6. THE PROBLEM WITH DIYA GOYAL
VEERAJ
If someone had told me two weeks ago that I would be sitting cross-legged on a classroom floor supervising an art session filled with twenty-seven children, I would've assumed they'd lost their mind.
Yet here I am. Holding a box of crayons.
A box of crayons.
I stare at it for a moment before placing it on the floor beside me.
This is my life now. I have accepted it.
The classroom buzzes with activity around me.
Children sit in groups spread across colorful mats, completely focused on their drawings. Some are paintings. Some are coloring. Some appear to be using glue in ways that should probably be illegal.
One child has somehow gotten blue paint on his forehead.
Another has paint on her nose.
I'm choosing not to ask questions.
Some things are better left unexplained.
The afternoon sun filters through the windows, filling the room with warm golden light. Children's laughter drifts through the space, mixing with the scratching of crayons against paper.
It's loud. Not overwhelmingly loud. Just alive.
I never realized there was a difference until coming here.
My office is always quiet. Boardrooms are quiet. The palace is usually quiet. Even when people are speaking, there's a restraint to it. An expectation. A certain level of control.
Children don't possess that. Their emotions arrive exactly as they feel them. No filters. No masks. No hidden agendas.
It's strangely refreshing.
A small movement beside me pulls me from my thoughts.
Rani.
I glance down as she quietly scoots her mat closer. Then closer. Then somehow even closer.
I still instinctively. Not because I mind. Because it surprises me.
The social workers told me she wasn't particularly welcoming toward strangers. Actually, they described her as "extremely guarded."
Yet over the past week I've noticed she spends an alarming amount of time observing everyone around her.
Especially me.
As if she's trying to figure me out. Unfortunately for her, I haven't figured myself out either.
So good luck.
Rani continues coloring for another minute before finally speaking. "Did Diya didi scold you?"
I blink.
Of all the questions I expected, that wasn't one of them. My gaze drops toward her paper. She's drawing a yellow house. A very aggressive yellow house.
"Um . . . " I rub the back of my neck. How exactly am I supposed to answer that? She did not scold me. Not really. Though yesterday's conversation certainly wasn't pleasant.
After spending nearly an hour criticizing operational expenses, Diya had finally crossed her arms and informed me that she disliked me.
Directly. No hesitation. No dramatic buildup.
Just—I dislike you.
Simple. Blunt. Honest.
The strangest part wasn't the statement because I was aware of it. It was the fact that I still don't know why. I'm not particularly concerned about being liked. Most people don't like me. I've accepted that. But usually I know the reason. I'm too serious. Too blunt. Too reserved. Too intimidating.
Fine.
Fair.
Diya, however, seems determined to dislike me on principle. As though my existence alone irritates her. Which would almost be amusing if it wasn't so confusing.
"Maybe," I finally answer.
Rani hums thoughtfully. Like she's processing important information. Then she nods. "Don't worry too much."
I glance at her. "About what?"
"Being scolded." The seriousness in her voice nearly catches me off guard.
"Diya didi is very nice."
"Is she?" Rani looks scandalized. Actually scandalized. She looks . . . cute.
"Yes." She says it with the certainty of someone stating a universal truth.
The sky is blue.
The water is wet.
Diya is nice.
End of discussion.
Then her attention drifts back toward her drawing. For a few moments she remains silent.
When she speaks again, her voice is quieter. "I don't have mumma or papa."
The crayon in her hand pauses. Something shifts inside me. I don't know what. Just something.
I look down.
Her eyes remain fixed on the paper. Not sad. Not emotional. Almost detached. As if she's reciting a fact she's repeated enough times that it no longer hurts.
Which somehow hurts more.
"When I first came here," she continues softly, "I was always causing trouble."
I remain silent.
She keeps coloring. Yellow.
"People looked at me like I was bad." Her shoulders lift in a small shrug. "I broke things."
Another yellow stroke. "I yelled or hid."
Another. "I pushed people." Then she finally looks up. "But Diya didi never got angry."
My chest tightens unexpectedly.
