There are over a dozen stories in this collection. I am planning to get this work published. In 1998 and 1999 I was issued copyrights for original fiction work from the Library of Congress for this collection and other works.

He wanted to be a famous chef. She wanted to be happy. He was not a chef and he was not famous. She was a gorgeous, attractive, full woman. She was sad. And in the many thousand paths which both had a choice in picking, they went on the one which crossed. The tale of what happened at this fork, where their paths met for a while, unwinds itself. And sparks fly. Truth is told. Life is explored, challenged, blamed, hated, loved, cooked, tasted, cherished, hurt, lost, celebrated, won. Time is asked to let Life be entombed in the amber of a perfect instant, at least for a little while. And then they fall in love.

Long, long ago when Chef Raj was but Raju from a little known town in India, he used to see his mother experimenting in the kitchen. Aromas and fragrances and smells had filled him whenever she mixed spices and vegetables and lentils and potatoes and rice and bread, in combinations unheard of; only felt. His tongue could taste everything. Each and every taste bud in his mouth, on his tongue, getting equal opportunity to be visited by - perfection. His village was in a trance, all the time. Finding a reason to visit their humble poor abode to sample the meal of the day, to discuss the various tastes of that dish the next day on their respective farms.

Mother was quiet and loving and caring and beautiful and nice and the finest cook of all times and then one day she passed on. She did not die. She passed on. As he was sitting by her for the last time, she held her dear son's hand and closed her eyes and gave him her power. Not the ability to cook the dishes she cooked. Just the power. Raw, unadulterated by any personal preferences. It was his responsibility to make that perfect blend of spices and vegetables and meats and lentils and potatoes and yams and greens and rice and bread, to use that power. She inspired him to go in search of a spicy recipe that was, is and will be his and only his.

Power was power. He wielded his wand but never in the kitchen. He became a formidable master of sciences and languages and arts and such. He was well respected and successful and wealthy enough to not worry for the next day's bread. He never became a famous chef. He cooked and people liked his cooking. And he cooked for all and often and very well and so they called him Chef Raj. But it was not the same. He never used his power for what it was intended.

Time passed. He was drawn away from where he came into being, to where his ambitions lead him. He became a stranger, far, far away from his home, in a land strange to him. In this land of plenty and of color and of foods and of such beauty, somewhere down the roads which he traveled, he lost cooking.

Within all this attention she was unfulfilled, unhappy. The spice of life was missing. So she sent herself into a world far far away from her home, in a land strange to her. She became a champion of sciences and languages and arts. She wanted to be a boy named Sam. She was born a girl who was Samantha. She became all woman. Lovely, loving, feminine, vulnerable, strong, intelligent, ambitious, passionate and more.

She loved the mountains. On top of these is where she felt at home. Once on a walk down those mountains she met a handsome tall powerful smart young man. She fell in love with him. Their love bloomed, rose and pleasant memories began accumulating. In the monotony of this perfect life, love was soon taken for granted. She was still simple and striking. He was still a tall, powerful, smart, young man. In his arrogance and vanity, he broke her heart. Eyes dry of tears, determination waning, dreams and heart shattered; somewhere in the grand scheme of Destiny, she lost her innocence.

Time passed. And she became untrusting, angry, hard, so very sad, unable to let it all go, unable to flow in harmony with the wind from the mountains that had once ruffled her beautiful curly hair.

After a shallow, disturbed sleep, imperfect breakfast, Raj left for achieving yet another goal-for-the-day in the University of Modern Education. He immersed himself into his books and his machines and examinations. Samantha woke up that morning in a fair mood. Scrambled eggs and toast and milk. Simple, filling. With a light load of books in hand, she headed into the Building of Knowledge and sat by her machines with her open book. Operating it well, gleaning knowledge to become someone.

He raised his tired head to rest his eyes. And saw her. His heart missed a beat. She dropped her book. She went to pick it up. But he was right there, in a flash. She was surprised to realize that she actually smiled at this funny looking little Indian man. Before Time had time to catch a breath, they were conversing at length over topics in sciences and languages and arts.

He was his usual. Loud, expressive, extrovert and sometimes even humorous. She giggled cautious giggles, not knowing quite what to make of him, intrigued. Conversation ceased as they reached the road where their paths did not choose to go the same route. Both were headed towards their respective residence, both where headed nowhere; both were headed in search of something that would make things just right for them.

"It was very nice talking to you Raju", she shook his hand.

He bowed a respectful bow and said, "The feeling is mutual your highness, however I must state that for every seventy three words I spat out you muttered a cautious two...". It was not very funny but she did laugh a little. Then they spoke a little more and she turned and headed home. She felt comfortable. A little apprehensive, but comfortable. She walked a leisurely walk down that hill, not once turning to see him standing there, looking at her, admiring her every step.

