Medium Rare

| Rehana Sulthana | July 2025 | Short Story |

A room. A mat. A bowl. A meaty affair.

I have been staring at it for a while now. There is no one around. The room is still, its lightness palpable in my bones. The mat lies spread on the floor. A single bowl sits in the centre, and inside it is a whole cooked chicken, glistening and warm. Amma is still in the backyard, washing the heap of our soiled dishes. Appa hasn’t returned from work. Paati is busy tending to the cattle. And Veera is not back from school yet, not until lunch. This is my chance. I could take it—just reach out, claim it—and later pretend I have no idea how it vanished from the meal mat.

Amma always makes it tender for Veera. A whole chicken, marinated overnight in spices, lemon juice, and curd, slow-roasted in the mud stove outside until the air is heavy with its scent. She tears it into pieces with care, her fingers practised and precise. First, the legs—juicy, golden, falling off the bone. Those are set aside for Appa and Veera, one for each. Always. Then comes the breast—thick, soft, cooked through. She divides it into five portions, one for each of us. The liver, cooked separately, goes to Paati because she needs her iron. And wings for Veera, as he cannot live without them.

“He needs his extra protein. A growing child,” she says. And me? I get what’s left. The scraps no one else reaches for. Bits of ribs, sometimes a sliver of skin, maybe a cartilage here and there. It is our chicken ritual.

On other days, Amma doesn’t make chicken at all. It happens only once in a blue moon. And so, the family gathers, side by side, to a feast they claim to be fair, unshadowed by bias where every hand is equal, unless you ask me for the truth. But today—today—it is different. There it lies, alone in the bowl, steaming gently, as if waiting to be chosen. No eyes to watch. No footsteps nearby.

I devise a plan—quick, quiet, and perfect in its simplicity. I will slip the chicken into a small plastic bag, tuck it away with the care of a smuggler, and sneak out to the palm tree in the garden, just a few feet from my house. That old tree has always kept my secrets. Beneath its shade, I’ll take refuge and eat to my heart’s content—especially the wings and legs, the parts I have only ever seen from across the mat. Today, they will be mine. I will then lick my fingers clean and dry them with some sand. And I will return as if nothing had happened. And what about the bones? The bones! Yes, I have thought of everything. I will dig a shallow grave beneath the palm tree and bury them there like treasure or maybe a secret crime.

When the food vanishes, the house will erupt, as if a jewel had gone missing from the almirah.

“Where did the chicken go?” Amma would gasp, her hands on her hips, eyes wide with disbelief. Her morning’s labour—gone. Appa would seethe at the loss. “Money doesn’t grow on trees,” he would mutter. Paati would shake her head and blame Amma for being careless, her words sharp, seasoned with years of bickering. And Veera—Veera would sulk and demand another chicken because he is used to getting more. And he will get one too.

And me?

I’d sit there, book in hand, creating a picture of calm. “I was reading,” I would say. “When I looked up, it was gone. Poof!” I would even offer a culprit. “Probably the rats. Those cursed little beasts.”

Appa would storm off to set a trap. Amma would pull together something simple for lunch. Paati would sigh and look out the window, disappointed. But I would be fine. I could cope. I have watched them feast on my favourite parts too many times without any complaint. It is their turn now. Today, they can watch the mystery unfold while I sit, full for once, beneath a palm tree that knows how to keep a secret.

***

And just like that, it is time. The plan I have rehearsed in my head quietly, like a prayer, must now be executed with care and perfection.

I hear the gush of water from the backyard tap grow stronger. That means Amma is rinsing the last of the soapy dishes—her back turned, her mind occupied. Time is closing in on me. I must move now.

From the cattle shed, Paati’s voice rises in a low hum, coaxing the cows as they finish their feed. The long hand of the clock creeps toward 1:30. In minutes, my family will gather at the mat for lunch.

I am sweating, though the weather is cool. The chicken sits in front of me like a silent temptation—warm, fragrant, gleaming, and mine, if I move fast.

I rush to our room and rummage for a clean plastic cover—one that does not smell of soap or old grains. I slide the chicken into it, bowl and all, in haste, the way a thief pockets gold. I twist the top into a knot, tight and secure. 

