Raka says she is fine being a water flask. Steaming inside even when it is freezing outside. Chilled inside despite the humidity outside.
I wonder if she needs to be wrapped, tucked away, not exposed in order to preserve the temperature inside. But she is bold and insists with a flip of her finger, it’s okay, it’s fine, the outside doesn’t matter. I am what I am.
When Larry comes home shivering one night, a twisted sponge dripping from top to bottom, a muddy pool at his feet, his jacket as wet as overnight soaked raisins, Raka hops out from the larder and pours him a glass of hot water, water that distils through the pores on his skin, right into the reservoir of cold basins whirling inside his tummy. First, one glass, then a second, then a third as well, and she waits on him until his eyes brighten, his blood warms, and he shakes off the excess water and peels off his formals.
When Larry comes home musical another night, his shoe laces half-untied, the tail of his jacket crumpled, his forehead feverish but his eyes starry, Raka is cool and comforting, and ignoring the unfamiliar feminine scent on his collar, she pours down his parched throat.
Raka nods and trots to the table, Raka plops and settles at the bedside, Raka can scald, Raka can soothe. Insulated even when kicked in her soul, protected even though she has been bruised and carelessly thrown around, hit by words that she doesn’t deserve, let down, her faith betrayed, her love trampled over. A water flask is my spirit object. I am fine being a water flask, she assures me and proceeds to the stove to fill herself with a fresh round of hot water.
Shrutidhora P Mohor writes literary fiction and has been published by several literary magazines, and been nominated for Best Micro Fictions and the Pushcart Prize. She is from India, loves black coffee, light tea, and daydreaming. Unfortunately, her professional identity threatens her literary pursuits but fortunately pays her moderately well.
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