Restored Faith

Your brain somehow manages to guide your feet to walk up the flight of stairs as your mind wanders in a deep pool of thought. With every step, your hands move like a pendulum yet lack the energy they gain when you stride. In a brief blink you reach the platform and stand with countless others awaiting the train.

Your boss’ words keep ringing in your ears like a mosquito you cannot get rid of. ‘You’ve lost your mind, Vir. I will not have my restaurant lose its reputation because of your incompetence in cooking. Go home, and don’t come back till you get your shit together.’ Suddenly the ringing was drowned out by the loud horn of the arriving train. Then the usual hustle and bustle, somehow you get a place to stand. In the train, your brain feels like a Ziploc bag filled with trash getting squished from all sides. Thankfully, you only have to travel one station.

After getting out at Parle, you drag yourself to your house. You cannot think straight but need to practice cooking. You give a look at all the ingredients for you need to get better. The fruits and vegetables look like bullies staring at you as if to say, ‘Well, get started you incompetent dimwit.’

You divert your eyes and head to the bathroom. Your reflection makes you feel worse. It seems to tell you what a mess you are. Ruffled hair, a forehead with more lines than a notebook, tired eyes and your lips forming a rainbow (without the pretty colors). Your face feels like nothing more than melted wax. You splash water on your face, shake your head like a dog and try to awaken the dead muscles. You fling the door open and head out of your bathroom. 

Halfway toward your kitchen your heart crumbles and you collapse to the floor. The already wet face does a good job at camouflaging the tears. As you lie on the floor, wallowing in self- doubt, your phone rings. Your unfocused ears hear the ring a second late than usual. Slowly, you lift your body up and walk toward the sound. Without bothering to see the name, you pick it up

‘Hello,’ you say in a tone without any life

‘Vir… Is something wrong?’

‘I didn’t even say anything,’

‘I’ve been meaning to talk with you for a few days. You seem to be in a bad mood for almost two weeks and your ‘hello’ sounded like the first note of moonlight sonata. Anyways tell me what’s wrong,’

‘Priya, what if I’m not meant to be a cook?’

‘What made you think that? Of course you are,’

‘My boss yelled at me today. He said that I’ve lost my mind and I need to improve.’

‘Did this happen today?’

‘Yes,’

‘So, why have you been acting weird for so many days?’

You think for a moment, about what caused your fall, ‘This customer criticized my cooking and said that it was really bad about two weeks ago and… I tried to change and improve but it did not work. My colleagues told me that the quality of my food had downgraded and then my boss… I was already not alright and then he yelled at me and told me to improve. When he saw that I couldn’t, he yelled more,’ The tears increased,

‘So, what you mean to say is that the problems started after some customer didn’t like your food and you fell into a bad mood,’

‘Well, yes I think. But he didn’t like it and so I thought…’

‘Vir, there will always be someone who won’t like your cooking, you cannot please everyone, all you can try to do is please the majority. Look what he did wasn’t criticize, it was just insulting. Do you remember our first anniversary?’

‘Yes, I do,’

‘You made that beautiful dish. I knew after eating it that you would be a great chef one day.’

Your eyes open wide, in memory of that night. The way you poured your heart and soul when making the every dish you made. You didn’t fear the ingredients. You loved them

‘I loved cooking. That’s why I did it,’

‘Yes you loved it. If you couldn’t cook, would you ever get that job,’

‘I wouldn’t get it. If that customer didn’t like my food, he needs to change his taste, not my cooking. It is my cooking, my style and I love it,’

‘Yes Vir, yes! You have been so passionate about cooking all your life. I remember you said something that night on our anniversary, about how cooking is like edible art. You need to pour yourself into it. If you aren’t tasty…’

‘Your food won’t be,’ both of you say at the same time.

You start smiling

‘Oh Priya I hope you’re hungry because I’m about to whip up a feast,’

‘Of course I am. I’m just leaving the office; I will be there in an hour,’

You keep the phone and take a deep breath. Blood starts coursing through your empty veins. Your chest puffs up and your face lights up. The first thing you do is get up and turn the music system on. You play your favorite song, ‘Le Festin’ by Camille. The sound fills the room. Your feet start moving to the rhythm and your hands sway around you happily. You dance like you were floating on water, slow and smooth. 

You enter the bathroom to wash your hands but encounter the mirror once again. Everything wrong with it has been fixed by a simple smile. Just like all your cooking needed was love. You walk to the kitchen with heavy, bold steps; not fumbling or floundering. The fruits, vegetables and all the ingredients seem like friends meeting at a reunion. You love it, the purest kind of feeling.

One doesn’t have to search for love, just believe in it. It is the strongest and most sought after emotion of all. It has the perfect blend of joy, satisfaction and hope. You move your hand across the kitchen platform, falling in love once again. You sing the lyrics in your head, ‘Le Festin est sur mon chemin.’