Mrs. Kalra came home every Tuesday and Thursday evening to cook for us. The first time I met her, she offered to give me a sampling of dishes she could cook. I wasn't sure whether to be flattered because I looked like a good Punjabi wife who could whip up aloo parathas in a jiffy, or whether to be dubious of her cooking skills. It didn't matter though, because I needed help, desperately: plus, I was sure that anyone -- anyone -- could do a better job with dal-roti, rajma-chawal and saag than me. She quoted an hourly fee of $15, which I readily agreed to. I knew the good Punjabi "Aunties" in Santa Clara charged $18 at the very least, and was delighted at my luck. The husband cautioned me, though. "Let's see how she cooks. Maybe we'll be better off with take-out."

And so, she appeared twice a week, between six o'clock and a quarter past in the evenings, rushing in past me when I opened the door and acknowledging my presence only once she washed her hands in the kitchen sink, as though it was only then that she was ready to be Mrs. Kalra The Cook, asking, "So what should I make today?"

I'd keep the vegetables and spices out on the counter for her the first few times, but she knew their exact locations soon enough. She would even let me know what pantry items needed replenishing. Apart from asking me how spicy I wanted my paav-bhaji, or whether I preferred ghee over oil for dal, she hardly ever spoke unless I initiated the conversation. I would exchange notes with her about the different brands of pickles in the Indian grocery market two blocks away, and how the traffic was getting worse around the mall, and oh, did she see that new Bollywood movie? Even then, her responses would get clipped after a while, as though she suddenly became conscious that I was her employer. Or that I was thirty years her junior, I couldn't tell. I would then leave her to her boiling lentils and sizzling pans and retreat to the living room, from where I could still steal a glance at her if I wanted to. I will admit to inspecting her work ever so discreetly the first two weeks, when I used excuses of thirst and hunger to enter the kitchen to see how well she washed the vegetables, how much oil she added to the vegetables, whether she washed her hands after throwing away kitchen scraps into the garbage.

She'd always end her shift with," I hope you enjoy your food," leaving the same way she came: rushed, diffident, somehow deferential, even though she was old enough to be my mother. Despite the limited communication, there was something warm about her presence, one that I noticed only once she'd left for the evening -- a warmth that seeped into the dishes she made, even though they weren't exactly restaurant-quality. I could see the reason behind her discounted rate. But the food she made was authentic, not to the cuisine, but to her efforts. I ate it with the same obedience with which I'd consume my mother's home-made meals as a child.

 As the weeks passed, I found myself wondering why she chose this job.  I learnt, from our limited conversations, that she was here with her son's family on a green card. She worked as a nanny during the day, and cooked during the evenings. In fact, she did Mondays and Wednesdays at Preeti's house a few blocks away: that is how I came to avail of her services. Surely Mrs. Kalra had her own family to cook for, to care for? Or perhaps she was neglected -- this I quickly dispelled when he son called twice to check on her when she was running late. Perhaps she needed the money: this was the only plausible explanation, one that could account for the simple clothes she wore, the minimal jewelry, the fraying handbag. 

One Thursday as she was leaving, Mrs. Kalra announced that she had to leave for India immediately, and would return only after six months. Her daughter in Punjab was struggling through her second trimester and needed her. My knees felt weak as she said this, my chest heavy. I had gotten used to our weekly routine, one that had become as effortless as family routines often become. She gave me the numbers of two acquaintances whom I could contact for cooking services, which of course I wasn't going to do. We could manage the cooking ourselves. The truth is that I could have managed for the past two months as I settled well into the routine of my new job, but something had kept me from letting Mrs. Kalra go. I'd first told myself she needed the money, then told myself I could use the extra time for my blog. Plus, I had gotten used to her cooking and wasn't ready to step down to mine.  

