Unbeknownst to mother and son, each would stand in the kitchen right before they slept, caressing the side of the fridge, whispering for it to keep working through the night. The family had only recently moved back to the motherland. Neither of them had fully adjusted to the move. Their belongings hadn’t either – wood swelled in the humid months, prized shelves still carried scars of wrongfully-taped bubble wrap, and electronics combatted against unstable power and the dreaded loadshedding. The fridge had a particularly difficult time. The father had cursed the shipping company for their poor management. He was set on not paying for the mistakes of others, condemning the fridge – and therefore the family – to the device’s prolonged death. And so mother and son prayed to the fridge to continue its breaths, breaths tinged with iciness. These largely went unanswered; the fridge only ever managed a slight chill, enough for nothing to go rotten. One night, they performed their ritual as usual, but by the following morning, those prayers changed drastically.

At his body’s accustomed time, the son woke up to a new day. His hand searched for his phone. He grazed the lock button and watched the screen illuminate. Seldom had he woken up to a screen full of notifications. That day, however, they came pouring in. The most recent ones asked if he was okay. Those from earlier were full of shock and anger. In just a minute, he had scrolled enough to see what had happened – the homeland had been attacked. The neighbor had struck. Missiles had been fired one town over from where the son sat on his bed. The internet was ablaze with anger, with all sorts of outrageous reports. He thought back to something he had read about violence, how information was always the first casualty. As he put his phone down, he realized that his palms were glistening. Sweat had formed all over his body. He stepped outside his room and found his parents huddled in front of the TV. Local news had a way of shouting the headlines, and for once the intensity of what was happening matched the intensity of the TV’s volume. The news was playing a video on loop: a group of men standing on a hill overlooking the city, a piercing sound ripping through the air, the sound revealing itself as a falling missile which combusted in a magnificent ball of fire. No one from the group flinched at the sight. Instead, everyone raised their fists and proclaimed the glory of their nation and the death of their enemy.

The family sat silent as the news continued. The son was unsure what the bombing meant for his day; after all, how did one really operate in such conditions? After a while, they collectively leaned back from their pensive hunched poses. The news had become repetitive with the images, and the shouting had become intolerable.

“When do you have to leave for work, beta?” his mother finally asked. It was the first time any of them had spoken since he had come out of his bedroom.

“Umm, should I be going?” he asked, gesturing to the TV.

“Whatever this is, it isn’t a war just yet. We’ve lived through ‘71, ‘65 before that.”

“Haan, too early to say if it is a full on war,” his father chimed in.

The son looked at the clock and said he’d leave in an hour.

Showered and ready, he stepped into the lounge to find his parents still in front of the TV where now an official from the homeland’s government was speaking. The son fried his own eggs in the morning so he went into the kitchen. He grazed the side of the fridge. The only conflicts that mattered to its workings and non-workings were its own internal ones. A repairman they had hired at the start of the fridge’s downfall had said that a warm side meant it was doing what it was supposed to. Even on that hot morning in May, the side was frigid. The son mentally mapped where everything was inside it; he would open it, extract what he needed and shut it again, trapping the precious cool air for whatever food was left inside. He fit as many eggs as possible into his hands, jammed the bread into the bend in his arm, all while balancing the milk bottle’s handle with his pinky. He put everything on the countertop and heard his father mumble something about breakfast, which meant that his mother would join him in the kitchen soon. She announced herself by cracking open the fridge. The son tutted and said that he had gotten everything out for everyone. The mother still reached for something, eventually pulling out the squished butter which no longer held its fridge firmness. She ran her fingers over the bread and the eggs. The fact that they were barely cold no longer shocked anyone, there was just a silent acceptance. The household ran on the whims of a voiceless device, one that no longer worked reliably, one that mother and son were operating with the sheer power of their nightly prayers.

The TVs in the office lobby were blaring the same news that he’d heard at home. Everyone – the son included – walked past the screens without looking at them, already exhibiting nonchalance at the prospect of war, the same nonchalance they showed for the general state of affairs in the homeland. During a recent upheaval in the country, the CEO had broadcast a message on the company Slack: “Hey Team and Family, I am sure the news in our beloved homeland has been unsettling for some of you. It has been for me too! We often feel hopeless and helpless in such moments and I implore all of you to not fall for that emotion in this time. The greatest thing we can do for our homeland is not give up. We must not stop. We must stick together! Remember team, we’re like a family here, and family never lets each other down. I expect our collective productivity to go up in this time. Working hard is maybe the strongest way we can fight back!” The message was clear: no excuses. The son saw it two days later when the city’s internet was finally restored; he probably even worked the following weekend to catch up on all that precious productivity. Now, with this most current trouble, no one knew if international conflict fell into the ambit of excuse or true calamity. So the son’s colleagues and team ran with the assumption that their work must be unaffected by the “shadow of war,” and they put their heads down and typed away, servicing their clients in peaceful countries while being paid a fraction of the total “millions” their projects were worth in USD.

