Point of View Change Page 117 ( Elliot's Point of View)

"They might call me", I said to Mrs. Sen. “ But they might complain that you were making too much noise.”
From where I sat on the sofa I could detect her curious scent of mothballs and cumin, and I could see the perfectly scented part in her braided hair, which was shaded with crushed vermilion and therefore appeared to be blushing. At first I had wondered if she had cut her scalp, or if something had bitten her there. But then one day I saw her standing before the bathroom mirror, solemnly applying, with the head of a thumbtack, a fresh stroke of scarlet powder, which she stored in a small jam jar. A few grains of the powder fell onto the bridge of her nose as she used the thumbtack to stamp a dot above her eyebrows. “ I must wear the powder every day,” she explained to me when I asked her what it was for, “ for the rest of the days that I ma married.”
“Like a wedding ring, you mean?”
“Exactly Eliot, exactly like a wedding ring. Only with no fear of losing it in the dishwasher.”
By the time my mother had arrived at twenty past six, Mrs. Sen always made sure all evidence of her chopping was disposed of. The blade was scrubbed, rinsed, dried, folded, and stowed away in a cupboard with the aid of a step latter. With my help the newspapers were crushed with all the peels and seeds and skins inside them. Brimming bowls and colanders lined the countertops, spices and pastes were measured and blended, and eventually a collection of broths simmered over periwinkle flames on the stove. It was merely dinner for Mrs. Sen, as indicated by the two plates and two glasses she set, without napkins or silverware, on the square Formica table at one end of the living room.