I am not sure what the setting is in this short story.
Is it when her husband comes to talk to her ? Or when she goes to the dry cleaner ? Or what ? It's really confusing me!
Thanks =]
In the dark at night you came close and your voice was a whisper
though there is no one here to wake. “They said I could have the
job if I take off my turban and cut my hair short.” You did not
have to say it. I saw it in your face as you took off your new coat
and galoshes. I heard their voices in my head as I looked at the
small white envelopes I have left in the drawer, each full of one
more day’s precious dollars — the last of your savings and my
dowry. Mentally, I converted dollars to rupees and thought how
many people in India each envelope could feed for a month.
...
Today I took one of my wedding saris to the neighbourhood
dry-cleaner and a woman with no eyebrows held it like a dishrag
as she asked me, “Is it a bed sheet?”
“No,” I said.
“Curtains?”
“No.”
I took the silk back to our basement apartment, tied my hair
in a tight bun, washed the heavy folds in the metal bathtub, and
hung it, gold threads glinting, on a drip-dry hanger.
When I had finished, I spread a bed sheet on the floor of the
bathroom, filled my arms with the turbans you’d worn last week
and knelt there surrounded by the empty soft hollows of scarlet,
navy, earth brown, copper, saffron, mauve and bright parrot
green. As I waited for the bathtub to fill with warm soapy water, I
unravelled each turban, each precise spiral you had wound round
your head, and soon the room was full of soft streams of muslin
that had protected your long black hair.
I placed each turban in turn on the bubbly surface and watched
them grow dark and heavy, sinking slowly, softly into the warmth.
and it goes on and on...
Is it when her husband comes to talk to her ? Or when she goes to the dry cleaner ? Or what ? It's really confusing me!
Thanks =]
In the dark at night you came close and your voice was a whisper
though there is no one here to wake. “They said I could have the
job if I take off my turban and cut my hair short.” You did not
have to say it. I saw it in your face as you took off your new coat
and galoshes. I heard their voices in my head as I looked at the
small white envelopes I have left in the drawer, each full of one
more day’s precious dollars — the last of your savings and my
dowry. Mentally, I converted dollars to rupees and thought how
many people in India each envelope could feed for a month.
...
Today I took one of my wedding saris to the neighbourhood
dry-cleaner and a woman with no eyebrows held it like a dishrag
as she asked me, “Is it a bed sheet?”
“No,” I said.
“Curtains?”
“No.”
I took the silk back to our basement apartment, tied my hair
in a tight bun, washed the heavy folds in the metal bathtub, and
hung it, gold threads glinting, on a drip-dry hanger.
When I had finished, I spread a bed sheet on the floor of the
bathroom, filled my arms with the turbans you’d worn last week
and knelt there surrounded by the empty soft hollows of scarlet,
navy, earth brown, copper, saffron, mauve and bright parrot
green. As I waited for the bathtub to fill with warm soapy water, I
unravelled each turban, each precise spiral you had wound round
your head, and soon the room was full of soft streams of muslin
that had protected your long black hair.
I placed each turban in turn on the bubbly surface and watched
them grow dark and heavy, sinking slowly, softly into the warmth.
and it goes on and on...