On the quieter edges of London, where the city's rush thins into lived-in streets, a small Indian restaurant sat beneath a row of aging flats. It wasn't much to look at—just a hand-painted sign, a few metal chairs outside, and the faint hum of an old fridge drifting into the night. But when evening settled and the rain began to patter on the pavement, it came alive.
The air carried the warm scent of curry leaves and fried onions, escaping through the door each time someone stepped in or out. Inside, the lighting was dim but soft, the kind that made even worn furniture seem inviting. A few young professionals and students—bachelors and bachelorettes from the nearby blocks—gathered there after work, laughing together over cheap plates of biryani and naan that tasted better than they had any right to.
It wasn't a place for tourists or polished dining, but for people who lived nearby, it was a kind of refuge—a familiar warmth after long days and small apartments, a spot where the spice and chatter lingered long after closing time.
Among the metal chairs sat a weary man, alone. His wrinkled white shirt clung loosely to him, and his coat hung limply over the back of the chair. Strands of black, silk-like hair fell messily across his forehead, and his onyx eyes, dull and unfocused, barely stayed open. Shadows deepened beneath them, signs of sleepless nights. His name was Devan Nair, though most people called him Dave.
He was a senior architect at one of London's leading firms. The title might sound impressive, but in reality, he was little more than a glorified babysitter. That explained his current state. When he first received the job offer, he was thrilled. Now, years later, he was just tired.
The firm claimed to offer a friendly environment and standard working hours from nine to five, yet the truth was far from the brochure. The office was chaotic, deadlines were relentless, and leaving at five was a fantasy—just like today, when he didn't walk out until nine. The only saving grace was the generous pay and overtime compensation, the sole reasons he hadn't quit yet. Even so, he knew that if he continued at this pace, the toll on his physical and mental health would soon become unbearable.
As he was contemplating his life choices, the server came to pick up his order. Priya was in her early twenties, full of restless energy that seemed to spill into everything she did. Her black hair, tied back in a loose ponytail, had escaped in a few strands that framed her face, softening her quick movements.
She wore a simple cotton kurti—a light, knee-length tunic with faded floral patterns—and a pair of dark jeans, practical for long hours on her feet. Over it all was an old but clean apron, its fabric creased from use, tied tight around her waist.
She is the eldest daughter of the owner, and Dave has known her since he came to London. 'It's already been three years,' Dave thought to himself.
"Hi there, are you ready to order?" Priya asked cheerfully. 'How come she is still full of energy?' It was almost 11, and as far as he knew, this restaurant opened at 6 in the evening. Dave wishes he had some of Priya's boundless energy.
He shook his head to clear his thoughts. "I'll have four naan and butter chicken," he said.
Priya gave him an apologetic smile. "Sorry, we're out of chicken."
Dave had half expected that, so he didn't seem bothered. "Alright then, I'll have the butter paneer instead."
Priya offered a wry smile. "I'm sorry, we're out of paneer too. It's close to closing time, and we've run out of most of our ingredients."
Dave was frustrated, but he knew it was not Priya's fault. He gave an expatriate sigh and asked her, "Then what do you have? If possible, I want something fresh". Priya thought for a moment and replied, "We have mushroom butter masala if that's ok with you, and don't worry, it was delivered fresh from a farm just this evening."
"Mushrooms, huh, sure I will have that". After taking his order, she went back to the kitchen. Seeing Priya's retreating figure, Dave thought, She must only be as old as his sister, but their personality are opposite.
He was originally from Kerala, India, born into a middle-class family. Life had been steady and uneventful—until his sister was born. She was ten years younger, and from the moment she arrived, his parents' attention shifted entirely to her.
At first, he was angry, but over time, he stopped expecting anything from them. He threw himself into his studies; though never the top of his class, he consistently ranked among the best. A small part of him still hoped that good grades might earn his parents' praise, but he eventually realized that no matter what he achieved, he no longer mattered to them.
His sister, that mischievous little imp, always found ways to get him into trouble. Whenever she broke something, she blamed him—and no matter how he tried to explain, their parents never believed him. Even when he could prove his innocence, they scolded him for "not looking after his sister properly."
Everything came to a breaking point when their parents used his grandparents' inheritance—money meant for his college education—to buy jewelry and a new dress for their precious daughter. Furious beyond words, he fought with them and left home that very day.
He didn't know what to do next. He was only a high school student, and he refused to go back. Unsure where to turn, he went to his uncle's house, hoping to stay for a few days. His uncle understood his situation and told him he could stay as long as he needed. To this day, he remains deeply grateful for that kindness. Sadly, his uncle has since passed away, and he will never have the chance to repay him.
His uncle worked in a small factory. The salary was not very much, and he spent most of his money on drinking. He had a problem, but their family never did anything to help his uncle, never even attempted to help him stand on his own leg; he was the black sheep of the family.
Soon after graduating from high school with respectable grades and earning a scholarship to a tier-two college, he felt a pang of disappointment but resolved to make the best of his circumstances.
After that, he started working part-time to take care of himself, but tragedy struck when he was in his final year of college, when his uncle finally succumbed to all that drinking and to years of working in polluted air, and finally passed away.
He was devastated because he never had a chance to repay his uncle. When he went to attend his uncle's funeral, he saw his parents for the first time after the fight; they didn't even apologize, and they even dared to scold him for not responding to them.
He bit his tongue and held back; today wasn't about them—or even about himself. It was about his uncle. No one had truly known how kind the man was—not even he had, until he went to live with him. It had been eight years since the funeral.
After finishing his college, he found a job as a junior architect in Chennai, and he used most of his savings to relocate there. His first job was literally hell; the pay was poor, and his seniors hounded him for every small mistake he made. He was poor and miserable. Now he is just miserable.
Now that he was a senior himself, he finally got why his seniors were always so frustrated. Every mistake the juniors made, he had to fix—double the work, no extra pay. Still, it taught him a lot and gave him the foundation for where he was now.
His parents used to call him often when he was in Chennai, but most of the time he ignored them. Whenever he did answer, the conversation was always about them—complaints about how he hadn't been a good son. A few times, they even asked him for money because their precious daughter wanted something, and as her brother, it was supposedly his duty to fulfill her wishes.
They had somehow discovered where he worked and showed up at his office, creating a scene. He nearly lost his job because of it. That was the last time he saw his parents.
That incident had been the final straw. He'd had enough. Soon after, he began searching for opportunities abroad—and that was how he found his current position.
As he reminisced about his past, Priya returned with his order. The aroma was irresistible—one of the main reasons he had become a regular here. That, and the fact that the place stayed open until midnight, a rarity in this part of town. The food was affordable, and the taste was unmatched.
"Enjoy your meal," Priya said with a smile.
He almost said, You too, but caught himself just in time. That would've been embarrassing, he thought with a chuckle before turning his attention to the steaming food before him.
From the plate before him, the aroma rose like a promise—rich butter, roasted garlic, and the earthy scent of mushrooms simmered in spice. The naan glistened under the light, golden and soft, its charred edges whispering of fire and smoke.
Beside it, the mushroom butter masala gleamed—a deep orange pool streaked with cream, fragrant enough to make his stomach tighten. He tore off a piece of naan, dipped it into the sauce, and watched it drip before eating. The flavor hit instantly: buttery, warm with spice, the mushrooms melting against his tongue.
It was comfort made edible—simple, rich, and impossible to stop eating. As he ate, he noticed something peculiar in the gravy: a mushroom. That alone wasn't strange, but unlike the rest, this one wasn't chopped—it was whole. He didn't think much of it and ate it anyway.