s.story 3: The Quiet Simmer

The evening unfolded like an ancient scroll, the ink of its story smeared by the gentle patter of rain, each drop a whispered secret against the windows of Reza’s apartment in the heart of Gulshan. It was a Thursday, the cusp of the weekend in Bangladesh, where the monsoon clouds held the city of Dhaka in their humid embrace, only to release their burden as twilight crept in. Reza stood barefoot upon the cool, mosaic floor of his kitchen, a simple act that tied him to the present amidst the symphony of rainfall, his mind wandering through the maze of his audiobook library.

For Reza, cooking was not a mere act of sustenance but a divine ritual, a dance of elements where every chop, every stir was a prayer whispered to the universe. Tonight, he chose Shorshe Ilish, a dish that carried the essence of his childhood, of familiar shores and maternal warmth. The audiobook he selected—a biography of a war correspondent—spoke in a voice that was steady as a river’s flow, telling tales of revolutions and chaos, an ironic counterpoint to the calm he sought in culinary alchemy.

With a smile that was both wistful and content, Reza rubbed the pieces of Ilish fish with lime, salt, and turmeric. The aroma, a fine balance of earth and sea, surrounded him, each scent a brushstroke in the portrait of his past. As mustard seeds met water in the blender, their grinding was an invocation, calling forth memories of Chittagong, where his mother reigned in the kitchen. Her philosophy was simple yet profound: each day was an occasion to be celebrated with laughter and a simmering plate.

His hands, guided by muscle memory and maternal teachings, strained the mustard paste, an act of separation that echoed his mother’s words about bitterness and remains. “The bitterness always comes from what you leave behind,” she had said. It was a truth that lingered in the corners of his mind, much like the shadows in his mother’s now quieter home, where time seemed to slip through her fingers as she grew older.

The phone buzzed, its screen revealing the name ‘Nasser’. The hesitation was brief; Reza valued the few friendships that had endured the erosion of time. With a tap, he answered, allowing Nasser’s voice to weave through the kitchen’s aromatic air.

“Cooking again, huh? Let me guess—Shorshe Ilish?” The familiarity in Nasser’s voice was like a well-worn book, each page a testament to shared history.

Reza chuckled softly as he poured mustard oil into a hot pan, the liquid catching the light like liquid gold. “When it rains, it has to be Ilish. Anything else would disrupt the balance.” The black cumin seeds, added with reverence, began to dance and sing in the shimmering oil, their song a proof of the magic of transformation.

“You and your rules,” Nasser teased, his words a gentle push at the solitude that had become Reza’s companion. “Still cooking for one?”

Reza paused, not from indecision but from the weight of unspoken truths. He stirred the black cumin seeds before introducing the green chilies, their heat promising a complexity that mirrored the dish’s multiple layers. “I don’t mind it,” he said eventually, his voice measured, like a note lingering in the air. “Cooking for myself is a reflection.”

Nasser’s response was a sigh, a sound that linked the distance between their separate worlds. “You used to thrive on company, remember? Back in university, you were the heart of every gathering.”

The memories flooded in, vivid as the colors swirling in his pan. University was a tapestry of friendships and fervent debates that stretched into dawn, where love was both the question and the answer. Reza had believed in love’s power to anchor him, yet here he was, a solitary island in a sea of cherished memories.

He introduced the mustard paste and turmeric powder into the pot, stirring with the patience of one who knows that beauty cannot be hurried.  “First of all, I am still the epicenter of any gathering, and secondly, loneliness,” he mused, “is not a void but a space—a sanctuary to think, to breathe.”

In the silence that followed, the rain continued its gentle crash against the window, each drop an echo of the bygone, a promise of revival. Reza knew that life, much like the dish he prepared, was a union of flavors and experiences, each layer a testament to the journey he had undertaken. The detachment he embraced was not an absence but a presence, a reflection of the love he had once desired and the peace he now cultivated.

Life, Reza had come to understand, was similar to the monsoon—unpredictable and yet necessary, a force that washed away the dust of yesterday while nurturing the seeds of tomorrow.

“You’re right,” Reza surrendered, either to make his friend happy or to end the conversation that had become all too familiar. His voice was a gentle ripple against the backdrop of simmering sauce. He lowered the heat, placing the fish delicately into the bubbling golden liquid, watching as it submitted to the warmth. “But things change. I’m happy now. Really.”

There was a silence on the line, a pause that expanded like the fragile thread of a spider’s web, dangling with the weight of unspoken concern. Through the phone, the faint orchestra of the city played—a symphony of honking cars and distant bus engines. Reza imagined Nasser, a silhouette against the rain-kissed horizon, leaning on his balcony rail, lost in his own reflections.

“I know you are,” Nasser responded, his voice softened by the rain’s lullaby. “I just worry about you sometimes. That’s all.”

Reza smiled, a silent gesture that carried through the ether. “You don’t have to. I’ve got everything I need right here.”

It was the truth, plain, simple. His life was a mosaic of simple joys—a job that kept his mind engaged, books that carried him to distant lands or deep inside a human mind, and the soothing ritual of cooking. His friendships, while scattered like stars across the expanse of his existence, provided light in the darkness. It wasn’t the life of grandeur he had once imagined, full of fireworks and fanfare, but it was a life rich in its quietness.

The fish simmered, covered in mustard’s sharp embrace, the aroma weaving through the air like an old song, familiar and comforting. Reza leaned over the burner, inhaling deeply, letting the scent transport him to another time—a time of his mother’s laughter, of a younger self who believed in the magic of sweeping romances and grand gestures. Now, he found romance in subtler notes—the shimmer of oil in the pan, the bloom of spices under heat, the gentle percussion of rain against glass.