Chapter 1-The Perfect Evening
The smell of roasted spices drifted through the little yellow house long before the first guest arrived.
In the kitchen, Meera stood over a simmering pot, gently stirring her famous butter chicken. Steam curled into the air, carrying the comforting aroma of cinnamon, cloves, and roasted cumin.
She dipped the spoon into the gravy and tasted it.
A smile spread across her face.
“Perfect.”
Before she could place the spoon down, a familiar hand quietly reached past her and stole a roasted potato from the serving bowl.
She didn’t even turn around.
“Raj.”
Silence.
She folded her arms.
“If you’re going to steal from the kitchen, at least have the decency to chew quietly.”
A muffled crunch answered her.
“You’ve become predictable.”
Raj appeared in the doorway, trying—and failing—to look innocent.
“I was making sure dinner was safe.”
“For whom?”
“Our guests.”
“They’ve survived your cooking for years.”
“They’ve never survived yours.”
She laughed.
“In fifty-two years of marriage, you’ve learned absolutely nothing.”
“I learned one thing.”
“Oh?”
He smiled proudly.
“Never stand between a hungry man and your butter chicken.”
She picked up the wooden spoon and pointed toward the door.
“Out.”
“I was helping.”
“You were stealing.”
“Practically the same thing.”
“There is a difference.”
“What is it?”
“I get to decide.”
Raj placed a hand over his heart.
“Your verdict is harsh, Your Honour.”
“It gets harsher if you don’t leave.”
He laughed and surrendered.
“Yes, Chef.”
As he wandered into the dining room, he called back,
“You know, Arun still says your cooking is the only reason he visits.”
“Liar.”
“He really does.”
“He visits because you’re his oldest friend.”
Raj smiled to himself.
“I like my version better.”
The dining room had been prepared with the same care it had every November for decades.
Four porcelain plates rested neatly on Meera’s embroidered tablecloth.
Fresh marigolds brightened the center of the table.
The silver cutlery reflected the warm glow from the hanging lamp.
Along the far wall hung dozens of framed photographs.
Every one of them had been taken on the same date.
November 11.
The years had changed.
The hairstyles had changed.
The wrinkles had deepened.
But the smiles…
never did.
Raj paused before the wall.
He smiled at a photograph taken nearly thirty years earlier.
Arun still had black hair.
Lata couldn’t stop laughing.
Meera looked annoyed because Raj had blinked.
“I did not blink,” Raj muttered to himself.
“You absolutely did.”
Meera had quietly walked up beside him.
He smiled.
“You’ve been correcting me for half a century.”
“And you’ve been wrong for just as long.”
The doorbell rang.
Raj glanced toward the old pendulum clock hanging in the hallway.
7:00 PM.
“They’re right on time.”
Meera hurried to the front door.
When she opened it, Arun stood outside carrying a neatly wrapped dessert box.
“I brought dessert.”
“You always do.”
“And every year you pretend to be surprised.”
Behind him, Lata lifted a glass bottle.
“And I brought homemade lemonade.”
Raj peeked around the corner.
“So Arun brought dessert…”
He looked at Lata.
“…and you brought what we’ll actually finish.”
Laughter echoed through the hallway.
Lata nudged Arun with her elbow.
“I warned you.”
“They’re becoming predictable,” Arun replied.
Raj grinned.
“So are you.”
Warm embraces were exchanged before everyone stepped inside.
The little house somehow felt warmer.
As though it had been waiting all day for them to arrive.
Before anyone sat down, Raj disappeared into the living room.
When he returned, he carried an old instant camera.
Arun sighed dramatically.
“Not the annual photograph.”
“Oh yes,” Raj replied.
“It isn’t November 11 until we take one.”
Lata laughed.
“We’ve done this every year since 1988.”
“And we’ll keep doing it,” Meera said.
“As long as we’re together.”
Raj carefully placed the camera on a cabinet and adjusted the timer.
The four friends stood beneath the wall filled with years of shared memories.
Raj naturally stood beside Meera.
Arun folded his arms.
Lata slipped hers through his.
“Ready?” Raj asked.
“As always,” Arun smiled.
The timer began counting down.
Five…
Four…
Three…
Two…
One…
Click.
The flash briefly filled the room.
Raj picked up the developing photograph.
“There we are.”
Four smiling faces.
Another November 11.
Another memory.
Meera admired the picture.
“I’ll frame this tomorrow.”
She looked toward the wall.
“We’re almost out of space.”
Raj smiled.
“Then we’ll build another wall.”
Everyone laughed.
For a moment…
it felt as though nothing outside that little house existed.
Meera clapped her hands together.
“Enough talking.”
She nodded toward the dining table.
“Dinner’s getting cold.”
Arun rubbed his hands eagerly.
“I’ve been waiting all year for this.”
Raj looked at the pendulum clock once more.
7:28 PM.
“Perfect,” he said.
The four old friends took their seats around the table, completely unaware that this ordinary evening would become the memory they would hold on to forever.