Before he sat at his desk to officially start his day, the son placed his lunch in the company fridge, giving his leftovers their much needed chill. His other main task of the morning was to check on what work fires started the previous night – did the client decide to shift something or did their boss want to change directions unprompted? If any such fires had erupted, the son would then spend the morning first silently raging about the changes, cursing the stakeholders for their ridiculously ill-made decisions, after which he would proceed to write passive aggressive emails. He would commit himself to the new “vision” while also expressing how poor an idea the change really was. His philosophy of late had been to point out their erroneous decisions so that when they did backfire (which they almost always did), he could point to an email and say, “I told you so,” like a five-year-old. After clearing his inbox of delusions and entirely new project maps, the son stomped over to the Nestle coffee machine and made a cappuccino. The office mugs were too small for his liking and the machine dispensed copious amounts of hot water at the end to add volume to the drink, which meant that the son had to watch the machine’s output and slide it out from under the nozzle as soon as the instant coffee stopped pouring out. He did this, grabbed a small tiki-pack of generic biscuits, and got back to his desk. His friend had told him about an appliance store that let people buy new fridges on instalments. He looked it up on the store’s website, but of course the information about instalments was incomplete. The page before him made it seem as though all he had to do was show up with his ID and it would be done and dusted. He knew he could just walk in and buy the fridge that looked alright, and although it would empty his bank account, it would also rob his father of the opportunity to contribute to the purchase, which would be convenient for the man. And the son was going to do his best to not let that happen. He scrolled the fridge section. He had no idea which brands were good, or if he should avoid the companies that made too many things because what if they made a lot but nothing was made well? He also had no idea what size fridge his mother needed. Nonetheless, he looked at all the options and sent some of them to her over WhatsApp.

It was while he was looking through other items on the website that shrill sounds boomed through the office, the same ones he had heard in the morning news on TV. Some rushed to the windows to see what was happening, while others ran away from them. He went to the windows, and looked skywards. The sound persisted, eventually turning into a dark cloud that covered the air in front of them. Then, suddenly, small blasts were heard in the distance. The windows shook, and this time everyone ran inwards. Someone shouted that they should evacuate but people were reluctant; a whole company swarming outside could be an easy target. Another voice suggested moving to the basement, which all agreed to immediately.

It soon became obvious that evacuating an entire building to one basement was not a good idea – there were simply too many people and not enough space. On top of that, no one knew what was happening. Was huddling together under a building really a good idea, or were all of them just teasing fate and tragedy? The sounds of fighting surged as the booms grew louder, and then, just as suddenly as they had started, they ended. Cautiously, they made their way out of the basement, stopping in the lobby where they glued themselves to the TVs. The world and its many realities had come to roost in that office. Together, they watched the anchors break the news of the fresh attacks. The screen displayed the booms they just experienced. They saw bombs and small drones fall from the sky to the earth. The delusion of security was dispersing like a fog, the possibility of a war seeming more real. The CEO’s strongest soldiers, the son included, were beginning to crumble, murmurs of leaving growing not only in quantity but in volume. Soon, the office was deserted, just a collection of desks, chairs, and WiFi connections.

The son walked into a new conflict when he got home. Clear plastic bags sat on the kitchen counter. His mother was standing looking at them, her hands pressing the sides of her head. It looked as if his father had just ended a sentence, the skin around the edges of his mouth sagging in a frown.

“What to do with all of this if the fridge doesn’t work?” his mother said, defeated.

“Again with the same thing?” his father retorted.

“Fine, you can buy more chicken tomorrow because that’s how long all of this is going to last.”

“All of what? It isn’t that much.”

“We are three people, this is how much we go through in a week. This will rot in the fridge till then!” his mother said, finally shouting.

“You figure it out, this kitchen stuff I don’t know,” his father said. “Bloody ungrateful. How much I do for you all and this is what I get.”

