Day 74 of Covid-19 quarantine. The sun gleams on my glassy back, the small dark garnet of my eye in its silver socket twitches as I flit from house to house. Slowly swinging myself on a whisker, I balance my little body on the ledge of a window as I peer inside.

* * * * *

A lock of hair catches on her dry lips and she shoves it out of the way before rolling over and burrowing back into her duvet. Even before Pooja’s eyes open she can sense that Mohit is awake. The sound of his impatient voice floats from the kitchen where’s he’s making a business call and echoes off the walls of the broom closet. She’s been falling asleep in the overcrowded cupboard beneath the stairs almost every night, waking up cramped and tired in the tiny space.

A slice of sunlight peeks through a broken slat in the closet door shining murky morning light on the pancake-thin stack of pillows she is resting her head on. She wonders how he’s up so early—last night, when she tiptoed out of the master bedroom, Mohit lay collapsed on the bed, without undressing. His head lolled back against the headboard, and a quart bottle of whiskey lay beside him, leaving the sheet stained where it had spilled.

Now, hearing him on the telephone Pooja’ s mouth fills with a bitter metallic taste as she picks up his precise enunciation of every word. Someone is getting an earful from him—probably one of his vendors in India because all shipments are still in lockdown mode. She claps her hand over her ears as her mind rewinds to last week.

Mohit standing in front of the open closet, rummaging through his clothes, demanding through clenched teeth, “Why the fuck can I not find a single clean white shirt?”

Haltingly, she tried to explain, as fear gripped her belly like swirling milk that she’d delivered all his shirts to the dry cleaners as she did every Monday and Friday, but then, right after, the shelter-in-place order had been enacted. “I have to go back and collect the rest of the shirts, Mohit,” she whispered hoarsely.

He threw her a long, hard look, his nostrils firing like an overwrought buffalo’s. “Women are not fit for independence,” he threw over his shoulder. It is his favorite line from the Hindu scriptures.

She stretches her arms gingerly behind her head, and her shoulder connects with the mop head. “Ow, ow.” She muffles the words as she hears Mohit yelling.

“You bewakoof, you imbecile! Why have you not picked up the parts from Tata Motors yet? I heard on Zee News that essential services have opened now.”

Great, she thinks, anxiety moving like a current through her body. That means Mohit will probably be in a bad mood. She should have woken up earlier and started on his breakfast. Stupid, stupid.

Pooja scurries into the kitchen, careful not to make a sound. The front of her nightgown clings to her under the robe (the result of accidentally knocking over a tumbler of water in the middle of the night) but she dare not take the time to change. Mohit has finished his telephone conversation, and stands by the counter, spreading butter on his toast. The scowl he wears as he watches the 8 a.m. news gives her a clear indication of his mood. She busies herself in chopping onions, tomatoes, and whisking two eggs for the omelet he likes in the morning. If she makes the omelet light and fluffy enough, maybe he will overlook her tardiness. She fills a mug with hot steaming water, pops in a Brooke Bond Taj Mahal tea bag, and begins with trembling fingers, to knead the dough for parathas.

She glances at him from under her lashes and exhales gratefully. He is busy reading the comics on page seven of the Argus newspaper. Those usually put him in a good mood, and make him laugh uproariously.

“What’s this?” he asks, looking up at her from where he is seated on the family-room table, his eyes rock hard. “I’ve already had toast, you lazy woman! What sort of wife are you?” He clenches and unclenches his left fist. “I work all day to provide for us, even though we are in lockdown, and you can’t even get up to make me a meal?” His fury erupts like a hot lava, making her stomach twist in a knot.

“I’m sorry, Mo—”

His plate of food hits the wall behind her and shatters with a loud crash. Pieces of egg white omelet and caramelized onions splatter everywhere, followed by a ringing silence as if the whole house is in shock.

He turns and strides out into the garage, slamming the door behind him as he lights up a cigarette with angry, jerky fingers.

Pooja grabs a red-and-white checkered towel to wipe away the blood marking her cheek from a seeping cut above one eyebrow. Must have been a shard from the flying plate.

On the T.V. set the American reporter—a man with a florid complexion, and a face like a butcher—is talking about coronavirus murders.

“Being in quarantine with your spouse, sometimes with multiple kids, is like marriage on acid, many men report,” the interviewer says dolefully. “You’re spending 24/7 with just one person, and everything is heightened to the tenth degree. Worldwide, we’re seeing an increase in domestic abuse cases, in some cases more than twenty percent.”

Pooja closes her eyes painfully as she glides against the wall soundlessly.

“Is this what the sum total of her life will be? Just a statistic?”