Fragrance of asafoetida: A short story by Rabi Thapa

Hounslow, London, 2003

Dark, petite, plait-headed Salima sighed heavily and began chopping the vegetables for dinner, squatting in front of the TV in the Shahs' mouldy bedsit. Ali would be home soon from Shah's Groceries, and would hate seeing her like this. But there was no space in the kitchen, what with the sewing machine installed there, and everywhere his books, books, books. Anyway, there was nothing for her to do but watch TV and go collect the dole every week, standing in line behind mountainous black women dangling big bangles on one hand and two noisy kids on the other, and quiet, defeated, thin white men with stained teeth and moth-eaten coats. And always the questions, questions, questions she couldn't make head nor tail of. 'Mrs Shah, have you been looking into this month's vacancies? Why don't you try this one in Northfields? Lovely old man, can't get out of bed, needs a bath and some help to poo in the loo every morning? No? How about distributing mobile phone pamphlets round Brixton, keeping warm in a nice mobile phone suit? No?? Bloody Pakis…'

Salima chopped beans, peeled potatoes and chopped them too. She crushed garlic, she crushed ginger, she chopped onions. She chopped one onion after another, and then some more, and her eyes watered mercilessly. But when Ali banged in through the door he didn't even notice her shoulders shaking. His eyes went to the TV, where young, hooded brown men were facing off to thuggish policemen somewhere in East London.