Chapter 9 FLOUR FIGHTS
DIVYA
Dinner starts quietly enough.
The three of us sit around the small table the way we have been doing every evening lately, plates filled, the ceiling fan turning lazily above us while the smell of cumin and garlic still lingers in the air from the food Aditya cooked.
I am halfway through my meal when Neel suddenly clears his throat.
Not the absent-minded kind of cough people make while eating.
A very deliberate throat clear.
The kind that means an announcement is coming.
Aditya looks up first. I follow a second later. Neel is sitting straighter than usual in his chair, his small hands folded neatly on the table like he is about to address a board meeting.
“I hope,” he begins slowly, his gaze moving between us with exaggerated seriousness, “that you two did not think I forgot about the list.”
I close my eyes for a second.
Of course he didn’t forget.
When I open them again, Aditya is already watching me. One eyebrow is raised slightly, the corner of his mouth tilted upward in a way that instantly makes warmth crawl up the back of my neck. It’s the same amused look he gets whenever Neel starts orchestrating our lives.
Neel continues proudly. “Today,” he declares, “is the chocolate cake date.”
I nearly choke on my rice.
Across the table, Aditya coughs into his hand like he is hiding a laugh. I glare at him, which only seems to make the situation more entertaining for him.
“We will go,” Aditya says calmly after a moment, picking up another bite of food like this is the most normal dinner conversation in the world, “after you finish your dinner and go to sleep.”
Neel doesn’t need to be told twice.
The boy suddenly begins eating like someone pressed a timer somewhere. Rice disappears. Dal disappears. Vegetables vanish in alarming speed.
I stare at him. “Neel,” I say slowly, “you are supposed to chew your food.”
“I am chewing,” he replies immediately, while very clearly not chewing.
Aditya presses his lips together, his shoulders shaking slightly. Within minutes Neel’s plate is empty. Completely clean. He slides off his chair, wipes his mouth with exaggerated satisfaction, and lifts his plate carefully.
“Thank you for dinner, Aditya,” he says with great politeness before carrying the dish to the sink. Then he turns and runs down the hallway toward his room like the fate of the entire evening depends on it.
I sigh and stand up. “I should make sure he doesn’t hurt himself,” I say quietly.
Aditya nods, still looking amused. Neel’s door is half open when I reach it. Inside, he is sitting on the edge of his bed with several books scattered around him like he is searching for the most important one.
He looks up immediately when he sees me.
“Didi!” he exclaims. “You have to go!”
I lean against the doorframe and cross my arms. “I know,” I say gently. “But I will put my brother to sleep first.” He narrows his eyes suspiciously as if evaluating my intentions, then finally sighs and flops dramatically onto the mattress.
I switch on the small night lamp beside the bed. Soft yellow light fills the room, warming the corners and turning the shadows gentle.
Neel scoots closer the moment I sit beside him.
I pick up one of the books from the pile and open it quietly.
As I start reading, his restless energy fades little by little.
His small fingers curl around the edge of the blanket while he listens.
Every few minutes he interrupts the story with questions.
“Why did the dog run away?”
“Because he was scared,” I explain softly.
“And why did the boy go after him?”
“Because he loves him.”
The room grows quieter as the story continues. Outside, somewhere far away, a vehicle passes. Inside, Neel’s breathing begins to slow.
His head eventually tilts against my shoulder.
When I notice his eyes fully closing, I stop reading. I close the book carefully and place it on the small desk beside the bed before wrapping my arms around him.
He curls closer automatically. “You must be happy, didi, it's very important,” he murmurs sleepily.
I smile and kiss his forehead. “I am very happy, Neel.”
He snuggles further into my side. “I must make didi very happy.”
Something tightens in my chest. “You already do,” I whisper, brushing my fingers gently through his hair.
He opens one eye slightly. “You will never forget me, na?”
The question is so soft it almost breaks me. I hug him tighter. “Never.” I smile against his hair, “I love you the most in this world.” My throat burns suddenly but I keep smiling. I raise my hand and gently bump my fist against his.
“You and me against the world. Remember?” His sleepy face brightens immediately. He lifts his tiny fist too.
“Didi and Neel against the world.” I laugh softly and hug him again.
“Didi will always love you the most.”
He blinks up at me. “Even more than Aditya?”
I chuckle. “Obviously.”
“No one can compete with you, my cutie.”
“Didi,” he whines immediately. “What did I say about calling me cute?”
I shrug innocently. “What can I do? You are cute.”
“I am not.”
“You absolutely are.”
He huffs. I kiss his forehead once more. “Good night, buddy.”
“Good night, didi.”
His smile lingers even as he rolls over and pulls the blanket closer. I switch off the main light, leaving only the soft night lamp glowing beside him.
When I close his door quietly and walk back into the living room, the house feels calmer. Still.
The soft clink of metal reaches my ears before I even see him. Aditya is standing in the kitchen. His back is turned toward me as he looks down at something on the counter, sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms like he always does when he’s cooking.
He turns almost immediately, like he sensed me standing there. When his eyes land on me, he smiles. “I have a better idea,” he says quietly.
“What?”
He gestures toward the kitchen counter. “Let’s bake the damn cake.”
My eyes widen instantly. “Are you mad?” I look at him flabbergasted, “I can barely cook and you want me to bake?”
He chuckles, leaning casually against the counter. “It’s not as hard as you think.” His eyes soften, “I promise.” I look from his face to the ingredients already spread across the counter.
“You planned this.”
“I prepared for the possibility,” he corrects. "Choice is yours, we can go out too." He cocks his head and I groan.
“This is going to end in disaster.”
He hands me a mixing bowl, smiling brightly now, enough to make me smile too. “Trust me.” I feign a sigh but take it.
