Oh no! (Riya's POV)

My good mood doesn’t last long. Things start to go wrong. The rice begins to stick to the bottom of the pan. The potato started to burn, and frozen chicken becomes charred on the outside while still cold in the middle. Peering into the large pan I deem there is not enough oil, and the heat is too high.

Should have used a slow-cooker. Fuck.

Instead of cutting my losses and admitting defeat, I keep trying to save it. But I get more stressed, more sweaty, more frustrated. And the kitchen keeps getting messier and more chaotic. In an attempt to save some time, I lift the cover to the blender too soon I have yoghurt sauce everywhere.

It’s a disaster. And now I’m an emotional mess. About 10 minutes later, Mr. Patterson steps into the kitchen with an alarmed look.

“What the?”

“Sorry.” I battle the tears. “I’m so very sorry.”

“It’s Okay.”

“I should have had a trial run.” A tear escapes, and a second quickly follows. “I was too ambitious. But… but…” I begin to sob. “I just wanted to impress you. Give you something back.”

“It’s fine. Honestly. Come here.”

Mr. Patterson wraps his arms around me, and I cry into his chest. He squeezes me tight, and I melt into his arms. It feels cathartic ... safe ... loving. I twist a little to put some space between us.

“I'm so sorry, Sir. I thought I could do this.” Mr. Paterson seems to understand, and gently wipes a tear from my cheek.

“Cooking's not easy. But you should have been honest with me.”

“But Avni can throw together a biryani in forty minutes while she does the laundry and watches her Bollywood soaps, all at the same time.”

“Wait. Who is Avni?”

“Our family cook.”

Mr. P looks confused. Scratches the back of his head. “I thought you said your mother cooked?”

“Mummy does. But only when she wants to.”

“Must be nice to have a professional cook.”

“Avni is not a professional.” The words spit out of my mouth contemptuously. “That hairy dalit can't even read or write; how hard could it be to cook a simple dish?”

“Hey, slow down, angry pants.” He reaches down and lifts my chin with his finger. “What's a dalit?”

“I shouldn't have said that” I suddenly realised I had let my anger and disappointment take hold of me. My parents would be so ashamed. “Mr. Patterson. I'm sorry.” I try to explain. “In the old caste system, dalits are the untouchables. Avni is not really a dalit, but she is everything that India is trying to move away from; that ignorant farmgirl doesn't even know the Earth is a sphere or that chewing on garlic doesn't cure a cold.”

“I see, but at least she knows how to cook, huh?”

He had a point. I look at my yoghurt splattered tennis shoes. “True. It's actually me who is the idiot.”

““I guess you exaggerated about some of your skills, is that right?”

“Please, Mr. Patterson, I can't go back to that filthy hostel. I just can't!”

“Well, you clean up in here, and I'm going to order us some real chicken biryani. OK?”

“Yes, Sir.”

It takes about an hour for the food from India Palace to arrive and in that time, I have got the kitchen looking pristine. I might not be able to cook, but I can clean like a dalit. We sit down at the dining room table eating right out of the cardboard boxes like students.

Mr. P asks after his first fork of Biryani. “Be honest with me this time, Miss Kapadia,” He pauses as he chews. “What chores can you do around the house?”

“I can keep your house nice and tidy ... and if you show me what to do, I can do the laundry ... and...” It's too embarrassing to say.

“And?”

“Erm” I shrug my shoulders and blurt out: “As you can see from the kitchen, I can help you wash up.”

“Well, that's a pretty good start, and I don't mind teaching you how to cook.”He scoops another fork into his mouth., “This biryani is alright, but mine is better.”

“Really? You can cook biryani?” This is getting even more embarrassing; Mr. P can cook biryani - and he's a man.

“Yes. Really.”

“I really have landed on my feet.”

“I am, however, very concerned about you lying to me.” Mr. P takes a sip of red wine, and the mood suddenly changes “I feel like there should be some kind of consequence, don't you?”

“Consequence?” My voice quivers. “You mean like a punishment, Sir?”

“That's right, Miss Kapadia.”

“Oh dear.”