"Beta, bring some pork today," my father said one fine morning, his voice carrying a rare trace of excitement.
For as long as I could remember, Sundays in our house had been special. My father, a man of few words but boundless love, would always buy pork, cook it himself, and serve the entire family. Mothers may be the best cooks, but when a father takes charge of the kitchen, there’s something magical about it.
Growing up, I often observed his funny yet endearing cooking ritual. He would cut the meat but hand it over to my mother. He would then ask her to chop the onions, potatoes, and ginger, grind the masalas, and set everything neatly beside the chulha. Even though we had a gas stove, the village tradition of cooking on a mud chulha remained alive in our home. And honestly, food cooked over woodfire had an aroma no modern appliance could ever match.
When my mother had everything ready—ingredients in place, karahi set on the chulha, and the fire crackling—my father would step in. With a spoon in hand, he would start adding oil, tossing in the ingredients, stirring the curry, and finally, taking all the credit. I often wondered—whose magic was it, really? But, regardless of the process, I had to admit: my father was a great cook.
It had been four years since my mother left us. Life had changed, but my father still cooked his favorite dishes, though the joy in his eyes had faded. Loneliness sometimes made him quiet, but he never complained. He found his happiness in us, in his grandchildren.
That day, when he requested pork after so long, I was happy. It felt like a small way to bring back a piece of the past. I went to the market, determined to bring home his favorite meal. But fate had other plans. No matter where I searched, I couldn’t find pork that day. Disheartened but unwilling to return empty-handed, I bought chicken instead.
When I placed it before him, I saw the brief flicker of sadness in his eyes. He smiled and said, "Chicken is fine too, beta," but I could sense the disappointment beneath his words.
The same ritual followed—all the women in the house prepared everything for him, and he cooked as usual. That night, as we all gathered around for dinner, there was something different about him. He ate slowly, barely finishing what was on his plate. He was quieter than usual, his eyes distant, as if lost in thought. I asked, "Papa, are you okay?"
He smiled faintly. "Just remembering your mother. She always knew exactly how much salt to put in the curry," he said, laughing softly.
For a long time, he sat at the table, watching the family chatter around him. His grandchildren played by his side, tugging at his fingers, but his mind seemed elsewhere. It was as if he was absorbing every moment, every voice, every smile. When he finally got up, he patted my back, saying, "It was good. Maybe next time, we'll have pork."
That night, as the house fell silent, I felt an odd unease in my chest.
At 3:00 a.m., his voice broke the silence. "Beta... beta!"
I woke up with a jolt, as did the entire family. He was sitting upright, struggling to breathe. His hands clutched his chest. Panic surged through us. We rubbed his back, tried giving him water, called out for drivers to take him to the hospital. But before help could arrive, before we could do anything, he was gone.
A nurse in the neighborhood came running, checked his pulse, and quietly looked up at us. "He's no more."
I sat there, numb, unable to process what had just happened.
Even today, one question haunts me—what if I had found pork that day? Would that one meal have kept him with us a little longer? Or was it simply time?
I will never know.
But every time I smell the smoky scent of food cooking over a chulha, I remember him—standing there, spoon in hand, taking all the credit, while love, unseen yet undeniable, filled our home.