Jaan-e-Azlan❤

34

The soft hum of the air conditioner filled the quiet apartment as Mantasha settled onto the sofa, clutching the remote in her hand. Her hair was still damp from the shower, tied loosely back, and she had slipped into a simple cotton kurta. For the first time since their arrival, the silence of the place pressed around her.

To distract herself, she flicked on the TV. Channels shifted past her eyes until she paused on a lifestyle program where a cheerful woman stood in a brightly lit kitchen. She was explaining a recipe with practiced ease, chopping vegetables, frying spices, and plating the dish beautifully.

Mantasha watched absentmindedly at first, but then the woman’s words caught her attention: “Homemade food is love. Nothing feels better for a husband than knowing his wife has cooked something healthy, especially when he works long hours and comes home tired. Eating outside food too often gives stomach problems. Take care of him the way he deserves.”

The sentence struck her like a small spark. Mantasha froze, remote still in her hand. Her gaze slowly shifted away from the screen as her thoughts turned to Azlan.

She remembered the way he had once casually mentioned, during a family dinner, that he didn’t particularly enjoy restaurant food—it was too oily, too heavy. He preferred simple, homemade meals. He hadn’t said it in a demanding way, just as a matter of fact. But somehow, that memory surfaced now, and it wouldn’t leave her.

Mantasha’s fingers tightened around the remote. He must be at the office, working… stressed. And what will he come back to? An empty table? Me just sitting here, waiting?

She bit her lip nervously. Cooking had never been her strength. At home, she had always managed to escape the kitchen, helping here and there but never really learning properly. She thought of the gleaming, modern kitchen just a few steps away. The very idea of stepping into it felt daunting.

But then another thought whispered back: Maybe I can try. For him. Just once. Even something small.

Her heart beat faster at the decision. She grabbed her phone, quickly opening the browser. “Easy recipes for beginners,” she typed, scrolling through the search results. Dozens of pictures appeared—pastas, fried rice, sandwiches, curries. Her eyes darted nervously, searching for something that didn’t look too complicated.

Finally, she paused at a recipe titled: “Simple Chicken Curry for Beginners.” The ingredients were basic—chicken, onions, tomatoes, a few spices. Mantasha read through it carefully, exhaling slowly. This… maybe I can manage this.

With hesitant steps, she entered the kitchen. The spotless counters, the neatly arranged shelves, the unfamiliar appliances all made her feel even more out of place. She opened the fridge and found some chicken already stocked. Relief washed over her—at least she didn’t have to figure out shopping.

She placed everything she needed on the counter, tying her dupatta tighter as though bracing for battle.

“Bismillah…” she whispered under her breath, picking up the knife.

The onions were the first challenge. Within minutes, her eyes were burning, tears streaming uncontrollably as she chopped uneven pieces. She sniffled and muttered, half-annoyed, “How do people even do this every day?” Still, she pressed on.

The oil sizzled loudly when she added the onions, and she jumped back in fright, nearly dropping the spoon. Her hands trembled, but she stirred slowly, watching the onions soften and turn golden.

Step by step, she followed the recipe—adding ginger-garlic paste, then tomatoes, mashing them clumsily, sprinkling spices with a careful but uncertain hand. The smell that began to rise surprised her. It wasn’t perfect, but it wasn’t terrible either.