Moyurakhkhi's Cigarettes

9| Lemon Cookies

MS had a butler. Not that he needed one, the man spent most of his time staring listlessly at the gardens in his formals. He was here because having a butler is cool.

"Mr Zafar has called you upstairs today," he stated. I strayed from the bookcase with an odd feeling because we always sat here, in the living room. I followed the middle-aged butler up the stairs, the noise from the busy road outside mitigating. He gracefully swung open the double doors to MS' bedroom.

A walking stick stood beside his bed, dark wood with a golden handle that glinted ominously in the sun.

MS flipped closed the Quran Sharif on his lap. "Eid Mubarak," he greeted. Today was the third day of Eid-ul-Azha, the Islamic festival.

"Eid Mubarak," I said. "You're reading the Quran, wow."

"You know how it is. Age turns people religious," he said, voice feebler than I remembered.

"No, illnesses turn people religious. And age brings illnesses. Anyways, how do you feel? Any improvement?"
It was a stupid question, and MS raised his brow.

"I can't walk, so that's lovely," he gestured to the walking stick.

I swallowed the surge of fear. "Yikes, using contractions? You're a mess."

"Indeed, my dear. Now, where are those chapters?"

"Are you sure? You don't seem well."

He glared at me, and I obediently handed him my laptop, as well as a book he'd asked me to read. I'd had a lot of time to work on it during Eid-ul-Azha vacation.

Putting on his glasses, he carefully peered into the notebook.

I looked around. MS' bedroom was bigger than mine and Tubu's rooms combined. The afternoon sun poured in through a skylight above, dancing mischievously on the desk, almirah and MS' prized houseplants.

"What on Earth?" MS muttered. "You've written here...'her insoluble spirit'?"

"It was supposed to be 'her indomitable spirit', I guess, but I'd been doing Chemistry homework before writing it, I said.

MS smiled wrily.

The butler rolled a silver trolley inside. Everything on it was for me, including a bowl of steaming kala bhuna - a dish from Chittagong, MS' hometown. It was cooked with the sacrificial meat from Eid. While MS read my work, I chewed on the spicy beef curry.

I peered at the floral teapot as warm tea tinkled out of the spout. There were lemon cookies to go with it today, my favourite. I didn't have them half as heartily this time. My eyes kept straying to the walking stick.

MS showed me where I could improve, and nodded encouragingly wherever he noted a clever phrase or two. It was the first draft of my first novel, so you can imagine how much work it was.

He always let me read his work-in-progress, but wouldn't let me see the new book he was writing today. Although beyond exhausted, he wrote on. 

He desperately wants to give the world one last book.

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