Dabara Tumbler

What Madam Love Huh!

4. What Madam Love Huh?

Himani exited the bathroom, when delicate tufts of the sunlight had started faltering over the crinkled bed, seeping through her window shields. Sauntering over to the windows, she pushed the screens apart as the balmy, luminous light glistened at her face.

She dumped the used up clothes in the laundry basket and strolled up to her wardrobe, soft whorls of her lush hair skidding over her shoulders.

She singled out her most favorite chef jacket that was tidy, wrinkle free and was hanging—the pearl gray one, with her name embroidered on the breast pocket, that her mom had gifted her as she graduated from the culinary school—it was a neat zip-pocket, grey chef coat that had black colored collars, buttons and cuffs. Standing on her edgy toes, she reached for the matching pair of gray stretch pants, from the top-most shelf and flung it on the bed, over the coat.

Shutting the wardrobe close, Himani brought her everyday backpack to her bed and started sardining her quintessences—the jacket, the pants, her black checked apron that had her hotel's logo printed on it, the white and clean neckerchief, the side towels, her notepad, a thermometer with its box and a pen.

She moved in front of the mirror and snagged a little minute to take a keen and closer look at her twiggy, lank frame. She rallied all the delinquent curls of her hair and nestled them in a knot of a bun. Her face evidenced freshness, walloping excitement, tolerably frenzy and stunted spots of acne spread over her cheeks. And the cheeks were beginning to give mild flushes—she liked to tell herself that it was because of the shower in the hot water she had had, a while ago.

But it wasn't just that to contribute to all the scorching and reddening.

It was going to be a big day. She was going to head the scopious lunch and dinner prep for a bunch of swanky business executives in the kitchen she worked in, right now—it's called the Prego.

It'd been only a few weeks since Himani had been into this kitchen. Previously, she was deputed in an Italian restaurant inside the same hotel.

And her present kitchen was totally an anomaly from her former one.

Her head chef was on off and she was left with this day's prep to be taken care of, accompanied by a batch of young interns in her kitchen.

To Himani, cooking single-handedly did not give as much as terror as having to cook in group and oversee the kitchen, with no help and maintaining patience to incessant calling and questions and complaints.

Zipping up her backpack, she slumped down at her bed gasping a long-winded breath and felt her nape and shoulder starting to stiffen due to the stagnant distress reinforcing her insides. Letting the knots of stress weaving into her muscles, lay off, Himani attempted in slouching herself, a trifling bit.

Labouring some control over her breathing, she could sense it shift from strained, shaky ones to composed, orderly breaths.

She knew she was going to be uptight and irritable in the kitchen today.

She knew her kitchen was going to be filled with the explosion of those young, budding cooks calling her up, 'chef, chef, chef, chef,' for every little move they made.

She knew she was going to work her body and mind off to numb, by the end of the all-day grind.

She knew she hadn't all the poise and sufferance to skirmish through this day, yet willed for it to be secretly present and to prevail, till the evening.

She put on her backpack as she roved out of her bedroom and locked its door. She had already packed Raghav's food as soon as she finished preparing it and had kept it on the kitchen cabinet, for his breakfast and lunch. Although there was only meager time to fix his breakfast and lunch, she did not want to crease herself from the responsibility and devoir she had.