After a long day at work, I finally step back into my apartment. The quiet hum of the street outside fades as I shut the door, leaving me in my own little world. I shrug off my backpack, let it fall on the couch, and sigh, running a hand through my hair. The meeting today still lingers in my mind, along with that awkward stumble over my words. It's a small thing, just a few seconds of hesitation, but I keep replaying it like it was some massive failure. "Stop it, Keshav," I mutter to myself. Everyone’s probably forgotten it already.
I need a distraction, something to ground me back into my own space. Cooking always helps. Not that I’m a master chef or anything, but there’s something comforting about the rhythm of it—the chopping, the simmering, the way the kitchen fills with familiar smells. Tonight, I’m craving something simple and hearty. And something that reminds me of home.
I decide to make aloo gobi—potato and cauliflower curry. I know it’s not the fanciest dish, but it’s warm, filling, and doesn’t require much thought. Plus, it’s a taste of home, the kind of thing my mother used to make on weeknights. I can almost hear her saying, "The trick is in the masala, beta," with that smile she always had when she was trying to pass on a recipe.
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I head into the kitchen, tying on an apron I found at a flea market years ago. The fabric is faded and has this odd pattern of little pineapples. It’s ridiculous, but it makes me smile every time I see it. First, I gather the ingredients I’ll need: potatoes, cauliflower, tomatoes, onions, and a mix of spices—cumin, coriander, turmeric, red chili powder, and garam masala.
I peel the potatoes, feeling a familiar calm settle over me as I cut them into cubes. There’s something satisfying about the repetitive motions, the soft resistance of the knife against the potato. Then, I break apart the cauliflower into bite-sized florets, their white pieces scattering over the cutting board. I move on to the onion, finely chopping it, though my eyes start stinging halfway through. Even now, after years of doing this, onions still get to me.
Once everything’s prepped, I pour a little oil into the pan and wait for it to heat up, enjoying the gentle sizzle as I add in a few cumin seeds. The smell hits me instantly—earthy, warm, like something ancient and comforting. I toss in the onions, listening to them crackle and pop, stirring until they turn a soft golden brown. I add the tomatoes next, letting them soften and release their juices, creating the base of the curry.
As I add in the spices—turmeric, red chili powder, coriander—I’m careful with the amounts. Too much chili powder, and I’ll be sweating through my shirt by the end of dinner. My mother always said that cooking was about balance, about finding that perfect mix where the flavors don’t overpower each other. I give everything a good stir, then add the potatoes and cauliflower, coating them in the spicy, fragrant masala.
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The kitchen fills with the smell of home, and for a moment, I feel like I’m back in my mother’s kitchen, her voice filling the space, the radio playing softly in the background. I wonder if she’d be proud of how far I’ve come, even though I live alone in a city far from the family.
I add a splash of water to the pan, then cover it with a lid, letting the vegetables cook. It’ll take about 15 minutes, maybe more if the potatoes are stubborn. As I wait, I lean against the counter, looking out the small kitchen window. My view isn’t much—a narrow alley, a glimpse of the neighboring apartment block, the occasional cat prowling by. Still, it’s familiar, and in a way, that’s enough.
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While the aloo gobi simmers, I start making rotis. They’re simple enough—just flour, water, and a pinch of salt, mixed together to form a soft dough. I knead it carefully, feeling the cool texture of the dough beneath my fingers, rolling it out into small, thin circles. I heat a pan on the stove, waiting until it’s hot enough to make the rotis puff up with little air bubbles, turning golden-brown and slightly charred in spots.
The whole process feels grounding, like I’m reconnecting with something real and tangible. Food has that power, I guess. It takes you back, reminds you of where you came from, even when everything else feels like it’s changing.
When the aloo gobi is done, I lift the lid, breathing in the rich, spicy aroma. The potatoes are perfectly tender, and the cauliflower has softened just enough to soak up all the flavors. I sprinkle a little garam masala on top for an extra kick and a handful of chopped coriander leaves to finish it off.
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I set the plate on my small dining table, scooping a portion of the aloo gobi onto it, along with a couple of fresh rotis. As I sit down, I feel a small sense of accomplishment, like I’ve created something solid out of a day that felt a bit shaky. I tear off a piece of roti, scooping up some of the curry, and take a bite. The flavors hit just right—the warmth of the spices, the comforting softness of the potatoes, the slight crunch of the cauliflower.
For a moment, I let myself savor it, just the food, the quiet, the sense of familiarity. In the world outside, things are constantly shifting—new projects, new pressures, the endless churn of a life that always seems to want more. But here, in this small, unassuming apartment, with a plate of home-cooked food, I feel… steady. Like I’ve found a little piece of home, even if it’s just for tonight.
As I eat, my mind starts to drift. I think about work, about that meeting today. About Priya’s encouraging smile. She’s always so sure of herself, so at ease with people, with conversations. I wish I could be like that. Maybe if I were a bit more confident, a bit more comfortable in my own skin, I’d feel less out of place. Maybe I’d even be able to talk to people without stumbling over my words, without second-guessing everything I say.
But that’s not who I am, I guess. I’m not the guy who stands out, who takes risks, who charms a room full of strangers. I’m just Keshav, the one who blends in, who sticks to the edges, who finds his comfort in routines and familiar faces.
And yet… lately, there’s been this strange feeling, a sense that maybe, just maybe, there’s more out there for me. It’s unsettling, like a quiet itch at the back of my mind, something I can’t quite ignore. But what would I even do with "more"? The thought alone is exhausting.
With a sigh, I finish my dinner and clear the table, rinsing the dishes and putting everything away. I switch off the lights in the kitchen and make my way to the couch, pulling out my journal from the coffee table drawer. Writing is my way of sorting through everything—the worries, the hopes, the tiny moments that I don’t say out loud.
Tonight, I jot down a few thoughts about the meeting, about Priya’s encouragement, about the aloo gobi and the memory of my mother’s kitchen. And, reluctantly, I let myself write a little about that itch, that vague, restless feeling that I keep pushing aside. I don’t know where it’s coming from or what it means, but putting it down on paper makes it feel a bit more manageable, like it’s not quite so big and overwhelming.
After I’m done, I close the journal, feeling a little lighter. Tomorrow will come, with its routines and expectations and the familiar rhythm of my life. But tonight, at least, I’ve found a small moment of peace, a reminder of who I am and where I Come from.
And for now, that feels like enough.