House of Books
Fiction by Ravneet Kaur Sandhu
I think my father killed my mother. We had returned from a wedding, a glittery affair with disco balls and never-ending hors d’oeuvre served by tuxedoed waiters in turbans. By the end of the night I sat in my silk salwar-kameez waiting to go home to take those heavy gold hoops off. We arrived home, the front door swung open by my irritated mother furious at my father’s inability to hold his liquor that had caused us to miss yet another final dinner. My father took two steps forward and then one step back as he struggled with the welcome mat. His feet scratched on the plastic ridges, unable to move in the face of resistance. I picked his feet and put them off the mat, one foot at a time, a perversion of the ritual in which we give respect to our elders. I threw the mat in the front of the verandah, causing the wild cat hiding under the potted money plant to run away in the lawn. My mother was cursing up a storm more bitter than whiskey.