The man of the house walked away, his pace conveying his anger. In his wake, mother and son looked at each other. The father had provided for years without ever raising his voice, without listing all that he had done for the family. He did it without making the rest of them feel indebted. It was also true that it was easier to be the gracious provider when providing was easier, when it felt more effortless. In recent years, though, providing had become a challenge and this challenge soured him immensely. And the reason for this toxic level of sourness was the covert means through which the father now provided – he provided through his son but made him promise to never let his mother know. The son was a reluctant provider, not a gracious one, but knew he couldn’t be irresponsible.

The mother messaged their neighbor from across the hall. The neighbor had a deep freezer (one that she kept off till she actually needed it) and the mother counted the number of times she asked for such a favor and wondered if it would be okay to ask her again to turn it on just for them. The neighbor was the only option, the cost of her help being the possibility of her holding this over the fragile family.

As the mother prepared the package to be kept at the other house, she turned to her son.

“Help your father out. Please, let’s end this fridge nonsense.” She gestured toward the decaying device. She was tired. He was tired too. He bit his tongue and kept his mouth shut, mostly for his father’s sake.

*

The mother called the electrician who had first fixed the fridge. This was her third time trying him that day. It was unclear why he hadn’t answered so far – if it was the increased tensions in the country, or if he was busy, or actively avoiding the fridge’s predicaments. Thankfully, he picked up his phone this time. The mother didn’t have to explain anything, he already knew what the call was for. He said he was close by, he would come over if there wasn’t a fresh wave of attacks. He made sure to tell her that he would have left for home already if she hadn’t called him.

The son had seen the ritual of the quick fix enough times to be familiar with the steps, but not so often that he could be confident about doing them himself. According to the electrician, the fridge had forgotten how to thaw itself, meaning that the freezer froze without restraint, often choking the appliance. In the beginning, it took the fridge a few months to choke up. Now, it choked in just a few days. The electrician poured hot water into the cavity between the two compartments as the son watched.

“What’s the issue this time?” his father asked, walking up right behind him.

“The same issue. The ice isn’t thawing,” answered the son.

“Hmm, that problem really should have fixed itself by now.”

“Well, it hasn’t, has it?” the son said, curtly.

“Then you should learn how to do this,” the father said to his son. He turned to the electrician. “Teach him also, then you won’t have to come all the time!” He chuckled at his supposedly smart quip.

The son flashed the electrician an awkward smile, and the man replied with a knowing nod. The son wondered what the electrician thought of all of them; he saw hundreds of homes regularly, heard hundreds of families, he must have opinions.

“Sir, you should just get a new fridge,” the electrician said, packing up his bag.

The son exhaled loudly through his nose. “You should say that to my father,” he said softly. “He’ll listen to a stranger over his own son.” His unprompted honesty surprised him; he’d been taught never to speak the truth to the help.

Later that night, there was a blackout in their area. The son couldn’t fathom how or why that was useful. Wars in the era of black-and-white TV had blackouts, along with covered-up windows and a ban on lights at night, but in the modern era? Surely all those millions of dollars flying over their heads in the form of jets had some kind of map built in, if not Google Maps. The family was surrounded by the darkest night the son had ever seen. He’d never realized how he had been robbed of a truly dark night before; the irony of the shadow of war giving him this experience was not lost on him. The mother was already tired. Her hands flailing about in the dark, she made her way to her room. It was just the son and the father in the TV lounge now, waiting for the two-hour blackout to end. The father tutted every time he reached for his phone – it was as good as a brick with the blackout and internet outage. The son shifted in his seat. There was a weird tension in the home. Since he couldn’t think of work or distract himself with his phone, he could only think of the fridge and the ones he’d seen online.

He thought about how he didn’t even register the fridge as a thing they owned or used, because fridges were so quintessential to the existence of human beings. They were built to last simply because their use and their function was so heavy duty. One ordered them and they arrived, and then they were just used, without further thought. Maybe that was why the demise of the fridge felt so loud. The electrician’s words stung him. It was easy for him to say they should get a new one. To him, theirs was a home of money, a home that was enormously better than his own. His assumption that they had frivolous money to go fridge-shopping wasn’t a ridiculous one. How could he know that behind the perfectly set-up sideboards, coffee table books, and the smattering of paintings was a story of a retiree in denial who had condemned his son to pick up his pieces?

The son thought about his bank balance. It was hardly a few days into May but he had already passed on the money for rent and bills to his father so the man could make the payments. If the son spent nothing else the rest of the month, he could use a bit of June’s pay and the saved amount to get a fridge, but the number of days between that night and the next pay day remained large.

