CHAPTER 32
VISHNU
A week later
An entire week has passed, and life at the Walia Mansion has started settling into a comfortable rhythm. The past week has shown remarkable progress. Simran has surprised me with her enthusiasm, despite her initial fears and hesitation. Even Veer is slowly finding his footing in this new environment. My wife has even found a replacement for Zane back in New York—Martha, a shrewd fashion consultant with over a decade of experience in the fashion industry, far more than Zane ever had. The decision has eased Simran’s worries, bringing her some much needed peace of mind. I can see the relief in her eyes now, knowing her business is in good hands.
I’ve watched her juggle her responsibilities toward our family during the day, which is why I’ve ensured Simran focuses solely on her work in the evenings while I take charge of Veer. Those two to three hours are hers alone, and taking care of Veer during that time is a duty I cherish. Watching him laugh, babble, or even fuss is a joy I wouldn’t trade for anything in the world. He’s taken well to his new nanny, a kind, middle-aged woman from the same agency as Avika’s. This new development has brought some semblance of a routine in all of our lives.
Yet, two concerns constantly weigh on my mind. First is the masked man, who has been eerily silent since we came to India. This silence doesn’t feel peaceful—it feels like the ominous calm before a storm.
The second is the unresolved tension between Simran, Meher and Devika. Despite her efforts to reach out and talk to them, the rift still prevails.
Veer’s delighted squeals pull my attention toward Dad, who’s just stepping out from his meeting with the ministers. It warms my heart to see how fond Veer is of his grandfather, apart from Simran and me.
“Here comes the little prince,” Dad says, grinning, as he walks toward the dining table.
I adjust Veer’s high chair between mine and Dad’s while Devika instructs the staff to set the table for lunch. Aksh is at the party office, and Avika is napping after her meal, leaving Devika free to focus on household chores, as usual.
“You know,” Dad says, turning to me as he settles Veer into his high chair. “The moment he saw me coming from the meeting, he literally jumped out of his nanny’s arms to get to me.”
I smile at Dad’s excitement, knowing how much Veer adores him.
Simran walks down the staircase quickly, looking radiant in another ethnic churidar. I can’t help but admire how beautiful she looks in these traditional outfits. Recently, her wardrobe has shifted to ethnic wear, and while I miss seeing her in casual attire, I know she’s doing this to fit into the role of the eldest Walia bahu. She’s embraced Indian wear since our arrival, despite my assurance that she could stick to her usual casuals and need not change her style. “I want to look like the eldest bahu of Walia Mansion,” she’d told me, “especially with the constant inflow of guests, ministers, and party workers visiting you and Dad on a daily basis. Besides, I’m enjoying the change.”
“Sorry I’m late,” she says, her gaze flitting between Dad, me, and Devika. “The meeting with my Singapore client ran longer than I expected.”
“No need to worry. We all understand,” Dad replied, waving off her concern, telling her to be at ease. “Take all the time you need.”
“Thank you,” she replies softly before turning to Veer to feed him his soft meals. But he is in no mood to cooperate.
Veer squirms and fusses, turning his head away at every spoonful. I step in to help, but he’s just as stubborn with me. But when Dad offers him one morsel, Veer happily opens his mouth and eats it. Dad’s face lights up with a proud smile at this new development.
“Well, that’s new,” I mutter, watching in amusement as Dad continues to feed him with effortless ease.
I pull Simran to her seat to eat her own meal. She smiles, her eyes flicking to Devika, who acknowledges her presence with a polite nod but maintains her distance, her emotional wall still in place. I know that look in Simran’s eyes—she wants to mend things, but it’s not going to be easy.
Halfway through lunch, Dad clears his throat, gaining everyone’s attention. “I forgot to mention,” he begins, his tone serious. “Simran, are you free this evening?”
Simran looks up, surprised. “Yes, I can be. Even if I have something scheduled, I’ll reschedule it. What’s the plan?”
