Homestyle Chole Kulche
It was 5 o’clock in the evening, and my गरमा गरम cuppa chai waited for me patiently on the kitchen countertop, its steam curling into the air like a delicate wisp of comfort. My Insta-pot, meanwhile, had been whispering for a while now, an eerie mechanical hum that muttered something unintelligible- something I was sure only I could hear.
"Chole is cooked to perfection," I told myself, shaking off the unsettling feeling. It had been a long day at work, and all I wanted was this beautiful cuppa of peace before I dived into dinner prep.
I took a sip, letting the warmth spread through me, trying to drown out the tiny voice at the back of my head. But there it was again.
A whisper.
Soft, almost too soft to be real.
I turned to the Insta-pot, my heartbeat skipping just once, then twice. It sat there innocently, its digital screen flashing the time, steam gently releasing from the vent. But I could swear.. swear.. that I had heard something.
"Let it be," I told myself, shaking my head and focusing on the task at hand.
I reached for the ginger-garlic paste and added a generous dollop to the pan, then threw in roughly chopped onions and tomatoes, their sizzle momentarily drowning out the faint noise behind me. A teaspoon of yogurt, some cream, random spices, salt to taste, and a touch of lemon juice- it was all muscle memory. My hands moved on autopilot, stirring and swaying to a beautiful song playing on my phone, a song I didn’t even understand but one that made me feel at home.
But just as I was about to take another sip of chai, I heard it again.
Louder.
Closer.
A whisper.
This time, it wasn’t coming from the Insta-pot.
I froze, the ladle in my hand hovering over the bubbling chole. The kitchen, which had been my safe haven mere moments ago, now felt too silent, too claustrophobic- the warm, inviting aromas suddenly laced with a strange sense of dread.
Slowly, I turned my head toward the source of the sound.
The pantry door- which had been shut when I walked in- was slightly ajar.
A chill ran down my spine.
I had not opened that door.
The stirring in the pan slowed, my grip tightening around the ladle. I took a step forward, my slipper barely making a sound against the kitchen tiles.
The whisper came again.
I swung open the pantry door.
Nothing.
Just shelves lined with masalas, grains, and an unopened pack of bhujia I had hidden from myself to avoid temptation.
But before I could exhale in relief, something on the bottom shelf caught my eye.
Something that shouldn’t be there.
A cup of chai.
Identical to the one on my countertop.
Still steaming.
My own cup of chai.
I turned sharply toward the countertop, heart hammering.
The cup was gone.
The air suddenly felt heavier, suffocating, the scent of ginger and garlic now almost too strong, too sharp. I could hear my heartbeat in my ears.
And then…
The Insta-pot beeped.
A single, sharp sound that made me jump.
I whipped around, my hands trembling, staring at the digital display that now flashed a message I had never seen before.
"DON’T TURN AROUND."
My breath caught in my throat.
Someone.. or something.. was standing behind me.
And this time, I wasn’t imagining the whisper.
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