The Music Teacher
For Negar Ighani
We stood in a circle, patted our chests and thighs, sang and jumped then clapped. We rained, jumped once more in tune, until lightning struck. She asked us to hold hands and the rain grew slower under our toes. We felt like raindrops falling from the sky, like droplets lying deep within the sea. This was her idea of God. We’d told her we didn’t believe in one. What was it others believed in? We never spoke of it again, with anyone.
***
We stand in a circle and jump, higher than before. Lightning strikes. We hesitate. We hope to hear her voice.
The Missing Spice
I am telling her about a recipe I read somewhere, she’s cleaning the oven, stirring the rice while hearing me mention garam masala. Suddenly, she is kneeling on the ground, shuffling through all the spices, rattling, and the rice starts pouring out and then, we are sitting at the table eating a delicious meal followed by a dessert, and it’s all over, so is the recipe I was telling her about and I’m heading home with the garam masala in a little bag, thinking I’ll be making butter chicken tomorrow and if she asked me that. I don’t remember if I replied. Maybe I should invite her over. For the new year? My birthday? Or next year.