The distant rumblings of war brought him back to the darkness he inhabited. If they got any closer, the fridge wouldn’t matter anymore. Only hours ago, the likelihood of blackouts and an armed conflict seemed improbable, but there they were, in the dark. The son knew that just as war sprung suddenly, the season of stability would enter just as suddenly too. They had waited on the fridge’s ability to heal itself for too long. Come peace or war, the son couldn’t take the dynamics of that appliance anymore. The time was for action even if there was a fight on the horizon.

“I’m thinking of taking –” the son started.

“Shh.” The father put his finger on his lips.

“They’re fighting in the air, not here,” the son said, surprised that he himself was whispering.

“Oh, right,” the father said, slightly embarrassed.

“I was thinking of taking Mama to that shop to look at fridges. I was hoping you could help a bit with that…you know with the money.” By then, the son’s eyes were used to the darkness so he could make out the silhouette of the man he was talking to. He knew his father had heard him, there was no other interruption in the room, yet the man did not answer.

“Try to manage it. You know I have nothing,” the father replied eventually.

“I just thought things were getting better. You said you were doing some work?” the son asked through gritted teeth.

“I’m just consulting, and they’re so slow with the money. To top it off, the bank makes such an issue when I get a remittance.” The father sighed.

“Yes, you mentioned that before,” the son said softly.

“So you know na. I can’t help. May God bless you with even more.”

“Ameen,” the son said, unsure if it was a prayer for him or a selfish proclamation by the father. The son had to carry on, not only the burden of the home, but with the continually reduced status of simply being a child. A strange curse, to be the one that carried the household without having a seat at the table, let alone be at the helm of it.

The next morning the son had to manage the forced normalcy of working from home amid the onslaught of curfews in the city. The night had been full of fire; no one was taking chances. He called the fridge store. The man was insistent that if he wanted to buy a fridge that day, he must bring cash. The constant blackouts meant society had regressed to its cold cash roots. The son checked online all possible prices – the most expensive fridge was terribly out of his reach, but who needed an imported one anyway? He focused on the brand that fit exactly with his bank balance. He told his mother they would go to the store as soon as he was back with the money. At the ATM nearest to his home, he was met with a line snaking toward the machine. He hadn’t accounted for that because it didn’t occur to him to do so, but now he felt reprimanded for his carelessness. Rationing wasn’t just a concept in history textbooks. Back at home with some money in his pocket now, the son waited for his mother to finish making afternoon tea for the father. The father suggested that they hold onto the old fridge a little longer. But the son swatted aside that idea. They had waited enough.

On the way to the appliance store with his mother, the son made strategic stops to several out-of-the-way ATMs, in barren bazaars and on unwalkable paths. The biggest evolution in his understanding of rationing was the rationing of cash. After the fourth ATM, he finally had enough to buy an average fridge. He was also aware that the cash was sizeable enough for an opportune thug to rob him of it, if one caught wind of it. The son muttered prayers for God to bestow a dome of protection over him and his mother as he drove through the city. The streets were mostly deserted, people swarming around supermarkets, prepping for the worst. The son thought about how his family needed a glorified ice box before they could even stock anything.

The windows of the fridge store were covered with black sheets and criss-crossed tape. The mother sighed that it was closed, and lamented about their wasted time. The son, annoyed, lightly honked. Someone from inside the store nudged the door open, signifying life.

Harsh tube lights cast their light upon rows of fridges. The son realized just how much the daylight helped soften light. A salesman came over and introduced himself to the mother and son. They hadn’t even said what they were looking for when the man began his pitch. The words flowed from his mouth with the learned proficiency of a student who had crammed before a final exam. He spoke of warranties spanning decades, capacities and the ability to survive power outages and loadshedding. The mother opened a few fridges to gauge what they could hold, her point of reference their dying fridge. With each, she practiced the motion of storing leftovers and placing the heaviest of groceries in the compartments. She finally settled on two fridges. Each cost more than the cash in the son’s wallet, but he only nodded. His mother said he could choose the final one, so he picked the cheaper of the two and asked her to wait on the side as he managed the payment. He pulled out the cash and headed to the counter. The owner’s face was alight with the red light of the “breaking news” banners  on the TV in front of him. The volume wasn’t loud but the man was enraptured with the visuals. The son said a muffled salam which caught the man’s attention. He shouted at the salesman for details of the sale and whipped out an invoice pad, shifting the carbon copy sheet to a new home. With each pen stroke, the son racked his mind for an excuse about the insufficient cash. Should he ask for a discount? Should he come clean, or pull something else? He glanced at his mother. She had liked a fridge, and now, after ages, sat with her shoulders relaxed, already imagining her life with a new fridge. It had to go home today. The son twiddled his thumbs, unable to commit to a tactic, till the man finally looked at him with the expectation of cash. The son slid over the folded wad of cash, different bills mixed up. The owner sighed and sorted it. He counted, raised his eyebrows, counted again, and looked at the son.

