You.

She willed herself to not check her phone to see if he had replied. It had been about three days now. She hated that she was constantly checking his 'last seen at' status and yes, he had logged in just five minutes ago. Yet she couldn't stop herself. This sinking feeling to find absolutely no communication from him was becoming unbearable, almost torturous.
And then, just as she sat down in her chair, her phone vibrated. With her heart thudding in her ear, she unlocked her phone and stared at the screen. Finally! It was his message.
But when she opened it and read it, she nearly stopped breathing. She didn't know ifhe was joking or not. What was this?
“Look to your left.” It read.

The massive crowd of Kolkata Metro, especially this time of the day made it almost impossible to move your head, let alone spotting someone in the midst of it. But from the corner seat, she somehow managed to look up, to the left, and among many unfamiliar faces, she found the familiar one. Gobsmacked, she was. She didn’t understand. He should be in another country, riding a train to grand central may be, but there he was, standing in the jostle of Metro crowd, with no trace of worry on his face. He was smiling.
A hearty smile, was the first thing she remembered that ensured that she falls for him. And when he flashed that enticing heart-stealing smile of his one more time, she knew that it’ll take a lifetime, maybe more to get over him.
“Hey.” She tried to shout, but the buzzing sound of the rail ensured that never reaches his ears. He waved his hands, asking her where she’d get off. She pointed, the next station. They both got down from the train.
“You’re supposed to be in USA right now. What are you doing here?” she asked as soon as she got the chance.
“I changed my mind.” He said, still smiling.
“What?” She still was in an awe.
“Are you hungry? I’m starving. Let’s go get something to eat.” And before she could answer something, he took her hand and started dragging. He was always like this. The youngest child of the legendary ‘Chowdhury’ house of Shyambazar. Always doing what he wanted. He wanted to study commerce, so he did. He wanted to pursue economics, and he did. He wanted to do his masters from
abroad, and he got in. But now, he wanted to not go, so he didn’t. Adamant, persistent, there isn’t an adjective with similar meaning that can’t define him. And she, on the other hand, was the calmer one. Music, art and poetry that interested her more than numbers.
They were childhood friends. Their parents were business partners. Though the business never worked out, but their friendship did. And with that came thousand memories.

