“I like it, Ritu…”
She narrowed her eyes at him, resuming her chopping of cucumbers. She was chopping them like she was a neanderthal and they were living in prehistoric times.
“Are you planning to churn them?” He asked.
“No.”
“Then why take the trouble? We would rather eat them whole.” He picked up a thick slice between his thumb and forefinger.
Her teeth snarled at him — “That’s how I cut cucumbers. Come show me if you can do any better.”
“Mmm?” He reached for the clasp on his watch, taking it off. “Challenging me, Doctor?”
“Don’t hurt yourself holding the knife, NiP. We don’t have assistants here to throw the cucumber on your knife.”
He rounded the counter, took the knife from her, set the cucumber down, and began slicing it. Perfect, crisp, thin slices. He didn’t even need to look down, his eyes on hers as her mouth dropped open.
“Look down!” She panicked. He had finished slicing the entire piece and grabbed the next peeled cucumber.
“Tell me, Doctor, why are you making this sad salad?”
“You just said you like it!”
He smirked. She sighed in frustration — “That’s the only fancy dinner I know that has lots of veggies and healthy oils for you. Everything else, I need store-bought material. Sauces, gravies, dressings…”
Nilay adored that downturned mouth, that begrudging admission. He adored even more that she had wanted to cook something fancy for him with his dietary restrictions.
“Let’s do this,” he proposed. “I will cook dinner.”
“No! I invited you, you worked all day. I was sitting at home watching movies…”
“Do you like khichdi?”
“Khichdi?”
“Masala khichdi,” he clarified, finishing the tomato and looking around. There was a bulb of garlic but no onion. He would need a few things to cook.
“You know how to cook?”
“Evidently,” he began to peel the garlic. He knew it, and knew it so well that she was about to be extremely impressed. His mother had taught him well. All things life. From cooking to sewing.
“What do you do every day after 6?” She asked. Was she implying that they have dinner together every day?
“I can be available if you want.”
“Will you come and cook for me?” She managed. “World-class salary and perks will…” she sputtered. “be included,” she burst out laughing.
“How much?” He asked, completely serious. If he got to meet her every evening by being her personal chef, he would do it.
“500 per month.”
“Done. But 500 dollars is a lot for just dinner, Doctor.”
“I meant rupees.”
“What?”
She nodded, completely solemn.
