My eyes open before my alarm rings. I shut it off before it makes Aniket wake up and stare at the ceiling making a plan in my head of how my Sunday should go. I tell my brain to order my body to get up, but my body just doesn't obey. It's Sunday, I deserve to sleep in for a couple of minutes, I tell myself. I remind myself that I will wake up after a few minutes of rest, but end up sleeping.
The sun shines through the window when I was shaken awake. I jerk up, where am I?
Aniket is cuddling me from behind, but shaking me awake for some reason.
"Aniket, what time is it?!" I shriek. One of my mothers' rules for me when I got married was that I should be up before everyone in the house, even if it's Sunday.
"Ten O' clock, and I am really hungry."
"Why didn't you wake me up sooner?" I panic. I jump out of bed, tying my hair into a bun. "Did everyone else wake up?"
"Everyone has woke up. You told Mom to not cook, so she's just pacing around the kitchen. She is diabetic. She will faint again if she doesn't get food soon."
"Wait, what do you mean by fainting again? Did she faint?"
"No, not today. When she fasts. She faints a lot. It's usually me who has to get her to the hospital, because dad can't carry her anymore."
"Give me two minutes."
I run to the bathroom, showering in record time. I don't bother to take a towel with me. I just walk into the closet and change into another comfortable cotton saree that doesn't need to be tied perfectly. I braid my hair and tie it into a bun the fastest I could and I'm down the stares like my life depends on it.
My in-laws are sitting on the dining table, watching the news on the large television on the other side of the room. I just ran into the kitchen, and made the food as quickly as possible. Pots and pans were flying over the stove. I made Idli, a South Indian classic, and some chutney to go with it. While I was waiting for the Idli to cook, I washed the dishes and made tea for everyone. When I was done, I rushed to open the metal lid, and forgot to wear the kitchen gloves. I burn my right hand but shake it a few times; it burns but I just try and forget about it, forcing the tears go back. I serve everything on a plate and carry it through the hall, shakily blanching the food on both my hands like a expert waiter. "Sorry I woke up late."
My mother in law looks at me in awe. "Krithi, how did you cook so fast?"
"I just hurried through it," I say, hiding my burned and currently swelling hand. "Anyways, you should eat. I'll be back." I rush into the kitchen, where I blow on the red hand. I let the cold water pour over the hand, suffering through the pain.
"Krithi?" My mother in law calls. " I shut the tap, and dry my hands on my saree, unable to find a towel. I run into the dining room, and slow when my in-laws both glare at me for running. "Sorry," I apologize.
I hide my hand again. "It's alright dear. You should come eat with us."
"Oh, um, I could only make food fit for three people. I don't have any food. I have tea, so it's alright. I'm good for now."
"No, no. You should eat in your condition. Come here, I'll serve you food."
"Um, that's not necessary ma, I'm not hungry. I'll wait until Aniket is done." I say. She would see my swelled hand if I ate in front of her. "Plus, we have plans to go jogging."
"You can't do that at ten in the morning sweetheart," says Aniket, descending down the stairs.
YOU ARE READING
The Workaholic Wife (COMPLETED)Romance
A workaholic doctor never thought about marriage a day in her life until she woke up to find a man in her bedroom. Her mother wanted grandchildren and she wanted to abide her wishes, so that her mother would not scorch her ears until she does. What...