The Kitchen War: Sunday Storm
It was a lazy Sunday morning, the kind where sunlight filters in like butter on warm toast. Iman stood at the kitchen counter, squinting at a YouTube tutorial titled "How to make golden fluffy pakoras (for complete beginners)."
She'd watched it four times already, and the chef's cheerful voice was starting to haunt her.
"Chop the onion very thin!" it chirped.
So she chopped. And cried.
Across the counter sat Ali, legs crossed on the high stool in the kitchen. "You know," he began, balancing a tomato on his finger like a globe, "at this point, I think the onion's crying for help."
Iman rolled her eyes. "Shut up, Ali."
"I'm just saying," he grinned, "even the knife looks traumatized."
Iman held up the onion, now massacred into irregular cubes, triangles, and one piece that suspiciously looked like the map of Africa. "It's rustic."
"It's reckless," he countered, snatching the potato and peeling it with exaggerated flair. "And that—" he pointed to the heap of chaos on the cutting board "—is not how you win a Kitchen War."
"You know what, you're here to assist me, not audition for Masterchef: Menace Edition."
Just then, Iman's phone buzzed. She wiped her hands on her apron, picked it up, and her lips curved without thinking.
Ahad.
Ahad: What are you doing, warrior?
Iman: Trying to cook without burning down the kitchen.
Ahad: Impossible. You once set fire to a toaster while making cold sandwiches.
She chuckled.
Ali glanced sideways. "Is it him?"
She didn't answer, but her smile answered enough.
Ali rolled his eyes and started slicing the potatoes like they had personally offended him. "Tell your Ahad to stop texting. You're about to fry stuff in hot oil."
Iman ignored him.
Ahad: So who's the brave soul next to you in the kitchen?
Iman: Ali.
The three dots emerged and died down
Meanwhile, Ali had moved on to flipping the first batch of pakoras, managing to splatter some hot oil on himself.
"Ow!" he yelped, hopping back.
"Careful!" Iman exclaimed.
"I'm risking my life for your cooking dreams," he muttered. "This is a suicidal pakora."
At that exact moment, Ahad called.
Iman answered.
------
Ahad's voice came through, calm and smooth like rain right before a thunderclap. "You didn't tell me Ali was this involved in the cooking."
Iman raised an eyebrow. "He's just helping."
"Does he usually burn himself while helping?" Ahad asked, voice teasing but tight beneath the joke.
Ali shouted in the background, "Tell him I'm only here because I lost a bet with her mom!"
Iman laughed, "You heard that?"
"I did," Ahad said coolly. Then silence.
A long pause.
Then his voice dropped an octave. "Iman?"
"Hmm?"
"I'm coming over."
Iman blinked. "What?"
"Right now. I just remembered I had to tell you something in person," he said. "It can't wait."
"But it's Sunday!"
"Exactly. No school. No tuition. No excuses."
She could practically hear his smirk through the phone.
In the kitchen, Ali was humming a Bollywood song under his breath while flipping pakoras like he was auditioning for a culinary circus.
"Does he always do that?" Ahad asked.
"What?"
"Sing like an off-key parrot when you're near?"
Iman burst into laughter. "Be nice."
"I am nice. But only to you."
Then the call ended.
Iman turned to Ali, who was now dramatically presenting her a plate of oddly shaped, semi-golden pakoras.
"I present to you: Pakora Pandemonium," he announced.
She tasted one, coughed, and immediately reached for water.
"It's a little salty," she gasped.
"It's passion," he defended.
"It's hypertension," she retorted.
At that very moment, the doorbell rang.
Ali opened it, still in his "pakora chef" swagger.
And there stood Ahad.
Wearing white shirt and black pant .looking like the villain and the hero at the same time. His eyes scanned the room and landed on Iman, then flicked to Ali, who was holding a spoon and a suspicious burn on his hand.
Ahad didn't say a word. He walked in, took the spoon from Ali's hand, and placed it back on the counter like it was a loaded weapon.
"Thanks for helping," he said to Ali. "But the kitchen has rules."
Ali, slightly amused, tilted his head. "Like?"
Ahad smiled. "Like not getting too close to what doesn't belong to you."
Ali whistled. "Ouch."Ali smirked. "oh!, the Kitchen War isn't over. It's just beginning."
As they all stood in the smoky, spice-filled kitchen, laughing and arguing over whose cooking was worse, no one noticed the burnt pakoras turning black on the stove.
But Ahad did.
Without a word, he grabbed the pan, turned off the flame, and slid the pakoras into the trash like a silent soldier.
"She's bad at cooking," Ali admitted, "but he's good at rescuing disasters."
Ahad looked back at Iman, lips twitching.
And with that, the battle lines were drawn—salt, oil, fire, and one quietly furious lover who'd never let anyone overstep.