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"She's changed. She's not my sunshine."

Those words didn't just reach my ears.

They sank into me.

Slowly.

Cruelly.

Like something sharp being pushed under the skin and left there on purpose.

Kabir breaking in front of me wasn't something my mind was prepared to process.

In all my years of knowing my brothers, if there was one certainty carved into stone, it was this;Kabir Rathore does not fall apart. He doesn't kneel before grief.

He doesn't allow pain to show its face. His world has always been built on dominance, control, and fear so absolute that even emotions hesitate before touching him.

(A/N; kabir and ruthless 👉🏻🤣,very funny author oh deva )

And yet there he was. In front of me. Shaking. Sobbing. Reduced to a boy who didn't know how to carry what was crushing his chest.

I always knew there was more to Kabir than what he lets the world see.

There always is, with men like him. Ruthless men don't come from nowhere; they are sculpted by losses no one stayed long enough to notice.

Neil uncle was one of the few people Kabir never had to perform strength in front of. Someone who saw him without armor. Losing a person like that doesn't break you instantly;it hollows you out, bit by bit, until one day something small taps the empty space and the whole structure collapses.

That something was her.

A child.

A fragile, soft, painfully pure little girl who walked into our lives without warning and somehow reached places inside us we didn't even know existed.

I hate admitting this, even in my own head, but I never accepted her. Not really. I saw her as a complication. A responsibility. A problem fate dumped at our doorstep and expected us to solve. I kept my distance because distance is safer. Distance means control.

But control is an illusion.

Because now the house breathes differently. The walls echo differently. Even silence feels wrong when it comes from her side of the room.

One day ago, she was just a name.
Today, she is absence.
And absence hurts more than presence ever did.

Watching my kabir crumble like that;head on my thigh, breath uneven, pride nowhere to be found did something violent to me.

I didn't know whether to feel relieved that my brother could still feel, or terrified that something in him had shattered beyond repair. A man who never bows, who never begs, who never cries.... what happens when that man runs out of strength?

And then there is the guilt.

It doesn't shout.

It whispers.

It tells me that because of us, Neil uncle came home wounded again and again.

Because of us, he lived a life full of scars instead of peace.

Because of us, this child watched the only world she understood disappear into fire and ash.

No child should learn grief before they learn safety.

And yet, she did.

She carries pain too big for her tiny hands. Pain she doesn't even know how to name yet. That's the cruelest part-she isn't angry, she isn't questioning, she isn't blaming. She's just....empty. And emptiness in a child is more terrifying than screams.

I can fight enemies.

I can dismantle empires.

But I don't know how to fix a broken childhood.

And that terrifies me.

Because if we fail her if we let her grow up too fast if we let trauma shape her into someone she shouldn't have to be then every bloodstain on our hands will feel lighter compared to that failure.

I won't allow it.

I swear this to myself in the quietest part of my soul.

She will not become hardened.

She will not learn survival before joy.

She will not be forced to understand loss before love.

She will grow at her own pace. Laugh loudly. Cry freely. Believe in magic longer than the world allows.

And if protecting that means I have to soften parts of myself I buried years ago, then so be it.

I snap out of my thoughts and place my hand on Kabir's head, grounding him, steadying him the only way I know how.

"Stand up," I tell him quietly, firmly. Not as an order but as an anchor.

But I know the truth now.

None of us walked away from that pyre the same.

None of us are untouched by her pain

My voice came out firmer than I felt inside.

He reacted instantly, like a soldier responding to a command, even though his eyes were swollen and red, his face shattered in a way I had never seen before.

"Now come," I added, tapping the chair beside mine.
"Sit here."

He obeyed again.

Kabir sat down heavily, elbows resting on his knees, his face buried in his palms. His shoulders shook, quietly at first, then harder, like something inside him had finally cracked open after being sealed for years.

I waited.

I didn't rush him.

Some storms need space before they speak.

Finally, I broke the silence.

"Now tell me," I said softly, "why are you crying like this?"

He didn't answer immediately.

So I continued, my tone steady but gentle.

"Why do you feel she will never become the same girl again?"

He inhaled sharply, still not looking at me.

"We met her only day before yesterday, Kabir," I reminded him.
"Two days. That's all. In two days, people don't usually get this attached."