“Mitra café?” He asked. She nodded.
In came the famous kabiraji and cutlet.
“Will you tell me, or do I have to ask again?” she said, taking a bite.
“Tell you what?” He replied, instantaneously.
“Sounak…” she warned him, rolling her eyes.
“Okay okay. Ask me, what do you want to know?”
“Why are you still here?” She asked.
“Because I never got in the plane.” He said, paying no heed to her curiosity and concentrating solely on his mutton.
“Why?” she almost shouted.
He gobbled the meat, put down his knife and fork, looked up to her, and replied reluctantly –
“Because I didn’t want to.”
“I don’t understand. You scored the highest marks in your college. You got into the University of your choice. You even secured a grant. Then why are you backing off?” She still was confused. “Because I belong here. This is my home, and I can’t leave my home.” He said.
He was a rational man, or so she thought. She never knew he could take such a decision purely based upon emotions.
"You had your life planned. It was perfect. Why would you abandon it? Just because you’ll be away from home?" she asked.
“Yeah pretty much. I realized I could never leave Kolkata.” He replied, still on his cutlet.
“What?” she tried to understand him.
“Wow I didn’t know that Kolkata means so much to you.” She said. Again he put down his fork and replied in a disturbed tone -
“Why won’t it? It is like the oldest companion I have. It has seen me being born. It has seen how in lazy Sundays I curl up in the front porch and listen to Manna Dey. It has seen me in my best, and in my worst. It has seen my cricket playing phase, my pink floyd loving phase, my long beard, short hair. It has seen me grow. My first friend, first math book, first school dress, first guitar, first cigarette, first parker pen, it has given me all my firsts. I know in its lanes like they were veins running through in back of my palm…”
“But is a city enough to hold you off your dreams?” she cut him midway.
“Dreams change Divya, and so do we.” He said.
“So you want me to believe that the love of a city changed you?” She asked.
“But you know it’s not solely about the city. It’s the people that changed me. You know, just a few days ago, when I was all set to go, Baba came into my room, my things were packed. The room never seemed so big. He came and sat on my bed, and in a shaky voice, he told me how proud he was. But never, not for once had he looked me in the eye. I knew the reason when I saw a tiny drop of tear escaping his eyes.
Later, when I told him I won’t go, I again saw another drop of tear finding its way out. This time he didn’t tell me how proud he was, instead he scolded me. But believe me, more than words could explain, the difference between those teardrops explained the truth. He never wanted me to go.”
A silence prevailed. She had known him for the most of her life, but had never seen this side of him. And the strangest part is she couldn’t make how she should feel. Shattered? Because he’s throwing his life away just like that. Or happy? Because at least now he will always be in her sight? Ever since childhood, she was madly in love with him, but never had the courage to confront. For she realized that numbers and figures are more important for him than flowers and kisses. But this new found side of him shook her beliefs from the root. She thought she knew him. But now she doubted that. She realized all she ever knew was a fraction of him, maybe the larger one, but it still was a fraction. The fraction he let her see. The fraction he himself unveiled to her, and the fraction she unveiled of him. He was far too real to be bounded by a finite number of adjectives, she thought. “If you’re not going, then what are you going to do here? Are you applying in colleges? for your masters?”  She tried to understand him, the most she could. “No.” he replied.
“Then?” she inquired. A strange smile tuned up on his face. His eyes danced in the rhythm of excitement.
“Well, I’m thinking of starting the restaurant again.” He said.
“Are you serious?” her face lighted up. It was the same restaurant that her and his fathers opened jointly.
“Yeah. I mean think about it. The restaurant has been shut down for year. Yet our fathers never thought of it to sell.” He said.
“But it didn’t run well the first time it was opened? What made you think that it’ll run good this time? And have you spoken to your baba about it? I don’t know about him, but I know my Dad. He’ll be tough to convince.” She almost shouted. The mere idea of opening the long lost restaurant was exciting for her too. She had so many childhood memories there. And besides when he is so excited, it’s tough not to be excited. After all, excitement is a contagious emotion. “I believe, if I can convince them to let me have it, then I can make it work. I’ve done a detailed research of how much it would cost, and how profitable it would be if it is operated with patience and precision.” He said, flashing a smile. “I have faith in you. I know you can do it.” She smiled.
They finished their plates. The waiter came in with a bill in his hands. Sounak put a five hundred rupees note in the booklet and said, “Divya…” “Yes?” she replied.
“Apart from Kolkata, baba, and everything else, there was another reason why even when reaching the airport, I could not get in the airplane.”
“What reason?” She asked, trying to think what other reason it could be.

He replied with a smile, "The reason is..."

Source: here.

Al dente : Part 4

She burst into a chuckle. “Shivani… Shivani Dey.” She said, extending her hand towards the chef.
“It is very nice to meet you Shivani”, chef held her hand and shook it firmly.
“My name is Joe, and as you can see, I’m the chef here.” He said, flashing his teeth out.
“So, what were you saying, about helping me?” Shivani asked, this time.
“No offense intended, Chef Joe, but I find it hard to believe that you know about writing so much, that you can inspire me!” Shivani said. Now she was in the game. And she was, not at all, intimidated by Joe.

“Yes, Yes. Signora. Though I know a little about that stuff but I can help you with your writing. I know food, and you, believe it or not, good food and good stories, have more in common than you and me.” He said, in the same old, ridiculously charming way.

Shivani couldn’t resist but smile all along. If she listened carefully, all he was saying were gibberish. But to her that tiny decorous room, his contagious positive vibe, everything made sense. She knew, even if whatever he was saying was completely meaningless, it was meaningful to him, and hence, worth listening.

He continued. “You know I wasn’t a chef all along.  I was a banker. I had a really well-paying job in USA. I was staying in Silicon Valley. My life was perfect, in a materialistic way. But I wanted something more out of my job, rather than money. I wanted satisfaction. I wanted to feel the pride of creating something and bringing happiness on people’s face. And numbers couldn’t satisfy my needs. So I had to leave the job. And I had this knack for cooking since I was young. So I joined a restaurant, as a line chef. Then I was promoted to sous chef, and then finally I joined this one as an executive chef. And now, I enjoy what I do. I see people smiling when they have a bite of my food, and then I know that I’m happy with what I’m doing right now.” Joe said looking at Shivani, who was lost in his food, with a smile on her face.