It takes less than ten minutes for the kitchen to descend into complete chaos.
What started as a very reasonable, civilized plan—two adults baking a simple chocolate cake—has somehow turned into something that looks like a storm passed through the room.
There is flour on the counter. Flour on the floor. Flour on my hands. A suspicious dusting of it on the edge of the stove.
And now, apparently, sugar all over the place too. I stare down at the measuring cup in my hand, horrified. I had been trying to pour exactly half a cup of sugar into the bowl like the recipe instructed. Somehow the bowl is now overflowing while a generous amount has also landed on the counter.
Behind me, Aditya starts laughing. Not the polite, controlled kind of laugh he usually has. This one is full and completely unrestrained. “You were right,” he says, still laughing as he looks around the kitchen. “This is a disaster.”
I whip my head toward him. “Excuse me?”
He raises both hands innocently, but the amusement in his eyes makes it very clear he is enjoying this far too much.
“You said it might end in disaster,” he continues calmly. “I was simply agreeing.”
“Oh really?” I narrow my eyes at him.
“Yes, really.”
I grab the nearest thing within reach—which happens to be a small handful of flour—and throw it at him. It hits his t-shirt with a soft puff.
Aditya freezes. For one glorious second the kitchen goes completely silent. Then he looks down at the white powder now decorating his shirt. Slowly. Very slowly. He looks back up at me.
I fold my arms across my chest and try to look dignified, which is extremely difficult considering my own t-shirt is already covered in flour fingerprints.
“You started it,” I say defensively.
His eyebrows lift. “I started it?” His eyes roam around the kitchen, “Divya, the counter looks like a bakery exploded.”
“That is not my fault.” He tilts his head slightly, studying me like he is trying to decide something.
Then the corner of his mouth lifts. “You know,” he says slowly, reaching toward the bowl again, “I feel like this situation requires retaliation.”
My eyes widen. “Aditya—”
Too late. A light dusting of flour lands on my shoulder. I gasp. “You did not just do that.”
He shrugs, very pleased with himself. “Fair is fair.”
“Oh it is absolutely not fair.” I grab the bag of flour again.
He sees it this time. “Divya,” he warns, trying not to laugh.
“Don’t you dare—” I throw another handful.
This time it lands across his chest. He bursts out laughing.
“You’re escalating the situation.”
“You deserve it.” The next few seconds become complete chaos.
Flour flies across the counter. Aditya tries to dodge one throw and ends up with a streak of it across his arm. At one point he grabs my wrist to stop me from throwing another handful, and the sudden contact sends a strange little jolt up my arm.
We both freeze. My hand is still holding flour. His fingers are wrapped lightly around my wrist. The kitchen smells faintly of chocolate batter and sugar.
And suddenly we are standing very close. Closer than we were a moment ago.
His hand loosens slowly but doesn’t move away immediately. My heart is beating much faster than it should be for a baking accident.
“You are extremely violent for someone making dessert,” he says quietly.
“You provoked me.”
“I made an observation.”
“You mocked me.”
“I appreciated your enthusiasm.”
I narrow my eyes again.
He chuckles again and reaches for the towel on the counter, wiping flour off his hands.
I brush the powder from my shirt, which mostly just spreads it around more. “We should probably finish this cake before the kitchen completely disappears,” he says.
“That might be wise.” The rest of the batter comes together with slightly less chaos.
Mostly because Aditya does most of the precise measuring while I stir dramatically and complain about the recipe instructions. When the cake finally goes into the oven, the kitchen falls quiet again.
We both lean back against the counter while the oven hums softly. My arms are still lightly dusted with flour. So are his.
"Tell me about your family," I ask after a moment.
“About my family?”
"Yeah, I know nothing about them, it's unafir." He nods slightly.
“I was closer to my mother,” he says quietly. “She passed away four years ago.”
There is a small pause after that. “My father and I didn’t see eye to eye on many things,” he continues, glancing toward the oven as if watching the cake gives him something to focus on. “He believed I should care more about money and business.”
“And you preferred books.” I add for him.
He smiles faintly. “Exactly.”
“He thought that meant I wasn’t serious enough about life.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I say immediately.
He shrugs. “Maybe.”
“But we both loved my mother.” he looks lost in his thoughts, “So we tried to get along for her.”
I tilt my head slightly. “And did you?”
“Most of the time.” The oven timer suddenly rings. The sound makes both of us jump.
“Moment of truth,” he says.
We both lean toward the oven door. The cake looks… surprisingly good.
Not perfect. But definitely edible.
I gasp. “It worked.”
He grins like he expected nothing less. “Told you.”
When the cake cools enough, we cut two slightly uneven slices. He pulls out his phone.
“Photo evidence,” he says. “For Neel.”
We take a ridiculous picture holding the plate between us. There is still flour on my cheek. I only notice when he starts laughing again.
“What?” He gestures toward my face.
“There.”
I frown. “Where?”
He steps closer and brushes his thumb gently across my cheek. The touch is light. Brief. But the warmth it leaves behind lingers longer than it should.
“There,” he says quietly. I swallow.
“Thanks.” We sit down at the small table with the cake between us. It’s slightly crooked. A little messy. But when I take the first bite it’s warm and soft and ridiculously good.
Aditya watches me expectantly. “Well?” he asks.
I take another bite. Then I nod slowly. “Okay.”
“What?”
“This is actually very good.” He leans back in his chair looking deeply satisfied.
“I will remember that compliment forever.”
I laugh softly. The kitchen is still messy. There’s flour everywhere and it may take forever to clean it.
But sitting here with cake and warm light and his quiet smile across the table—it somehow feels perfect.