8. LOVE ISN’T ENOUGH
DIYA
The thing about running an NGO is that people assume it's all hugs and happy endings.
They imagine smiling children. Birthday celebrations. School functions. Success stories. And yes, those things exist.
They exist because people work themselves to exhaustion making sure they do. What most people don't see are the budgets. The funding applications. The staff shortages. The endless balancing act between what children need and what you can realistically provide.
Most days I love it. Some days it terrifies me. Today is one of those days. I stare at the spreadsheet in front of me for so long the numbers begin blurring together.
The ceiling fan spins lazily above my head. Outside my office, children laugh somewhere in the courtyard. Inside, my brain feels like it's slowly melting.
I rub my eyes. Then check the document again. The numbers still don't magically improve. Disappointing. A knock sounds against the door.
Before I can answer, it opens. Of course. Veeraj. Who else walks into my office like he pays rent here?
He carries a file under one arm. His sleeves are rolled up. His expression is as serious as always. I don't think I've ever met someone who looks perpetually disappointed by existence.
He places the file on my desk. I immediately don't trust it. "What is that?"
"Solutions."
I narrow my eyes. "To what?"
"The problems you complained about yesterday."
"Did I ask for solutions?"
"No."
"Then why are there solutions?"
"You had problems."
I groan. He remains entirely unmoved. Robot. Absolute robot.
I flip open the file. For the next several minutes, silence fills the office. The more I read, the more annoyed I become. Not because it's bad. Because it isn't. That's the problem. Everything is annoyingly well thought out.
Volunteer scheduling. Budget restructuring. Supply management. Resource allocation.
It all makes sense. Until I reach one particular section. My eyes stop and I scan it again.
I read it again.
Then a third time.
I finally look up from the file, at him, "What is this?"
Veeraj leans back slightly. "The volunteer recommendation."
My jaw tightens. "You're suggesting reducing volunteer interaction."
"No."
"That's exactly what you're suggesting."
He sighs. The sound is subtle. Barely there. Yet somehow irritating. "I'm suggesting boundaries. The children become attached too quickly."
"They're children."
"I know."
"Children are supposed to become attached."
"They're also supposed to feel secure." Something about his tone makes me pause. Not because I agree. Because he sounds genuine. Which is inconvenient.
"Explain." I lean forward.
His gaze drops briefly toward the papers. "When volunteers come for a few weeks and leave, the children suffer."
I know exactly what he's talking about.
"The attachment." His voice remains even. Logical. "The cycle repeats."
Something uncomfortable settles inside my chest. I don't like where this conversation is heading.
"You are encouraging emotional dependency."
My head snaps up. "Excuse me?"
His jaw tightens. Slightly. The only indication he knows he's stepping onto dangerous territory. "I'm not criticizing your intentions."
"Sounds exactly like criticism."
"I'm saying they become attached to people who aren't staying."
The room grows quieter. The laughter outside suddenly feels very far away.
I place the file down carefully. The way people handle explosives. "You think caring about them is wrong?"
"No."
"Then what exactly are you saying?"
His gaze doesn't waver. "They need consistency."
I laugh humorlessly. "Consistency?"
"Yes."
I lean forward—if that's any possible. Anger begins to creep beneath my skin. "And what exactly would you know about children needing consistency?"
The question lands. His expression doesn't change. Yet something flickers briefly behind his eyes. Gone before I can identify it.
I scoff. "As I thought."
Silence. The tension stretches between us. Neither willing to back down. Neither willing to admit the other might have a point.
Finally he speaks again. "They should have stable figures."
"They do. I am that stable figure." The answer comes immediately. Without hesitation. Without doubt.
"You aren't the problem." My anger falters. Only slightly. Just enough to make me hate this conversation more.
He continues. "They trust you."
"They trust the volunteers too."
"Exactly."
I stand. The chair scrapes against the floor. "Do you know what these children need?"
His expression remains calm. Which somehow makes me angrier.
"No."
"Love." The word bursts out before I can stop it.
My chest rises and falls rapidly. "They need love."
I point toward the window. Toward the courtyard. Toward the children. "They've spent enough of their lives being unwanted."
My voice cracks slightly. Just slightly. "They need people who care."
"I know."
"No, you don't."
His jaw clenches. "There it is."
"What ?"
"The assumption."
I stare. His eyes sharpen. "You think because I disagree with you, I don't care."
"I think you see everything as a problem that needs fixing."
"Everything needs fixing." He snaps.
And suddenly I understand why he frustrates me so much. Because he sees the world like a puzzle. A machine. Something logical. Something solvable. While I see people. Messy. Complicated. Broken. Human.
"You think everything is about money?"
I ask quietly. The anger in my voice surprises even me. "Money fixes people?"
His expression hardens. For the first time since meeting him, genuine frustration flashes across his face. "No."