He went home feeling nice. After cooking, consuming a simple spicy meal, he retired to his room and took the picture of his mother and spoke with her about Samantha. His mother was his source of strength. She inspired him. He closed his eyes and dreamt of beautiful Samantha.

The beautiful, tall, gentle, strong, Samantha. She insisted he call her Sam. Like a boy she said. She wanted to be a boy. Rough and tough and uncaring of the world. But she became Samantha not Sam. A strange person she was indeed. He decided to let himself go. And the spice rack in his kitchen stirred in anticipation.

In the days that passed Samantha and Raju became good friends. He told her stories of the wonders of the land he came from. She spoke with him about her times with her mother, father, brother.

Time stretched a little, relaxed, unwound and smiled. Then it passed on.

"Hey Chef? How are you man! I haven't seen you in a while? Busy? Look man... six of us are meeting for dinner at Ben's house tonight. I am looking forward to eating some of your Lamb Korma. Possible?", a wide man, from the same country as Raju walked up to him and Samantha, in the middle of their conversation, at the hill top where there roads went along different paths.

"Sure, see you at about eight in the night. I will cook for about seven people. Killer or medium?", Raju wanted him to go as soon as possible so he could continue staring into the eyes of his dear Samantha.

"Make it a killer man! Love to sweat when I am eating. I'll get the rice", the wide man went about his business happily.

Samantha had an inquisitive look in her eyes, "He called you Chef. Something I don't know?"

'Aha!', he thought nervously, 'Now I have to cook for her...', and he spoke in brief of how he won this nickname from his friends.

"Whatever I know, my mother taught me. She was the finest cook of all times and so loving and loved by one and all. I am not all that good but not bad either. Say, have you eaten a traditional home cooked Indian meal?"

"Never... and I love seafood.", she was anticipating an invitation.

"Super Shrimp Masala, my aunt's own recipe... tomorrow night...", before he could finish planning, she interjected.

"Okay Chef Raj. This is what we'll do. We'll get all that you need - spices, groceries - to my house and cook the food in my kitchen. Time permitting, we'll go catch a movie."

"Killer or medium?" he asked.

"I have no idea. Whatever you choose. I am a mountain girl, I have never eaten killer spicy food."

"We'll figure something out for you...", he smiled half a smile and she hopped on homewards.

As was the case every time they parted ways, he stood atop the hill watching his beautiful Samantha walk home. This time it was different. This time he fell in love with her. He smiled away a pleasant feeling. She was walking as usual and she heard the trees behind her singing a nice little song in the wind. She turned to hear the song. He was still standing there watching her walk down. She looked up and waved. There was no wind there were no trees. She smiled away a pleasant feeling and headed home.

He sighed and thought of her. As usual he took out his mother's picture and spoke with her. At last he would get the chance of spending time alone with Samantha and cook Shrimp Masala for her.

Shrimp Masala!

Why in God's name did he say Shrimp Masala? He had absolutely no idea how to make it. It was not his "aunt's own recipe". He did not even have an aunt! He had eaten it once at his friend's house and it was not good either. How was he going to make it? Samantha was going to hate him. He had to figure out, find that perfect recipe for Shrimp Masala. He strode briskly out of the house in search of a spicy recipe for Shrimp Masala for his darling beautiful perfect love Samantha.

That night he forgot he was supposed to go cook Lamb Korma for his friends. They waited for him. They tried to reach him. He was not to be found. Then they were so hungry, they went out and grabbed some pizza. They forgot about him in the many glasses of alcohol that followed a simple, relatively mediocre meal.

He stood on top of that hill, looking down that path, imagining his lady love walking down that path, hating him for having cooked such perfect nastiness. He shook that thought out of his head. "Help me mother..."

The spice rack in the kitchen shuddered. Spices moaned. The town registered a magnitude 2.6 earthquake. No one felt it but those machines somewhere in the mountains and in the Building of Knowledge flagged a warning and then went by their business. He was walking home dejected and sad and he heard the trees behind him singing a nice little song in the wind. He turned to hear the song. There was no wind, there were no trees. He sh sh shivered a little. And a strange familiar fragrance filled the air...

It came to him. It was not the recipe but the power to make the recipe. It was always within him. He had just not used it. Not yet.

They were walking down and up the big massive grocery store. She was buying some of the bland tasteless stuff she always cooked. He saw that. He walked with her suggesting strange sounding materials that she could throw into her food in small delicate quantities. As they walked down mounds of vegetables and leaves and spices of all kinds, he bagged just the right stuff... he did not need a list. She was impressed.

'He knows what he is doing', thought she. And she trusted him, felt nice and decided, after a very long time, to try and let go.

