From My Kitchen At 2AM

- an anticipation of solitude, spices, and something like peace.

I haven’t moved in yet, but I already know what it’ll sound like.

There will be the soft metallic rattle of utensils as I unpack them into drawers still echoing from years of someone else’s life. The snap of bubble wrap as I unwrap the single mug I’ve claimed as mine. The one I will rinse a hundred times, the one that will hold coffee, tea, guilt, and soup.

I already know the soft beep of the induction top, the way it wakes like a machine reluctant to serve. No flames here- only a tired red circle glowing beneath the pot, precise and impersonal. The way the oil will protest (just a little) when I drop mustard seeds into it. The silence that follows, not empty, but full. The way the spoon will scrape the bottom of the pan in a rhythm that only I know, only I need to.

This kitchen will be mine.
Mine to clutter, mine to clean.
Mine to ignore at 4 PM and adore at 2 AM.

I imagine peeling garlic at midnight. Not because I’m hungry, but because something in me needs grounding. Garlic is honest. You can’t rush through it. It demands your fingers, your focus. It teaches you patience in a way few people do. I will dice onions, and I won’t worry about anyone judging the size of the pieces. I will burn things, sometimes. I will learn not to.

I think I’ll eat standing up sometimes. On some days, I will eat by the stove, too tired to carry the weight of my own tiredness to the table. On others, I’ll set it all up like a scene from a book: a plate, a glass, a folded napkin. A candle, maybe, just for the joke of it. I’ll sit down like I’m the guest of honour in my own quiet life.
Sometimes, I’ll set the table like it’s a ritual, not a reminder.

And I’ll taste everything.

Some nights, I’ll make elaborate meals from scratch. Not to impress, but to feel alive. I’ll experiment. Not always with food. Sometimes with silence. With solitude. With songs I haven’t sung in years. With dancing barefoot on a cold kitchen tile. Hoping there were arms to hold me for the dip

And on some nights, I won’t cook at all. I’ll eat Maggi in the pot I made it in, using a fork I forgot to wash. I’ll feel sad and strange and still okay.

There will be sounds, always.

The fan spinning overhead like a memory.
The fridge humming.
My playlist playing some melancholy Bollywood nonsense I will pretend not to love.
Maybe I’ll talk to myself out loud
and answer, too.
The occasional clatter of a spoon slipping into the sink.
And the sound of something less heard:

becoming.

I think about the walk home with groceries. A canvas bag biting into my fingers, a list half-forgotten. I'll buy vegetables without someone saying, “That's not the right way.” It’s about figuring out if coriander is still good or just good enough. It’s the small triumph of cutting open a packet without it exploding, the quiet shame of realising I forgot to buy salt. Again.

And then there’s the room.

It’s barely big enough for me and my dreams, but I’ll make it mine. A suitcase under the cot, a pile of books where a shelf should be. Fairy lights, maybe. a pinching collection of wall decor hung haphazardly enough to pass for 'abstract'.  I already know I’ll trip over things for the first few weeks - my own shoes, the misplaced charger, the ambitions I tried to rush. But soon, the chaos will know me. I’ll learn the corners. I’ll stop bumping into walls that aren’t mine.

Maybe I'll grow a plant in there. Or get a cat. Have another life around. 

And slowly this tiny room will become joy.

Not the loud kind. Not the celebratory, champagne-popping, scream-on-the-rooftop kind.
But the soft kind.
The joy of a mug that’s always there. 

Some days will feel like I’m being swallowed whole.
The silence might ache. The fridge might be empty. I might cry over burnt dal and wonder why I even tried. The fan might make that creaking sound at odd hours of the night, and the lizard might hiss in annoyance.

But there will also be joy. A strange joy. In reheating rice. In buying coriander just for me. In that pile of books that will fall one day. In calling it a night at 2 AM with a full belly and the lingering scent of fried fish in the air. 

And somewhere between the hum and the sigh,
I'll become someone I’ve never met before, standing in a small kitchen, holding a warm plate, and letting her life take shape one spoonful at a time.