25. FAILED OPERATIONS
DIYA
When Meher bhabhi sa casually mentioned over breakfast that she wanted to bring her school children to visit the NGO, I thought it's simply a sweet idea.
A chance for both groups of children to spend time together.
I spent the entire morning getting the courtyard ready, setting out painting supplies, arranging water bottles, and trying very hard to ignore the strange tension still hanging between Veeraj and me after whatever that almost-moment was in the sitting room yesterday.
I expected bhabhi sa. I expected a school bus full of noisy children. What I absolutely do not expect is a sleek black royal SUV pulling into the driveway right behind the bus.
The driver's door opens and Veeraj steps out. The moment his boots touch the gravel, I freeze, a stack of plastic cups slipping slightly in my hands.
What is he doing here?
Before I can even ask him why he's invaded my territory without permission, a chorus of excited screams fills the playground.
"Prince uncle!"
"Prince uncle is back!"
Half the NGO erupts into chaos. Children abandon the swings and race across the courtyard, some of the younger ones practically throwing themselves at his legs.
I instinctively brace myself. When he first came here, even a child standing too close made him uncomfortable.
Surely he'll stiffen. Step away. Politely untangle himself.
He doesn't. He simply stands there with the expression of a man accepting his fate.
Keshav wraps both arms around one of his legs. Rani is already telling him something so fast she barely pauses to breathe. Lucky keeps tugging at his sleeve.
Veeraj sighs quietly, reaches down, and pats Keshav's head before gently steadying another child who nearly trips into him.
He doesn't smile. He doesn't have to. The children already know they're welcome.
Watching them crowd around him, their faces glowing because they're genuinely happy he's back, does something strange to my chest. The leftover irritation from yesterday slowly melts away, replaced by a warm ache I don't know what to do with.
As Meher bhabhi sa gathers the school children for introductions, the crowd around Veeraj slowly breaks apart.
That's when I notice where he's walking. Toward Raj.
Raj is sitting alone on the old wooden bench, just like he usually does during loud gatherings. His sketchbook rests on his lap while his fingers absentmindedly trace the edge of the page.
The noise around him doesn't reach him. Most people don't either. I take a step forward. I don't want Raj feeling uncomfortable. But before I can reach them, Veeraj surprises me. Instead of towering over him, he lowers himself into a squat until they're at the same height.
Then his hands move.
Slowly.
Confidently.
Not awkwardly.
Not uncertainly.
Hey, Raj. What are you drawing?
For a second, Raj simply stares. Then his entire face lights up. I've seen that smile before. It's the smile children wear when they realize someone has entered their world instead of expecting them to enter everyone else's.
His hands begin flying excitedly through the air as he signs back, showing Veeraj his drawing.
I stop walking altogether.
My feet refuse to move.
Because my husband is having an entire conversation in sign language. Effortlessly while he was so pathetic just few weeks ago.
I finally manage to walk over, stopping beside them just as Raj excitedly points at the horse he's been drawing.
"You know sign language?" I ask. My voice comes out quieter than I expect.
Veeraj finishes complimenting Raj on his sketch before standing up. He rubs the back of his neck—a habit I've started noticing whenever he's uncomfortable talking about himself. "I looked into it a couple of weeks ago," he says simply.
His eyes drift toward the children running around the courtyard. "I didn't think I would . . . " He pauses for a moment before continuing. "But I've grown rather fond of your children, Diya."
Your children.
The words settle somewhere deep inside me. Not the NGO children. Not the orphanage children. Your children. As though he understands exactly what they mean to me.
His gaze shifts back to Raj. "Especially him."
I wait quietly. "He reminds me of you."
I furrow my eyebrows, "of me?" I ask, raising an eyebrow. "Raj doesn't argue with you every five minutes." A tiny breath escapes him that almost sounds like amusement.
"No." His voice softens. "But he looks like someone who has a lot to say."
His eyes follow Raj for another second. "A lot of thoughts. A lot of feelings." He grows quieter. "But not enough people try to hear him."
He looks back at me. "So I thought I would."
Everything inside me stills. I've spent years trying to make people see these children.
Trying to convince the world that they're more than their circumstances. And somehow . . . Without making a speech, without asking for praise, without even telling me . . . He quietly learns an entirely new language for one little boy.
Just so Raj never has to feel invisible again. I swallow the lump rising in my throat. "Thank you." The words barely come out. "That means more than you know."
His shoulders shift uncomfortably. "It's not a big deal."
Excuse me?
"It's just a basic skill." My emotions immediately take a dramatic U-turn.
Not a big deal?
Not a big deal?!
This man spends weeks learning sign language for a child who isn't even related to him . . . And calls it a basic skill? Does he have any idea what that means to Raj?
To me?
Why is he physically incapable of accepting appreciation like a normal person? One sincere "you're welcome" won't kill him.
Ugh. I can't with him. Everytime I see a softer side of him, the one I can respect and maybe like too, he goes ahead and destroys it all. I huff. If he refuses to react emotionally . . . I'll make him react another way. Operation make the prince react part two will happen today.
Ten minutes later, during the painting session, I quietly gather Keshav, Rani, and two of the older children behind the art shed.
I hold up a plastic cup filled with cold water. Beside it sits a handful of wet clay.
"The plan is simple," I whisper. "Keshav, you pretend to trip." He nods seriously. "The moment Prince uncle bends to help you . . . " I lift the cup. "We attack."
The children grin. Keshav deserves an Oscar. He stumbles dramatically right in front of Veeraj. As expected, Veeraj instantly reaches out and catches him before he falls. "Now!" I whisper.
I step out and throw the water. Rani launches the clay.
Unfortunately . . . I completely forget that Veeraj apparently has the reflexes of a jungle cat. Without even looking our way, he pivots, pulling Keshav neatly out of danger.
The clay flies past him. Straight into the brick wall.
The water misses him completely.
And lands . . . Entirely . . . On me. Cold water splashes all over my legs. My kurti sticks to my shins. Silence. Then laughter erupts around the courtyard. The children double over. Even Meher bhabhi sa has to cover her mouth.
I stand there holding an empty cup, completely drenched by my own failed attack.
Veeraj slowly turns toward me. He glances at the clay stuck to the wall. Then at my soaked clothes. Then back at me. His face stays perfectly calm.
But then . . . The tiniest smirk appears. Barely there. Still absolutely devastating. He folds his arms. "Your battle strategies are as bad as your storytelling, Trouble."
He takes one slow step closer. "If you wanted my attention . . . " His voice drops lower so no one hears us, " . . . you could've just asked. There was no need to involve an entire firing squad."
Heat rushes into my face. "I wasn't trying to get your attention," I protest. "I was . . . testing the paint."
"Of course you were." His eyes hold mine. "But let me save you the effort."
He speaks so calmly it somehow annoys me even more. "Whatever reaction you're trying to get out of me . . . "
" . . . it's not going to happen." He pause. "I don't react that easily."
I march right up to him until barely an inch separates us and tilt my chin up. "I'll make sure you do."
My voice is low enough that only he hears it. "I will break that perfect royal composure of yours, Veeraj."
His expression doesn't change. "Good luck, Trouble."
I glare at him for one long second before turning around with the most dramatic huff I can manage. I stomp toward the main building, yank open the screen door, and slam it shut behind me.
My heart refuses to slow down. When I catch my reflection in the glass, I stop.
I'm smiling.
Actually smiling.
I groan.
He is impossible. Completely infuriating. And without question . . . the most dangerous thing that has ever happened to my sanity.