3. PRINCE UNCLE
VEERAJ
I hate being stared at. Which is ironic considering I've spent my entire life being stared at.
The title does that. The surname does that. The fact that people insist on treating me like some rare species in a zoo certainly doesn't help either.
Usually the attention comes from adults. Businessmen. Investors. Politicians. Reporters. People who want something. People who expect something. People who are exhausting.
Children, however, are an entirely different problem. Because children don't care about protocol. They don't care about titles. And apparently, they don't care that I'm supposed to be the intimidating prince everyone keeps accusing me of being.
I stand beneath the shaded verandah overlooking the courtyard, watching the children run around as though they haven't noticed my existence at all.
A little boy, his eyes sparkling with joy, races across the grass carrying what appears to be a cardboard sword.
A girl almost as serious as me chases after him with alarming determination.
And another girl chases after the first girl with a painted hand. The boy trips. The girl with painted hands cries. The other one starts laughing. Then, somehow, all three of them are laughing.
Chaos.
Pure chaos.
I don't understand how anyone willingly chooses to work around this much noise. The NGO itself isn't what I expected. I don't know what I expected. Something smaller, maybe. Less . . . alive.
Instead the building feels warm. Bright murals cover the walls. Handprints decorate one section. Paintings, drawings, and crooked paper crafts seem to exist on every available surface.
The place feels lived in.
Loved.
I shift my weight, adjusting the cuff of my shirt. This is exactly why I dislike these PR exercises. I'm out of my element. Completely.
I understand boardrooms. I understand business. I understand numbers. I understand negotiations.
Children?
Not even remotely.
A burst of laughter echoes somewhere behind me. Then I hear the sharp click of heels against the tiled floor. The sound grows closer.
Steady.
Confident.
Purposeful.
I turn around and for the first time all morning, I forget what I was thinking. The woman walking toward me is significantly shorter than I am. Maybe a foot shorter. Possibly less. I can't tell because my attention immediately catches on the striking contrast of her skin.
Pale patterns stretch across the left side of her jaw and neck like brushstrokes of moonlight against warm brown skin. More markings disappear beneath the sleeve of her cardigan. A few trace over her fingers.
They're impossible to ignore. Not because they diminish her beauty.
Because they enhance it. Make her memorable.
Distinct. The kind of face someone sees once and remembers years later.
Dark hair falls over one shoulder. Her chin is lifted.
Her shoulders are squared. And despite the smile on her face, there's something wary in her eyes.
Something assessing. Like she's already decided she doesn't particularly like me.
Interesting.
She stops in front of me. "Hi," she says. Her voice is warm and confident, "I'm Diya Goyal. Founder of this NGO." The smile she offers doesn't reach her eyes. Not even close. Ah. So she definitely doesn't like me. Good to know.
I extend my hand. "Veeraj."
She takes it immediately. No hesitation. No nervousness. No awe. Her handshake is firm. The kind that belongs to someone who refuses to be intimidated. For some reason, that surprises me.
"We're happy to have you here."
I highly doubt that. Something tells me she's tolerating me. Not welcoming me. Before I can respond, she has already moved on.
Efficient.
Dismissive.
As though introductions are complete and no longer worth discussing. She turns toward the courtyard and claps twice.
The effect is immediate. Conversations stop and children look up. Several heads swivel in our direction. And suddenly I understand something.
This place revolves around her. Not because she's demanding attention. Not because she's trying to command the room. People simply give it to her. Naturally.
"Kids," she calls. Her voice softens instantly. It's subtle but definitely noticeable. The sharp edges disappear. Warmth replaces them. "This is Mr. Shekawat. He'll be with us for a month. Come on, let's greet him."
A collective gasp travels through the group. Then they're moving. All of them. Toward me. Very quickly. Far too quickly. Within seconds, I'm surrounded.
Small faces. Curious eyes. Tiny shoes. Tiny hands. Tiny humans. Too many tiny humans. "Good morning, sir!"
The greeting comes out surprisingly synchronized. Almost musical.
I blink. Diya beams proudly behind them. The children continue moving closer. One grabs my sleeve. Another peers up at me. A third seems determined to stand directly on top of my shoe. Instinctively, I take a step backward.
A small frown immediately appears on Diya's face. Wonderful. I've offended someone already. This has to be a personal record. The thing is—I genuinely don't know what to do.
I have no experience with children.
None.
Sure, now that Aadhya has been born, I occasionally find myself performing uncle duties. But she's barely two. Half the time she communicates through random sounds and attempts to eat things she shouldn't.
It's different.
Easier.
If I'm being completely honest, Aadhya mostly gets passed back to her parents whenever she starts crying. Or to Poorvi or Vihaan. Anyone more qualified than me.
So when I say I know nothing about children, I mean absolutely nothing.
"Hello," I say.
Brilliant. Exceptional. A truly inspiring contribution to the conversation.
The children stare. Waiting. Apparently "hello" wasn't enough.
A little girl with two braids squints at me. "Are you really a prince?"
I nod.
"Diya didi said you were."
Another nod. The questions arrive instantly.
Do you live in a palace?
Do you have guards?
Do you own a horse?
Do you have a sword?
Can you fight dragons?
Why are you so tall?
Do you eat pizza?
Do princes get homework?
I blink, my brain struggling to process the sheer volume of questions being thrown at me. Children are terrifying. Nobody warns you about this.
"I live in a palace," I answer carefully. "No, I don't have a sword with me right now." A disappointed chorus follows. Wonderful. I've already failed. "I know how to ride horses."
Their eyes widen. Encouraging.
"I don't ride regularly." The excitement fades slightly. Less encouraging. "And no, I don't wear prince clothes."
A little boy gasps. "You don't?"
I shake my head.
"What do you wear then?"
I look down at my shirt. " . . . normal clothes."
The boy looks unconvinced. Another child raises her hand. Why is she raising her hand? This isn't school.
I point toward her. Immediately regretting it.
She smiles brightly. "If you're a prince . . . "
I brace myself.
" . . . then does that mean you can tell the King to cancel homework forever?"
Silence.
Several children stare at me expectantly. Waiting. Hopeful. As though I genuinely possess this authority. I open my mouth. Close it. Then open it again. What exactly is the correct answer here? I look up. Instinctively seeking help.
Diya is leaning against a nearby pillar. Watching. Amused. Entirely too amused. A smirk tugs at the corner of her mouth.
She's enjoying this.
She notices me looking. The smirk grows. Not a single ounce of sympathy.
I turn back toward the children.
Think. Think harder. Finally I clear my throat. "I'm afraid even kings can't cancel homework."
A collective groan fills the courtyard. One child drops dramatically onto the grass. Another covers his face. A third whispers, "I knew it."
I rub the back of my neck. Already exhausted.
Diya laughs. Actually laughs. The sound catches me off guard. Bright. Unrestrained. Real. The first genuine reaction I've seen from her.
Then she catches me looking. Immediately straightens. Immediately composes herself.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
A little girl tugs on my sleeve again. "Prince Uncle?"
I freeze.
Prince Uncle?
The title shouldn't bother me. And yet somehow it does.
The child smiles innocently. "Will you stay for lunch?"
I hesitate. Then glance toward Diya. Toward the children. Toward the building that feels far too loud and far too alive.
Thirty-one days.
That's all.
Thirty-one days and then I can return to my normal life.
Simple.
Manageable.
Logical.
Easy.
Unfortunately, as another child starts asking whether princes have secret treasure vaults, I realize one very important thing.
This month is going to be significantly harder than I anticipated.