A short story without a title!!!

Tired and exhausted I step into the home to smell the wafting aromas of my favorite hot and sour vegetable soup being prepared by my mother. The tangy and spicy aroma fills my nostrils as I put down my laptop bag to drink a glass of water. My mother eagerly tells me about all the favorite dishes she has prepared for me on this special day.

I look up at her and catch the conflicting emotions of hope and despondency in her eyes. She coerces me to have a bowl of soup and before I can relegate that to a later moment, a bowl of hot steaming soup is immediately placed on my lap.

The temptation of tasting the soup overrides the need of freshening up. I succumb to it and hungrily bring the spoon near my lips.

My mother looks at me expectantly. Something stops me. I look at my mother and I hesitantly blow at it before tasting a spoonful of it. The spicy tanginess of the soup lingers on while it traverses through my food pipe to my stomach.

It warms my insides and refreshes my mind and immediately brings to focus haunting memories of this very same day that transports me to a year back. My mother who can’t wait to hear my verdict breaks my reverie with the past and I nod my head in affirmation.

I absentmindedly swirl the brown colored soup in the bowl and watch the pieces of the finely chopped vegetables go haywire in all directions. This simple act immediately conjures images in my mind of a man swirling a spoon in a saucepan and eagerly waiting for the broth to change color and come to a boil.

I am brought back to the present with the whiff of the steaming noodles set before me. I look up at my mom once more to see her gazing at me with a reassuring look that everything is going to be all right. She has always believed a good hearty meal of can do wonders to one’s body and soul. This is her way to reach out to me and comfort me through the one thing she knows best.

I gently look at her while she coerces me to try her special Hakka noodles. The tempting aroma and the colorful maize of vegetables over the fried noodles whet my appetite. An appetite, I had not realized had existed till a moment ago.

Not the one to openly display my feelings, I look at my mum, while she lovingly serves some noodles on a plate and hands it to me.

She chatters away animatedly on her trip to the market to buy the various ingredients probably in an effort to camouflage the one horrible incident that has changed our lives forever.

I take from her the plate and look at the colorful display. It manages to warm my heart, a bit.

The delicious aroma brings a tingling sensation to my mouth. I can’t help but take the first spoonful into my mouth.

It tastes delicious as I can feel the raw crunchiness of the carrots, cabbage and spring onions and the spicy taste of the noodles. The lure of the taste buds tempts me to grab another mouthful.

Before I do that, for a fleeting moment, my mind once again travels through the space of time of that poignant day…

He knew Chinese was my favorite cuisine and couldn’t wait to give me a surprise. He had been preparing for it for two months by attending a cookery class.

One who had never ever boiled an egg was now busy in the kitchen playing with the aromas, textures and colors of the ingredients oblivious to the disaster that was counting the seconds to close in upon him.

I am brought to the present with a jolt. My tongue stings with the bite of a green chilly and invariably the tears that I had controlled throughout the day come rolling down.

The chilies were an omen waiting to unleash the barrage of emotions that I had managed to keep it locked inside.

The dam broke!

Tears came running down fast and furious, angry and uncontrollable.

The hot bowl of soup that I had gulped down made me feel woozy and burnt my throat as I kept on choking and crying.

My mother came to my side and immediately took me in her arms.

The bowl of soup lying next to me on the table mirrored the soup in the saucepan that had boiled over and the remnant of it was splashed all over the kitchen slab.

The noodles on my plate reminded me of the whiteness of the boiled noodles that had been kept aside to be cooked.

The kitchen danced in front of me. The tragic scene of that day played and replayed in my head.

Silently, like a thief, a short circuit induced fire had pildered in and the man in the kitchen had no chance.

The kitchen disappeared. His charred body stared at me. Only the wafting aromas of the food brought me back to the present.

Tears singed my face. I clung to my mother. She cried for me. And held me close, hushing me like I was a small baby.

Time passed. I had stopped crying. The tears now would not come.

I could only stare at the magnificent aromatic soup and the brilliantly white noodles peppered with vegetables of all colors.

Something like a smile struck my lips.

Noodles and Soup; my most favorite dish!