Then I run. Skirt flaring behind me, hair catching in the breeze, heart pounding like a small drum. I don’t look back. Not at the kitchen. Not at the mat. Not at the piece of the world I have just stolen from. The garden is ahead, and under the old palm tree, a secret feast awaits.

***

As I crouch behind the tree, hidden beyond the tamarind and cashew-lined lane, the world hushes around me. I loosen the knot, slow and trembling, and there it is—my treasure—succulent and seasoned. My eyes drink it in, brimming with hunger, with want, not just for the food, but for everything it stands for.

I have finally seized what I have longed for all my life. Not through grace. Not through virtue. But sometimes, when the world refuses you its kindness, you learn to carve your own way through it—crooked, quiet, and unsaid.

It should be mine in seconds, as the world has tilted in my favour today—except for the voice. It calls my name, soft at first, then sharper. I do not answer. I ignore it. My hands are already tugging at the bundle, fingers trembling with a hunger that lives in my marrow and memory. Inside lies a dish I have only ever seen from a distance—never tasted, only imagined.

There is no thrill in gnawing on dry bones, their flavours long gone before I get to them. But I have watched Veera and Appa tear into theirs, eyes lit, mouths greedy as they feasted, grease shining on their lips like liquid gold. I used to wonder what that felt like.

I did ask Amma once—just once—for a chicken leg. She refused. She said the women of the house must sacrifice, for the men who go out into the world, who work, who study. We are meant to eat last, eat less, and eat whatever remains. So, I learned to swallow hunger and desire, to smile with an empty plate, and to train my body into quiet obedience.

I tried to be that kind of girl. The quiet one. The good one. But my hunger has a will of its own. My heart, its own defiance. And some desires do not bow. They grow teeth. And today, it refuses to be silent.

I pull the meat apart and hold a piece of it in my hand, fantasising about the layers of spice, the burst of flavour, and the juices dripping down my chin. I can almost taste it.

But the voice calls again, closer this time. It grows louder, slicing through my reverie like a blade. My breath catches. Panic floods. Frantically, I put it back in place, retie the bag, dig a small pit beneath the tree, and bury the bundle deep. I pat down the earth—neat, and meticulous—erasing every trace. As if desire never burned through my fingers. No one must know.

I take a right, veering away from the path that leads back to the palm tree. I arc around, careful not to let anyone retrace my steps, slipping into the house through the side entrance—a route seldom used.

“I’m here,” I call out louder than I need to. “Why are you looking for me there?”

Amma turns, surprised. “You are here? I remember seeing you around the hall. How did I not notice you gone?” she asks.

I steady my breath and swallow the pounding in my chest. “I went there because I heard our neighbour call. But what’s wrong?” I ask, feigning calm.

“The food,” she says, “from the hall. Where is it?”

“What do you mean, where is it?” Paati chimes in, emerging from the corridor, her voice thick with confusion.

I widen my eyes and mirror their worry. “I saw it just a while ago… it was there. How do you expect me to know what happened to it when I was not around to see it?” 

They exchange a glance—sharp, unsettled. But they nod to each other. For now, they believe me.

“I swear, Amma. I don’t know what happened. Maybe the rats? Or the cats?” Amma’s brows knit together. “But what about the bowl?” she asks quietly, more pain than anger in her voice. “How could rats or cats carry off the meat with the bowl?”

Oh no. I hadn’t thought that far. My breath stutters.

“The door! It was open all this time,” I offer, groping for reason, for an escape. “Anyone could’ve come in…”

Amma stares at me, her doubt deepening. “Would a thief come only to steal a piece of roast chicken?” she asks, her voice colder now.

I can feel it—my story unravelling. One small crack in my perfect plan, and now the whole thing crumbles. A manhunt will soon begin before I get caught red-handed. Not for the meat, no—but for the bowl. That bowl. A gift from Amma’s maternal home. Copper, floral-edged, painted gold and silver with ridges in the centre for grating spices, the kind they do not make anymore. It was given to her when she was still a bride, when love was tender and untested. She would never let it go—not for food, not for anyone, not even me.

***

A girl. A tree. A mishap. A lesson. 

I need to do something. I need to move. Maybe I should go back to the palm tree, dig up the crockery, bury the chicken with the cover so I can enjoy it later, and tuck away Amma’s bowl somewhere shadowed in the kitchen. But time is a slow thief, and I might already be under scrutiny. And it would take forever.

