The spoon

She could never eat without the spoon. She would pull one out of the stand on the table that held exactly 6 knives, six tablespoons, six spoons and 5 forks(one got lost, perhaps dropped into the dustbin by a careless maid); she would pull one out and then proceed to eat, assuming a dainty and superior stance. Everyone else on the table would be using their right hand.

The spoon then, became the leitmotif of her life. She was, she decided, a cut above. All she needed to do was just be. So that’s what she did, every day, lounging around the house; chatting with friends, lounging around the bed, flipping through magazines; dressing up prettily to wander out to perhaps a movie or a lunch/dinner… Life was good.

The parents had nothing to say, simply because they weren’t there. She had taken a sabbatical from studies, dropping out of college(fatigue she said, caused a nervous breakdown) – and she just was.

The parents traipsed from home to work, and from work to home. Theirs was the rat race, and tired as they were morning and night, they had nothing to say to their delightful daughter. She would ask for money to spend, related a few amusing anecdotes of her day, and that was it.

She would prettily wash the spoons, while her parents did the dishes, wiped the counters and the table, put the clothes in the washing machine, wait till the cycle was done, and hung the clothes out. Her clothes were the most in number because she changed as often as she needed to: to go to the gym, to meet friends for lunch; to take an evening walk(those Nike tracks and matching tee that went oh so prettily with her pink pink shoe); and when the need rose, to party.
Life was good.

Then, one day, mother fell ill and was home in bed. The fever was high and she felt really tired. But not wanting to trouble the husband, mother put out breakfast and packed his lunch. She, who was in the rat race, knew the power of what the rat race could do to another. She would minimise his suffering.

But of course, HER life did not change. Breakfast was on the table, and emerging from her room late morning, she had no idea that mum was at home, in bed with the viral. Her arm reached out daintily to pick a spoon, when suddenly a hot hand smashed forward, throwing the cutlery rack to the floor. She looked up shocked.

There crouched her mum, garbage bag in hand, angrily thrusting every piece of spoon, fork, knife, tablespoon into its black entrails.
From then on, she was forced to eat with her fingers.