Chicken Bhuna Masala

Fresh from the misty hills of Mahabaleshwar, Saira and Arjun stepped into their Bandra apartment—the scent of pine and strawberries still clinging to their luggage. The honeymoon had ended, but something about returning to their modest top-floor rental felt romantic too. It was a place just big enough to play house, with peeling yellow walls and the sea faintly audible on quiet nights.

The kitchen, if it could be called that, was barely larger than a closet. It had checkered black-and-white tiles that always looked dusty no matter how much they mopped, a gas stove that needed coaxing with a matchstick, and a wooden spice cabinet whose hinges whined with age. The cabinet held memories of every tenant before them—some of the glass jars still had handwritten labels in Hindi and Marathi. The aroma of old jeera and cinnamon made it smell like stories.

Saira was determined. She wanted to recreate the chicken bhuna masala they’d devoured at a roadside dhaba on the return drive. Greasy, fiery, unforgettable. She had a well-thumbed Tarla Dalal cookbook on the counter, opened to a splattered page, and was squinting at the instructions. She had never cooked meat before.

The recipe said, “Bhuno the onions till golden brown.”

“How long is that? Five minutes? Ten?” she whispered, glancing at the ticking wall clock like it held secrets.

She sliced the onions too thin. They sizzled violently in the hot oil, and the kitchen filled with a pungent haze. Just as she was second-guessing every decision, she heard the front door creak.

“Boo,” Arjun said, appearing at the doorway like a mischievous ghost.

“You’re not supposed to be back yet!” Saira squealed, covering the pot with a lid too small.

He peered over her shoulder, inhaling deeply. “Smells like you summoned all of Punjab and Maharashtra into one pot.”

She slapped his arm. “Help me! How long do I bhuno these? They’re already brown but… sticky?”

Arjun leaned in, pretending he was the seasoned cook. He poked the onions, nodded sagely, and said, “We keep going. That’s the trick. Bhuno means beat the hell out of them. Cook them till they beg for mercy.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not what it means.”

But something about his confidence was reassuring. Together, they stirred, argued over the amount of ginger, and threw in chopped tomatoes with too much force. The masala started to stick and char. A smoky aroma curled up from the sides of the pan—burnt, but not in a bad way. Like flavor was hiding inside the mistake.

The chicken went in, and the two of them crouched beside the stove like it was a campfire, peeking under the lid every few minutes.

When it was finally done, it looked nothing like the photo in the cookbook. It was darker, thicker. Almost sinister. But it smelled... dangerous and good.

Too tired and hungry to bother with plates, they slid down onto the kitchen floor. Saira handed him a dented steel bowl and a spoon. Arjun popped open a Thums Up bottle with the edge of the countertop. The fizzy sweetness cut the heat of the masala.

On the radio, Chalte Chalte started playing, soft and crackly.

Saira took a bite. “It’s burnt.”

He chewed slowly. “It’s perfect.”

But as they ate in silence, a sudden pop from the gas stove startled them. The flame flickered unnaturally blue for a second before going out.

They froze.

“…Did you hear that?” Saira whispered.

Arjun nodded. “Gas?”

He crept to the stove, checked the knobs. Everything seemed off. The matchstick wouldn’t catch. Then the radio crackled too—only now the song slowed, like a tape winding down.

The lights flickered.

And somewhere from inside the spice cabinet, something shifted. Just a soft thud.

Arjun turned toward it. “That wasn’t... you?”

“No,” Saira said, eyes wide.

The radio let out a low, warped whine.

And the smell—suddenly the room wasn’t filled with bhuna masala anymore. It was something older. Damp. Earthy. Almost… rotting.

From the cabinet, the lid of one of the jars slowly unscrewed itself.

They both stared.

“…You didn’t touch that jeera jar, right?”

“No.”

The flame on the stove hissed back to life. Blue again. But no one had touched the knob.

They didn’t speak.

Outside, Bandra carried on as usual—cars honked, dogs barked, lovers argued.

Inside the little kitchen, something had awoken.

And it was hungry.