CHAPTER 25
In Her Presence
POORVI
The mirror has not been kind today.
I smooth my hands down the front of my lehenga for the third time, not because it needs it, but because my fingers don’t know where else to go.
My hair, carefully twisted and pinned by one of the female staff, feels too heavy.
My specs seem too noticeable. Even the bangles resting on my wrists sound too loud when I shift.
This is foolish. I shouldn’t feel like a girl about to be examined, yet my stomach tightens anyway.
Meeting Vihaan’s mother.
The title alone presses against my chest. Rajmata.
A word heavy with weight, history, expectation.
I can’t imagine saying it casually, even though she is his mother before anything else.
To me, she is someone more distant—someone who belongs to a world of authority and experience I have never been allowed to enter.
I press my palms together, take a breath, and remind myself that this isn’t about me. It’s about respect. About doing right by Vihaan.
When the knock comes at the guest room door, my heart leaps against my ribs. One of the attendants enters, bowing slightly. “Rajmata is ready to receive you.”
My throat dries instantly. My legs move anyway, carrying me down the quiet hall. My sandals barely make a sound against the cool marble floor, though each step feels like it echoes in my ears.
The door is opened for me, and there she is.
Sitting upright on a low couch, the kind of grace that doesn’t need announcing. Her saree is simple but regal, silk that catches the light as she turns her head toward me. She doesn’t rise, but her eyes hold me, assessing without cruelty.
I bow my head immediately, hands pressed together. “Rajmata.”
Her lips curve faintly. “So you are Poorvi.”
My name sounds different in her voice—measured, steady. I nod, not trusting my own voice yet. “Yes.”
“Come, sit,” she says, gesturing to the cushion opposite her. “I don’t like speaking down to someone.”
That surprises me. I mean, she did speak down to Meher, but I don’t say anything. I obey quickly, gathering my lehenga as I lower myself. My hands fold tightly in my lap, betraying the tension I try to mask. I wish my racing heart would slow.
Her gaze studies me openly. Not harsh, but unflinching. It makes me want to look away, but I force myself to meet it.
“You’re younger than I expected,” she says at last.
I wet my lips before answering. “I—yes.” My voice wavers slightly, and I clear it. “I mean… I suppose I am.”
Her brows lift slightly, amusement flickering in her eyes. “And honest. That is something.”
I can’t decide whether to smile or not, so I keep my expression polite. My thoughts swirl too fast, colliding with each other. Does she approve? Does she not?
“Do you like it here?” she asks suddenly.
The question throws me. I glance around at the room—the carved furniture, the sunlight spilling across the tiled floor, the faint scent of mogra. “It’s… peaceful,” I manage. “Different from what I’m used to.”
Her gaze sharpens slightly, but she doesn’t comment. Instead, she leans back against the cushions, watching me with something softer now. “I was not at your wedding, but do you know why I have wanted to meet you since that day?”
I shake my head slowly. “No, Rajmata.”
Her lips press together for a moment before she exhales. “Because I have made mistakes with my children. And I don’t wish to repeat them with those who join our family.”
The honesty of that disarms me. I blink, unsure what response she expects.
“I will not ask you to prove yourself to me,” she continues. “That is a cruel thing, and I have done enough of that in my lifetime.” Her eyes meet mine, unwavering. “But I will ask you to be good to him. To Vihaan. He may not show it, but he feels deeply.”
My breath catches. For a second, words fail me completely. I drop my gaze to my lap, my fingers twisting together. “I… will try,” I whisper, because how do I tell her it’s something I want most, but don’t know if it’s something he wants from me?
She tilts her head slightly, her expression unreadable. “Trying is all any of us can do.”
The silence that follows is not uncomfortable, but it is heavy, layered with thoughts I cannot guess.
The staff enters briefly, placing two cups of tea before us. I hesitate, unsure if I should touch mine until she does. When she lifts hers, I follow, though my hands tremble faintly around the porcelain.
“You don’t have to be nervous,” she says quietly, as if she can read my every thought.
I swallow, forcing myself to answer honestly. “It’s difficult not to be.”
For the first time, she smiles fully. Not a regal smile, not the composed curve of lips that belongs to a queen—but a mother’s smile, soft and human. “That is fair.”
Something eases inside me then. Not completely, but enough for me to sip the tea without worrying my hand will shake too much.
She asks small questions after that—how I find the villa, if I’ve read much, whether I enjoy traveling. Simple things, but they anchor me, make the conversation flow easier. I answer carefully, but truthfully, letting pieces of myself show without spilling too much.
At one point, she studies me again, more intently. “You remind me of someone,” she murmurs.
“Who?” slips out before I can stop it.
Her gaze drifts past me, somewhere far away. “A younger version of myself.”
The weight of that settles deep in me. I cannot imagine her the way I am. She seems so…powerful, I am not that and I can never be, I suppose.
When the conversation finally quiets, I bow my head again, setting my cup down. “Thank you, Rajmata, for your kindness.”
She leans forward slightly, her hand brushing the edge of the table. “You may call me Maa-sa, if you wish. You are, after all, my son’s wife.”
The words strike me harder than I expect. My chest tightens, warmth and disbelief tangling together. I nod slowly. “Maa-sa.” The word feels strange on my tongue, fragile but hopeful.
Her smile deepens, and in that moment, the air between us shifts. Not entirely safe, not yet—but no longer hostile.