Blop. Blop. Blop.
Not a fish.
Blop. Squeak. Blop.
Not a mouse.
Blop. Squeak. Squeak.
The sound came from below the gas stove. I stooped down to figure out its exact source. The only possible point from where such variably spaced, rhythmic, and, for a lack of words, interesting sound could come from was from the junction connecting the stove with the pipe.
Maybe there was a gas leak?
But one has to cook given that one is also hungry. So that’s what I did. I stooped down again to pull out a karai from the cabinet, turned on the fire (no I did not die), and put the karai on it.
Jack Nicolson was looking at me from outside the window. Where was the window, you ask me? Right in front of me. Behind the stove.
“Go away, Jack Nicolson,” I said.
It just said meow in return. Pigeons these days are so ungrateful for feeding them tulsi leaves.
Translation of Nepali words
karai – a round-bottomed pot, a common cooking utensil found in South Asian kitchens