•| FOUR |•
Your father stood in the small front yard, gently watering the row of potted plants lined along the boundary wall. Gardening was one of the few things that calmed him after long, tiring days. The rhythmic motion of pouring water, the earthy smell of wet soil—it gave him quiet comfort.
Just then, the low hum of an approaching car caught his attention.
He looked up, slightly puzzled, as a sleek car pulled up right in front of their modest house. Visitors were rare—especially ones arriving in vehicles like that.
The driver quickly stepped out and opened the back door.
A graceful lady in her 60s stepped out slowly, adjusting the pallu of her elegant saree as she looked around, confirming the house number before walking toward the gate with composed confidence.
Your father immediately put the hose aside and walked forward politely.
“Do you need any help, Miss?” he asked, wiping his hands on a cloth.
The lady offered a gentle smile.
“Oh… is this Samira Nair’s house?”
Your father blinked, confusion flickering across his face instantly.
“Yes… yes, it is,” he replied cautiously. “Did she make any mistake?”
A dozen worries crossed his mind at once—university complaints, workplace issues, unpaid fees—his protective instincts rising.
Mrs. Mehra shook her head lightly.
“No, no… nothing like that,” she assured him. “Mr. Nair, if you don’t mind… can we talk inside? It’s urgent.”
Her tone was calm but serious enough that he didn’t question further.
“Y-Yes… of course,” he said, stepping aside. “Please come in.”
Inside, your mother quickly adjusted her saree upon seeing the guest and offered a respectful greeting before hurrying to bring refreshments.
“Here,” she said, placing a cup of coffee on the table.
“Thank you,” Mrs. Mehra replied warmly, accepting it.
There was a brief silence—the kind that builds before life-changing conversations.
Mrs. Mehra placed the cup down gently and folded her hands in her lap, looking at both of your parents with composed clarity.
“Actually… I’m here to ask for your daughter’s hand,” she said.
The words landed heavily in the small living room.
“I want her as my daughter-in-law.”
Your mother’s eyes widened first—then softened into a smile that she tried to suppress but failed.
Your father, however, froze completely.
“B-But…” he stammered, trying to process what he had just heard. “She’s just 20… and in the last year of her university.”
His voice held hesitation—not anger, but uncertainty mixed with social caution.
Mrs. Mehra smiled reassuringly.
“I understand your concern,” she said calmly. “Education is important. I respect that. She can continue her studies even after marriage—I promise you that. Whatever she wishes to pursue… we will support her fully.”
Your mother exchanged a hopeful glance with your father, clearly swayed by the lady’s dignified manner and wealthy aura.
“Your son…?” your father asked carefully. “What does he do?”
“My son, Krish Mehra, runs Mehra Industries,” she replied.
Both your parents visibly stiffened at the name—they had heard of the business empire before. Respect—and opportunity—flashed instantly across the room.
“He is a divorce,” she continued honestly. “And he has a four-year-old son.”
That part shifted the atmosphere again.
Your father leaned back slightly, processing.
“A child…?” he murmured.
“Yes,” Mrs. Mehra nodded. “My grandson. And he… is very fond of your daughter already.”
She didn’t explain the roadside incident fully—but the affection in her voice was evident.
“He needs a mother’s love,” she added softly. “And my son… needs a companion, though he may not admit it yet.”
Silence settled again.
Your mother spoke this time, her tone practical but warm.
“Our daughter is very responsible… she knows how to take care of a house.”
Your father glanced at her—then back at Mrs. Mehra.
“But… such a big family… big status… will she be able to adjust?” he asked honestly.
Mrs. Mehra smiled kindly.
“I’m not looking for status, Mr. Nair. I’m looking for a good heart. And your daughter has that.”
The sincerity in her voice dissolved much of the tension.
Your mother’s smile grew, hope clearly blooming.
“We would like to meet your son once,” your father said cautiously, still trying to be rational despite the opportunity.
“Of course,” Mrs. Mehra agreed immediately. “You should. And he should meet Samira properly too.”
She paused… then added gently—
“But I must say… after what she did for my grandson today… I already consider her family.”
Your parents looked at each other again—this time with far fewer doubts.
“So… what do you say, Mr. Nair?”
Mrs. Mehra’s voice was calm, patient—but there was quiet anticipation beneath it.
She sat poised on the sofa, hands folded neatly in her lap, her expression warm yet dignified.
She wasn’t a woman used to pleading—but this proposal mattered to her far beyond status or alliances.
It carried hope… for her son… for her grandson…
for the empty spaces in their home that had remained untouched for years.
Across from her, your father sat unusually silent.
He leaned back slightly, fingers interlocked, gaze lowered in deep thought.
This wasn’t a small decision—it was his daughter’s life.
