The Tomato in the Fridge (Short Story)

 The Tomato in the Fridge

By 

Tipu Salman Makhdoom 

(Translated from Punjabi) 

I tell no one. If I do, they’ll tie me up and take me to the mad doctor, who’ll numb my senses with medicines. A doctor, after all, for the insane.

That's why I don't tell them I've recovered. They're all mad, you see. If they find out, they'll drive me mad again.

I had already begun to feel they suspected something. Sometimes, two or three of them would be whispering, and as soon as they saw me, they'd fall silent. And if I looked closely, they'd stare back intently.

Yesterday, it was too much. I was talking to a tomato in the fridge when Father came in. First, he quietly asked me a couple of times who I was talking to. Who knows how long he'd been standing behind me, listening to my and the tomato's conversation. When I didn't say anything, he grabbed my shoulders and shook me violently, shouting, "Tell me, tell me, who were you talking to?"

I still said nothing. How could I tell Father about the dirty things I'd discussed with my friends? I was telling the tomato that even my urine was no longer under my control. I'd aim to the right, and it would go left. One day I even threatened it, but just as I was about to give it a good thrashing, people started banging loudly on the door. I got flustered and fell silent, fearing they'd ask again, "Who were you shouting at?" What could I tell these mad people now? Since that day, even my urine acts like my father. Sometimes this way, sometimes that; sometimes this way, sometimes that.

I also told the tomato how my hand had tormented me one day. As I was about to pick up a glass to drink water while eating, it picked up a fork instead. I felt like cutting off the wretched thing then and there, but everyone was sitting and eating. At that moment, I couldn't even scold it, because all the mad people would have gathered again asking, "Who are you talking to?" The bastard wouldn't listen to me at all. I wasn't even capable enough to snatch the fork from my hand and start eating again. My hand just got stuck there. For a while, my hand remained stuck there, and everyone started looking at me. The scene at that moment became such that I also began to stare blankly back at them. A long time passed with us staring at each other like that when suddenly, it occurred to me that my hand was fine. I quietly snatched the fork from my hand and started eating. I buried my eyes in my plate and, to shake off everyone's gaze, I started chewing my mouthfuls with vigorous jerks.

Meanwhile, the poor tomato was troubled by its existential problems. It was telling me that it had been in the fridge for three days and its body had softened. Now it was destined for the trash. It said it wouldn't fill the stomach of a worm, nor a bird, nor even a human now. What was the purpose of its life? Hearing this, honestly, I felt like crying a lot. But I held back. I thought if I cried, the tomato would also start crying, and I couldn't bear to see it cry. I was tickling the tomato to make it laugh when Father grabbed me by the neck from behind.

And this morning, again, everyone surrounded me. I wasn't saying anything to them. I was fighting with my own stomach. It just wouldn't digest the carrot halwa. In the middle of the night, it first woke me up from my sleep. I turned over, and it started crying instead. It said, "I'm alone, I'm scared." I felt pity. Seeing the halwa in the fridge, it started wailing like a child, "I want this!" I immediately said, "I'm not heating anything right now. It's already with great difficulty that I've opened my eyes, begging them on account of your fear; they're constantly trying to close." At that time, seeing the halwa, it was jumping for joy, saying, "Let me meet it, I want to hug it and sleep!" When I woke up in the morning, it was raising a huge fuss. It said, "I can't get along with this halwa, get it out of here!" Then I also became stubborn. I said, "Whatever it is, however it is, endure it now." From this squabbling, the matter escalated, and it cursed me. Of course, I got angry then. I also gave it two or three good slaps. And immediately, everyone jumped on me and caught me, confining me to this room.

I quietly allowed myself to be apprehended and calmly came and sat in the room. I did nothing even when they locked the door. I had heard their whispers. They were saying, "He's completely gone mad, let's admit him to the asylum." But Mother made a scene and they left me locked here. If I had made any noise or struggled, they would have taken me to the asylum.

They came at noon when they brought me water and food, asking, "What's wrong? Who are you talking to? What do you feel?" I told them nothing. Mad people. But I had told everything to Grandpa's photo. It would smile back. It would say, "Don't worry for nothing. God provides food for everyone." But I've realized all this is a lie. There's no God or anything. And no one provides food. You have to snatch it yourself. And those who cry when they snatch are like rotten eggs. Father calls me a rotten egg. When I told Grandpa's photo, it started crying. It loves me very much and says, "You are a prince, a diamond," and cries along. Seeing it cry like that, I also felt like crying a lot, but I didn't. Otherwise, voices would have come from outside, "Why are you crying?"