“We’re having some VIP guests for dinner tonight, including Kailash, Meher, and Ayaan, and I want you to cook for them.”
Simran’s eyes widen, and I nearly choke on my water.
“What?” I blurt out before I can stop myself. “Dad, we have chefs for that.”
Dad chuckles. “I know, Vishnu. But I want to showcase my new bahu’s culinary skills to our guests. Of course, Simran, if it’s too much—”
“I’ll do it,” Simran interjects quickly, her voice steady.
I stare at her, dumbfounded. Is she serious? Simran has never cooked for more than two or three people, let alone a room full of VIPs. She’s still new to this family, this house, and this lifestyle. I know she’s agreeing out of a sense of duty, but this isn’t necessary.
“Simran, are you sure?” Dad asks again, his voice laced with concern.
“Yes. I’ll manage,” she replies with a small smile. Then, she squeezes my hand, silently accepting the challenge.
I know this isn’t her forte. Unlike Devika, who’s always loved cooking, Simran never had the luxury of time to develop her culinary skills.
I sigh, running a hand through my hair. She’s determined, and there’s no stopping her now. As Dad beams with pride, I press my hand against hers under the table.
“We’ll talk later,” I murmur softly.
She just nods. This isn’t about pleasing Dad or anyone else. Simran is trying to be the daughter-in-law she thinks this family expects. I just wish she realises that her worth isn’t measured by how well she fits into some traditional mould but by the person she truly is. If only she could see that her value to this family far exceeds these superficial expectations.
After lunch, the house is buzzing with activity. Simran dives straight into planning the menu, but I can see the confusion on her face. She definitely needs assistance in doing this. Although the staff and other chefs are there to help her, but despite her initial confidence, I can see the nervousness in her every move.
When I finally corner her in the kitchen, she’s busy instructing the staff members on the dishes to prepare.
“Simran,” I say, pulling her aside gently. “You don’t have to do this.”
She looks up at me, her eyes soft but resolute.
“I want to, Vishnu. Not for your dad or anyone else—but for myself. I want to prove to myself that I can handle this.”
“You don’t have to prove anything to anyone—not even to yourself. You’re already more than enough,” I press on, cupping her face in my hands.
Her lips quirk into a small smile. “Let me do this, okay? I’ll be fine.”
I nod, though my chest tightens at the thought of her pushing herself too much.
“If you need anything—anything at all—call me,” I say, hovering by the kitchen entrance.
Simran’s laugh fills the space between us.
“The great Vishnu Pratap Walia helping his wife in the kitchen? Have you ever even entered a kitchen before?”
I pause, realising she’s right. My life has always been about protecting my family, and that certainly didn’t involve culinary adventures. She reaches up to pinch my cheeks playfully.
“And if you help me here,” she adds with a knowing smile, “the family and guests will surely starve tonight, as food is not all we’d be making.”
I glance at the kitchen countertop, the corners of my lips curling upward. Her words spark a vivid image in my mind, and before I can stop myself, I pull her closer.
“That’s a nice fantasy... maybe we can try someday.”
Her cheeks flush, and she smacks my chest lightly.
“Not here in Walia Mansion,” she protests, though her eyes sparkle with mischief. “With the entire family around and a dozen staff buzzing around... this isn’t exactly the best place for such… intimate activities.”
She’s right, of course. I lean down and place a gentle kiss on top of her head.
“Then New York it is... we can give Claire a break that day.”
The mention of New York brings an immediate smile to her face.
“Now you’re talking,” she says, pressing a quick kiss to my cheek before pushing me away gently. “Now go before I start daydreaming about that day already.”
“Oh, I bet you will,” I say, already unable to stop the images flooding my mind—Simran and me, on her kitchen countertop back in New York, having our way with each other.
She waves me off with a playful glare, and I force myself to turn away, heading back to check on Veer, who’s still with Dad outside. These domestic moments with Simran, even the ones we just imagined, make everything else worthwhile.