The only thing working in my favour is that Appa and Veera haven’t returned for lunch yet. It is unusually late. Maybe the Gods have decided to bless me today. But time is slipping, and so are my ideas. I wait for Amma and Paati to leave me alone.

They finally do. But only to start searching the house, inside and out, for any trace of the missing chicken. Amma is peeking through gaps and crevices like she expects a feathered creature to hop out. Paati, half-squinting, is sniffing the air like a bloodhound. They don’t find it. And I still don’t get a chance to slip away. I play along. I move through the motions, looking for what I know won’t be found unless I confess. 

“That was my best recipe yet,” Amma says, half to herself, not boastful, but proud, almost tender like her chicken. “I worked so hard for us to enjoy it.”

“You say that all the time,” Paati smirks. “And every time, it is missing something. One day it’s too bland, the next it’s overcooked.”

“But this time it really was different, Amma,” she insists, her voice softening. “I made it just for the three of us. With no men around today, I thought we could have it all to ourselves.” The last three words capture my attention. I spin around towards Amma.

“What about Appa and Veera?” I ask, trying not to sound too guilty.

“They are away on business. They won’t be back for two days. You were still asleep when they left,” she says. My heart sinks.

I stare at her, stunned.

“I’ve always dreamed of having a whole chicken to myself,” she says, her voice quivering. “All my life, it has been bones and scraps. My mother called it sacrifice. I believed it, too. First for my father, then my brothers and now for my husband and son. But I want to live like them, too. To have a taste of the good pieces that aren’t leftovers. And just when I finally got the chance…” She trails off, her face dejected.

“Aha! So that is why you must have made it better,” Paati chimes in. “Now the truth comes out. See how God punishes a selfish heart!” She grins, not unkindly. “Even the heavens caught the scent of your greed. But…” Paati says, then pauses as I fix her with a cold, steady gaze. Her voice softens. “But… It’s been the same for me, too.” She looks away. “I have always longed for a taste of what the men were served. Just once, to eat without being last, without being less.” She sighs. “Maybe today wasn’t meant for either of us.”

And suddenly, I feel it. The weight of it all. The guilt settles deep. Maybe I didn’t need to go through all the drama. Maybe I could have just asked one more time. Maybe… oh, what a mess I have made! Why did it never occur to me that Amma, too, lived a life shaped by compulsion, just like mine?

It’s time to repent, to come clean. Time to retrieve the chicken from its hiding place. I open my mouth to confess when a sudden snarl pierces the air from the backyard—low, guttural, rising sharply into a bark, wild and urgent. Then a shrill—piercing, high-pitched, a cry like something screeching against a metal surface. The sound of claws and teeth snapping against each other.

We freeze. Then we run.

And there she is—Sembi, our neighbour’s dog. At times, ours, too. She is locked in a chaotic tug-of-war with an eagle over the very chicken I tried so hard to hide. It seems she’s gone to great lengths to unearth my secret. The pit has been dug out. The plastic cover lies in tatters, shredded beyond recognition. The chicken is no longer whole. It is scattered in disgrace, with bits of meat clinging to the bone, strewn in the dirt just like the remnants of my plan. And there, in the middle of the wreckage, lies Amma’s bowl.

Amma and Paati stop dead in their tracks. Confused. Speechless. Sembi pauses, and looks at me—eyes wide, almost apologetic, as if she knows what she has done. Above us, the eagle lifts into the sky, its wings slicing the air in retreat, leaving Sembi alone with her victory, to return, unbothered, to the feast that was never meant for her.

Amma steps forward and gently picks up her bowl. She looks at me, eyes sparkling with a mix of shock and amusement, and, surprisingly, laughs. 

I cover my face, ashamed. Maybe it just was not meant for us. Not this time. Maybe not in this lifetime. But Amma is unperturbed. She takes my hand and pats my back.

“There’s work to be done,” she says, leading me back inside.  

Glossary

Amma – Mother

Appa – Father

Paati – Paternal Grandmother

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_{Dr. Rehana is an avid reader, reviewer and writer. Apart from working as a general surgeon, she loves spending her time penning down stories and poems. Her short stories have been published in anthologies by Readomania in the year 2023 and 2024. Her short story, Before the Candle March, was shortlisted for the Deodar Prize 2024.} 

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Feature image by Bruno van der Kraan via Unsplash 

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