He let out a broken sound, somewhere between a breath and a sob.

"But you did," I added quietly.
"And that means something."

He lifted his head slightly, his voice trembling.

"She called me 'bhaiyu'."

That was it.

That one word carried more weight than any scream could.

I didn't interrupt.

"She didn't even hesitate," he continued.
"She hugged me like....like she already knew me. Like I was already hers."

His fingers curled into his hair.

"And from the moment she entered this house she didn't cry. She didn't get scared. She just stood there, fearless. She joked. She smiled. She spoke"

His voice cracked again.

"She raised her voice at the man everyone fears," he whispered.
"And now....."

He trailed off.

I finished the sentence for him.

"And now she is silent."

He nodded.

"She doesn't talk," Kabir said.
"She doesn't laugh. She doesn't react. I said I would cook for her;she didn't even smile. Not even that tiny smile she gave yesterday."

His chest rose and fell unevenly.

"She just sits with Dad. Her head on his shoulder. Holding him. Like she's afraid if she lets go, he'll disappear too."

I closed my eyes for a second.

"She still thinks Neil uncle will come back," Kabir said, almost choking.
"She's waiting."

That silence again.
Heavy. Suffocating.

Then he looked at me, fear naked in his eyes.

"What if she finds out the truth?"
"What if she gets to know we are the reason Neil uncle is gone?"

His hands clenched.

"What if she never forgives us?"
"What if she stops calling me 'bhaiyu'?"

His voice dropped to a whisper.

"I can't imagine that, bhai"

I leaned forward, resting my forearms on my thighs, making sure he saw my face.

"Kabir," I said calmly, "listen to me."

He looked up.

"She is deeply connected to three people-Neil uncle ,dad and you. That word 'bhaiyu' didn't come from habit. It came from instinct. From safety."

He swallowed.

"And safety doesn't disappear in one day," I continued.
"Right now, she is not silent because she stopped loving. She is silent because her world collapsed."

He shook his head weakly.

"But how do I make her okay?" he asked.
"What do I do to make her happy again?"

Before I could answer, Rithvik spoke, his tone controlled, measured, almost professional.

"She is in shock," he said.
"Grief in children doesn't look like crying all the time. Sometimes it looks like numbness. Withdrawal. Her mind is protecting her."

Kabir frowned slightly.

"So, this is normal?" he asked.

"Yes," Rithvik replied.
"Pain doesn't always scream. Sometimes it goes quiet."

Arin leaned forward suddenly.

"Maybe you should buy her chocolates," he said.
"Or toys. Kids like toys, right?"

(A/N; This boy whenever he speaks,he says absolutely wrong, what kind of talent does he have? )

Kabir looked at him blankly.

Arin scratched his head, embarrassed.

"I mean I don't know. I'm bad at this. But maybe just sit with her? You don't have to say anything."

I almost smiled despite the heaviness.

I turned back to Kabir.

"Listen carefully," I said.
"You don't need to fix her. You don't need to bring her old self back."

He opened his mouth to speak, but I raised my hand gently.

"That girl will return on her own terms," I said firmly.
"Your job is not to rush her healing. Your job is to stay."

He stared at me.

"If she forgives, that's her strength," I continued.
"If she takes time, that's her right. And if one day she stops calling you 'bhaiyu'...."

My voice softened.

"you still remain her brother. Titles don't define bonds. Presence does."

His eyes filled again.

"She trusted you in twice of days," I said.
"That kind of trust isn't fragile. It's deep-rooted."

I placed my hand on his shoulder.

"Give her time. Give her honesty. And give her space to grieve without demanding smiles in return."

He nodded slowly.

Not healed.
Not relieved.

But steadier.

And for Kabir that was everything.

I watched Kabir for a few seconds more, making sure his breathing had steadied, that the storm inside him wasn't about to rise again.

Then I spoke, deliberately lighter.

"Okay," I said, straightening up. "Enough of this for now. Be normal."

He looked at me, confused.

"And how exactly did you forget," I continued, "that you promised to cook for her?"

His brows knit together.

"She hasn't eaten anything since morning, Kabir. Not a single proper bite."

That landed.

His shoulders stiffened immediately. "She's hungry?"

