“You will become a pressure cooker,” mum had said.

“A what?”

“A pressure cooker!” She scolded.

I didn’t take it seriously at that time. For starters, I had never seen or heard of a single kid in the entire world who had turned into a pressure cooker. And, secondly, mum always made these crazy threats when she was furious.

One time, she had caught me chewing paper under the bed and had said that a book would bind in my belly. Another time, she had prophesied an apple tree growing inside me because I kept eating apple seeds when she wasn’t looking.

That apple tree never grew, but I couldn’t sleep that night. Not because of the fear of the apple tree, that would have been kind of cool, I suppose. The reason I couldn’t sleep was that the seeds had given me a stomach ache.

This time, however, it was different. I had screamed at Amna, our maid, for taking so much time in preparing my breakfast and for burning my toast — she still hadn’t learned how to use a toaster!

Amna had turned her face in a hurry when I had yelled at her. She lifted one corner of her scarf to her eyes and became engrossed in doing the dishes.

Mum came in to check why I had screamed, glared at me and told me I would turn into a pressure cooker if I steamed off like that. Because, I suppose, pressure cookers give off a lot of steam.

Then mum had left. That’s when my head started spinning. The walls around me got taller and taller. The kitchen shelf got higher and I felt closer to the marbled floor. It had intricate designs that I hadn’t noticed before. To me, it had always appeared to be a smear of grey. My body felt like a stick. I could no longer move as if someone had bottled me up and my limbs were tightly wrapped.

Then Amna turned around. Though just a foot taller than me, she now stood towering over my head. She threw her hands up in the air and wailed, “Now, who would put the pressure cooker on the floor!” She lifted me, put me in the sink and left.

I was all alone now. I, the pressure cooker. How absurd! I had never heard of a boy turning into a pressure cooker before — not even in those silly fairy tales that girls love reading.

Being a pressure cooker, I was feeling a lot of pressure. Lunchtime was nearing and Amna would dart into the kitchen any minute. If she had to cook meat or pulses, she would most certainly put me on the burning stove!

“Amna, make daal gosht (meat with lentils) today,” mum said.

My heart skipped a beat. Well, not my actual heart, since I didn’t have one.

I heard footsteps. It was Amna. She picked me up and filled me up with water. Then she dumped meat pieces and chopped onions inside me. I told her to stop, but she kept at her work.

She had already drained the water from the pulses and was now putting them inside me. She grabbed the lid and turned it to make it secure. I begged, pleaded, and said I would never, ever be mean to her again.

I heard the “click” of the lid closing. I screamed. It was the loudest scream I had ever screamed.

When I opened my eyes, I saw mum and Amna standing in front of me. Amna’s eyes were wide, and one of her hands was covering her mouth. Mum had her arms crossed. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I heard myself repeat these words over and over again.

“Well,” mum turned to Amna, “it’s up to you to forgive him.”

“It’s okay, Baji,” Amna’s eyes were still wide open. “Kids — they are always making mistakes.”

I felt like I had defrosted. I held up my hands in front of my face and wiggled my fingers. They were moving.

“Thank you! Oh! Thank you!” I said, still wiggling my fingers in my face.

Mum was watching me, her arms still crossed. “Why are you all wet? And why are there onion chops in your hair? Wait, is that… a piece of meat?”

I was quiet.

“Go and take a shower or you will turn into a trash ca-”

And I scurried off to the bathroom before she could complete her sentence.

Published in Dawn, Young World, January 22th, 2022