She looked up, mesmerized. “Everyone dreams to do what you did. But not many can actually do it: to quit a job, and pursue your passion.”
“Why not? That’s my point? Why can’t they? What are they afraid of? Acceptance in the society? First you need to accept yourself, then the society will. Else you’ll be just a lost stone in the desert of a rat race.”  His face turned pinkish red.
Shivani already finished her egg, and now she devoured herself into the hot chocolate. She looked up from her plate to ask- “So what were you saying? Something stories and food…?”

“Ohh yeah. I’m sorry. I have this bad habit of drifting away from the topic.” He chuckled.

“See, good food and a good story is somehow similar. Let me give you an example. Let’s take pasta for an example. You like pasta right?” Joe asked.
“Of course, who, in Italy doesn’t like pasta?” Shavani said.

“Great. So, you see, there are different types of pasta: Tortellini, Penne, Farfalle, Spaghetti and many more. Each and every pasta has different taste and different preparations. In the same way, there are different types of stories. Mystery, Romantic, Science-fiction, and whatnot.” He said. Excitement was oozing out of his eyes.

“And for each story, there should be distinctive types of characters. Likewise, for every pasta dish, there are different ingredients.” He smiled.

“You see, but what brings together the pasta is the sauce. And what brings together a story is the emotions that are attached with the words.” His eyes sparkled as he spoke.

Shivani finished her drink and was now submerged into thoughts. What he was explaining was making her think of her story from a very unusual and ‘delicious’ point of view.

“I’ve been working as a chef for a long time now. And you see, the secret of making a pasta is in the making of the actual pasta. You let it boil first, and when you see the pasta floating in the bubbling water, you take them out.
We have a phrase in our profession. ‘Al dente’. It denotes the cook on the pasta. When a pasta is perfectly cooked, to the point of perfection, it is said to be al dente. Now, I can’t relate this to storytelling, but maybe you can” He flashed the same old charming smile.

That morning was like any other mornings in Rome. As divine as any other. The people were as jolly as ever. The unstoppable cold-war, between modernity and heritage, was as evident as any other day. And Shivani, well it was like any other morning until she met the chef of a nameless restaurant in the streets of Rome. But that morning, finally she met someone, with whom, she could talk for hours. For the first time since she stepped onto the soil of Italy, she wasn’t missing her home. Instead she was glad, that she could step out and see the world, all by herself. She met someone who knew the true meaning of passion. And maybe she’ll miss another deadline, but she knew, whatever she writes, she will write with all her heart. And as far as her ‘own’ story is concerned; well, thanks to a proficient chef, it will be ‘Al dente’.

Source : here.

P.S.- You can read the previous parts of the story :

• "Al dente : Part 1" from here.
• "Al dente : Part 2" from here.
• "Al dente : Part 3" from here.

Author's Note :  I am overjoyed to see the responses to my posts. So here's something new and exciting for the readers. 'Al Dente' is a series. I'll be posting it part by part. Drop in your comments to encourage this new endeavor. Thanks in advance. Keep supporting. :) 

Al dente : Part 3

“Yes.” she said.
“I ordered a plate of scrambled eggs. And you gave me a plate of eggs with tomatoes and some weird looking green things and…”
He cut her midways, before she could complete her sentence.
“They are called kale, dear, and they are healthy for you.” He flashed a grim expression.
“Okay! But why is my plate full of cheese?” she asked in an angry tone.

“Because that’s the way we Italians like to have our scrambled eggs. What’s the point of eating a plate of plain and boring eggs when you can have it in a delicious way! That’s up on the front board. We serve only delicious food here.” He stated.
“And this…” pointing towards the melting cheese he said, “This is happiness. Haven’t you heard what a photographer says when he clicks a portrait? He says, ‘cheese’. Cheese means happiness, cheese means laughter. Have you seen anyone eat, or even say, cheese with a sad face? No! ” He shrugged.

His imbecile explanation somehow made sense to Shivani. A smile lingered over her face as she heard him talking more about how much he loves his cheeses.

“You haven’t even tried it yet. Did you?” he asked.
Shivani realized, she has been so distracted by the tomatoes and kales that she didn’t even had a single bite. She picked up the spoon, which was lying idle on her table since the moment she walked in, and dig into the platter. She tried to heap on all the elements on one tea spoon, making it overflow with the melting cheese and shove it into her mind. That taste! That perfect combination of sweet, savoury, citric flavour from the lime juice and that cheese, it really brings the dish together. It would be an understatement if she didn’t say that this was the best scrambled eggs she'd ever had.