His mind ran through everything at once—her age…
her studies… the responsibility of becoming a wife…
a mother to a child so young… the difference in their families’ financial and social standing.
Slowly, he turned his head to look at your mother.
That single glance held an entire conversation.
Your mother’s expression was already soft, hopeful even. She gave the faintest nod—one that said she believed this match could change your life for the better. Security. Stability. A respected household. Opportunities they could never afford on their own.
Your father exhaled quietly.
Then he looked back at Mrs. Mehra.
There was still hesitation in his eyes—but it had lessened, replaced now with cautious acceptance.
“We’re ready,” he said finally.
The words were simple… but final.
Mrs. Mehra’s face lit up instantly, a wide, genuine smile spreading across her features—the kind that reached her eyes. Relief washed over her, visible in the way her shoulders relaxed.
“Thank you,” she said warmly. “You won’t regret this, I promise you.”
“We trust you,” she replied politely.
Mrs. Mehra nodded, appreciating the faith they were placing in her family.
At Night — Mehra Mansion
The Mehra mansion, usually calm and composed after sunset, felt unusually tense that night. The grand dining area lights were dimmed, but the kitchen remained brightly lit—its silence filled only by the rhythmic sound of a knife hitting the chopping board.
Krish stood at the counter, sleeves rolled up, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the vegetables he was cutting. The motion was sharp… precise… almost aggressive—like he was trying to slice through thoughts rather than food.
Behind him, Mrs. Mehra stood near the dining table, watching her son with a mix of concern and determination.
“Krish, try to understand,” she said patiently, though this was far from the first time she had repeated the same words that evening. “I did this for your betterment only.”
Krish didn’t even turn.
“I’m not going to marry. That’s it. Tell them no already,” he replied flatly, his tone cold enough to end most conversations.
But not this one.
Mrs. Mehra stepped closer. “At least meet the girl once—”
Before she could finish, the knife slipped slightly in his grip.
“Aish—” he hissed.
The blade had nicked his finger.
A thin line of blood appeared instantly. He dropped the knife with a soft clang and instinctively brought his finger to his mouth, sucking the cut while groaning in irritation more than pain.
Mrs. Mehra sighed deeply, seizing the moment.
“See? I told you. You need someone—”
“Mom… please,” he cut her off, already reaching for a cloth.
That was it.
The patience she had been holding all evening snapped.
“You want to know the truth, huh?” she burst out, voice rising. “I did this only for Kiaan—not for you! He needs a mother. He’s too small now.”
Her words echoed in the kitchen.
Krish closed his eyes briefly, exhaling slowly as he tried to contain his temper.
“Mom… please sit. It’s not good for your health,” he said, his voice softening despite the tension. He guided her gently to the nearby chair. “I can take care of Kiaan like a mother too.”
His tone held sincerity—but also stubbornness.
Before she could respond—
“But… D-Dad, I need her.”
Both adults turned instantly.
Kiaan stood at the kitchen entrance in his tiny night suit, hair messy, eyes wide but determined. He must have heard everything.
Krish groaned under his breath.
“Now not you, Kiaan,” he muttered, rubbing his temple.
But the boy walked closer, clutching his stuffed toy.
“See?” Mrs. Mehra said quietly but pointedly. “Kiaan likes her too. She saved his life today.”
Krish’s frustration spiked again.
“Please… can you both just shut up about this?” he snapped, his voice sharper now. “And it’s my final answer—I’m not going to marry anyone.”
Mrs. Mehra sighed heavily, exhaustion replacing anger.
“Kri—”
“Mom, are you kidding me?” he interrupted, running a hand through his hair. “She’s 20. She’s a kid too.”
He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself—but the storm inside him refused to calm.
“How the hell will she take care of Kiaan when she’s a child herself, huh?”
This time he shouted.
The sudden volume made both Kiaan and Mrs. Mehra flinch.
Silence followed—but it was shattered seconds later by something far worse.
Kiaan’s lower lip trembled.
His tiny hands clenched around his toy.
“D… Dad don’t love Kiaan,” he whispered, voice breaking. “I hate Dad t… too.”
Before either of them could react, he turned and ran out of the kitchen toward his room.
“Kiaan—” Mrs. Mehra called.
But Krish was already moving.
“Kiaan! KIAAN…!” he shouted, guilt crashing into him the moment the words left his son’s mouth. “Shit…”
He stopped midway down the hallway, running both hands over his face in frustration.
He hadn’t meant to yell at him.
Never at him.
But the past—the betrayal, the abandonment, the fear of repeating history—it all twisted inside him whenever marriage was mentioned.
He leaned against the wall for a second, eyes shut tight.
Guilt clawed at his chest.
Because no matter how much his past haunted him…
He had just hurt the one person he was trying to protect the most.