s.story 3: The Quiet Simmer

The rain had arrived, as it always did in the monsoon, with no warning but the thickening of the air. It was late, and the city of Dhaka held its breath, suspended in the heavy humidity, before the first drop struck the windows. Rayhan stood barefoot on the cool mosaic tiles of his kitchen in Gulshan, his reflection faint in the glass, not quite a part of the rain but not fully separate from it either. The room smelled of damp earth and mustard oil, of warmth rising from the stove, blending with the familiar ache of nostalgia. Tonight, he was making Shorshe Ilish, the dish that had been more of a ritual than a meal for as long as he could remember.

The rain was a steady hum against the window, a quiet punctuation to the evening’s stillness. Rayhan moved with slow deliberation, as though each step in his cooking carried weight beyond the mundane. The sharp, rhythmic chop of onions, the gentle stir of spices in the pan—each motion felt like a small meditation. In these moments, when the world outside seemed to dissolve into the monotony of the storm, he could pretend, for just a little while, that time was still.

The audiobook of The Forty Rules of Love by Elif Shafak hummed softly from his speaker. The narrator’s voice was calm and rhythmic, weaving a tale of love, faith, and transformation. The words, rich with the wisdom of Rumi, felt like a quiet meditation, far removed from the sharp edges of Rayhan’s own thoughts. As the narrator spoke of love as a force both binding and liberating, Rayhan let the voice fill the room, a gentle counterpoint to the rain tapping against the window. The stories of spiritual awakening seemed distant yet intimate, like the murmur of an old friend offering quiet counsel. Outside, the world continued its relentless motion, but inside the kitchen, where Rayhan stirred the mustard paste with practiced ease, everything slowed. The noise of the outside world seemed muted, as if the steady rhythm of the rain had created a boundary around his small, sacred space. In this moment, he didn’t feel compelled to confront anything. He simply existed, present in the simple motions of cooking and in the quiet invitation of the audiobook’s reflections on love and solitude.

He picked up the fish, its gleaming scales catching the light of the overhead bulb. The turmeric, lime, and salt he massaged into its flesh brought him back to Chittagong, to his mother’s kitchen. He could almost hear her voice, gentle and firm, as it had been when she taught him to cook. “Every meal is an occasion to celebrate,” she used to say, though there was a strange undercurrent in her voice that suggested celebration could be both an offering and a reckoning.

The scent of the mustard seeds, as they cracked in the oil, reminded him of his mother’s hands: the way they moved with such ease, as if the kitchen were an extension of her body, as if the act of cooking was a prayer she had memorized and carried with her. Rayhan closed his eyes, allowing the memory to fill the space between his thoughts, a memory suspended in the rich, sharp fragrance of mustard oil. The aroma, earthy and almost bitter, seemed to unfold layers of a past he had long kept at a distance.

She had said to him once, “The bitterness always comes from what you leave behind.” He could almost hear the soft tremor of her voice, the way she separated the seeds from their shells, the careful way she removed the remnants of their bitterness. It was a lesson that had lingered in the quiet spaces of his life, in the gaps between meals, between conversations, between the days that seemed to slip by unnoticed. In the years since, he had come to understand the truth of those words, not just about food, but about the residue of past choices and time’s slow erosion of what once seemed constant.

The phone buzzed on the counter, its screen lighting up with the name Nasser. Rayhan glanced at it, and for a moment his fingers hovered over the screen, the weight of the decision pressing against him. Nasser’s name had become a ghost in his phone, a reminder of old friendships and ties that had long frayed with the passage of time. But it had been a long day, the rain outside relentless in its quiet insistence, and for all his careful distance, Rayhan answered.

“Cooking again, huh? Let me guess, Shorshe Ilish?” Nasser’s voice was warm and easy, like the sound of pages turning in an old book. It was the sort of voice that carried years of shared history, a thousand unspoken understandings buried in the spaces between the words.

Rayhan chuckled, the sound muted as he poured mustard oil into the pan, watching it shimmer in the light. “When it rains, it has to be Ilish. Anything else disrupts the balance.” The cumin seeds, once introduced to the hot oil, began their familiar dance: crackling, sizzling, a small symphony of heat and transformation. He knew Nasser could never understand this, the precision with which the ingredients fell into place, the careful timing. To most, cooking was a chore, a means to an end. For Rayhan, it was a kind of ritual, a language he used to reconnect with the parts of himself he had lost or buried.

“You and your rules,” Nasser teased, a faint edge of fondness in his tone. “Still cooking for one?”

Rayhan paused, the question hanging in the air longer than he intended. He stirred the cumin seeds, the heat of the oil rising in the room, before adding the green chilies. They sizzled briefly, their sharp fragrance biting the air. “I don’t mind,” Rayhan replied, his voice softer now, almost distant. “Cooking for myself is a reflection.”

It was the sort of response that Nasser, for all his years of friendship, would never fully understand. There was a weight in Rayhan’s words, a quietness that spoke more of absence than of presence. Yet he said nothing more. The kitchen had become, for a few fleeting moments, a place where he could make sense of things he had long left unsaid.

Through the phone, Rayhan heard the faintest hint of a sigh from Nasser, the sound carrying a weight that matched his own. “You used to love company. Remember? Back in university, you were the life of every gathering.”

The words lingered, a reminder of what had been. In those days, Rayhan had been different: the center of every gathering, the heart of every conversation. He had believed in the power of love and connection, believed it could anchor him. But that belief had slowly shifted, fading into a quiet corner of his life.

“I’m still the epicenter of any gathering,” Rayhan said, the words measured and deliberate. “But loneliness is not a void,” he added after a pause. “It’s a space, a sanctuary to think, to breathe.”

Nasser’s response came slowly, as if he too were weighing the truth of what Rayhan had said. The rain continued its steady percussion against the window, each drop a soft whisper to the silence in the room. Rayhan stirred the mustard paste into the pan, the familiar swirl of yellow spreading over the surface like a slow bloom.

Rayhan smiled, the expression quiet and almost imperceptible. “I’m fine,” he said, the words more for himself than for Nasser. “I’ve got everything I need right here.”

But as the call ended, the silence in the kitchen stretched further. The quiet hum of the city outside was no longer a companion but a distant sound, muted by the weight of the evening. Rayhan stood there a moment longer, letting the stillness settle around him like the remnants of a meal, the edges of the day softening into the quiet comfort of solitude.

The simmering fish in the pan, its mustard sauce now a muted yellow, was the only movement in the kitchen. Rayhan stood still, watching it, as if in those moments the rhythm of cooking could pull him closer to the truth he didn’t always want to confront. The rain continued its steady descent outside, muffling the noise of the world, leaving only the faint sounds of the kitchen: the sizzle of the fish, the rustle of the audiobook. He didn’t know if there would ever be a moment of clarity, a sudden revelation about the life he had chosen. But standing there, in the quiet embrace of his kitchen, he realized that perhaps no revelation was needed. Perhaps the quiet itself was the answer.