Sunday's Special

Mr. Ramesh Nair had always cooked for two. Even now, two years after Radha was gone, his hands instinctively reached for the second spoon, the extra pinch of salt, the second bowl.

On Sundays, he made her favorite rajma chawal. She used to say it tasted best on Sundays, though she never explained why. Maybe it was just routine. Ramesh had come to realize that routine was a quiet kind of prayer—repeated motions to keep loneliness at bay.

He heard the noise again across the hall—muffled arguing, a child crying, the sound of something falling. The new tenants. He hadn't introduced himself. He didn’t even know their names. But every single day, their door would open with a tired sigh and close with a thud that sounded heavier than it needed to be. This had been going on for more than a week. 

Ramesh looked inside the cooker. As usual, he had made too much. He paused, staring at the rajma blended in the onion tomato paste. ‘It smells good. Just like Radha would have liked it, but this would last till tomorrow. Maybe I should…’

He reached for the ladle, an empty take-out container, and filled it with rajma. In another container, fill it with a portion of steamed rice, plus a little extra, just in case. He placed the two containers in a paper bag. Ramesh quietly opened the front door and stepped out into the hallway. There was silence. He slowly walked over to the door opposite his, bent down slowly, and placed the bag by the door. No note. No sound. He rang the doorbell and scurried back to his apartment. 

Seconds later, Ramesh’s neighbour’s door sprang open. Anish was sure he had heard the bell, although he couldn’t see anyone standing at his front door. His daughter, Zoya, stood behind her father. “Who is it, Papa?” She looked up to her father, her dark black eyes filled with curiosity. 

“I don’t know,” her father replied. “But I’m sure the bell did ring… or are my ears ringing?”

“Look, Papa.. down there,” Zoya said, tugging her father’s sleeve, pointing to the paper bag on the floor. 

Anish and Zoya exchanged looks, gazing at each other, unsure and confused.

“That’s odd,” Anish said, picking up the bag. He scrutinized the hallway, and there wasn’t a soul in sight. 

“We didn’t order food,” he exclaimed.  

“Maybe the food fairy came,” she grinned widely, her gap-toothed smile radiating excitement.

“It’s still hot,” he mumbled, picking up the bag, closing the door, and heading inside. 

Zoya picked up her scooter and zoomed by, almost tripping her father on the way to the dining table. 

“How many times do I have to tell you not to ride your scooter inside the house!” 

Zoya halted at the table, looking over her shoulder at her father. Her head hung low, and she didn’t utter a word. 

Anish carefully took out the containers from the bag. 

“This smells so good!” Zoya smiled. “Open it, open it. I want to see what’s inside.

 And there it was—warm, aromatic, and authentic—sitting on the dining table. 

Feeling concerned, Anish stared at the container. He was too tired to be suspicious and too hungry to ask questions. Inside, the rice was fluffy, the rajma lentils were cooked to perfection, and the spices were just right. Zoya took a bite and made a face of deep, dramatic appreciation.

“Papa, why can’t you cook like this for me every day?” 

Anish smiled for the first time all week. “I’ll try,” he said, knowing he couldn’t.

The following Sunday, it happened again. 

It was the same as the previous Sunday - Rajma chawal. But this time, there was a note:

“I hope you don’t mind. I just thought you could use a warm meal. - 402”

Anish and his daughter lived in 403. 

He quickly scribbled a thank you note at the back of a receipt, added a bag of namkeen and biscuits Zoya had insisted on saving, and left it outside 402. 

The door never opened when he passed. The hallway remained still. But every Sunday, like clockwork, the food appeared.

And every Sunday after, Anish and Zoya ate to their heart's content with a quiet kind of gratitude. 

Eventually, it became ritual. 

Sunday arrived with the smell of delicious Rajma Chawal. The food was always warm, always neatly packed, always enough for a man and his daughter who were just trying to keep it together.

The notes began to change, too.

No longer just polite thank-yous, but fragments of conversation between two strangers who never met.

"Your rajma reminds me of my grandmother’s. It used to be my grandfather’s favourite. – 403

"It was my wife’s recipe. She said it could fix any mood." – 402

Zoya insisted on adding her own notes. Small drawings of the food. A stick-figure family with big smiles. A sun wearing sunglasses.

