The Last Supper

The Last Supper At six o’clock on a rain-heavy Thursday evening, Arjun Kapoor stood in the middle of his kitchen staring at three tomatoes, half a bag of rice, a bruised onion, and a chicken that had been sitting in the refrigerator since Monday. He had exactly four hours to turn them into something unforgettable. Not merely edible. Not merely impressive. Unforgettable. At ten o’clock, Meera would arrive. And Arjun had promised to cook for her. The promise had been made six months ago, on a rooftop under a sky full of stars and laundry lines. “You always say you can cook,” Meera had told him. “I can.” “You once burned toast.” “That was intentional.” “You set off the smoke alarm.” “A sophisticated technique.” She had laughed. Then she had looked at him in that quiet way she sometimes did, as though she could see past every joke he made. “Fine,” she had said. “One day, cook something for me.” “One day?” “One day.” “I’ll make you something you’ll remember.” She had smiled. “I’ll hold you to that.” Now that day had arrived. And Arjun had absolutely no idea what he was doing. He opened the refrigerator again. Three tomatoes. Half a lemon. Some coriander. A bottle of milk. Butter. Eggs. The chicken. He closed the door. “Brilliant,” he whispered. He had spent the previous week watching cooking videos. He had learned words like julienne, deglaze, and mise en place, none of which he understood well enough to use without fear. He had even bought a chef’s knife. It was currently lying unopened in its box because he was afraid of cutting himself. His phone buzzed. Meera: Still okay for tonight? Arjun stared at the message. He typed: Absolutely. I’m making something special. He deleted it. Typed again: Come hungry. Deleted that too. Finally: Of course. See you at 10 ❤️ He sent it. Then he looked at the clock. 6:07. “Okay,” he said to the empty kitchen. “We are going to make something special.” The chicken became his first problem. He remembered a chef saying, Respect the ingredient. Arjun picked up the chicken. “I respect you,” he told it. The chicken offered no response. He searched for a recipe. Roast chicken. Too ordinary. Butter chicken. Too predictable. Chicken biryani. Too complicated. Coq au vin. Absolutely not. He scrolled through dozens of recipes until something caught his eye: chicken cooked slowly with caramelized onions, tomatoes, spices, butter, and lemon, served over saffron rice. It sounded complicated. It sounded beautiful. It sounded like something a person who knew what they were doing might make. Perfect. He began. The onions were the first disaster. He sliced them too thickly. Then too thinly. Then he began crying. At first, he blamed the onions. Then he realized he was laughing. “This is ridiculous.” He wiped his eyes and continued. Butter melted in the pan. Onions went in. They hissed. Arjun stirred. Five minutes. Ten. Twenty. The onions softened, darkened, and began to smell sweet. He added garlic. Ginger. Cumin. Cardamom. Cinnamon. Chili. The kitchen transformed. For the first time that evening, Arjun stopped feeling like an impostor. Something was happening. He browned the chicken. Added tomatoes. Added stock. Lowered the flame. Then he covered the pan. The clock said 7:21. He still had more than two hours. He made the rice. He washed it three times because the internet said to. He soaked it. He boiled water. He added saffron. He watched the rice carefully. At 7:54, he tasted it. It was awful. At 7:56, he added salt. At 7:58, he tasted it again. Better. At 8:02, he added butter. Much better. At 8:10, he realized he had forgotten the lemon. He squeezed half a lemon over the chicken. The sauce came alive. Arjun stared at it. He had never understood why chefs on television became emotional about food. Now he did. It wasn't the food. It was the moment when something you had imagined became real. At 8:40, he cleaned the kitchen. At 8:50, he showered. At 9:05, he changed his shirt. At 9:20, he changed it again. At 9:35, he lit candles. At 9:41, he blew out three because the apartment smelled like a candle shop. At 9:48, he tasted the chicken again. Perfect. At least, he thought it was perfect. Then the doorbell rang. Arjun froze. His heart began beating violently. He checked the clock. 9:51. He walked toward the door. Stopped. Looked at himself in the mirror. His hair was terrible. He fixed it. It became worse. The doorbell rang again. He opened the door. Meera stood outside, holding a small paper bag. Her hair was damp from the rain. She smiled. “Hi.” Arjun forgot every word he knew. “Hi.” She held up the bag. “I brought dessert.” “You brought dessert?” “I didn't trust you.” He laughed. “Fair.” She stepped inside. Then she stopped. The apartment smelled incredible. Her eyes widened. “Arjun.” “What?” “You actually cooked.” “I told you I could.” She looked toward the kitchen. “Can I see?” “No.” She laughed. “Why not?” “Because chefs don't reveal their secrets.” “You watched six cooking videos.” “Those are classified.” She walked toward the kitchen anyway. Arjun followed. The table was set simply: two plates, two glasses, candles, and a large dish in the center. Meera stared at it. “What is it?” “Chicken.” “I can see that.” “Then why did you ask?” She laughed again. He loved that laugh. They sat. Arjun served the rice. Then the chicken. Then sauce. He watched her take the first bite. She chewed slowly. His stomach tightened. “Well?” She looked at him. “It's…” He waited. “It's really good.” Arjun exhaled. “Really?” “Really.” “How good?” “Don't ruin it.” He grinned. They ate. They talked about everything. Work. College. The ridiculous neighbor upstairs. The time Arjun had accidentally sent a romantic message to his boss instead of Meera. The first time they met. The first time he realized he liked her. That last subject came