The Chef and the Office Cab
Ghibli-fied morning ritual
Every morning, before the city fully wakes up, I stand in front of the grand hotel, waiting for my office cab. The air is crisp, and the sky is painted in soft watercolors – streaks of pastels. The world feels hushed, like it’s still stretching from sleep. The hotel doors, large and golden, gleam in the morning light, and the scent of freshly baked bread and something faintly spiced drifts through the air.
And then, just as the wind rustles through the trees, he appears.
The head chef.
He steps out of the hotel like he owns the morning itself – crisp white uniform, perfectly slicked-back salt-and-pepper hair, and the easy confidence of someone who has spent a lifetime perfecting not just his craft, but his presence. He carries a kind of magic – not the spellbound, fantastical kind, but the kind you find in warmth, in care, in the little rituals of daily life.
The first time we spoke, I was leaning on my elbow crutch, still recovering from my femur fracture. He paused mid-step, squinting at me like an old scientist studying an interesting specimen.
“What happened, Didi?” he asked, voice rich and steady.
Didi is Hindi word for elder sister. I blinked. Didi? I was one third his age, but sure, why not.
And from that day on, my mornings changed.
At first, he took it upon himself to be my personal healer.
“Milk with fresh haldi! Not that dry yellow powder nonsense. Your bones will heal faster.”
“Soft rotis only! You don’t want your stomach working too hard when your body is fixing itself.”
“Eat slowly, Didi. The body listens when you are kind to it.”
His advice came in waves, long-winded and detailed, spilling out like a secret recipe only he knew. He would explain things unnecessarily – how turmeric only works with black pepper, how kneading dough for an extra minute makes a difference, how bitter foods balance your body’s heat.
But underneath all that excess detail, there was something warm. Something familiar. The way old people talk, not because they need to, but because they care.
When I finally recovered, our conversations drifted into new territories – about work, about life, about strange internet trends.
One morning, his voice was softer, reflective.
“I always dreamed of being a great chef,” he admitted, watching the sky shift from pale blue to gold. “My father was a cook for a royal family. I learned from him. Went to Germany, thinking I’d make something of myself.”
I turned to him, surprised. “You lived in Germany?”
“Not for long,” he chuckled, shaking his head. “Germany rewards hard work, but it also drains you. I realized that too late. And then I quit.”
He dusted off his sleeve, as if shaking off an old memory, and smiled at me.
“That’s today’s lesson, Didi. Know when something is too draining. And when you do, quit.”
That’s the thing about Uncle. These small, unexpected drops of wisdom that slip into conversation like the final pinch of salt in a dish – something you don’t notice at first, but something that changes everything – for those days, my chain of thoughts.
Months pass, and now, I don’t even check my watch anymore. I simply wait for it to happen. The moment he steps out, catches sight of me, and a new morning conversation begins.
He calls me Didi. I call him Uncle.
Some days, he shares peculiar little secrets.
“I put neem leaves in all my dishes. Just a pinch. Keeps people from falling sick.”
Other days, his wisdom leans into the poetic.
“A chef should never eat his own dish, Didi. If you spend too much time making something, you lose the ability to taste it the way it was meant to be.”
And some days, it’s just small, unexpected moments of kindness.
Like the time I showed him the Ghibli-style photo transformer on my phone.
He peered at my animated version, his brows lifting in surprise.
“You look like a doll, Didi.”
That was all. No over-explanation. No unnecessary wisdom. Just a simple, warm compliment that sat in my heart for the rest of the day, making everything a little lighter.
It’s funny. Uncle has no real role in my life. He’s not family, not a mentor, not a friend in the usual sense. Just a passing presence in my mornings – a chef with a world of stories, an old man who worries about how I eat, who offers wisdom without realizing it, and who somehow, without trying, makes the world feel a little kinder.
Like a quiet spell cast over the start of my day.
