I rushed from the kitchen when the door bell rang. It was the laundry boy.
“How much?” I asked collecting the clothes.
But he was staring at me with much sympathy.
“Anna sugamthanne?” (Brother all OK?) he asked in a compassionate tone.
“I am OK. How much?” I repeated.
“Ten dirhams. But everyone fine at home? Do you need any help?” he asked again.
I was wondering what was wrong with this guy.
Picking the money, he said, “Don’t keep worrying. Everything will be fine.”
After he left, I went to my room and tried to arrange the clothes in the cupboard. It was then that I glanced at the mirror and realized what was wrong.
My eyes were red, with flowing tears.
I had been peeling onion for a sumptuous “sambar.”
He had assumed I was crying.