5. PRINCE UNCLE DOESN’T SMILE
DIYA
It's been exactly one week since Veeraj Singh Shekhawat entered my NGO.
Seven days.
One hundred and sixty-eight hours.
It was wonderful for the whole three days. I loved affecting him, I loved how he always fell for my rage baits but after that he stopped reacting and now I am the one who's angry all the time. No matter what I make him do, or what pranks I play on him he doesn't react at all.
And so I have reached a very important conclusion. The man might actually be a robot.
Not because he's rude. Not because he's arrogant. Not because he's one of those rich men who expect everyone to worship the ground they walk on. Honestly, that would've been easier. At least then I would've had a valid reason to dislike him.
No.
The problem with Veeraj is that he's impossible to figure out.
Every morning he arrives at precisely nine o'clock. Not nine-oh-one. Not nine-oh-five.
Nine.
Always dressed like he's heading to a board meeting instead of an NGO. Crisp shirts. Expensive watches. Perfectly ironed trousers. Not a single hair out of place.
And every single day he wears the exact same serious expression.
The children could be performing a circus act in front of him. A monkey could probably steal his wallet. The building could catch fire. And I am convinced his face would remain exactly the same.
Dead serious.
Unbothered.
Emotionally unavailable to humanity.
The strange thing is that he does everything I ask. Every task. Every activity. Every ridiculous thing I throw his way. The only indication that he's suffering is the way his jaw clenches.
And I would be lying if I said that doesn't bring me immense joy.
A truly embarrassing amount of joy.
Last Tuesday I made him supervise arts and crafts. The man looked like he was being held hostage. Wednesday was story time. Thursday was helping distribute supplies. Friday was helping with lunch duty.
Watching him interact with people is honestly one of my favorite hobbies now.
Because he's terrible at it. Absolutely terrible. Horrible. Horrible in bold capital letters. But somehow . . . never rude.
That's the part that keeps throwing me off.
He's awkward. Painfully awkward. Like watching someone try to solve advanced mathematics while standing on one foot. But he's never unkind. Never dismissive. Never cruel.
One afternoon Jay ran across the courtyard and wrapped himself around Veeraj's leg without warning.
I had been standing near the doorway carrying paperwork.
The scene that followed remains one of the funniest moments of my life.
Jay clung to him like a koala.
Veeraj froze. Completely froze. He didn't move. Didn't speak. Didn't breathe. He just stood there staring at the child attached to his leg as though someone had handed him a live grenade.
Five whole minutes.
Five.
I watched for five minutes. Mostly because I wanted to see what he'd do.
Nothing, apparently.
Eventually I rescued him. The relief on his face had almost made me laugh out loud. Almost.
Today, however, I have a much better assignment for him. Reading to the children. Followed by helping me review the accounts.
If I'm going to exploit free labor, I might as well do it efficiently.
I leave my office after finishing a few emails and make my way toward the classroom. The closer I get, the stranger something feels.
It's quiet. Suspiciously quiet.
A classroom filled with twenty-seven children should never be quiet.
Quiet means trouble. Or illness. Or somebody has discovered how to bribe them.
The moment I step inside, I stop.
Well. That explains it.
The children are gathered on colorful rugs spread across the floor. Every single pair of eyes is fixed on Veeraj.
And Veeraj—The man who supposedly hates interacting with people—is sitting at the front of the room holding a copy of Akbar and Birbal.
Reading.
The room is so silent I can hear pages turning.
I blink. Once. Twice.
What sort of sorcery is this?
Usually story time resembles a fish market. Questions. Interruptions. Arguments. Random unrelated comments.
Laila once spent fifteen minutes explaining why dragons would make excellent pets.
Today? Nothing.
Everyone is listening. Even Keshav. Which frankly feels impossible.
A smile pulls at my lips before I can stop it.
I quietly move toward the back of the room and sit beside Rani.
She glances at me briefly before returning her attention to the story. A minute later she nudges my arm.
I look down.
She motions for me to come closer. Immediately suspicious, I lean toward her.
Rani places a hand beside her mouth and whispers dramatically into my ear. "Does Prince uncle know how to smile?"
I nearly choke. A laugh rises so quickly I have to bite the inside of my cheek.
Across the room Veeraj continues reading, completely unaware he's being discussed.
"I don't think so," I whisper back seriously.
Rani gasps. "I knew it."
I have to look away before I start laughing. She studies him thoughtfully. Like a scientist examining a rare specimen. Then she nods once. "We should teach him."
My eyebrows rise. "Oh?"
"Yes."