"Her body is," I replied. "Even if her mind isn't asking for it."

I stood up. "Come. We'll cook something for her. And for everyone's too. Anybody haven't eaten either."

Kabir hesitated, then muttered, "Bhai.... you know I don't know how to cook."

(A/N; But every mafia in Wattpad knows how to cook.Kabir, you have mixed my name with dust.)

I raised an eyebrow. "You know how to hold a gun, run an empire, and interrogate grown men, but a kitchen scares you?"

He sighed. "I already called Ramu Kaka. He'll make something good for her."

I shook my head instantly.

"No," I said firmly. "Not today."

He looked up.

"We'll cook for her," I repeated. "With our own hands."

There was a pause.

"She needs something light," I added. "Something that won't overwhelm her."

Rithvik, who had been quiet till now, cleared his throat.

"If you're asking from a medical perspective," he said, slipping effortlessly into that doctor tone, "then yes, food right now is important."

(A/N1; Ek to author ne ab tak ke sare chapters mai isko bas Dr ke hi dailogues diye hai ab yeh Rathore son kam family doctor jyada lagta hai)

(A/N2; Shut up khudko roast mat kro)

Kabir turned to him quickly. "What exactly does she need?"

Rithvik folded his arms, thinking. "Her body is low on energy. She hasn't eaten, she hasn't rested, and she's under extreme emotional stress. She needs nutrients that help with strength and healing."

Kabir frowned harder. "Like....?"

"Calcium," Rithvik replied. "Iron. Simple proteins. Nothing heavy. Something that gives warmth and stability to the body."

He continued calmly, "Vegetables that are easy to digest. Maybe some dairy. And ideally, a small amount of protein for muscle recovery."

I nodded, mentally noting everything.

"Fish would be good," Rithvik added absentmindedly.

Kabir stiffened instantly. "NO."

We all looked at him.

"She doesn't eat non-veg," Kabir said firmly. "Only vegetarian."

Rithvik blinked once, then nodded. "Alright. Then we adjust. Plenty of vegetarian sources cover what she needs."

I placed my hand briefly on Kabir's back. "Good. You remembered."

He exhaled, relieved.

I straightened. "Alright then. Kitchen."

Kabir stood up immediately, wiping his face. "I'll come."

Rithvik nodded. "I'll help you both."

Then I turned around and saw Arin still sitting comfortably, arms crossed, watching us like this was a theatre performance.

"Shall I come?" Arin asked lazily.

I looked at him slowly.

My glare alone made him sit straighter.

"Why?" he asked cautiously.

"Because," I said coldly, "you're not a king right now."

He opened his mouth.

"You don't get to sit and give orders," I continued. "You'll come with us. You'll help."

Arin groaned. "Bhai, you know I hate kitchens."

I stepped closer. "This isn't about liking or disliking."

He sighed dramatically. "I don't hate doing something for TROUBLE-MAKER. You know that. I just-"

"You just don't like the kitchen," I finished. "Congratulations. Neither do I."

That shut him up.

Rithvik hid a faint smile.

Kabir glanced between us, surprised. "You don't like kitchens either?"

I didn't answer.

Because the truth was;I was already thinking about her. About how she'd looked sitting silently, too small for the weight she was carrying. About how she needed warmth, not servants, not orders, but hands that cared.

"Come," I said finally. "Let's make something good."

Arin stood up reluctantly. "Fine. But if something burns, I'm blaming you."

I gave him a look. "If something burns, you're cleaning it."

Kabir let out the smallest laugh. Just a breath. But it was there.

As we started walking toward the kitchen, I glanced at him once more.

"You'll feed her," I said quietly.

He nodded immediately. "I will."

Not as an obligation.

Not as guilt.

But as a brother.

And that was enough-for now.

They all moved into the kitchen. The morning sun had faded into a soft evening glow, and the kitchen lights highlighted the pristine white marble counters, reflecting the faint bluish tint from the overhead LED panels.

The entire space screamed modern luxury, from the sleek induction stove to the hanging racks of polished steel utensils.
The walls were pristine, almost cold, but there was warmth in the smell of freshly chopped vegetables lingering from the helpers who were already busy prepping ingredients.

