The Last Supper

Readers discretion advised. This story deals with war and loss.

“Kadhir, this is Maria Yasmin. She has just joined our team. Discuss a plan to brief her on the project and send it to me,” Kadhir’s manager said, introducing her, before walking away.

Though he had studied in a co-educational school and has decent number of years working with female colleagues in technology industry, speaking to a girl had never come easily to him. Kadhir’s heart skipped a beat and lodged itself in his throat. No words came out. He chewed, swallowed, struggled, stammered. For a moment, he wondered if he should simply run far away.

Then she smiled and said,

“Kadhir, nice to meet you. You can call me Maria.”

“Hi, Maria. I’ll share the project details with you,” he said, finally.

Maria looked to be around forty. Poets might have called her a sculpted Greek goddess. She was well read, classy, knowledgeable. There was something delicate about her, yet precise, as if everything about her had been carefully scripted.

At times, she felt like a cloud. Always present, hovering close, yet capable of disappearing the moment the wind blew. She seemed to take the shape of whatever one imagined her to be.

Maria was a refugee. She had fled her country, leaving everything behind. That single fact was enough to feed gossip at the lunch table, at the pantry during coffee breaks, and over drinks after work.

As with every group of immature people, the gossip began quietly and slowly turned cruel. Maria had not interviewed for the role. She had been offered the position for six months as part of a special program. Many people, especially those who believed they were smart has told Kadhir, their friendly team lead, that she had flown like an eagle and settled on the highest branch of a precious tree.

Kadhir often brushed such talk aside instead of confronting it. He was nice to people. He is an idiot who didn’t know that being nice and being kind were not the same. He should have stopped the gossip firmly. Instead, he let it grow, brushing it under the carpet as if it didn’t exist. He believed it was harmless.

If gossip ever killed someone, it would have been on Kadhir.

One day, Stephen said it openly.

“Kadhir, have you noticed? Maria never eats supper.”

“How do you know?”

“Yesterday. The office Christmas party. You weren’t there. She didn’t even come to the table.”

“That was just one evening. Maybe she wasn’t hungry.”

Stephen smiled. “That’s what you think.”

Kadhir knew Stephen walked away disappointed, convinced that Kadhir favoured Maria because he liked her.

The next day, it came up again, casually, as if it didn’t matter.

“She didn’t eat again?” Meera asked, her spoon paused mid-air.

“Not even dessert,” Stephen added.

“Maybe she thinks the food here is beneath her,” someone said lightly, almost joking.

“She thinks what we eat is dirty,” Meera said. “That’s how she shows superiority.” Meera was ruthless this time.

Kadhir felt his stomach tighten. He told Meera not to assume or judge people she didn’t know. It was the first time he spoke up, realising the gossip had crossed a line. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t push further. He was afraid the team would start talking about him and Maria instead.

He told himself this was corporate culture. That being a team man meant staying neutral, nodding quietly, even when something felt wrong.

Kadhir trained Maria seriously. She was studious and sharp. She asked the right questions. She challenged him politely and demanded clarity. She didn’t treat a single session lightly. She pushed him.

Kadhir enjoyed that. He enjoyed questions. Even when they came from someone he was supposed to be training. They spent hours discussing design patterns, common mistakes, programming languages.

Maria was full of life. It was clear she carried deep sadness within her, but she chose to keep moving forward. Like someone who understood that living mattered more than mourning. Like someone who had learned how to live with an empty space in her heart. She was sad, but she was also hopeful.

Their conversations never turned personal.

One Friday afternoon, at the coffee machine, Arun lowered his voice.

“Some people make a point of not mixing. Cultural thing. Or attitude.”

“Or drama,” Meera said. “Everyone notices. You can’t not notice.”

“She drinks only water,” someone added. “Always water. As if the rest of us are poisoned.”

A small, careful laughter followed.

At the smoking area, it became sharper.

“We go out as a team,” Stephen said. “At least pretend. Sit down. Eat something. That’s basic courtesy.”

“I read somewhere some people don’t eat after sunset,” another colleague said. “Religious belief. Blind faith.”

Kadhir said nothing. He listened. The words piled up, growing heavier each time they were repeated.

“She doesn’t talk much either,” someone said.

“Exactly,” Stephen replied.

“Always polite,” Meera said.

“Too polite. Fake,” Arun added.

By the end of the week, it was no longer a question. Maria doesn’t eat with anyone.

No one asked why. No one needed to. The explanation had already been decided.

Later, Sathya tried to soften it.

“Could be diet. Intermittent fasting. Very common now. Sixteen hours without food. Look at her. How else does someone her age stay like that?”

Maybe that’s why Kadhir likes her. Maybe he has a soft corner. Why else would he spend so much time with her?

“Diet is fine,” Stephen said. “But at least sit with us. A plate can stay full.”

No one replied.

Kadhir wasn’t present for this conversation. He heard about it later from someone who cared.

There was no one on the team who hadn’t spoken about Maria. Only Maria herself had said nothing. Maybe she didn’t know. Maybe she chose not to know or maybe she pretended she didn’t know.

After six months, the program ended. Maria thanked Kadhir for being her mentor, for teaching her how to build things. Kadhir often spoke about his belief in detachment. He would say, “Attachment is suffering. Detachment is freedom.” It made him seem strong. Seem tough. He believed a man cannot show emotions.

But when Maria spoke to him one last time, he understood something else. Detachment was not freedom, its pain. In silence, he asked forgiveness from everyone who loved him as a friend, a team mate, a person, a relationship he had walked away from, believing freedom meant being untouched, believing emotions were a weakness, believing he was a machine with no attachments.

The next day was farewell night. The program had been created for refugees forced to leave their countries due to war and violence. They had lost their homes, their identities, their sense of belonging. The goal was to train them, to give them a chance to rebuild a life in Australia.

Several people spoke at the event. Supper was announced. Everyone watched, curious to see what Maria would do.

As people began moving toward the supper table, Maria asked for the mic. She looked at the room, her eyes heavy but steady. She took a breath and spoke calmly.

“Thank you, everyone.

It has been a year since I came to this country. When I arrived, it helped me in many ways. I hoped the situation back home would improve and that I would return within three months. Today, that hope no longer exists.

I was a computer science lecturer at a university in my country. I thank my company for training me and helping me build a life again. I thank my mentor, Kadhir, and my teammates for patiently teaching me what it means to work here.

You have gathered tonight to celebrate the completion of our training. I am grateful for that.

But I cannot share supper with you this evening. I am sorry I cannot sit at the table.

Last year, on a night like this, I was having supper with my friends and family. My friend, Fareeda, said, ‘Maria, I want a little more bread.’ I stood up and went into the kitchen to get it.

I hear an explosion. The ground shook.

I ran back to the table.

The blast took the table and everyone around it.

That was my last supper”.