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Dear Diary,

Chapter 3 

She came to the table and sat down, her eyes lifting at once to Dariya. Dariya was seated opposite her at the round dining table, one of the five chairs occupied, the others standing quietly in attendance. Just then, Dariya’s phone rang. She glanced at the screen, rose quickly, and said softly, “Dear, just two minutes,” before crossing the room toward the sofa to take the call.

Pashria watched her for a moment, then let her gaze drift across the table. Realizing she would have to wait, she leaned back slightly and released a slow, easy breath. Her eyes lingered on the food laid out before her—dal, warm rotis, fried rice, a glass of orange juice, fruits, fresh salad, and a bowl of chhachh, the familiar buttermilk.

A thought passed through her, and her lips curved into a gentle smile. She still likes chhachh.
People were right—you could never forget the real taste of where you belonged.

Dariya returned a moment later, ending the call. “Oh dear, sorry,” she said apologetically. “Ramu called—he’s coming to pick up his bag for vacation.”

Pashria’s smile faltered, just briefly. “Oh… I see. It’s okay,” she said, her voice calm.

Dariya noticed at once. Her eyes sparkled with playful curiosity. “Why were you smiling like that?” she asked. “Come on—tell me. What did you see, dear?”

Pashria shook her head lightly, then smiled again. “Nothing like that. I was just wondering… and feeling happy. After all these years, you’re still into our taste. Look—you still can’t eat without chhachh.”

Dariya laughed, her face glowing. “You’re right. I really can’t. Even if I skip a spicy vegetable with roti, I still need chhachh. You know, in our homes it’s almost compulsory. Even Jorge likes it now. I make it our way—I don’t like the market taste.”

As Dariya spoke, Pashria studied her closely—the warmth in her eyes, the quiet confidence with which her Indian habits lived on, unchanged by years and distance. 

In that moment, Pashria felt as though she had returned home—to her country, to her roots, to herself. Her smile remained, but her eyes softened with tears she did not let fall.

Dariya shook her head, still smiling. “But Ramu doesn’t like Indian things much anymore. I don’t know why. Before high school, he loved kheer—absolutely loved it—and everything about India. Then suddenly, something changed. He became such an Angrej.” She burst into laughter.

Pashria grinned. “You’re too funny,” she said. “You still call them Angrej. Oh my God.”

“So what?” Dariya replied, laughing even harder. “Half the time I annoy Jorge by calling him Angrej.” She paused, then added more thoughtfully, “Honestly, I never forced Indian things on anyone. Jorge never complained. He likes what I like and does what I want to do. But Ramu suddenly became anti-everything, and I got dragged into these debates more and more.”

Her eyes sparkled as she leaned forward. “And you know the funniest part? After arguing so much, I just started calling him ‘Ramu.’ His real name is Daniel.” She laughed again. “Now I’m so used to it that I forget to call him Daniel at all. I call him Ramu—and these days, sometimes even Jorge does.”

They laughed together, the sound filling the room—easy, familiar laughter, the kind born of shared history and a sense of home carried quietly across continents.

The doorbell rang.

Almost immediately, Ramu rushed in, his footsteps quick and careless. He darted upstairs without so much as a glance at the dining table. His voice echoed through the house. “Mom! I’m going to Catalina Island with my friends. Please don’t call me so much!”

Dariya stood at once. “At least don’t forget to inform me that you’re all right!” she called, already moving toward the stairs.

Before she could take even one step, he came bounding back down. “OKAY, Mom. Love you,” he said quickly, kissing her cheek. His eyes flicked briefly toward Pashria; she lowered her gaze to her plate and gave a small nod. The next moment, he was gone out the door, toward the waiting car, the engine already humming.

Dariya returned to her seat with a soft sigh and a smile that carried both love and quiet resignation. “Dear, I prepared all this food especially for you,” she said gently. “I know you like it. For me, I only wanted some fried rice. If you like it too, please have some—eat properly, without hesitation.”

“Sure, Dariya,” Pashria said, smiling.

They began their lunch, the soft clink of plates filling the brief silence. After a while, Dariya looked at her thoughtfully. “So… what’s your plan next?” she asked. “Or are you still blank, like I was before? Tell me everything—feel free. I’ll try to help you in any way I can.”

The warmth in her voice made the question feel less like curiosity and more like an open door.

Next Part coming soon .../