She looked up to the chef. He was eagerly tring to analyse her expression, crossing his arms over his chest.
“It’s delicious.” She said, with hesitation.
His face lit up with pride, as he looked at her with an ‘I-told-you-so’ expression, but kept mum.

“I’m sorry. I’m just having a rough week. I shouldn’t have disturbed you.” She said, making a sad face.
“Ahh! Don’t worry about me. My shift is over anyway.” He said, stripping away his apron.
“And moreover I’ve been working here for the past three years and you are the first customer who summoned me to criticise my food. Usually, people do that to say how delicious it is. You intrigue me!” He chuckled, making gestures in the air.

She loved this about Italian people. They talk with their body. As if their body is in sync with their mouth. And that makes them more convincing. They speak their minds, and it shows.
Same goes with the chef, when he was angry, it showed. And now he was pleasantly surprised, and it was showing.

“So what’s your story?” He asked, neatly folding his apron and placing it on the table.
“My story?” Shivani asked, confused.
“Yes! Signora. Your story. I mean on a beautiful sunny morning like this, you are sitting alone with a notebook and a pencil box. What are you, an artist?” He asked, pulling the chair next to her and making himself comfortable.

His eyes sparkled as he spoke. And that spark was telling Shivani that there was something very engaging about him, something very alluring. And that mystery was attracting her to have this conversation even if she didn’t want to.

“No. I’m an author. I’m just trying to write a story. But nothing inspires me enough to write about.” Shivani explained her misery.
“Maybe I can help with that. But only if you tell me your name.” The chef grinned charmingly. Flashing a smile so enchanting that no one can ever say no to.

To be continued...

Source: here.

P.S.- You can read the previous parts of the story :

• "Al dente : Part 1" from here.
• "Al dente : Part 2" from here.

Author's Note :  I am overjoyed to see the responses to my posts. So here's something new and exciting for the readers. 'Al Dente' is a series. I'll be posting it part by part. Drop in your comments to encourage this new endeavour. Thanks in advance. Keep supporting. :) 

Al dente : Part 2

One fine morning, she decided to take a break from the job. She took out a month just to embrace the city and to write. She knew that her this decision will hamper her career as a fashion designer, but she was ready to make that sacrifice, to write.

Ever since she came there, Shivani didn’t have the chance to roam around Rome. In the first week, all she did was to explore the city. She went to  the Colosseum, St Peter’s Basilica, Santa Maria and all the places she wanted to see but couldn’t because of her tight schedule.

She wandered through the narrow, winding streets to the vast lonely roads, just in search of muse. She went to the countryside, tasted some wine; she even went to the busiest corners of the city in search of inspiration. Stories, which were crippling around her head, were nowhere to be found. That is one thing about art; it comes naturally. If you don’t execute an idea when it is blooming, you’ll lose it for sure. And you can’t force an idea into execution. To be able to execute an art, is an art itself.

And with the first week gone, she was nowhere near around starting to pen down a story. Panic found its way through her ambition. She had only three weeks left of her deadline, and she was yet to write a single word.

No matter how beautiful Roman mornings are, when you’re stuck in a condition such as Shivani, instead of embracing the beauty, you’d start hating it. How can a city filled with multicultural people, with their own sets of problems, be so calm? It feels like Yoga when you wake up in the early morning and have a look around. People are in rush, but they are not chaotic. Everything seems so serene, so romantic!

‘Urg!’ frustration was getting the better of her. ‘I need to start writing. And I need to start writing today.’ she thought. After a quick fresh up, she grabbed her notebook, her box full of pens, and the keys to her bicycle, and left for an unknown destination. She crossed some roads, riding past some parks, and finally reached to a weary but opulent white building. There was something sumptuous about the simplicity of that place. Something was scribbled in Italian, which, if roughly translated be said as ‘Delicious food’.

Shivani parked her bike, and went inside the building. She had heard of this place. People say the ambience is so calm here, that you can almost hear the chirping noises of the birds outside. And the food here, is literally ‘Delicious’.

A waiter, dressed in vibrant white welcomed her with a typical "Ciao" and escorted her to a table of two. The place was almost full. Though morning was getting over and sun was scorching high above, but inside, she felt a decent morning breeze. Two minutes inside, and she could feel the place charming its charisma. “One plate of scrambled eggs. And one cup of Cioccolata Calda” she ordered, trying hard to pronounce ‘cioccolata’ as the Italians do. ‘Why can’t they just call it hot chocolate? After all that is what cioccolata calda is!' she chuckled.