Ramu Kaka, busy at the counter with his house helpers, turned in surprise when Anav stepped forward.

"Ramu Kaka.... you all can leave the kitchen," he said, voice firm, almost regal.

Ramu Kaka froze mid-chop, staring at him like the man had grown horns overnight. "You....you want to cook baba?" he asked slowly, as if confirming this wasn't some hallucination caused by heatstroke.

"Of course," Anav said with a slight shrug, as if cooking was the most natural thing in the world for a Rathore. "We want to do something ourselves. You can leave, and when we call, only then come back."

The helpers exchanged nervous glances. Their eyes screamed silent prayers, as if pleading, Please don't let them touch the gas, please.

(A/N; but thankgod arnav knows how to cook)

Ramu Kaka's expression said it all: Have they gone mad? But he nodded slowly. "As you say, baba. I.... we'll go."

And just like that, the house helpers slowly backed out, leaving the four Rathore boys standing in the gleaming kitchen.

I mean, look at them. Four adults, some of the most terrifying men in the city, reduced to a group of confused toddlers staring at shiny utensils.

Arnav turned toward the stove, where the gas knobs gleamed in the polished marble. He picked up a notepad lying nearby, already scribbled with the list of ingredients of the previous food need.

The kitchen smelled faintly of spices from earlier prep, and yet the air was tense with possibility or impending disaster, depending on how you looked at it.

Kabir, shifting nervously, leaned toward Arnav. "Bhai so....what exactly are we making for her?"

Anav, already squinting at the notepad, raised one finger. "I was thinking....moong dal chilla?"

(A/N; INDIAN VERSION OF PANCAKES MADE BY YELLOW OR MUNG LENTILS)

Rithvik snorted loudly. "Eww, bhai, too oily. We need something cleaner. I vote grilled sandwich."

Kabir blinked. "Bhai....no. Absolutely not. Sandwich is boring. We need.... hmm...."

Arin, trying to act smart, chimed in, "How about....pancakes? She'll like it. Sweet, light, easy"

"Arin," Arnav said with a glare that could burn steel, "pancakes? Really? That's your genius idea?"

Kabir pinched the bridge of his nose. "No. Pancakes are dessert. Not a meal. We need something....meaningful. Emotional. She's trauma-affected. She needs substance."

Rithvik groaned. "Bhai, everything is emotional now? Can't we just make food that doesn't make her cry?"

The first round ended in chaos, everyone glaring at everyone else, thinking their ideas were the most rational, the others just completely insane.

A minute passed. Silence.

Then Arnav sighed, flipping the page on the notepad. "Okay We need something more.....serious. Something that says 'I care' without overthinking it."

Kabir leaned closer, "How about... idli? Or...oats?"

Rithvik rolled his eyes dramatically. "Idli? Are we opening a South Indian restaurant? And oats is too bland!"

(A/N; uhhhh..my idli you stupid I love idli more than chocolates and this stupid person 😤)

Arin, ever the wildcard, shouted, "Vegetable cutlets! She'll love it, I promise. And I'll help cook"

"Arin," Kabir said slowly, staring at him like he had just suggested adding a chainsaw to the process, "cutlets? Really? Do you even know what goes in a cutlet?"

Arnav's mouth twitched. "No. Just.... no."

Rithvik sighed and crossed his arms. "Bhai, nothing you say is ever straightforward. Can we just pick something light and safe for her stomach? She hasn't eaten all day. Nutrients. Protein. Healing."

Kabir's eyes lit up. "Wait..... yes. That's smart. Soup or khichdi. Something light. Healthy. Vegetarian."

Both Rithvik and Arnav nodded slowly, in unison this time. "Yes," they said.

And just like that, a decision was made. For now, the world outside the kitchen could burn, the gold and silver of the Rathore empire could crumble, but in this kitchen, the four of them had chos healthy, simple, healing food.

It was quiet for a moment. And yet, I could see the tension behind their eyes, the silent panic that none of them had ever cooked for someone like this before apart arnav maybe.

The four most terrifying men in the city, suddenly in a battle against spatulas and ladles, hiding their inner chaos behind calm nods and forced smiles.

But for now....for this evening they had a plan.

Soup or khichdi. Light. Healing. Safe.

And maybe, just maybe, Avanya would smile at the end of it.

