With a soft click, the tumblers of the lock fall in place as you push the door open. Leaving your footwear next to the shoe rack, you drop your handbag on the bench. Your shoulders seem to sigh in relief after getting rid of their weight. All you want to do now is to be free from the folds of the saree you draped early in the morning and flop face down on the bed. But ignoring that desire, you walk into the kitchen. You wash your hands and then open the refrigerator to inspect its contents.
There are no leftovers from the day before.
Your phone pings, and you look at the message before taking out the ingredients to make butter chicken.
Soon, the kitchen is full of sounds. The sputters of tadka, the grinder’s whizz and the spoon clanging against the wok. The aroma wafts from the stove, filling the apartment.
An hour and a half later, you are busy washing the dishes, when the main door opens. You half turn to see Missy walk in. One by one, she uncovers the bowls of cooked food placed on the kitchen counter.
“Indian food again?” she asks petulantly.
You half-shrug, wiping your hands with the kitchen towel.
With a huff, she walks to her room, slamming the door behind her. You continue to wipe down the counters. After a last glance to make sure everything is in its place, you turn off the light. Picking up your handbag, leave the house.
An hour later, you reach the last house you must cook before you call it a day. Your body screams with tiredness. You barely have enough energy to put rice and dal in the cooker for a quick whistle.
He runs in twenty minutes later, dribbling a football.
“Khichari again, ma?” he asks as you heap the golden yellow mush on a steel plate.
“There were no leftovers from yesterday,” you reply, your tone apologetic. “But I made butter chicken there today, and Missy was not very happy.”
“Memsahib may give it tomorrow if Missy orders a takeaway tonight,” you add.
Looking at the frown on his face, you kiss him and add a generous dollop of ghee to his khichadi. All the while, your heart hopes that Missy throws a hissy fit and orders a pizza for dinner. That’s the only way you can get leftovers for him tomorrow, and give them a break from the much-hated khichuri.
Featured image by by Elevate on Unsplash
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undecidedindubai 
So nice to have a new perspective on leftovers now. I wish to have the butter chicken now but am restricted to have chicken for my health issues. Loved how you wrote a story of leftovers, they indeed help us in our tiring days.
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Sad, at some point, when you make for others but have nothing for your child. But a truth too! I guess, this is life.
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