Junak Baruah wants to win the prestigious short film competition in his university. But with hundreds of participants and a stellar jury on board, winning means making a film that's never been made before.
And that means breaking the rules and taki...
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"Jun."
Junak looked up from the laptop and his heart skipped a beat at the sight of Dikhou standing at the door, a hand propped up on the wooden frame. Junak bit the inside of his cheek to keep his expression neutral. "Dikhou?" The name tasted sweet, seductively melting on his tongue.
Dikhou gave him a small smile. "Do you... want to cook dinner with me tonight?"
I will do anything with you tonight. Junak solemnly kept aside the laptop and folded his hands on his lap. "Cook dinner?"
Dikhou's shrug was uncertain. "Ma is inviting you – well, your family, everyone, to dinner. And I'm cooking the duck so I thought – I mean, no one will be there," he added hastily, "apart from our families."
It stung, being back into hiding, but Junak was the one who had set this rule so he brushed past it and said, "Wait, you're asking your guest to cook?"
Dikhou visibly relaxed. "Well, I'm asking the guest to be my cooking assistant."
"Assistant?" Junak feigned offence.
Dikhou smiled. "Unless you know how to make duck for twenty people."
"Geez."
Dikhou let out his classic soundless laugh. "Hence, assistant."
"Will I need a costume?" Junak was only kidding, but the way Dikhou bit his lip and averted his gaze made Junak blush profusely. He waved a hand in front of his face and said, "Yes, yes. I'll do it." He picked up the laptop and pretended to work so as to not lose his cool.
In hindsight, Junak would realise how, if he wanted to not lose his cool, he should not have said yes.
Because Dikhou bent over an open fire, in a body-fitting t-shirt that had its sleeves rolled up, was unbelievably hot.
As was their tradition, the dinner was a backyard communal feast that started the moment the sun dipped down the horizon. Though the dinner was on Dikhou's mother, they all sat at Junak's grandparents' backyard, around a bonfire.
It should've been awkward for the two families to be together like this, but something had changed since the day at the hospital.
"I don't think Ma hates your father anymore," Dikhou whispered as he tended to the fire. "I don't think she ever really hated him, you know? It's Deuta she's mad at but you can't hate the dead."
"What about you?" Junak asked.
"I told you." The yellow flames caught on the wood and Dikhou stepped back, dusting his hands. "I don't think anyone was at fault."
Goddamn him.
Junak looked down at all the vegetables arranged on large utensils on the ground. He propped an aluminium plate on his lap and began peeling the potatoes. Dikhou sat in front of him, marinating the meat.