 I walked her out to the visitor parking area of my apartment, telling her how sorry I was to see her go, but that I understood. I wondered how long it had been since she last saw her daughter, but didn't venture to ask. She gave me a hug with her final goodbye -- it caught me by surprise and I didn’t reciprocate as sincerely as I would have liked. She turned around and I stood on the sidewalk, watching her make her way down to her car. She drove a Cadillac 6-seater, not the old Camry that I thought I'd once seen her in. As she drove down the gravelly driveway, I realized that I needed her more than she needed me, and I think she knew.

We get home from work within minutes of each other, and change out of the clothes that bear smells of our day: the crisp staleness of our air-conditioned cubicles; the Mexican restaurant where our team lunched (in B's case, I imagine, the little office café with its smell of formica and Lysol); the sweat and discomfort from my 3pm team meeting; the evening train with its miasma of collective fatigue, grime and dampness (no. 246 in my case and the no. 313 limited in B's). 

I had a tough day, B says, and now he has a conference call to attend. I tidy up the kitchen from our hasty departure in the morning and chop up some onions and cauliflower for dinner. I can hear B’s muffled voice through the doors and turn on some music.

While the alloo-gobi cooks, I walk to check our mailbox and chat with a neighbor walking his dog about the weather and that inspires me to go for a walk. I ask B if he’d like to join me and he says he’s too tired for a walk, maybe we could walk during the weekend. I listen to a podcast while I take a loop around the block, then two loops and then three; forty-five minutes later I'm back at the apartment which is a little cleaner than when I left it. B asks me if I want to shower and then eat, and I say yes. I listen to the shower-radio while I shampoo my hair and think of my to-do list for tomorrow. 

I join B at the free end of the couch with my roti-alloo-gobi. We stream episode 12 of that show X and around ten minutes into the show we pause and rewind because neither of us caught the dialogue -- we check with each other -- and then we agree to turn on the closed captioning because it's close to 9pm so we can't turn up the volume that much, but really we're so used to reading screens that it is much easier to assimilate the written dialogue than the changing cadences and tones of spoken words. 

Fifteen minutes into the show we pause to get a second helping from the kitchen and then continue; then we exclaim in unison when we did not see that plot twist coming; and then when we pause to have a conversation about it: B agrees that it really is spectacular screenwriting, they make TV series so good these days; at this point I ask if B would like a third helping because the cauliflower really doesn't make for a good leftover meal, but he declines so I rush to the kitchen and come back because we are after all in the midst of the plot twist; and then when this other character is introduced I say wait I've seen this actor somewhere to which B pauses the TV again and exclaims, exactly!, to which I ask well do you remember where we've seen him before and he closes his eyes to think and I say why don't we continue watching and it will come to one of us, these fleeting memories and thoughts only flit past us when we're occupied; so then the show is resumed and then a few minutes later B exclaims, series Y! character X!! I swivel around to face him and cross my legs in excitement and almost shriek, O-M-G yes, and then I urge him to resume because I can't wait to see what happens next, and the show of course does not disappoint because ten minutes later the episode ends with another plot twist that we didn't see coming -- even after the first plot twist -- and then B and I grasp each other's hands in excitement and then make our remarks on that plot twist, and once that conversation is over we gently disengage our hands in a way that seems so concertedly casual -- I brush my bangs and B fiddles with his phone -- that I cringe a little, and then it's quiet with the scene frozen on TV. B sighs and I yawn. B then asks me, tell me about your day, why don’t you?

There's life inside me, and I don't know how to visualize it except for a beating grey blob that's pointed out on the monitor by the ultrasound technician. I call the embryo sac a little parasite, because it is what's draining my energy these days, causing me to fall asleep on the couch when I intend to read a book, making me stay home when I intend to go out. Mom doesn't approve of that nomenclature. "Your baby can hear you," she says. "Talk to it, it affects the baby's development." 

I refuse. What if, like last year, this one chooses to self-destruct and exit the only space it knows? I don't want to get too attached. I end up alarming myself by how nonchalant I am when I climb stairs two at a time, when I go for an outdoor swim when its cold outside, when I eat packaged salads even though there's been some reports of a possible salmonella outbreak. (The husband didn't approve of the swimming and was quite vocal about it. He didn't see me on the stairs though, and doesn't really read the news.)

