s.story 3: The Quiet Simmer

1.

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 punctuating of 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, 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 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—just to exist, to be 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, of 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, of 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, easy, like the sound of pages turning in an old book. It was the sort of voice that carried with it 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. But 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 of it. There was no need to explain further, not now. Not when 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 hung in the space between them, 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, of connection—believed it could anchor him. But that belief had slowly shifted, had slowly faded into a quiet corner of his life.

“I’m still the epicenter of any gathering,” Rayhan said, the words measured, 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 no longer a companion but a distant sound, muted by the weight of the evening. Rayhan stood there for 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 pages in the audiobook. Rayhan 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.

2.

A sigh, barely audible, settled between them, filling the brief space where words had once been. Nasser’s voice softened, his concern palpable despite the distance. “You used to love company. Remember? Back in university, you were the life of every gathering.”

Rayhan leaned against the counter, his gaze drifting absently over the mustard paste that swirled slowly in the pan, the smell of turmeric and mustard oil mixing into the humid air. The stirring motion was mechanical, practiced, as if his body had long since learned this rhythm, while his mind was elsewhere. Somewhere distant, in the past. The university days had been different—laughter, shared moments, the weight of friendships still new and bright. Then, love had felt like something solid, something to root himself to, like the taste of salt on the skin of Ilish fish, an anchor to a world that felt endless and full of possibility. But that world had receded, as worlds tend to do, leaving behind memories that now seemed more fragile than he’d once believed. His smile, half-formed and fleeting, reflected the irony of it all. The life he’d once imagined for himself—alive with chatter, with warmth—had drifted further and further from reach. And now, he was here, in his quiet kitchen, the fish sizzling alone in its pan, creating something beautiful for no one but himself.

“I’m still the epicenter of any gathering,” he said, after a pause that stretched between them. His voice was steady, but something in it—a lack of conviction, perhaps—seeped through the words. “But loneliness,” he continued, eyes lowering as he added the mustard paste to the pan, the bubbling sound steady in the silence, “it’s not a void. It’s a space—a sanctuary to think, to breathe.”

Outside, the rain had begun to fall in earnest, each drop a soft percussion against the window. It was the kind of rain that spoke of passage—of time shifting like the tides, leaving its mark without ever quite demanding it. The noise of it, constant but unhurried, filled the apartment, blending with the gentle hiss of the pan. Rayhan closed his eyes for a moment, allowing the sound to wash over him, to quiet his thoughts. He had told Nasser once, years ago, that he didn’t need anyone. He was fine on his own. But that was before everything had started to feel like a choice, before he’d begun to embrace the silence. Now, silence felt both like a refuge and a resignation.

“Life, like the dish,” Rayhan mused aloud, “is a mixture of flavors—some sweet, some bitter—but all necessary. The detachment I’ve chosen,” he said, the words more to himself than to Nasser, “isn’t an absence. It’s a presence. A choice. To live quieter, more deliberately.”

The words fell between them with an unfamiliar weight. He hadn’t planned on saying them, but they had found their way out, as things often do, uninvited but honest. Nasser was silent on the other end, perhaps weighing the depth of what had just been said, or perhaps searching for a way to respond without making it heavier than it already was. Rayhan felt the weight of the silence then—how it seemed to stretch and pull, how, in the absence of words, everything seemed more exposed.

“You’re right,” Nasser’s voice broke through, softer now, laden with an emotion Rayhan couldn’t name. “But sometimes… I worry about you.”

Rayhan’s smile was small, brief, but it lingered in the space between them, unspoken but palpable. “You don’t have to,” he said, his voice almost a whisper in the room, not for Nasser, but for himself. “I’ve got everything I need right here.”

The warmth of his words, the quiet finality in them, settled in his chest, as comforting as the simmering sauce on the stove. In the absence of everything else, this was his life—simple, yes, but also quiet in its richness. There were books on the shelf he hadn’t opened in months, work that kept his mind engaged, and the small, intimate act of cooking, which had become his way of threading together the disparate parts of his life. His friendships, though distant, still held meaning, just as the dish he was preparing—slow, deliberate, full of care—held the echoes of things once familiar. This wasn’t the life of grandeur he’d once imagined, full of excitement and company. But it was a life, nonetheless, and it had become enough. For now.

The mustard sauce deepened in hue, taking on a shade richer than before, as the fish absorbed the flavors—slowly, patiently. Rayhan lowered the heat, watching the fish settle gently into the sauce, the soft sizzle of the pan quieting as the heat began to dissipate. He added the final flourish of green chilies, their sharp scent filling the air, a small punctuation to the meal. There was something ritualistic in the way he worked, something almost reverential in the quiet acts of creation that made him feel, in this moment, connected to the world in a way he could not quite explain. He leaned in, watching the fish submit to the warmth, the simmering liquid swirling around it like the turning of time itself. His mother’s voice, faint and distant, murmured in his mind—slow down, be patient.

When the call ended, Rayhan remained by the stove, the quiet simmering of the fish a steady presence in the room. His thoughts—like the rain outside—drifted, carrying with them memories of things that once felt urgent, now softened by time. It wasn’t the life he had imagined, but in this moment, it was the life that had become his. The soft sizzle of the pan, the familiar rhythm of his actions, the warmth of the kitchen—it was all he had, and yet it felt like more than he had expected. The outside world could wait.