unexpectedly. Meera set down her fork. “When did you know?” “When did I know what?” “That you liked me.” Arjun looked at the candle between them. He could have joked. He almost did. Instead, he told the truth. “The first time you defended me.” She frowned slightly. “When?” “Three years ago. At the office party.” “You don't remember that.” “I remember everything.” She smiled. “You were drunk.” “I was not drunk.” “You danced with a lamp.” “It had rhythm.” She laughed. Arjun smiled. Then thunder shook the windows. The lights flickered. Once. Twice. Then everything went dark. Meera gasped. Arjun stood. “Don't move.” “Why?” “I have candles.” He reached for one. The wind outside suddenly slammed against the windows. Rain hammered the glass. The apartment was lit only by candlelight. And then— A sharp metallic crash came from the kitchen. Meera stood. “What was that?” Arjun stared toward the darkness. “I don't know.” Another crash. Something had fallen. Then came a sound like a low hiss. Arjun's face changed. “The stove.” He ran. The gas flame had gone out. But gas was still flowing. The kitchen was filling with it. Arjun reached for the knob. Then stopped. He remembered the warning printed in red on the cylinder. Do not create a spark. He turned toward Meera. “Get outside.” “What?” “Now.” She moved toward him. “Arjun, what's happening?” “Gas leak.” The lights were out. The apartment smelled faintly of fuel. Arjun opened the windows. “Go!” Meera grabbed his arm. “We're both leaving.” He nodded. They hurried toward the door. Then Arjun stopped. On the kitchen counter, beside the cooling food, lay his phone. The screen was glowing. A message had appeared. UNKNOWN NUMBER: YOU SHOULD HAVE LEFT WHEN I TOLD YOU. Arjun stared at it. His blood went cold. Meera saw the message. “What is that?” “I don't know.” The apartment door suddenly slammed shut. Not from the wind. From the other side. Someone had pulled it closed. Arjun grabbed the handle. It wouldn't move. “Meera?” “I can't open it.” He pulled harder. Nothing. Then footsteps sounded in the hallway. Slow. Measured. Coming toward the apartment. Meera whispered, “Arjun…” He looked toward the kitchen. The gas. The locked door. The footsteps. And then he remembered something. The balcony. “Come on.” They ran. Arjun shoved open the balcony door. Rain exploded into the apartment. Cold water struck his face. Meera followed. They stepped onto the narrow balcony. Below them, six floors of darkness. The footsteps stopped outside the apartment. Silence. Then— A knock. Three slow knocks. Arjun stared at the door. “Who's there?” No answer. Another three knocks. Meera gripped his hand. The smell of gas was stronger now. Arjun looked toward the kitchen. The candles. The stove. The leaking gas. One spark could turn the entire apartment into an inferno. “We need to get out,” he said. “How?” Arjun looked over the balcony. The neighboring balcony was less than a meter away. He could climb across. But Meera couldn't. “I'll go first.” “No.” “I can get to the next balcony and open the building's emergency door.” “No.” “Meera—” “You're not leaving me.” The words stopped him. For one second, everything else disappeared. The rain. The footsteps. The gas. The fear. Just her. He smiled. “Okay.” The apartment door suddenly burst open. A figure stood inside. Arjun pulled Meera backward. The figure stepped forward. Lightning flashed. And Arjun saw the face. His own. It was a man wearing his jacket. His height. His face. His voice. “Arjun,” the stranger said. Meera screamed. Arjun stared. The stranger smiled. “You really shouldn't have come home tonight.” Then the kitchen exploded. A wall of fire erupted behind them. The blast threw Arjun across the balcony. He hit the railing. Meera fell. For one terrible second, she disappeared below the balcony. Arjun caught her wrist. “MEERA!” She screamed his name. The fire roared behind them. Smoke filled the apartment. The stranger vanished. Arjun held on. His fingers slipped. “Don't let go!” “I won't!” “Arjun!” “I won't!” He pulled. His shoulder screamed. His hands burned. Below them, the street filled with rain and distant headlights. Above them, flames climbed toward the ceiling. Arjun pulled again. Meera's other hand caught the railing. Together, they climbed onto the balcony. They collapsed against each other. Sirens began wailing in the distance. Firefighters arrived minutes later. The apartment was destroyed. The kitchen was gone. The table was blackened. The candles had melted. The food was ash. Hours later, sitting beneath a blanket outside the building, Arjun looked at Meera. She was shivering. He took her hand. “I'm sorry.” “For what?” “Dinner.” She stared at him. Then laughed. A tired, frightened, beautiful laugh. “You nearly died.” “I know.” “And you're apologizing for dinner?” “It was supposed to impress you.” She looked at him for a long moment. Then she squeezed his hand. “You did.” Arjun smiled. “Really?” “Yes.” She leaned closer. “Just not because of the food.” Behind them, firefighters moved through the ruined apartment. One of them called out. “Hey!” Arjun turned. The firefighter was holding something. A metal pan. Inside it, remarkably untouched, was a small portion of the saffron rice. The firefighter sniffed it. “Whatever this was…” He took a bite. His eyebrows rose. “Pretty good.” Arjun laughed. Meera laughed too. Then, from somewhere inside the ruined apartment, Arjun's phone began ringing. Once. Twice. Three times. He stared at the burning remains of his home. The screen lit up. UNKNOWN NUMBER. He didn't answer. The call stopped. A message appeared. NEXT TIME, COOK FOR TWO. Arjun's smile disappeared. He looked at Meera. She had seen it too. Neither of them spoke. Behind them, the fire continued to burn. And somewhere in the darkness beyond the rain, someone began to laugh.