I'm courting this tiny little being, that's what I'm doing. I choose to let go of what I can't control and just observe where this relationship goes, like those second-third-then-fourth-dates. I'm essentially protecting myself from a breakup. Keeping it casual. 

I am of course taking my vitamins and eating well. Or trying to eat well. What's the point in all that organic produce if I'm going to wake up one day with blood pooled between my legs? I eat my fried chicken and burgers, I treat myself to pastries and puddings. I need the energy. I have cravings. Perhaps the little parasite needs more fats and carbs.

After my 15th week checkup, I'm struck with the realization that this one's a keeper. Or at least promises to be. I'm immediately regretful of the times I missed my fish oil capsule because my heartburn was unbearable, of the many cups of vegetables I should have eaten but could not -- or did not. This semi-human-being has chosen me. 

I now find myself caressing my growing abdomen every now and then.

And then one day, I start talking to my little parasite.

The baby is hungry, she declared.  

No it can't be that he's bored, he won't cry like that, she said.

Even if you fed him an hour ago I think he is hungry, she said.

I know its been 35 years but I have raised two boys myself, she contended.

See, you should always feed the baby before he cries, she said.

I used to feed M at least twice every hour -- they need energy to hold their head up you know, she stated.

Just nurse him and see if he stops crying, I will go to my room, she said.

Don't eat too many greens, the baby's stomach won't be able to handle it, she used to say.

Also don't eat fried foods -- I know its been five months but baby's stomach is still delicate, she would say.

Have caraway seeds with fennel at least twice a day; don't eat bread, stay away from peanuts, and make sure you're eating that pumpkin curry I make, she'd say.

Don't have too many nuts, okay, it creates gas for the baby, she'd call out.

Did he feed, she asked.

Oh he didn't drink much is it, she repeated.

He is a growing boy you know, I think he should have formula at least twice a day, she said.

Because, I think your milk won't be sufficient for him, she declared. 

It was a round stainless steel container, much like the several others that lay stacked in Amma’s kitchen cabinets while awaiting their service of housing leftovers, but dull grey in color rather than a resplendent metallic. Its lid still bore the engraving of her initials, R.H., and its body bore scratches from the numerous times it was scoured with steel wool — now Scotch-Brite in my household — which, while contributing to the slight decrepitude of this spice box, also lent a certain sheen to it, for these markings would catch the light of the overhead bulb that was always1 on.

          The seven small bowls that it held — six of them arranged against the rim of the container with the seventh in the center, all snugly packed — contained the mosaic of colors and textures that I would watch, enthralled as only a child can be, crackle and pop in hot oil, and then color and flavor dals, curries and kormas. I had been convinced at one point that this steel container held the magical powders and seeds that enabled Amma to effortlessly churn out delicious dinners, breakfasts and packed lunches, day after day.

          Now, two decades later, it still bestows a certain power upon me, the bearer. As I sprinkle mustard seeds and red chilies into a puddle of hot oil for sambhar, I yearn to sit on the cool marble countertop of my childhood home and watch Amma complete this recipe: I can almost smell the fragrance that would soon envelope the kitchen, feel the whiff of steam as lids would be opened and closed, hear the clatter of dishes that would be washed in the sink, while I chat on about my day at school, knowing that everything would be okay, because dinner would soon be served.

One Little Story used to be a website where I occasionally shared my flash fiction, often in bursts of enthusiasm before quieting, wondering if anyone was even reading. 

I’ve now converted to this newsletter format that I’ll update every ten days or sooner with fresh writing. 

Each little story will be 1000 words or less. The themes of these stories will range from the immigrant experience, identity and culture, to the feminine body, parenthood, and disability. Many of these themes have been informed by my own experience, but won’t be limited to it.

Thank you for being here, and I hope you’ll enjoy reading!