Arya puts a pot on the stove. 

“That’s where she used to sit,” she said, pointing at the dining table. Indeed, empty chairs stood around it.

A soup ladle clanked into the pot. Arya bent down to get some lentils from a basket. They sounded like gravel in her hands. A fire was lit, and the small flickering heated up the pot. Water was poured in like a spring and soon, dal was simmering in the pot. The rich aroma was enraptured under the lid. Steam came out from two tiny holes like a dragon’s breath. 

Arya then chops off the stems of two dried chilies. 

“Dal was her favourite.” 

The knife hits the board with peaceful precision. 

Some chili seeds burst out onto the board. 

“She liked dal with chili,” said Arya, opening the lid. 

An eruption of hearty herbal scent fills the kitchen. Arya throws in the chilies and stirs the pot. The dal simmers like molten gold with rubies.

“Every meal time she would sit down and say, ‘What’s for lunch Ama? What’s for dinner Ama?’”

Arya poured the dal into a shiny glass bowl.

She picks it up and turns around, and realises she is talking to no one.

Cover image by PULSÍTOS.com on Unsplash. The copyright of this piece belongs to the author of this literary work.  

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