Sarita liked her new home. She had been married five years, and yet this was her new home. It had taken her five years to renew it, to make it hers.
She remembered the first time.. naah.. what was the point of looking back now? It was done.
Yet, it had been hard, one sliver of a step at a time. She had come with a fine pedigree.. of a good family, with a proper education and a good job. All unvalued here, objectified. All irrelevant. Her self gone. No, she was not beaten.. at least not physically. But what remained when she melted, like the clarified butter she poured when cooking, gagging at what it meant – the end of all she believed in, was.
She turned to God. To priests. To gemstone men. To the edge of magic. And back. To food. She was an exceptional cook. And love. Her sister’s voice echoed – “Remember Sarita, the only weapon you have is love!”. Through the years, she fought her battles with love. Every moment she smiled,.. and she did smile through it all, every meal she cooked, every guest she fed, she smiled. With love sweating out of every pore. She bore it with grace – the effacement, the rhythm. And with a little secret smile.
Her plan was working, a little missed beat at a time. The rhythm was changing, the drum was hers. Softly , slowly, a heartbeat at a time..a beat missed, a beat replaced. With love.