His eyes stretched out into the realm where geniuses and eccentrics visit. There he saw the secret. It did not matter what he put in the dish or in what quantity. All that was simple. It was how he put that in. It was what feelings placed themselves behind each spice, each vegetable, each shrimp as they went into the pot and became one over the flame. That was it!

They stopped briefly at his residence to pick up his mother's personal spice rack which he had brought with him. Then they walked down that hill along the same path towards her home. The wind had a chill in it which made Samantha grab Chef Raj's arm. He looked at her and nodded.

Then it began. He took some cumin seeds and looked at them. Greeted them and prayed. The fragrance of them roasting in the pan brought Samantha into the kitchen.

"Mmmmmmmm..." she said, "this smells amazing...".

He smiled half a smile and replied, "This is but the beginning my dear lady, the best is yet to come..."

And then the cumin-corriander powder let out its own fragrance as it embraced the warmth of the stove. Mother's home made Garam Masala¹ ... never enter a kitchen without it. And a generous pinch laid the magic powder to rest in the arrangement of hitherto unused spices. A brief moment of thought... a little turmeric, a pinch of asafetida, one green chili cut to fine perfection, half of that large red onion silenced to tiny pieces, tears in his eyes and she is laughing at him...

"Ha, ha, ha, cry-baby! See... you should always wear contact lenses like me..." She actually made fun of him! She could not believe herself. She was having fun fun fun. Cook on my dear Chef, cook on.

"My tears, m'lady, blend into my hands which cook this meal and add the pain of parting of two lovers who met on the mountain..."

She froze.

"Did I say something wrong?", he asked.

"Why did you say that?", she asked.

"Oh, that parting thing... I don't know. That feeling came into my mind when I saw the onion. That is their purpose in the meal... Forgive me, did I strike a sore spot?", he went near her and held her hand.

"Uh huh", she looked at him in the eye and smiled a soft sad smile, "But never mind. This dish is getting interesting. Don't let me stop you. Oh man! These onions are strong; my contacts failed me...", she wiped a tear before it could form. He knew. But did not bother her about it any further.

"It is time to blend the tomato with itself. Come my friend, let me make you one with the universe, not a rose but its fragrance, not the tomato but its flavor", and in a minute, a runny paste of tomato happily rested in the blender. Tiny pieces of cilantro leaves made their way into another bowl. So did crushed ginger and garlic.

It was time.

Oil in the heated pot, hot hot hot. Cumin seeds, whole pepper, cinnamon sticks, green chili, they sizzle sizzle pop pop. Naughty and innocent they run amuck. The onions now join the fray and the music of the meal begins to play. Inexperienced with the truths and bitterness of Life the onions learn to glean the heat and mature to brown, releasing their flavor, enhanced by the recently added garlic paste.

The music softens with a lower flame and tries to find a rhythm. In go the tomato and the ginger. The color changes to red red red. There is war brewing and bubbling in the mixture. Then they arrive in the food, adding more spice to Life - turmeric, cumin-corriander powder, garam masala poured into the bubbling madness. They dominate everything and the food changes color to become one with the spices. The rhythm is found. The shrimp. Well, they are but the decoration. It looks like the mouth of a living volcano upon which the shrimp dance. Then the green of the cilantro joins with an air of superiority, so does salt to taste.

"We are all set... ", Chef Raj covers the meal, dances a brief waltz with Samantha and says...

"Saffron rice."

She becomes intoxicated with the ten thousand fragrances from the Super Shrimp Masala and the Saffron Rice. And the candles light themselves and the light dims. He holds her hands. Draws himself closer to her. He stares into her eyes. He says,

"My dear Samantha, this meal for you is not just filled with these many exotic tastes but with every perfect feeling that exists in harmony with every taste. I hope you will experience them".

She kisses him on his left cheek and says,

"Thank you my good friend, thank you."

The first morsel and she is overwhelmed with feelings she cannot describe. Mid dinner and she is in tears. She can't stop now. She goes for a second relaxed helping and feels his love for her in the next few bites. Then her body feels desire. Then the anguish from the betrayal of the man she had loved. Then the realization that the pain had happened so recently and yet at that moment it seemed so long ago.

She puts it behind her. A little more rice, a little more shrimp. She looks into his eyes. He is watching her eat. She gets up and gives him a tight hug. And continues eating a few more morsels.

Ahhh! She reaches that perfect point. When her body is full of flavor and joy... She is happy. He finds his niche and is on his way to fame and glory as Chef Raj.

¹ Garam Masala - just the right mixture of just the right spices - some roasted, some not.

And she cries for a while in his arms. She tells her story from her corner of the world, of home and mountains and lost love and everything. Life is explored, challenged, blamed, hated, loved, cooked, tasted, cherished, hurt, lost, celebrated and finally won. Time is asked to let Life be entombed in the amber of a perfect instant, at least for a little while. And then they fall in love.

© 2001 Rahul C. Thakkar