I was happy thinking there would be a fix, a little painful maybe,
but, it was worth it to see myself be pretty and shiny again. Alas, it was so
much worse than what I had imagined. My mistress’ daughter turned out to be the
worst kind of task master. First, she dunked me in a sink full of boiling soapy
water, but then, she left me submerged for what felt like literal hours. I felt
slimy and overheated and it wasn’t fun. The heat reminded me of the pungent,
goopy, and sticky burnt-on tea, caked into my ignored innards; It was pure
torture. But that was not all, oh no! It wasn’t! She then took me out and
scrubbed me under a harsh grip, as the slippery soap was no help. Which meant I
kept splashing back down onto the bottom repeatedly. I felt dented and dinged,
but the burnt-on dregs refused to budge. This of course, led to step two. Where
once there was slippery and smothering soap, now I felt the irritating rub of
baking soda and detergent doused in an acidic mixture of vinegar and lemon
juice that left me spluttering at the foul taste. It also kept fizzing and
popping, startling laughter out of me at each turn as it tickled. To add insult
to injury, the cruel daughter sang a merry tune as she tortured me. She sang:
A ladle full of soda,
And some liquid detergent
Mix in some lemon juice and vinegar
And I’ll let you soak again
With some fizzing and some popping
The stubborn stains will relent
And I’ll scrub you out so thoroughly
That you’ll shine anew again…
I could not help myself and broke into a silent lament of my own.
I do not share your optimism,
Nor your
cheery mood,
All that I am
feeling is abused and oh so misunderstood.
I wanted to
serve my family well
And brew
whatever they needed,
But I had
hoped for gentle loving care
And their expectations exceeded.
What I had to
endure instead
Was all this
itchy pain,
just so I could eventually be,
My pretty
self again.
My fears were borne to fruition, as the process was repeated a few
times over before I was spotlessly clean, and through it all she sang her song,
my torturer supreme. Both mother and daughter were all atwitter, talking over
each other excitedly. They ran their hands over certain spots and exclaimed
over seeing their reflections on my shiny façade. But through it all not once
did they acknowledge their mistakes or show any sympathy for all that I had
endured. The sunlight dimmed as the day turned dark, and the silver moon rose
high. I spent the night fretting, as I stole weary glances at the hob. I
tracked the path of the moon, hoping it never dipped past the horizon that
would herald the coming sunrise.
Just like clockwork morning came, and with it the twittering birds that
awoke my mistress from her bed, to start her daily routine. I dreaded being
picked up and placed on the hob; if a teapot could tremble in terror, I would
be falling apart at the seams. My mistress, however, was oblivious to my
plight. She set me up on the hob and to my surprise her movements were very
gentle. She was being very careful with her measurements and diligent in
watching the flames. She did not look away for a moment and struggled to focus
on me entirely. Her twitchiness was endearing, and it slowly eased my terror. I
felt reassured as the minutes passed and she did not move away; even the
ringing telephone was ignored, and I finally felt myself calm down and happily
bubble away. As the days progressed with nary a mishap, I reassured myself, that
it was but a single mistake, never to be repeated again.
Over time things changed yet again; it was so
gradual that I failed to notice it at first. But one day I realized, I had only
seen my mistress each morning, and never again for the rest of the day. For
weeks now her daughter had brewed, each cup of tea, but the morning’s first. It
began with a brew just once or twice a week, and then it changed to a brew a
day; but, this past week it was all the time and I did not know what to make of
it. My mistress seemed more distracted lately and had taken to muttering and
pacing in front of the stove. One day, while brewing morning tea, her face lit
up and she ran into the other room, forgetting to lower the heat. I was hit
with a strange sense of déjà vu, a sudden sense of dread. I told myself, “It’s
not like last time, she learned her lesson, she will remember, and be back in a
jiffy instead”. I anxiously appealed to a higher power that one of them would
come in soon. That I had reached a rolling boil and would bubble over soon. But
alas, it was not to be; and it happened yet again; the daughter came in on
rushing feet, complaining of a burning smell, only to notice little me, burnt
and charred to hell.
This time I was sure that I was done for. I
was ready to give up, but I was surprised to hear the daughter say to me,
“Don’t you worry, little teapot, I will have you spick and span, right as rain
in a jiffy”. With a bubble and splash I was dunked right quick, into my
personal sudsy hell and within a few minutes of diligent scrubbing was clean
and shiny once again. My mistress came in quietly and apologized yet again. Her
contrite expression swayed neither her daughter towards forgiveness. She
claimed to have finally cracked the problem with her project and in her haste
to apply it, had lost track of time and forgotten me, leading to disaster. We
eventually forgave her, but her daughter kept a wary eye over the following
months, as she tried to mitigate the disaster zone that was our usually
pristine kitchen.
Even with the vigilance, I was burnt and
scorched a few more times. The daughter bought her own tea kettle and I was
depressed. I had come to a reluctant conclusion. I wanted out, like right now!
I wanted to be gone from this home. The kitchen had devolved into utter chaos
and everyone was complaining day and night. The spice jars and knives were
constantly at war. The ground pepper hated the chili powder, but now they
frequently found themselves shoved together. The salt jar missed his constant
companion and was now relegated to seemingly random spots throughout the day.
It ended up on top of the fridge one day and complained for an hour straight.
The meat masala and the garam masala were obsessed with each other and for the
past two days you could hear the garam masala protesting the separation with a
loud tantrum from behind the cupboard doors. The knives were bent out of shape
about their placement on the knife racks, they clacked and shuffled, ever so
slightly, annoyed by their companions. The herbs were utterly insulted;
they had a special spot just for them, out of the sun, cozy and cool, and now
they were forced to brave the kitchen counter, mingling with the common spices.
As for me, I mourned my plight, for my
mistress loved me, really! But her absent minded attitude had cost me oh so
dearly. My peace was disrupted and my nerves were frayed. I teetered on the
edge of sanity. I wished for limbs, maybe chicken legs, maybe eight long
appendages like a spider, or just feet would do, I suppose, as long as I could
run and hide. When she walked into the kitchen today, only to spread the mess
she had made, I screamed out my plea to all of the subjects within our kitchen
kingdom, “Please, please, somebody save me. Save me from this horrible fate. I
do not wish to burn again!”.
©Alessandra Arora
