Primalsoup

[Representative Image generated using AI]

Father always warned me about the sunshine-yellow floor tiles. A little ridiculous, considering I’d supervised their installation myself, replacing the original, sensible grey.

“Be careful of those tiles,” he’d warn, monitoring my bathroom visits like a hawk. He was convinced they were a death trap. “One of these days, while I’m bathing, I’m going to slip, crack my skull on the cabinet, haemorrhage, and die.”

Mother was gone. My brother, bless him, was juggling a demanding job and a growing family. He did what he could, but it was she who was the primary caregiver. She was moving to another city. The redecoration—green walls, yellow tiles, a ridiculous minibar—felt like a paltry offering for abandoning her seventy-year-old father.

A year passed. His prediction hadn’t come true, yet his anxiety persisted, fuelled by their weekly calls. “Oh, I almost slipped on those stupid tiles again the other day…”

She loved him. But the thought of him haunting her, a tile-related ghost, was unbearable. He was that kind of father.

On her next visit, she bought bathroom mats from a supermarket near the airport. Hideously pink, emblazoned with a teen pop star she didn’t recognize. “Look, Paa, no slipping!” she announced, marching on them.

“She looks like you,” he muttered.

“Huh?”

“That girl on the mat.”

**

The phone rang. It was the neighbour. Her stomach clenched. “Sachi, it’s about your father. He’s in the hospital. He’s in a coma.”

“What happened?” Her voice was tight.

“The milkman hadn’t seen him for two days. We broke in. He was unconscious.”

“Where? In the bathroom?”

“No, in the living room. He’d been watching TV.”

Relief washed over her, so potent it was almost dizzying. Then came the guilt, sharp and immediate. Her brother, with his demanding job and young family, wouldn’t even have time to visit. It would all fall on her. Again.

At his house, a half-full glass of scotch sat on the side table, a crossword unfinished. Doctors offered no comfort. “Will he be okay?” “We can’t say.” “Why?” “We don’t know.” The familiar refrain of helplessness.

She went to the bathroom. The pop star mats were gone. And then, she slipped. Fell hard on her backside. And started to laugh. The sound echoed in the empty house, a strange mix of hysteria and relief. The tiles, the mats, the carefully constructed narrative of danger – all meaningless. He hadn’t slipped. It was her, after all. And the laughter, bubbling up from somewhere deep, wouldn’t stop. Until it did. And gave way to tears. Tears that felt hot and cleansing, tears for her father, for her brother, for the absurdity of it all, and for the girl on the mat, the one who looked so much like her, now gone from the bathroom floor.