One week, she drew a picture of Mr. 402—though she had never seen him—just a kind-looking man with a grey mustache and a big spoon in his hand.

"You look happy," she wrote underneath. "Papa says food tastes better when people are nice."

Ramesh kept that one on his refrigerator.

In return, his notes began to tell stories.

"Radha used to hum while cooking. She always sang slightly off-key, but I never told her.""She made ghiya taste delicious. It was witchcraft, I think.""On Sunday evening, she loved going for ice cream. It was something we always enjoyed doing together. Butterscotch was her favorite. So was mine.”

And slowly, Anish responded in kind.

"Zoya's mom left when she was two. I’ve had to learn to be a dad on the job ever since.”

 "We’ve had to move three times in four years. I think this might be the first place that feels…warm." "Thanks for making our lives feel less like survival, and more like home.”

Then, one Sunday, there was nothing.

No container. No note. No aroma of rajma or steamed rice coming from behind the door.

Zoya stood at the hallway window and whispered, “Maybe the food fairy is on vacation?”

Anish didn’t answer. Something felt off.

That evening, he knocked on 402.

No answer.

He waited, then knocked again, softer. Just when he was about to walk away, the door opened a few inches.

Mr. Nair looked thin, pale, and drawn. He was wrapped in a shawl.

“Sorry,” he said, his voice raspy. “Fever. I didn’t mean to worry you.”

Without thinking, Anish said, “We brought soup.”

Zoya held up a thermos almost as tall as her arm. “And toast! The good kind!”

Mr. Nair looked at them for a long time. Then, slowly, he opened the door and came out.

The hallway was too narrow for a real table. So they all sat on a low folding bench that Anish had brought out. Together they enjoyed their soup and a companionable quiet. 

They didn’t talk much that night. Just slurped soup, chewed quietly, and let the silence warm the air around them. 

When Zoya yawned and leaned against her father’s shoulder, Mr. Nair said, “Radha would have adored her.”

Anish smiled. “She’s good at winning people over. Especially if food is involved.”

Mr. Nair chuckled, a sound rusty from disuse. “Then she’s in the right place.”

The following Sunday, there was no container on the doormat.

Instead, Anish knocked on 402 and said, “We thought we could eat together.”

Ramesh hesitated. Then smiled.

“Bring the plates,” he said.

They set up in the hallway again. Zoya folded napkins “like in the fancy restaurants.” Ramesh brought Radha’s old stainless-steel bowls. Anish had cooked—kind of.

He admitted to watching YouTube videos and still burning the onions.

“Doesn’t matter,” Ramesh said, taking a bite. “You didn’t burn the salt. That’s a start.”

Zoya giggled. “He used a lot of salt last time. It was a disaster.”

Ramesh winked at her. “Good chefs learn by messing up.”

And after that, Sundays belonged to them.

They rotated kitchens. Some days, the food was perfect. Some days, the rice was too sticky. Once, Zoya dropped a small LEGO piece in the rajma. Anish worried that they’d get plastic poisoning. Ramesh insisted that the Rajma tasted better than usual. Zoya almost choked on it when she found it on her spoon after taking her last mouthful of rajma. The three ended up laughing uproariously at Zoya’s look of surprise as she choked the little piece up. 

They shared more than food—photos, stories, old recipes scribbled on yellowing notepads. Ramesh told Zoya bedtime tales about gods who lost their glasses and frogs that ran tea stalls. She drew him pictures of them all, which he taped to his fridge like priceless artwork.

On the first anniversary of their dinners, they cooked together.

All three of them crowded into Ramesh’s kitchen. It was cramped and chaotic. Zoya broke a bowl. Anish over-salted the raita. Ramesh forgot the cumin seeds.

Nothing went right. Everything tasted perfect.

They sat down on the hallway floor, no table this time—just sheets of newspaper spread out and messy smiles.

A note was taped to the inside of Ramesh’s door.

Zoya had written it in her wobbly, determined handwriting:

“We love you, Food Fairy.”

And underneath, Anish had added:

“Thank you for opening your door. We’re never closing ours again.”