You Know I can't Do That

"Two spoons of salt, not three!" Her voice came reprovingly.

He smiled and carefully measured out two spoons of salt.

She smiled approvingly.

He smiled at his mom and continued cooking. Every now and then, he'd take a small teaspoon of the curry for taste and check it.

There, he thought, as he gave the curry a final spin with the ladle, and gave a triumphant smile.

His mom smiled the way that only mother's can do.

He took the curry off the heat, and put a new vessel on it. Now it was time for the butter paneer.

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He stepped back and surveyed his handiwork. All the dishes done. A full course meal.

The piping hot chicken curry.

The buttery smooth naans.

The soft silky butter paneer.

And the ice cold lassi.

He set the dining table for three, as his mother watched appreciatively.

He kept three plates, and filled three glasses of water. Then he served generous helpings of the butter paneer and the chicken curry.

He then pulled the chair back, and beckoned his mother.

His mother smiled, and sat down.

"Riya! Dinner's ready." He called out.

His sister came down the stairs, took one look at the table, and burst into tears.

"Will you stop doing this?" She sobbed, collapsing to the landing.

He looked at her, surprised, then at the table.

At the three plates.

At the three chairs.

At the three empty chairs.

At his mom's empty place.

His mom, who died six years ago.

He looked at her empty place, then at his sister again.

"You know I can't do that."

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