Rani smiles faintly. The expression is tiny. Barely there. But genuine. "She talked to me instead."
Something about that sentence lingers.
Talked to me instead.
Not punished. Not ignored. Not dismissed. Just talked.
The little girl points toward the opposite side of the room. "Raj can't hear."
I follow her gaze. Raj sits near the window, completely focused on his drawing. He's quiet. Observant. Much like Rani.
"Diya didi learned sign language for him."
I look back at her.
Rani nods confidently. "So he doesn't feel alone."
The simplicity with which she says it leaves me strangely speechless. As though learning an entirely new language for a child isn't extraordinary. As though it's obvious.
Of course she did. She's Diya. What else would she do?
Rani continues talking.
About how Diya remembers everyone's birthdays. How she stays late whenever someone is sick. How she reads bedtime stories. How she never forgets promises. How she somehow knows when someone is upset before they say anything.
Each story sounds more ridiculous than the last.
Not because I don't believe them. Because I do. Entirely. Without question.
I've only known Diya for a little over a week and even I can see it. Everything here revolves around her. Not because she demands it. Because she gives so much of herself away that people naturally gravitate toward her.
The children don't adore her because she's their caretaker. They adore her because she loves them first. And maybe that's why they love her so fiercely.
Rani finishes coloring another section of her house before glancing up at me again.
"You must've done something very bad."
I stare. "What?"
She nods solemnly. "If Diya didi scold you."
I blink once. Then twice. The absolute certainty on her face is astonishing.
Apparently there are no alternative explanations. None. The verdict has been reached. Prince uncle is guilty. Case closed.
I look away before she notices my amusement. Not that she'd know what amusement looks like. According to everyone in this building, I apparently don't express emotions.
A ridiculous accusation.
Mostly true though. But I have shown more emotions here than ever even with my family.
My gaze drifts toward the doorway. Toward the empty hall beyond it. Toward the direction of Diya's office. That's the thing I don't understand.
We could coexist peacefully. Very easily.
I show up. Complete the tasks. Leave.
Simple. Efficient. Yet somehow every interaction with her turns into a battle. A challenge. A test.
She's constantly provoking me. Constantly looking for reactions. Constantly trying to push buttons she assumes exist.
And I still don't know why.
If I knew what exactly bothered her, perhaps I could fix it. Or at least avoid it. Not because her opinion matters. It doesn't. At least I don't think it does. But because existing in a constant state of irritation is exhausting.
Then again, maybe the problem isn't me.
Maybe Diya simply enjoys creating chaos. That theory certainly has evidence. A lot of evidence. The gardening incident alone could support an entire court case.
I shake the thought away.
Three more weeks. That's all. Three more weeks and this entire chapter of my life ends. The board gets their photographs. The public gets their stories.
I return to work.
Diya returns to her children.
Everything goes back to normal. Simple. Logical. Exactly the way I prefer things.
Beside me, Rani suddenly holds up her drawing. "Do you like it?"
I look down. The house is yellow. The sun is yellow. The grass is somehow yellow. Even the dog is yellow. An alarming commitment to a single color.
"It's very yellow."
Rani beams. Actually beams.
And for some reason, I find myself saying something I normally wouldn't.
"I think it looks good."
Her smile grows wider. A small warmth settles unexpectedly in my chest. Strange. Very strange.
Across the room, the classroom door opens. And instantly twenty-seven children light up. "Diya didi!"
I look up automatically.
She steps inside carrying a stack of folders against her chest. The room changes immediately.
Brighter.
Louder.
Happier.
The children swarm her before she even reaches the center. They have questions, issues, complaints, things they want her to notice and somehow she manages to do everything.
Without missing a beat.
Without losing patience.
Without losing herself.
For a brief moment her eyes meet mine across the room. A challenge flashes there. Followed by suspicion. Then annoyance. As if she's remembered I exist and regretted it immediately.
I sigh internally.
There it is. The hostility. Right on schedule.
Three weeks.
I can survive three weeks.
Probably.
Maybe.
Hopefully.