as possible, he had caught a glimpse of her. So he wailed. The few seconds of her departure stretched into minutes in his mind, and his loud cry found her scurrying back. She placed her implements on the tray, wiped the tears off with a soft cloth, and wrapped the apron around his neck. It had been over a year now with this one, she thought while she stirred the contents in the bowl, and a total of twenty years with children from other families. Yet, her sixty year old hands hadn’t lost their caressing touch. She held the Cerelac-laden spoon patiently in front of his red wet lips, till he opened his tiny orifice. Once he was full, he reached out his arms to her, and she held him up on one arm while wiping the drool off his face with the other. He plonked his head on her shoulder, smiled and let out a fresh drool on her blouse. She chuckled and kissed his forehead. That would have to do, she told herself, as she had before, many times in her line of work. There were no postcards for drifting addresses; certainly not from clients who couldn’t write.
Siddhartha Choudhury is the author of numerous stories and abstract ruminations that lie placid in his hard drive. He made his first publishing appearance in Apocrypha and Abstractions in April this year. He lives and writes from Mumbai.
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