lalit.
One could never, never, never go wrong with a little Rui Macher Jhal. Especially after a day of chattering 3 year-olds, 4 year-olds, and 5 year-olds struggled to contain the excitement at the encroaching holiday. With all the rain they had been getting, the school had decided to play it safe and call for a delay— with the possibility of a day off. The news had made its way around the school until it finally reached the LKG hallway. There had been no hope after that. Kindergartners made plans for their extra two hours of freedom and daydreamed about the luxury of sleeping in instead of finding the English capital letters he had painstakingly sprinkled in the fake bowls of alphabet soup.
Honestly, Lalit couldn’t find it in him to blame them. A break would be welcome, especially with the migraine he’d had pulsing behind his eyes this whole week. Snatches of foreign languages and flashes of strange plants and streets and buildings had been dogging him since early last week. Sleep offered no solace. If anything, it only gave him more confusing imagery to chew over. His slow descent into what felt like clinical insanity had him on edge, and really, what better to soothe his frayed nerves than his mother’s famous fish curry.
Hell, maybe the hot peppers and spice would clear out his head and stop from fluent Spanish seamlessly replacing Bengali whenever he cursed.
He cooked by rote, frying fish and adding cumin, turmeric, red chili, and garam masala to his browned onions. He moved with a quiet certainty, and was done within the hour. Whenever he cooked, the noise of the outside world faded away and for an hour or two he was able to carve out a simple quiet space in the noise and ruckus of Kolkata. Lalit quickly plated up his meal and shuffled into his living.
Sinking wearily into the worn cushions of his old, beat up couch he took his first bite, anticipating the full flavor of fish and bite of red and green chili.
Instead, he tasted garlic and chicken and oooookay definitely not his mother’s Rui Macher Jhal. And looking around, definitely not his couch. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed deeply. When he opened his eyes, he was back in his own tiny apartment, but his Jhal was still missing. A sharp intake of breath had him looking across his couch when he saw her.
“Where the hell am I?”
“Ah, well, my…apartment?” Lalit replied, dumbfounded. “And you appear to be holding my Jhal which I would really love to get back.”
He sighed, setting the bowl of…whatever on his coffee table and turned to face this strange woman fully.
“Listen, I am not a wealthy man, so if you’re here to burgle me, I’m afraid you’ll have better luck in another home,” he said. “You seem to be very good at breaking in to homes unnoticed. I don’t blame you. Times are hard. I have more Rui Macher Jhal in the kitchen if you need…”
He paused, taking in her face more fully— the elegant nose, the deep brown of her eyes, her aura radiating poise even as confused as she appeared to be.
“I… I know you. I know you somehow, don’t I?”
his honesty startled her, direct and unaffected. even though he appeared to be right, and they were in his apartment ( it certainly wasn’t her home ) he reacted not with accusations, as he had every right to do, but with a confusion so mild in temperament it caught elisa off guard. she should have been anxious, but something in his voice kept her calm. and he was right, after all --- when she looked down in her lap, she saw a plate of what appeared to be some sort of fish had replaced her aji. “oh.” the noise was less intentional, more a subdued utterance of surprise. she placed the dish on the coffee table as he had, apprehensively, as though at any moment it might transform into something even more ominous.
antsy, she rose, less comfortable reclining languidly in a stranger’s home than she was in her own, and perhaps curious, too. “i’m not here to steal from you,” she assured him, the corners of her lips twitching at the idea as her gaze drifted throughout the small space. “in fact, i’m not sure i’m actually here at all.” eyes like wells drank in the sight, the strange unfamiliar that tugged at her mind like half-buried memories. a photograph caught her eye --- the man on the couch, though a few years younger, it seemed, with two girls who must be his sisters. all beaming broad grins. she could feel the warmth of the memory.
he was right again, though her rationality ached to admit it. “somehow…” she echoed in agreement, puzzlement pressing her lips into a tight line. she studied the photograph for a moment longer, trying to reconcile the faces of three strangers with the rush of affection she felt for the girls, the unfamiliar sensation of responsibility. the books in the room were decidedly strange, too --- they weren’t written in english, or any language she spoke, and yet she could read the titles with ease. turning back to him, she met his gaze apprehensively, still unprepared for the shock. it felt like looking in the mirror for the first time since getting a new haircut, familiar and yet entirely alien. “i’ve seen you before,” she told him, though it hardly answered their questions, trying to sound more confident than she was. “i’m elisa,” she offered after a moment. it seemed absurd, but if she was invading his home, she might as well introduce herself.

















