The pressure cooker kept whistling but Bimal just couldn’t hear it. Mr. Diwedi shouted from the drawing room to shut it but Bimal was lost in his own world. Bimal, all of 25 years of age, was working as a cook in Diwedi’s house. He enjoyed cooking as he drowned all his sorrows in the aromas and flavors of cooked food. Cooking for people gave him immeasurable joy. He was being paid handsomely and he didn’t feel useless. Destiny did not allow him to educate himself as he came from a family of labourers. Daily wages never could secure his future so whenever his father left for work he helped his mother in the kitchen. Being the only son, his mother raised him as a daughter. She taught him to cook as well as take care of himself no matter what. Experiencing and dealing with situations makes a man and he owed it to his mother for giving him that freedom to adapt. Tough love they say looks brutal on the periphery but goes a long way. Bimal felt he was the best example of this saying.

Looking out the kitchen window while standing by the pressure cooker had made him witness too much. Some visuals were pleasing as the lane that stood in front of the kitchen window led to the main road. There was noise of course but noise helps maintain focus at the task at hand. Noise was not a disturbance for his ears. It helped him concentrate more on the dishes of the day. While preparing food these visuals of happiness, intrigue and activity helped him create graphic stories in his mind. It was routine. His best moments were when it used to rain. Delhi, the capital of India, experienced timely rain and those days were bliss. The sound of raindrops on the leaves was music for his ears. Plants dancing to the tune of the wind was an arresting sight. Everything seemed alive and looked attuned to Nature. He felt good in this house. Mr. Diwedi was a retired criminal lawyer and his life was surrounded with danger. This was enough reason for him to stay a bachelor. In his lifespan of 65 years Bimal was the 3rd cook. He was hired only when the previous cook had died due to terminal illness. Bimal’s job was safe till his death; he somehow knew this in the heart of hearts. Mr. Diwedi was a balanced and good employer. Spoke very little but whenever he did Bimal had learned a lot. 

Bimal’s parents couldn’t see him flourish as they died before he got his first job at Diwedi’s house. It was an unfortunate death as a nasty freeloader belonging to an elite family had crushed them to death while driving a very expensive car. The eyewitnesses were bought and the person had gone scot free. This had happened in Kanpur, which is a financial capital in the state of Uttar Pradesh in Northern India. For Bimal the incident was still fresh though three years had passed. Mr. Diwedi’s voice had not reached his ears as Bimal had frozen at the sight of his parent’s killer walking down that lane he so loved. God was playing with him yet again by bringing that figure he loathed in front of his eyes. Everything flooded his mind in seconds. The court visits, his denying and that arrogance that he can get away with anything had defined his body language years back. 

Bimal couldn’t believe his eyes. The man he hated deeply was having a limp now. Blood was flowing from his head. The ears had got drenched with his blood. It was a Saturday and most of the vicinity folks were away vacationing. Post 9 pm the main road normally wore a deserted look. Bimal was as usual boiling the vegetables for Mr. Diwedi’s soup. When he had looked up while closing the lid the street light had acted as a sunbeam on his tormentor’s face. By his gait it conveyed that he only had a few minutes on this Earth. His tormentor fell to the ground and raised his hand as if he was confessing about his crime to an invisible spirit. Humans play it in their head subconsciously whatever they truly want. It was happening in front of his eyes finally. Bimal was not hallucinating or was he?

Bimal left the house and started walking towards the fallen man. Mr. Diwedi didn’t even notice that he was all alone as the soup was delectable. Bimal felt his heartbeat rising. Shards of glass stuck in his tormentor’s skin shimmered in the street light. His first instinct was to press them deeper in Kapil’s skin. The rage within made him sweat profusely. Pin drop silence filled the air as if the universe had conspired for this moment. The stench of blood nauseated Bimal when he sat near Kapil for a closer look. Bloodshot eyes met each other finally when Kapil struggled to look at his sitting companion. Horror, repentance, forgiveness appeal and embarrassment filled his face. Bimal’s eyes just kept looking at him with no emotion. The moment was frozen forever. 

To Kapil’s astonishment Bimal took out a soft cloth from his shirt pocket and started wiping the blood from his face in the most gentlest of manners. This was so new for Bimal too. After cleaning his face he stroked Kapil’s hair without any fidgeting, contempt, or unease. The final hours were turning out to be unpredictable for both men.