“You’re short. You need to give me 16580 rupees more,” the man said with the calmness of someone assuming good intention.

“I only have this much,” the son replied meekly. He thought of adding, “That’s all I have right now” but he knew that would mean he’d have to cough up more immediately, if he added the illusion of more time and cash. The owner counted again and looked over the details of the order. He pushed his tongue against the inside of the mouth as he thought. The son looked on helplessly. Excuses bubbled at the back of his throat, as did pleas for relief. The man tapped the cash against the counter while looking at the son, his eyes darting between mother and son. He smacked his lips and asked his employees to bring out the fridge. He announced that he’d go along for the delivery, and for them to close up the shop behind them.

“I’ll take the remainder once we deliver it,” he said to the son.

“Oh, but you know the ATMs are all rationed. It was impossible just getting that out,” the son said, gesturing to the money in the owner’s hands.

“There must be someone at home who can get the cash out while we get there?”

The son nodded. He would either have to rely on his broke father, or hope that he could find enough forgotten cash in the pockets of winter coat to make up the sum of 16,580 Rupees.

In the car, the son’s fingers hovered over the call button on the father’s WhatsApp number. Their chat was littered with texts from the son announcing he’d made the rent payment at the start of each month, and from the father asking, in the middle of the month, for more money, to pay unspecified bills, and from the son responding with a “sent.” He knew he stood at the cusp of disappointment if he called him, but what choice did he have? The only other thing he could do was tell the owner a lie, or find a way to reason with him. At least the fridge would be in the house since most of the payment was done. The son placed his bets on the logical mind of a stranger rather than the supposed security of the father. With that spirit, he drove the mother back home.

Back at home, the son immediately busied himself with getting the gates and the door of the house open, creating a passage to the kitchen. The father sat in the shape he’d formed on the old sofa. He glanced at the son.

“Did we get a new fridge?” he asked, his eyes back on the news.

“Yes, I did,” the son said.

The delivery truck arrived just then. The team began pulling the fridge towards the house. The son’s eyes met the owner’s, who was the last to leave the truck. The man nodded at the son.

“We still owe them. Around 16,000,” the son said to his father.

“Why did you buy a fridge you couldn’t afford?” the father asked, still looking at the TV.

“WE need to pay him. Please, help.”

“I don’t have…”

“You would have if you weren’t so stubborn with this fridge. You would have at least 16,000 if you didn’t keep calling the electrician and paying his basic fee for coming in and drowning the fridge in boiling water,” the son said with an angry whisper.

“I have nothing,” the father said, strangely comfortable with his predicament.

The son, unable to scream in frustration, turned back around. He tried to stretch his face into a convincing expression so he could plead with the owner. And then a sound shattered the tension that only the son felt.

“YA ALLAH!” the owner screamed as he fell to his knees.

The son ran towards him.

“Those bastards! Oh, may God end the enemy!” the man screamed, his breathing heavy.

By now, the parents too surrounded the man. He suddenly got up and called his men over.

“We must go, they bombed our market. Ya Allah, my shop! What will I do?” the man asked the air around him. The man and his companions hurriedly climbed back into their truck and left. The son looked at the new fridge parked near the door. He looked to his parents. His father chuckled, gesturing to his son to help.

Days passed as the new fridge adjusted to its home, while the old one was finally taken off its power supply. The sounds of war had paused; the enemy was insistent that it was just a pause. The son thanked God after each call he got that turned out to be someone other than the owner of the shop calling for the remaining money. He wasn’t sure if he should go back to the store after he would get his next paycheck, he didn’t even know how bad the strike on that market was.

At breakfast, once the new fridge was working as it should, the son placed the butter in front of the father. The father struggled with the cold butter.

“You know I got used to the soft melty butter,” he said, laughing.

The son counted; it was the 27th comment about the new fridge; the 27th opportunity missed to say thank you.