kitchen tales 2

The kitchen was her favourite room in the house.


She hardly ever cooked there. They always just ordered in. Specially over the last few months. Her new job left her so tired.


Yet she loved her kitchen. She loved the jars of spices. All old recycled bottles that once held jams, and sauces. Now filled with turmeric, chilly, coriander, cumin. The tall bottles had the everyday spices. The fat squat ones, the mismatched ones, those held spices that were used occassionally. Jaiphal, saffron, vindaloo masala, chaat masala. They stood ready inside her small kitchen cabinet. Like soldiers waiting their turn.


She pushed the bolt back, and opened the window by the kitchen sink. Morning light flooded the room. The gas was silent. The sink was empty. Three plastic water bottles stood huddled in a corner.


She sighed. She missed him. She missed his padding into the kitchen, newspaper in hand. His sleepy eyes. The way he put the saucepan on the gas. day after day.


Then it suddenly struck her. She had stood near him, getting breakfast ready, or reaching out for something. or just feeling his warmth beside her in that small, tiny kitchen. And she had never noticed how he made his tea. Did he boil the water first. Did he measure it in his teacup before pouring it into the saucepan. Did he first pull out the tea and the sugar from the cabinet. Or did he do that once the water started to boil. Her eyes stung.


She stood there and started to cry. A small wail first and then a big gut wrenching howl. When did this happen to them? When did they just stop noticing things about each other? When did they let such a big distance creep up between them?


She suddenly longed for that tea. That sweet milky tea that was brewed and boiled till it threaten to spill over the saucepan.


But she didn't know how to make it. If it was the water that went first. or the milk and the water. Or did the sugar go in at the beginning. or was that right at the end.