The Recipe I Didn’t Write Down (Begun Bhorta)

The plate is empty when it starts to burn.

Not the food—the thing I left too close to the flame. A corner of paper, curled and blackening, the smell thin and sharp like a warning. I watch it catch, then pull it away too late. The edge crumbles between my fingers, ash dusting the counter.

I don’t clean it up yet.

The kitchen smells like smoke and mustard oil and something old I can’t name.

I stand barefoot on cold tile, staring at the single eggplant on the counter. Purple, smooth, heavier than it looks. Begun. The kind my mother used to tap with her knuckle at the market, listening for a sound only she trusted.

“You want one that will forgive you,” she’d say.

I rinse it under the tap. The water beads and runs. My fingers follow the curve of it, slow, almost reverent, like touch matters even now.

Outside, a car passes, tires whispering over wet pavement. The window is cracked open; rain breathes in.

I set the eggplant directly on the open flame.

The skin tightens instantly, then splits with a soft hiss. The smell hits hard—bitter, smoky, alive. I turn it with metal tongs, the flame licking greedily, purple disappearing under black. The gas clicks softly beneath it, steady, patient.

This is how begun bhorta begins.

With burning.

I lean against the counter and wait, the way I used to wait as a child, sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor while my mother cooked. The ceiling fan would rattle overhead. Oil would pop in the pan. Someone would be yelling from another room.

“Hot,” she’d warn, even as she worked through it with bare hands. “Dekhish na.”

Don’t look. Let it be.

The eggplant collapses when it’s ready, sagging in on itself like it’s tired of pretending. I drop it into a metal bowl. The skin crackles faintly as it cools.

Smoke clings to the air.

I open the window wider. The night presses close, damp and smelling of rain and iron. Somewhere below, someone laughs. Somewhere far away, a train horn cuts the dark.

I peel the skin with my fingers. Black flakes stick under my nails. The flesh underneath is pale and soft, steaming, almost embarrassed by how easily it gives in. It falls apart at a touch.

I drop it into a bowl.

Before I forget, I pull a pen from the drawer and write on the back of an envelope, the one that nearly burned.

What You Need for Begun Bhorta

•One eggplant, charred until it gives up

•One small onion, sliced thin

•One green chili (or two, if you’re honest)

•Salt

•Mustard oil

•Your hands

Onion first.

I slice it thin, uneven. The smell is immediate, sharp enough to sting. My eyes water, and I let them. The onion doesn’t care why.

Green chili. Seeds and all. My fingertips burn faintly when I forget and rub them together.

Salt.

I hesitate before the mustard oil.

This was always the moment my mother judged without saying anything. Too much and it overwhelmed. Too little and it felt like a lie.

I tip the bottle. A thin stream glints gold before disappearing into the mash.

The smell blooms instantly—pungent, insistent, unmistakable. Mustard oil does not soften itself for anyone.

I mash everything together with my hands.

Not a spoon. Never a spoon.

The warmth seeps into my palms, the textures collapsing into one another—soft eggplant, crisp onion, the bite of chili. My fingers work by memory, not instruction. Something unmeasured becomes exactly what it needs to be.

My phone buzzes on the counter.

Once.

I ignore it.

I keep mashing, slower now, the bowl warm beneath my hands. The smell fills the kitchen completely. Smoke. Oil. Onion. Home.

The phone buzzes again.

I glance at it this time.

A message.

You cooking?

I stare at the words. The timing is almost impressive.

I don’t answer.

I taste the bhorta.

It’s smoky and sharp, alive in my mouth. Heat blooms at the back of my throat. It tastes like afternoons I thought I’d outgrown. Like my mother feeding everyone before herself. Like being told to eat more even when I was full.

I exhale.

Rice is already warm, waiting. Slightly sticky, imperfect. I scoop it onto a plate, the grains pressing together. I add the bhorta on top, a generous mound.

I reach for a second plate without thinking.

Habit is faster than intention.

I stop.

The second plate hovers in my hand. Clean. Empty. Expectant.

My phone buzzes again.

I’m nearby.

The rain outside has picked up, tapping insistently against the window. I imagine him standing under the awning, checking his phone, assuming the door will open because it always does.

I look at the stove.

The flame is still on, low but steady. The corner of the envelope I wrote on earlier curls again, closer this time.

I let it burn.

Just a little longer than necessary.

The paper blackens, smoke thinning into the air. The smell is dry and acrid, different from the eggplant, unmistakably final.

I turn off the flame.

The kitchen goes quiet in that sudden way, like a held breath released.

I put the second plate back in the cabinet.

I sit.

I eat with my hands, mixing rice and bhorta the way I always have. The heat grounds me. The flavors demand attention. There is no room for anything else.

The rice sticks to my fingers. The bhorta clings to it, oily and warm, the smoke still threaded through every bite.

My phone buzzes once more.

I don’t pick it up.

Halfway through the plate, I realize my shoulders have dropped. The tightness in my chest loosens, not dramatically, just enough to notice.

When I finish, the plate is clean.

Not spotless. Just empty in the way that matters.

I rinse my hands at the sink. Black soot swirls away. The faint yellow stain of turmeric I hadn’t noticed fades slowly. The smell lingers on my skin.

I dry my hands and stand in the quiet kitchen, window open, rain breathing in and out.

The bowl that held the bhorta sits empty on the counter. Warm. Fulfilled.

I pick up the phone at last.

No new messages.

I set it down again.

The empty plate catches the light, a thin sheen of oil reflecting back at me. Proof of something finished. Proof of something chosen.

Outside, the rain keeps falling.

Inside, there is nothing burning anymore.