Our mother swallows firecrackers. Big ones, small ones, expensive ones, cheap ones, glittery ones and even noisy ones. You could say she had a call.
That’s how she met our father. She swallowed one of his firecrackers, a big, sparkling one, at a festival. Her hair sizzled, a loud bang stretched her taut belly, and a smoky burp later they were in love. Love at first firecracker, they called it at their wedding. Their guests said, awwww.
A year later we came along — my sister and I. But our mother didn’t want to stop swallowing firecrackers. It was a God-given talent and she couldn’t let it rust and insult God. Our father agreed. But he wanted to keep all her firecracker swallowing for himself. For his pleasure. Our mother said, yes, please. They were in love. The pink candy floss kind with sriracha laced gummies. Hot and spicy. Sizzle, bang and burp.
But then it became a routine. Boring as a yawn. Our father stopped giving her firecrackers. Spent his evenings drinking in shady bars.
Our mother got upset. She looked for firecrackers elsewhere. Others queued outside our home. They even paid her. Festival seasons were the best. Our mother made a killing. She spent it all. Sequined clothes for herself and us. When our father found out, he slapped our mother, called her a firecracker whore and left in his rickety truck, with his firecrackers, now limp and dry.
Our mother’s God-given talent was now a job. Without paid vacations or medical insurance. Her appetite and love were gone. Every sizzle, bang, burp ate her from inside. They stopped paying her. Her hair fell with every sizzle, her belly distended from the bang and her burp turned to a trickle of vomit. We watched her helplessly, holding our empty bellies, unable to help her. Why didn’t we get your gift? We asked her. Thank God for that, she said, her voice hoarse. She could no longer swallow firecrackers the way she used to.
These days, she is asleep more than she is awake. In the dim candle light, we watch her chest rising and falling, our fingers on her ticking pulse. That’s how we silence our rumbling tummies. Knowing she is resting now.
Roopa lives in Dubai, U.A.E. but was raised in Kochi, India where swatting mosquitoes at dusk is considered a life skill, to be honed and perfected. Some of her stories have been published in The Disappointed Housewife, Nunum, Tiny Molecules, Bath Flash Fiction anthology (forthcoming) and elsewhere and nominated for Best of the Net, Best of Microfiction, and Best Small Fictions. Her debut middle-grade fiction, Chandu and the Super Set of Parents has been published by Fitzroy Books.