"How?"
She shrugs. "We'll figure it out."
A smile tugs at my mouth. God. I adore this child.
Rani arrived here almost three years ago. Six years old. Silent. Terrified. She spent months hiding behind furniture and refusing to speak to anyone or throwing tantrums. The social workers said she had witnessed things no child should ever witness.
They told us it would take time.
And it did. A lot of time.
Now she talks. Not much. But enough. Enough to tell me when she's sad. Enough to tell me when she misses someone. Enough to whisper plans about forcing grumpy princes to smile. Progress comes in strange forms sometimes.
At the front of the room, Veeraj turns a page. His voice remains steady. Deep. Calm.
The children hang onto every word.
And for a moment I find myself studying him.
Not because he's handsome. Even though he unfortunately is. No. Because this doesn't make sense. Everything I'd assumed about him suggested he'd hate this.
Yet here he is. Reading. Answering questions. Patiently explaining parts the children don't understand. No irritation. No complaints. Just quiet attentiveness.
Almost as if he doesn't realize he's doing something kind. His gaze lifts suddenly. Meeting mine. All my thoughts vanish as I take his brown eyes in. For a second neither of us looks away. Then his eyebrow rises slightly. Questioning. I immediately look elsewhere.
Because obviously. I was not staring. Absolutely not.
After another ten minutes, the story comes to an end.
Several children immediately begin protesting.
"No!"
"One more!"
"Please!"
Veeraj looks alarmed. I decide to save him again. Enough torture for a day I guess. Standing up, I clap my hands twice.
"Okay, troublemakers." Collective groans. "Homework time."
The groans become louder. Perfect.
Right on cue, Manisha appears in the doorway carrying a stack of worksheets.
The children react as though she's arrived to announce their execution.
I grin.
"Mani didi will help you with homework."
The betrayal on their faces is magnificent.
"I am going to borrow Prince uncle for a while."
The classroom erupts.
"No!"
"You can't!"
"Bring him back!"
"He's reading!"
I stare at them. Offended. "I feed you."
No one cares. Instead they crowd him. Traitors. Every single one of them.
Across the room I glance at Veeraj. For the first time since meeting him, he actually looks surprised. And maybe—just maybe—a little pleased.
Interesting.
He closes the book and stands.
The children immediately start negotiating his release. I ignore all of them.
Manisha takes over while I head toward the hallway.
A moment later I hear footsteps behind me.
"Your fan club seems upset," I say.
"They're your children."
The words slip out naturally. Without thought. Without hesitation. For some reason they settle warmly inside my chest.
My children.
I don't correct him because he's right.
We reach my office. I settle behind my desk while he takes the chair opposite me. Several files sit waiting. Budgets. Expenses. Monthly reports. The least exciting part of running an NGO.
For nearly twenty minutes silence fills the room. The comfortable kind. Paper shuffles. Calculators click. Pens move.
Then Veeraj speaks. "You're overspending here."
I look up. "What?"
He slides a document toward me. "This supplier charges fifteen percent more than necessary."
I frown leaning over the paper.
He continues. "Distribution costs are inconsistent."
Another page appears. "This transportation arrangement is inefficient."
Another page. "This inventory system wastes resources."
My eye twitches.
Another page. "This volunteer scheduling creates unnecessary overlap."
I stare at him.
He stares back.
Completely serious. Like he's presenting evidence in court.
I take a deep breath. Then another. Then another.
Because prison white is not my color. "This," I say carefully, "is not your corporation."
"Good."
I blink. "What?"
"Corporations are easier." He's too calm. Entirely unaware he's seconds away from being strangled.
"You think running an NGO is harder than running a multinational company?"
"Yes."
I narrow my eyes.
His expression doesn't change. Not even slightly.
"I dislike you."
"I've noticed."
The audacity. The absolute audacity.
I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again. Nothing comes out. Because unfortunately—the infuriating man is making valid points. I hate when that happens.
Veeraj returns his attention to the reports. As though he hasn't just insulted my entire operational system. As though he hasn't single-handedly raised my blood pressure.
I glare at him.
He ignores me.
Outside the office, children's laughter drifts through the building. Inside, Prince Veeraj Singh Shekhawat calmly reviews financial reports like he's been doing it his entire life. Which, to be fair, he probably has.
I should be annoyed. And I am. Very annoyed. Yet as I watch him mark corrections in the margins, I find myself thinking something dangerous.
Maybe. Just maybe.
The prince isn't exactly who I thought he was.
And for some reason, that realization unsettles me more than if he'd been awful.