"Then what?"
"But love alone won't feed them!" The words hit harder than they should. Because part of me knows he's not wrong. Which only makes me angrier.
"That's not what I said."
"But it's what you're implying."
"I'm saying they deserve love."
"And I'm saying they deserve stability."
The room falls silent. Neither of us are speaking. Neither of us looks away. The truth is, we're arguing about the same thing. We're just standing on opposite sides of the bridge.
I want them to be loved. He wants them protected. Neither goal is wrong. Yet somehow we're still fighting.
A movement outside the office catches my eye. Small shadows. Children. My stomach drops. They've heard us.
Veeraj notices too. His expression shifts immediately. The frustration disappears. Concern replaces it. For them. Not for himself. For them. Something twists unexpectedly inside my chest.
He exhales slowly. Then gather the papers. "This conversation isn't productive."
And somehow that's worse. Because he's right. Without another word, he leaves.
For several moments I simply stand there. Angry. Confused. Frustrated. Not entirely sure at whom anymore.
A minute later the door opens again. It's not Veeraj. Children. Lots of children. They file inside cautiously. As though approaching a wounded animal.
Rani comes first. Of course she does. Then Laila. Then Keshav. Soon half the NGO is standing around my desk.
I blink. "What are you all doing?"
No one answers immediately. The children exchange glances. Finally Keshav clears his throat dramatically. "Don't be too mad at Prince uncle."
My heart sinks. Oh no. Oh absolutely not. They heard enough. Apparently.
I drop into my chair. Rubbing my temples. "Keshav—"
"He didn't mean it."
I look up. Laila nods immediately. "Yeah."
Rani joins too. "He likes us."
The certainty in her voice catches me off guard. "He does?"
Twenty heads nod simultaneously.
I stare. They stare back. The ridiculousness of this conversation nearly makes me laugh.
Keshav points toward a toy car sitting on the shelf. "It's mine." I glance at it. The blue one. The wheel broke last week. "Prince uncle fixed it."
I blink. "What?"
"He spent twenty minutes doing it."
My brows pull together. He never mentioned that. Keshav beams proudly. "He even watched YouTube videos."
The image enters my brain against my will.
Veeraj Singh Shekhawat. Head of a royal business empire. Watching toy-car repair videos.
I almost choke. Laila immediately jumps into the conversation. "He helped me with maths."
"Maths?"
She nods. "I failed the worksheet."
My heart squeezes. Laila struggles with mathematics. Everyone knows it. "What happened?"
"He sat with me until I understood."
I stare. Again.
Nobody told me this either. The children continue talking. Story after story. Little things. Tiny moments. Helping with homework. Listening to stories. Remembering names. Fixing toys. Explaining school projects. None of it sounds extraordinary.
Yet judging by the way they're talking, it meant everything. And suddenly something painful settles inside my chest.
Because they're right.
He has been kind. Awkward. Quiet. Emotionally constipated. But kind. Always kind.
Maybe that's why they've grown attached. Not because he's a prince and it fascinates them. Because he listens. Because he remembers. Because he shows up.
My gaze drifts toward the door. Toward the hallway where he disappeared. A realization begins forming slowly.
Uncomfortably.
The children are attached. Not just to him. To everyone. Every volunteer. Every teacher. Every visitor who stays long enough to matter.
And eventually those people leave.
Always.
They leave. While the children stay behind. Waiting.
Missing them. Hurting.
I think about the excitement whenever volunteers arrive. The tears when some of them leave. The disappointment. The heartbreak. The way I always tell myself that love is worth it.
Maybe it is. Maybe it isn't. Maybe both things can be true. Maybe that's what Veeraj was trying to say.
Not that love is wrong. Not that affection is dangerous. Just that attachment has consequences. Consequences I've never fully considered because I kept viewing it through my own perspective.
What would I have wanted as a child?
Love.
Attention.
Connection.
Wanting someone to choose me even for a minute.
But he wasn't looking at it from my perspective. He was looking at it from theirs. From what happens after people leave. From the hurt that follows.
The realization lands heavily.
I hate it.
Because it means he wasn't being cold. He wasn't being heartless. He wasn't reducing children to numbers. He was trying to protect them. In his own frustratingly logical way.
And somehow that's worse.
Because if he was awful, I could keep disliking him.
Simple.
Easy.
Comfortable.
Instead he's turning out to be thoughtful. Dependable. Reasonable. And unfortunately . . . not entirely wrong.
Which is a problem. A very big problem. Because every day that passes, the image I've built of Veeraj Singh Shekhawat cracks a little more.
And every time it does, I find myself understanding him slightly better.
That's dangerous.
Very dangerous.
Because understanding someone is usually the first step toward caring. And caring about Veeraj Singh Shekhawat sounds like an absolutely terrible idea.