3.

“So, any plans for the weekend?” Nasser’s voice pierced the quiet hum of the kitchen, his words breaking the silence like a distant bell tolling. “Or just you and your books again?”

Rayhan paused for a moment, the knife still in his hand, the fresh vegetables half-chopped on the cutting board. His eyes drifted to the rain, falling steadily outside the window, as if the storm had become a reflection of his own unspoken thoughts. He let out a quiet laugh, the sound mixing with the soft tapping of the rain against the glass. “I’ve got a new one lined up,” he said, his voice steady, “a biography of a war correspondent. Sounds like a thrill, right?”

“Thrill’s one word for it,” Nasser replied, his tone light, though Rayhan could hear the smile in his voice, the way it softened the edges of his words. “But seriously, you should get out more. Meet people. You can’t keep living like a hermit forever.”

Rayhan’s laughter lingered in the air for a moment, but it softened quickly, an uneasy quiet settling in its wake. Nasser’s words were a mirror, reflecting back the truth Rayhan had long been trying to ignore. He wasn’t a hermit, but the spaces he occupied—the apartment, the kitchen, the hours spent alone—often felt like a world where he was invisible, even to himself. He didn’t mind the solitude, didn’t mind the smallness of it. There was peace in it, a simplicity that allowed him to exist without the weight of expectations or demands. But even now, a quiet ache began to stir, one he couldn’t quite silence.

“I’m not a hermit,” Rayhan said, his words careful, measured. But there was a truth buried in the confession that he couldn’t deny. His days—work, groceries, the occasional text or call—were made up of small, deliberate motions. Each day felt like a practice in quietness, a return to something elemental, something he could understand. His life was simple, almost deliberately so, the noise of the outside world muffled by his own decisions.

But Nasser was right in one way—he had distanced himself, not just from others but from parts of himself, from the pulse of life that required more than just the essentials. The relationships that once felt like lifeblood—those fleeting moments of connection, of conversation, of touch—had slipped away. And for what? For the ease of a life unencumbered by complications, unforced by others’ needs or desires?

He stirred the mustard paste into the pan, the deep yellow swirling as the fish sank gently into the bubbling sauce. “When was the last time you went on a date?” Rayhan asked, his voice attempting to lighten, to mask the flicker of something deeper.

Nasser chuckled, but there was something raw beneath the laughter, something that made Rayhan pause. “Touché,” Nasser said, his voice tightening for a brief second. “But work keeps me busy. You know that.”

Rayhan nodded, the acknowledgment passing between them without the need for further words. Work was the perfect distraction, wasn’t it? It offered a structure, a reason to avoid the complexities of the heart—the vulnerability that came with relationships, with love. Both of them had learned that lesson, had retreated into the safe, predictable rhythms of work, of small victories that didn’t require intimacy or openness. It was easier this way, wasn’t it? Easier than risking everything for something that might slip through your fingers, that might, in the end, not be enough.

He stirred the fish gently, his hands moving instinctively, the warmth of the pan filling the room. The quiet rhythm of cooking was something he could control, something that, in its simplicity, provided him a sense of stability. He didn’t have to think too much, just act, just be.

“Alright,” Nasser’s voice broke through again, lighter now, though Rayhan could still hear the faint note of concern beneath it. “I’ll let you get back to your masterpiece. But seriously, let’s catch up in person soon. You can even cook for me.”

Rayhan’s smile was almost imperceptible, the corners of his mouth twitching upward, not quite a grin, not quite a frown. He had spent so many years trying to be content, trying to accept the life he had carved out for himself, but there were days—moments like this—that reminded him of the paths he had chosen not to take, the connections he had let slip away. And yet, there was comfort in his own company, in the way his world had become smaller, more manageable.

“Deal,” he said, the words almost too easy, too light.

The call ended, leaving Rayhan standing in the stillness of his kitchen, the fish gently simmering in the mustard sauce. He added a pinch of salt, the final touch, the note that brought the dish together. The kitchen, with its small, deliberate rhythms, felt like the only place where he didn’t have to pretend, didn’t have to hide. His thoughts drifted back to Nasser’s words, to the paths he hadn’t taken, the lives he hadn’t lived. He had spent so many years searching for love, for connection, believing it to be the missing piece of his life. And yet, somewhere along the way, he had found something else. Something quieter. Something more certain. Peace.

After a quick shower, Rayhan plated the rice and fish, the golden sauce a halo around the delicate fish, the warm colors against the white plate a reminder of the simple things he had come to cherish. He sat by the window, watching the rain continue its unhurried fall, the distant hum of the city a soundtrack to his solitude. The world outside seemed so far removed, like a different life altogether.

Rayhan’s fingers hovered over the edge of the plate, the golden sauce gleaming softly against the Ilish fish. He sat by the window, watching the rain’s rhythm outside, its steady pulse reminding him of time’s quiet insistence. He had made peace with the solitude. It was not absence, not emptiness, but the space where he could simply be. The city outside moved on without him, but inside, there was a stillness that seemed to carry him forward, in its own quiet way. He took a bite, the mustard, the heat of the chilies—the flavors weren’t profound, but they grounded him, settled him into something real, something simple. It wasn’t perfect. But then again, it didn’t have to be.