Air-conditioned

| Sonia Dogra | July 2024 | Flash Fiction |

I pack a squished half-eaten loaf in a crinkled plastic bag, and empty a box of moist glucose biscuits into another. Then, I tenderly wrap his delicate fingers with the two bags. 

Kya kahoge, she asks while vigorously scrubbing the greased wok, as the lingering smells of vinegar and soy sauce from last night’s dinner waft through the air. 

‘Thank you, Madam,’ he lisps and runs out, his tiny feet pitter-pattering on the floor. 

‘Mean’ is how I label the neighbour from the adjoining block who had dismissed her from work for bringing the three-year-old along. My cramped 7.5 X 8.5 staff quarter with a double-bed and worn-out mattress welcomed the two. I also donated an old tin trunk for storing clothes. 

A few minutes later, my bedroom door is pushed open. I turn my gaze towards the entrance, and there he stands, in the doorway. His tousled brown hair falls over his forehead, partially obscuring his large doe-like eyes. With a slow and deliberate pace, he steps inside, his feet black from the summer dust and heat, a wet handkerchief wrapped over his hand. My upper lip twitches as I pretend to focus on a book. His attention is drawn to my dresser, and he glides towards it. 

Shaitan hai, Madam, she’d confessed while explaining her reason for being fired. ‘But why wouldn’t a three-year-old be naughty?’ I said to my husband that evening. 

He fidgets with the Kashmiri Paper Mache jewellery box on the table. Main dekh loon? he asks. 

I look up and move my index finger from right to left like a bobblehead doll, and open my eyes wide. He retreats and slowly settles on the vanity stool, his gangly legs kicking in the air, clearing the floor by several inches. A pungent stench envelops the room, a peculiar odour of raw onions. She walks right after him with a mop in her hand and mumbles a faint sorry. 

I direct my attention to the book again. ‘It’s alright.’

She grabs his arm, pulling him along, as I discreetly observe two figures exiting the room through my lowered eyelids. The moment they are out, I close the door and empty a bottle of freshener lying on the dresser. The fragrance of lavender is overpowering. 

The day they’d arrived, we captured a photo in my garden. I sat on a porch chair, with the boy standing beside me and his mother close to my feet on the grass. The morning was warm. Summers had just arrived, and the heat was tolerable. A month later, the photo continues to serve as a poignant profile picture. 

It is impossible to sit in the garden during the day anymore. The stifling air is motionless. The authorities have declared a red alert for the city. Despite this, on some sleepy afternoons when I gaze out of the window, I see him lying on grass, drenched in the embrace of a wet dupatta. ‘They’re used to it,’ says the husband when I express my astonishment.   

I turn on the air-conditioner and lie on my back. Faint voices of the mother and son reach my ears, a melodious rhyme about the fish as the queen of the ocean. I feel an urge to call the boy inside. As I’m about to step out, I hear a loud beep. The AC shuts off instantly, and the fan comes to a sudden halt. I try to turn on the lights, but to no avail. Electricity cuts are rampant in summers, but what’s happened to the inverter? 

Hours later, an electrician examines the trip switch board for the fifth time. Rivulets of sweat run down my face. The fellow shifts his focus to the inverter, and announces, ‘There is only one solution—load-shedding. Cutting off supply to any one room should be sufficient.’ He holds a pair of pliers in his hand and looks at me. 

I move my tongue over my parched lips. The staff quarter stares at me from across the garden with its whirring fan accompanied by the soft hum of the motor and two bulbs in working condition. The scorching sun beats down on its weathered roof. I picture the little boy sleeping on dry grass, a damp handkerchief placed on his face. 

I nod in approval.  

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_{Sonia is a poet and short story writer. Her writings have appeared in The Kali Project, Write in Power, Amity, Kitaab, The Hooghly Review, Flash Flood Journal, Usawa Literary Review, Tell Me Your Story, A Body of Memories, among others. An ex-educator, copyeditor and nature enthusiast, she dreams of owning a book café in the hills.}

_{Follow her on Twitter @SoniaDogra16}

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