What is one to do when vegetables lose their character. She was prepared for the bigness of everything before moving to the US. She’d seen enough documentaries on everything being supersized and on strange gun laws. But for vegetables to be so obscenely large, and so strangely tasteless. Not that she even liked cooking too much. But she was jobless, married and alone for over twelve hours a day.
It finally doesn’t taste like broccoli is supposed to. Perhaps she could do this after all. Forget years of hunching over her desk to do homework, and get a first class degree. Women seemed to do it all over the planet.
He comes home, after the evening is over. He wants his dinner. But he’s a good man. He doesn’t make demands, he only has expectations. He asks her what she’s made, unable to sniff the menu out like usual. BRO-KO-LIE she says, glowing with the knowledge that she’s a step closer to being a good settled-in-the-US wife. He laughs. Very loudly. He loves her. He steps closer and says, “It’s not BRO-KO-LIE di, it’s BROCK-uh-LEE. You are so simple.”. Oh, he loves her. Loves her simplicity.
She adds salt to the food, two fat tear drops, falling in quick succession. And mentally searches for the Tamil equivalent of the word asshole.