Page 67 of The Art of Taking Second Chances

“I should leave. I took up your morning.”

“No, you’re not leaving feeling like this.”

She offered a weak smile and picked up her bag. “I’m much better now. Thank you for…today.”

“Stay,” I said. “Let’s order some lunch, or I can try and cook something for you. How about pav bhaji?”

She blinked. “You are going to cook pav bhaji?” Like a clear windchime clinking in the breeze, her sweet laughter sliced through the silence of my apartment, and a word flashed across my mind, home.

“Okay, okay, that was a foolish thing to say.”

“You think? You can’t even list the ingredients that go into it.”

“Well, obviously, there’s pav,” I said, referring to the pull-apart rolls. I was blissfully ignorant, of course. I had never cooked anything beyond eggs and the occasional cup of tea in my life.

“Yes, and?”

“There are vegetables in the mix.”

“Obviously. Which ones?” Watching me fumble had lit up her face. “What kind of spices?”

“You win. I give up.”

“I bet you don’t even have the basics in this fancy house of yours, let alone the pav bhaji masala.”

“I have things,” I protested. “Durgaben stocks my pantry.”

“Why does she do that? Doesn’t she know rich boys don’t cook?”

“For some strange reason, she loves me, dotes on me, and checks up on me from time to time. Sometimes she brings me meals for the week.”

“That is strange. There’s nothing remotely lovable about you,” she said with a frown.

“May I remind you, there was once a very sassy girl who was quite fond of me?”

“She was naïve and stupid.”

“She wasn’t naïve. And she’s still the smartest person I know.”

Tara smiled and said, “Let’s check the pantry.”

Organized in neat rows in the walk-in pantry were some staples: Basmati rice, yellow moong dal, a bunch of pasta, and some canned and jarred goods.

“How about dal chawal?” she asked with a twinkle in her eye. It had been months since I’d had a fresh homecooked meal.

“Sounds perfect. I don’t think this house knows what dal smells like.” The thought of the tempered yellow lentils over steaming rice invoked fond memories of a different life that would never return.

“Well then, let’s introduce it to the simplest of life’s pleasures. Hey rich boy, you think you can manage chawal?” she asked with a playful hand on her hip.

“I might have a rice cooker somewhere.” I walked into the pantry and returned with one. “Found it. Thank you, Durgaben!”

“That should work. Now measure out one cup of rice and rinse it twice. Then put it in the cooker with two cups of water,” she directed.

I nodded and pulled out pots and pans from the cabinets. “Then press this button…see this one here?” She grinned.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” I said and proceeded to measure out the raw rice.

She rinsed the dal and put it in a pot with water over the stove. I went back to the pantry for a jar of pickled raw mango. “My mom’s special,” I announced with pride.

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