The Double Door Refrigerator

These aren't the days of mentioning the fridge when our sensitivity is frozen. Yet, born head first, I derive immense joy from doing the inevitable. Today, I will tell you the story of my fridge and my prejudices. Don't you turn cold to it! When we bought the not-so-new house, I wanted to go subtly with everything. A budget-friendly attitude was more to accommodate my EMIs than my 'Minimum is Sufficient ' attitude. So, we bought a single-door fridge rather than a double-door one that was sufficient for our family of three. 

'Think about it. It is affordable. We can stretch. Go for the double-door,' the hubby advised. With an air of spiritual sophistication, I denied it.

'Darling, what is the need for double when single is enough?'

He shrugged. 'Don't you then complain when one of your friends criticize!'

'Oh no. I will shove a shoe in their mouth and show them what a minimalist attitude means. And if well-educated people like us can't be advocates of such proficient policies, who will?'

'Fine. I pray you don't end up being the devil's advocate.' Thus, he left with an evil grin for the grind called the office.

I was proud of myself. A person who shopped as if the world would face famines at any moment was now practicing a minimalist approach by sacrificing the door of the refrigerator. Okay. Something was better than nothing. 

In merriment, I clicked some pictures with my plump red single-door refrigerator. How well it had fit in a small nook of the house like a little punished prankster! The pictures then made it to the social gallery called Instagram. Ping. Ping. The likes were pouring in. 

‘Great Money Saving Trick!’ A comment popped on my post. Oh, nasty mind! Who was saving money? It is a minimalist approach, you see.

The morning went in a blur of arranging my new cooling machine and stocking it up with supplies I minimally used. Still, I had to have them. The afternoon dawned and my house-help arrived. Before I could show her my newfound love, she handed me a small packet of sweets, excitedly.

'Madam, main double door fridge liya!'

What!!! I did a double turnaround of what, what like the one depicted in Ekta Kapoor soap operas. This aggravated my spondylitis, making me dizzy. Taking support of my single-door refrigerator, I barely managed to say, 'Good'. Sunita, my maid, went about cleaning the house, whistling intermittently. I caved into my room for the spin was capturing the better part of me.

Sunita had a month ago asked for an early salary because she had no money to pay her room rent. This very Sunita waited every month for my discarded dresses to fill her trunk. This very Sunita took extra cheese cubes from my refrigerator to make one pizza for her entire family. Now, this Sunita had money or, still better, the audacity to buy a double-door refrigerator! Gosh! Why did I do charity so that a fool could splurge it?

Who was going to drink cold water from her fridge? A mother-in-law who coughed blood? Or a husband who visited her once in a cold blue moon? Or three children with perennially running noses? What was she going to even store in it? The stale dal moved out of my fridge or the dusty remains of a few ketchup bottles and garam masalas that stubbornly stuck to their containers? Many like me pitied her. I was fuming with indignation. I needed a chill pill. But no way was I going near that single-door refrigerator. 

'Aila, Beautiful colour madam.'

'Haan hoga,' I yelped back like a bitch in pain.

'Madam, please come to see my fridge as well.'

Crazy woman, was her fridge the Black Taj Mahal that I would go with wonder-laden eyes? Yet, the green-eyed I went the same evening to see her double door refrigerator!

The room was just the same, as it was a few years back, when I had visited Sunita for some trivia. She escorted me directly to the elephant in the room. Indeed, it was a big grey animal hooting in the centre of the room. She served me a thanda Coca-Cola - her version of the cold drink. I refused.

'Madam, thrilled to see you here,' she said as if paying a tribute to 'Mogambo bahot khush hua'. I forced a smile. 

'Aye, Sunita, please keep these medicines in your fridge.' A neighbour dropped in. She immediately did the needful.

Barely had the previous man exited, another came in toe.

'Sunita, quickly give me a few cubes of ice. My chotu has fallen.' 

My Mogambo again obliged.

Thus, in the twenty minutes I spent staring at the grey hooting elephant nearly 5-6 neighbours arrived to occupy her double-door refrigerator with something.

‘What to do madam, nobody in our chawl has a refrigerator. If I would have bought a small one, it wouldn’t have sufficed our needs.’ By our, she meant the entire chawl. I looked at her, aghast. Sensing my shock, she continued. 

‘I know you are wondering from where will I get the money to pay the EMIs? Hard work. More sweat, less sleep.’

This was a slap on my makeup-laden face exactly the tight, onomatopoeic slap the biwi gives to sautan in the Ekta Kapoor serials. I felt deceived by my presumptions. Ashamed of myself, I left the warmth of her house. Not the refrigerator, but she had shown me the mirror- my convoluted reality.

She deserved the double-door refrigerator with double the appreciation. She worked to maintain my home as well as hers. I worked for none. She strived to clean my refrigerator as well as hers. I didn't bother to cleanse my conscience, either. She deserved double of what I could afford. 

Sunita, a silent prayer for you – may the doors of several opportunities open in your life and let there be a change in my stone-cold attitude!

Authored by Dr. Aparna Salvi Nagda, a consulting homoeopath by profession and a writer by passion. Her debut novel The Labyrinth Of Silence, published by Vishwakarma Publications, deals with the trauma of child sexual abuse. This article is a part of our ongoing series Dissent Dispatch, in collaboration with Usawa Literary Review.