Whose, Child?
by Hareendran Kallinkeel
Baby cries; a
high-pitched yelp that pierces the night, the air
conditioned chill of the bedroom.
The swell of
father’s pot-belly rises and falls as if in
tandem with the rhythmic cadence of his snores.
Mother jolts
on their fluffy bed, throws off her blanket and
shrugs away the lure of her mate’s warmth.
“Damn!”
Father retrieves the blanket, wraps it around his
nakedness. He coils back to sleep, knees tucked
under the sagging flab of his belly, like a
retreating snail.
Mother’s
warm feet tread over the marble floor’s
iciness, the way she negotiates the pitfalls of
life.
She returns
with a jug, splatters water on him. “Can’t
you at least pick up the child?”
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