35. PRIORITIES
VEERAJ
The final quarterly review for the regional agricultural cooperative drags on for nearly three hours.
By the time the last presentation ends, the boardroom feels stuffy, filled with the smell of stale coffee and freshly printed reports.
I roll my shoulders once, trying to ease the stiffness in my neck as the members begin gathering their files.
One by one, they leave.
I give them a brief nod before sitting back down behind my desk. There are still land development files waiting for my signature.
I reach for my fountain pen, but my thoughts drift somewhere else. To last night. To Diya, curled against my chest, her warmth seeping into me. To the way she'd finally fallen asleep after endless tantrums and whining.
A quiet knock pulls me back. Ravi steps inside carrying his tablet against his chest. "The meeting is officially over, Kunwar Sa," he says politely. Then he hesitates. "There's . . . one more thing."
I look up. "Your wife is waiting in the private lounge. Should I send her in now?"
My pen stops in midair. "My wife?" The words leave my mouth before I can stop them.
Diya is here?
"How long has she been waiting?"
Ravi shifts uncomfortably. "About . . . thirty minutes, sir." A muscle jumps in my jaw. "You were presenting the quarterly budget to the cabinet liaison, so I didn't think it would be appropriate to interrupt."
The pen lands on my desk with a sharp crack. I stand so suddenly my chair rolls back a few inches.
"Send her in." My voice comes out lower than usual.
Controlled.
But only just.
"And Ravi." He immediately straightens. "This is the first and last time my wife waits outside my office.
" His eyes widen. "I don't care who I'm meeting.
I don't care if it's the cabinet. I don't care if the Prime Minister himself is sitting in this room.
" I look straight into his eyes, so he knows how serious I am, "If Diya comes here .
. . " I hold his gaze. " . . . you interrupt me. She comes first. Do you understand?"
"Y-Yes, sir." He nods quickly before almost rushing out of the office.
The door closes behind him.
I let out a slow breath.
For a long moment, I simply stand there.
Work has always come first.
Always.
Meetings.
Responsibilities.
For thirty years, nothing has ever taken priority over them. Yet hearing she'd been waiting outside for half an hour had made something inside me snap without warning.
I don't even question it. The door opens again. Diya walks inside carrying a three-tier stainless-steel tiffin in both hands.
She looks . . . nervous. She keeps glancing around my office as if she's stepped into unfamiliar territory.
"Hi . . . " she says quietly. She stops a few feet away from my desk.
"I just . . . wanted to say thank you." She looks down at the tiffin for a second before meeting my eyes again.
"For yesterday. For taking care of me. And . . . for putting up with me."
I don't answer immediately. Instead, I walk around my desk. Slowly. Until I'm standing right in front of her.
She's still looking everywhere except at me. I lift two fingers beneath her chin and gently tilt her face up. "If I don't take care of my wife . . . " I say softly. " . . . who do you expect to do it?"
Her breath catches. Colour spreads across her cheeks so quickly it's almost fascinating to watch. She blinks up at me, completely caught off guard. "Stop doing that," she blurts.
She pushes lightly against my chest, though her hands stay there for a second longer than necessary before she steps back.
"You keep saying things like that and . .
. " she starts rambling. " . . . and we're in your office, and I only came because I wanted to thank you, and the palace kitchen already had all the ingredients, so it wasn't even difficult . . . "
She keeps talking. Faster. And faster. Until I can't help it anymore. A quiet laugh slips out. Her mouth snaps shut instantly. Her eyes become as round as saucers. " . . . You laughed."
I blink. "So?"
"You laughed." She points at me as if she's just witnessed a miracle. "I've never heard you laugh like that before."
I shake my head, still smiling despite myself. She has no idea what she does to me. I step closer again. A loose curl has fallen across her face. Without thinking, I tuck it behind her ear. "You might be the reason," I admit quietly.
The words leave my mouth before I can reconsider them. Her cheeks somehow turn even redder. For a second she simply stares at me.
Speechless.
Then she blinks twice.
"I . . . ".She looks down at the tiffin. " . . . forgot what I was going to say."
A smile pulls at the corner of my mouth. "That seems to happen every time I stand too close to you." I smirk.
"Oh!" She nudges my shoulder. "I remembered. I brought you lunch."
She places the tiffin on the coffee table beside the sofa. "To thank you."
"Thank you, my wife," I reply without missing a beat.
She sighs dramatically. "Can you please stop calling me that?"
"Why?"
"Because when you say it, it sounds like you're teasing me."
"I am."
She groans. "You are impossible."
"I've heard that before."
She rolls her eyes but starts opening the tiffin anyway. The moment the lids come off, the room fills with the smell of curry leaves, mustard seeds, and freshly roasted spices.
I look down in surprise. "Mysore masala dosa. And medu vada."
I glance back at her. "You made all this?"
She nods. We sit on the sofa and eat together.
For a while, neither of us says much.
The only sounds are the quiet clink of steel spoons and the occasional comment about the chutney.
I take another bite before looking at her. "This is really good, Diya."
She smiles shyly.
"My favourite happens to be dosa." I squint my eyes at her, "How did you know that?"
She looks down at her plate. "I asked Sitara." There's a small pause before she adds quietly, "I realized . . . I don't actually know much about you."
The words aren't dramatic. They're honest. She traces circles on the edge of her plate with her spoon. "I didn't like that."
Something tightens in my chest. I set my spoon down. "Does it really bother you . . . not knowing about me?"
She nods. "A little." My hearts skips a beat as I watch her for a long moment.
Maybe she's right. We know the big things about each other. The painful things too. But not the ordinary ones.
Not favourite foods. Favourite places. The little details that slowly become home. An idea forms before I can talk myself out of it. "Then let's fix that."
She looks up. "How?"
I meet her eyes. "We'll go on a date."
Silence.
Her spoon slips from her fingers and lands back inside the tiffin with a soft clink. She simply stares at me. Looking completely, beautifully surprised. And for the first time in a long while . . . The idea of tomorrow excites me more than my work ever could.