Padmaja has been feeling restless since early morning. She begins by straightening the sheet on her bed. She stretches it on one end, tucks it under the mattress before turning her attention to the other corners. Satisfied, she strips the pillows of their cases, plumps the pillow cushions and soaks the blankets in warm, soapy water. She dusts the window sills and wipes the window panes with a damp cloth. She climbs atop a chair and reaches for the grime laden blades of the ceiling fan with a wet rag. She ignores the pain in her neck from craning and swabs until its surface gleams. She pokes her little finger into the hidden corners in the living room and pulls out imaginary bits of dust. She runs her hand along the dark nooks in the kitchen shelves and inspects her finger tips for fine powder of soot. The stainless steel plates are washed and dried, light fixtures cleaned, curtains rinsed, the floor scrubbed and mopped and the drains pumped with bleach. When she is certain that the house is scraped of every last morsel of dirt, she showers thoroughly, changes into a crackling new cotton saree and goes out to place a matrimonial ad in the local paper.
The following Sunday, a small advertisement appears in the third page of the matrimonial section of The Hindu. It reads, 'Retired 61 year old widow seeks life partner. If you can cook, you stand a better chance'.