My wife’s voice wafted out from the kitchen window. She sounds pretty pleased at the wonderful smell of fresh ‘parsley’. I smile too, knowing what would come next. Tasting! My wife always tastes her seasonings before putting the dish in the oven.
She is a wonderful cook who has too many secret family recipes and a whole lot of pride. Mother hates her—their quarrels are epic, and I am always stuck in the middle. After six years of being stuck between them, I have had enough. So, a couple of weeks back, when my wife decided to hold the Christmas dinner at our home rather than Mother’s to further infuriate the old woman, I knew there was no better opportunity to end this scene forever. With eleven people coming over for the dinner and serving as witnesses, no one can hold me liable when she drops dead in the kitchen right after tasting her stuffed duck with ‘parsley’ seasoning.
Very few people can recognise the purple-spotted-hemlock that I have smuggled in the kitchen and replaced fresh parsley–it looks exactly like parsley except for the purple spots on its stem, and tastes and smells wonderful too. Also, no one is able to survive after eating it. It hits within seconds of touching the tongue, sending victim’s muscles into hyperactivity until they are twisted in unnatural angels and all their bones break one by one, ending with a twist of neck at a degree that breaks the spinal cord.
This innocent-looking and wonderful-smelling herb has been the cause of many ghost stories in the past. I wore gloves while I collected and placed it in the kitchen. I wasn’t worried about anyone else in the family touching or tasting it. My wife gets angry and mouthy if anyone touches anything in her kitchen. After so many years of dealing with the wretch, no one will be stupid enough to touch anything. And once she dies, I will quietly remove any unattended pieces of hemlock using the plastic wrap in my pocket,
Well, my wife is already done smelling. It is about time to taste the seasoning. So, I wait for the conundrum to begin…
My wife shrieks. With tremendous effort, I hide my smile. There are, of course, other voices shouting as well—Mother never leaves her alone in the kitchen, lest she makes a mess of the dinner in front of the whole family. She can’t touch anything but she sure can point. The shrieks now sound more ghastly and other-worldly. A shiver runs up my spine—I wasn’t counting on being spooked for the rest of my life.
But it was better than being stuck forever with Mrs. I-know-everything-and-you-are-a-fool.
I make a show of getting up hurriedly and falling while trying to reach her. Meanwhile, I can hear pans falling. By the time I get up, quite a few people have reached and surrounded the kitchen. There is a lot of screaming, and someone is calling the ambulance. It is too late—by the time a doctor arrives, it will all be over.
I push people aside to reach the centre of circle hurriedly to avoid suspicion.
My wife is sitting on the side, crying in the earnest, “I told her…I told her I put in dried parsley in the seasoning because the fresh one was hemlock, but the old fool threw a piece in her mouth just to prove me wrong.”
The body on the ground has stopped moving—her neck turned around towards me like a scene from a horror movie and eyes open in a silenced scream that will give me nightmares for the rest of my life.
Author’s note: I wrote this story in a hurry because I wanted to tell you about hemlock. There is no cure for hemlock poisoning and the horrendous death it brings. It looks and smells like parsley. Recognising and never touching it are the only ways to survive.
The purple-spotted stem of hemlock is the only way to recognise it, though sometimes, it is not even spotted—that evil thing!
Short Stories | Fish-eye Perspective 