As soon as the waiter left, she took out her notebook and started gazing outside. All she could think about was her home in Kolkata. Life there is so different. There was this closeness to earth that she used to feel when she was in India. Everything was not for a reason. She could do anything she wanted, anytime she wanted. But here in Rome, when she’s finally facing the world, she always feels like she is chained. Unknown shackles of responsibility and pressure were somehow extracting the closeness from her. She felt detached.

“Your scrambled eggs and Cicolata calda, signora.” the waiter said.

She withdrew her graze from nowhere, and looked at the plate.

“Why are there tomatoes in my scramble?”  She asked softly, still lost in thoughts of home.

“Pardon me signora, I can’t understand you.” The waiter replied.

“I ordered scrambled eggs! And this is something with tomatoes and some green things. What is this thing?” Shivani said, flustered.

“I apologise, madam. Do you want me to call the chef for you?” the waiter said. He didn’t have a clue.

“Yes. Please call him.” She ordered.

The waiter went inside the kitchen, and Shivani heard as he and the chef yelled something in Italian. And a gentleman emerged through the gate and approached towards Shivani. He was dressed in a black full sleeved tee-shirt and denim blue jeans. And a white apron was kissing his body like a wrapper wrapped neatly onto a gift.He had long hair that was tied into a not-so-long ponytail. By the looks of him, she figured he was about her age: somewhere between late twenties and early thirties. He folded his sleeves up to his elbow as he came forward. He rested his arms on her table, and leaned towards her. "So you have a problem with my food?" he asked in a typical Italian accent.

To be continued... 

Source: here.

P.S.- You can read the previous part of the story : "Al dente : Part 1" from here.
         You can read the next part of the story : "Al dente : Part 3" from here.

Author's Note :  I am overjoyed to see the responses to my posts. So here's something new and exciting for the readers. 'Al Dente' is a series. I'll be posting it part by part. Drop in your comments to encourage this new endeavour. Thanks in advance. Keep supporting. :) 

Al Dente : Part 1

The mornings in Rome are just divine. It is said that Rome is the eternal city, and a sunny morning like that is just another evidence. It has withstood over 2700 years and like an old, wise grandparent. Despite of its wrinkly frontispiece, Rome still blooms with pride. But with every passing day, new buildings and skyscrapers that withheld themselves, maybe out of intimidation of the history and culture of Rome, is making their way through. Like sun-rays creep through holes on the wooden wall and brightens any dark room, these multiplexes lift the heritage of Rome and with care and love, sand was slowly incorporating modernity.

Shivani was elated when she got to know that she had to shift to Rome for her new job in fashion designing. Though she had never been away from her parents, but this was an offer that she just could not turn down. She admired everything about Italy, and more precisely, Rome. Renaissance, Michelangelo and Italian cuisine. What’s there to not love? And being an author of three romantic novels, Rome was highlighted on her wish-list.

But things look prettier in the head, than they are in reality. A vacation in Rome was she always dreamt of. But to work, to dwell in the daily life of a foreign country that is thousands of miles away from her home, was not as serene as she thought it would be. And to add to her misery, her publisher was pushing her constantly to write another chick-lit, for her fan-base was dying to read from her again. It has been two years since she had penned down a book. And if she doesn’t write now, she may lose her fan following. She’ll be just another author who was lost in the crowd. But her dreams were to stand aside from the crowd. Not just aside, but above. She wants to touch the sky. Feel the furious breeze and to see water droplets evaporating and then making love on the cloud. She wanted to see the whole world drenching in rain from up above her cloud. And she was succeeding. She had already written a trilogy before finishing graduate school, and was nominated for various awards. She loved writing so much that writing loved her back.

Everything was going as planned, until she moved to Rome. Now she was regretting her decision to some extent. Her routine was exploited during the process, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t take out time to write. Stories were crawling inside her mind like worms, but she couldn’t get them out on a piece of paper. Not because she lacked the expertise, but because time was becoming her worst enemy.

To be continued... 

Source: here.

Author's Note :  I am overjoyed to see the responses to my posts. So here's something new and exciting for the readers. 'Al Dente' is a series. I'll be posting it part by part. Drop in your comments to encourage this new endeavour. Thanks in advance. Keep supporting. :) 

P.S.- You can read the next part of the story : "Al dente : Part 2" from here.