The Taste of Shadows in the Hills Of Sri Lanka

Part One: Chicken Devel

The hills of Ella had swallowed me whole.

I had come for the trains, the endless green, the kind of quiet that makes men reconsider their lives. But the mist had rolled in fast, thick as wool, turning the world into nothing but shifting shadows and the distant hum of unseen waterfalls. I had no choice but to stop.

The guesthouse was perched on the edge of the hillside, its walls half-swallowed by creeping vines, the kind of place run by a man who had once been something else—maybe a smuggler, maybe a monk. It was impossible to tell.

“You eat?” he asked, as though I had any other option.

I nodded.

And so the fire began.

The plate arrived, piled high with chicken, bone-in, the color of a setting sun—deep red, slick with oil, reckless with spice. The air filled with vinegar sharp enough to wake the dead, onions blackened at the edges, tomatoes collapsed into something dark and urgent.

And then, the chilies.

They were everywhere, scattered like a warning, sliced so thin I almost mistook them for decoration. Almost.

I took a bite.

The first wave—deceptively sweet, the sugar coaxing me in like a siren in calm water. Then, the second—heat that did not build so much as erupt. My throat closed. My sinuses cleared. My soul briefly left my body and reconsidered returning.

Across the table, the guesthouse owner sipped his tea, watching, bemused.

“Too hot?”

I shook my head, because pride is a dangerous thing.

The mist outside thickened, curling through the trees like a slow-moving ghost. The hills, the tea fields, the world itself disappeared, leaving nothing but this plate, this fire, this moment.

I finished every bite.

I sat back, breathing hard, already knowing I’d do it again.

Some pains are worth repeating.

Part Two: Mixed Vegetable Curry

The mist had not lifted.

By morning, the world was still nothing but shifting grey, the jungle whispering beyond the reach of sight. I had slept too deeply, the kind of sleep that comes when your body is busy processing the kind of heat it barely survives.

Downstairs, the guesthouse owner sat cross-legged on the porch, peeling garlic with the slow patience of a man who had never rushed a thing in his life.

“Eat,” he said, nodding toward the kitchen. Not a question. A command.

I stepped inside.

The air was thick with spice—cinnamon, cumin, something darker, something unfamiliar. A clay pot sat over a low flame, steam curling up in lazy spirals. Vegetables bobbed in a coconut broth so golden it looked like stolen sunlight—potatoes, carrots, green beans cut with the brutal efficiency of a man who had done this a thousand times. A handful of mustard seeds snapped in the oil, a last-minute act of defiance.

But something felt off.

The door to the kitchen was open. Beyond it, the mist swirled, revealing flashes of the hillside, the curling path leading down toward the valley.

And then—

A shadow.

Not the guesthouse owner. Someone else.

Still. Watching.

The curry simmered. The scent was maddening—rich, earthy, sweet with coconut but holding a bite of something sharper, something waiting beneath the surface.

“Sit,” the owner said, sliding a plate toward me. His voice was steady, but his eyes flicked—once, toward the open door, then back to me.

I ate.

The first taste—velvety, warm, the coconut carrying the weight of spice like an apology for what was coming. Then, the fire—green chilies, hidden beneath the sweetness, striking hard enough to remind me I was still in their country, still at their mercy.

Outside, the shadow moved.

A rustle in the leaves. A presence that did not belong.

“More?” the owner asked, his hand drifting—not toward the pot, but toward the knife resting by his side.

I swallowed.

Nodded.

Because danger comes in many forms.

And some things—some pains, some flavors—are worth facing, no matter the cost.

Part Three: Ambul Thiyal

The fog had thinned, but the feeling had not.

Someone was still out there.

I had not spoken of it. Neither had the guesthouse owner. But he had locked the door that night, something he had not done before. And when morning came, he did not ask if I had slept well—because we both knew I hadn’t.

Instead, he asked, “You eat fish?”

And that was that.

He worked in silence. A block of tuna, deep red, cut into cubes with a blade that looked like it had gutted more than fish in its time. A handful of curry leaves, blackened in a dry clay pot, the scent rising like a spell. Then the tamarind—thick, almost black, so sour it curled in the air like something alive. No coconut this time. No soft sweetness. Just fire, acid, and something ancient.

“This is how you keep fish,” he said, stirring as the cubes of tuna darkened, drinking in the spice. “No fridge. No ice. Just time and taste.”

I watched the pot. But I was listening for something else.

Outside, the jungle was still.

Too still.

“Eat,” he said, pushing the plate toward me.

The first bite—earthy, smoky, sharp enough to cut through whatever sleep still clung to me. The tamarind hit first, a citrusy slap, followed by the slow roll of black pepper and goraka, something deeper, something old.

It was not a dish that asked for attention. It demanded it.

I chewed slowly. Listened.

Then—

A sound.

Not from the jungle this time. From the house. A slow creak of wood, deliberate. A door opening where no door should be.

The guesthouse owner did not move. He only reached, casually, for the same knife he had set beside him the night before.

“Finish your food,” he murmured, eyes fixed beyond me. “It would be a shame to let it go cold.”

I swallowed.

Because some things were inevitable.

And this meal, I suspected, would not be my last.

Part Four: Dhal

The house was not empty.

I had known it the moment the floor creaked behind me, slow and deliberate. The guesthouse owner had known it before that—before the shadows moved, before the night breathed just a little too close.

But he did not run.

Instead, he cooked.

A pot of dhal, the color of dying embers, thick with coconut milk and the kind of lentils that break down into something softer than memory. He worked in silence, as though there were not an unseen thing moving behind us, as though this moment was his alone to command.

Oil spit in the pan.

Mustard seeds cracked, their scent rising.

A handful of dried red chilies, torn with bare hands, thrown into the heat with reckless abandon. The smell hit first—deep, smoky, dangerous. Then came the curry leaves, fried to a crisp, crackling like distant gunfire.

“Eat,” he said, voice low.

It was not a request.

I took the bowl.

The first taste—velvety smooth, the coconut wrapping around the heat like a snake coiling its prey. The lentils, cooked down to a softness that should have been comforting, but carried the weight of something heavier. The tamarind, just a whisper, cutting through the richness with a reminder that nothing is ever too easy.

And then—

The sharp flash of chili, slow and creeping, curling at the back of my throat like a warning.

I put my spoon down.

“How many?” I asked.

The guesthouse owner looked at me, then past me, toward the darkened doorway.

“One, maybe two,” he said. “But cowards bring more.”

Something shifted in the air.

A shuffle of feet on wood. The sound of breath, too close.

The guesthouse owner moved first.

Not fast. Not panicked. Just efficient.

His hand closed around the knife, and in one smooth motion, he was up, across the room, and through the doorway before I could process that he had even left his chair.

A crash. A shout cut short.

Then, silence.

Thick, humming silence, louder than the jungle, louder than the blood rushing in my ears.

Then—his voice, calm, almost bored.

“You should go.”

I stood, slowly, leaving the bowl half-full. The dhal was still warm. It would remain untouched.

Outside, the mist had returned, curling around the trees, swallowing the path.

I stepped into it without looking back.

Some flavors stay with you.

Some debts cannot be repaid.