The silence after Arnav's final decision didn't last long.

Arin, who had been leaning casually against the counter, suddenly straightened, his brows knitting together as a thought struck him. His tone wasn't loud, but it cut through the air with unsettling clarity.

"Bhai," he said slowly, "as you know Dad doesn't drink soup."

The words landed heavier than expected.

For a second, no one spoke.

Arnav looked up from the counter. Kabir's jaw tightened. Rithvik's expression shifted, not in panic, but in that quiet, calculating way he had when a variable entered a situation he hadn't accounted for.

"And," Arin continued, his voice darker now, more grounded in reality than his usual careless tone, "he doesn't drink soup. Ever. So what are we making for him and for us?"

This wasn't a silly question.

This was character speaking.

The Rathore men did not sip food. They ate to survive, to function, to stay sharp. Soup was weakness. Soup was hospitals. Soup was recovery. And recovery was something they rarely allowed themselves.

They exchanged looks. Long ones. Measured ones.

Before the debate could spiral again, Arnav placed both palms flat on the counter.

"We'll make moong dal chilla," he said firmly. "And soup."

All three turned toward him.

"That's the easiest thing we can manage," Arnav continued, voice calm, controlled, king-like. "Chilla for Dad and us. Soup for her. Light. Balanced. No complications."

Kabir nodded first. Slowly. Respectfully.

Rithvik followed, his doctor's brain already agreeing with the logic.

Arin opened his mouth to argue then shut it when Arnav glanced at him.

"Okay," Arin muttered. "As you say."

And just like that, the hierarchy was restored.

Right now, in this kitchen, Arnav Rathore was the king.

He straightened his sleeves, scanned the counters like a general surveying a battlefield, and said, "We start cooking. I'll guide. You follow."

Kabir hesitated for half a second, then nodded.
"Bhai, tell us what ingredients we need."

Arnav scratched the back of his neck;not nervous, not weak, just unfamiliar. Mafia hands, used to guns and blood, suddenly unsure around spices and steel bowls.

"I haven't cooked in a long time," Arnav added quietly. "So I just want to check the ingredient list once. I don't want us to mess it up later."

Arin's head snapped toward him. "Ingredient list?"

Arnav pulled out his phone. "I have a recipe."

Rithvik raised a brow. "You?"

Arnav unlocked his phone, scrolling with intense focus. "Yeah. Tomato soup. Special recipe."

Arin's voice shot up. "SPECIAL RECIPE?"
He stared at arnav like he had just confessed to writing poetry. "YOU have a special recipe?"

Arnav didn't even look up. "I tried it once."

Kabir frowned. "Once?"

"It was fucking amazing" arnav said defensively. "So I saved it."

"Saved it," Arin repeated in disbelief. "Arnav Singh Rathore saved a soup recipe."

Kabir exhaled slowly. "Vansh knows about it," Arnav added.

(A/N; Vansh is Arnav's PA)

That shut Arin up.

"Well," Arin muttered, "then today we're all tasting history."

Arnav continued scrolling. For two full minutes. No one could see his screen. It looked like he was typing, then deleting, then typing again;maybe unlocking an app, maybe just pretending to understand what he was reading.

Finally, he looked up.

"Okay," he said, serious now. "We need tomatoes, cream, pepper, salt, and sugar for the soup."

He paused, then added, "And for moong dal chilla-moong dal, green chillies, turmeric, red chilli powder, water, and kasuri methi."

All three nodded, as if they had understood every single word.

Arnav's gaze sharpened. "Rithvik. You take tomatoes, green chillies, and cream."

Rithvik nodded instantly.

"Arin," Arnav continued, "you take all the spices. Pepper, turmeric, salt, sugar, kasuri methi."

"Yes, chef," Arin muttered under his breath.

"Kabir," Arnav finished, "you find the moong dal."

Kabir nodded once.

They turned to move.

Then Rithvik stopped.

"Bhai," he said slowly, "where do I find vegetables?"

Arin froze mid-step. "Yeah. Where are spices?"

Kabir added, "And moong dal?"

Arnav turned back to them, eyes narrowing slightly.

"Find it," he said flatly. "Kitchen mein hi hoga mai sath thodi lekar ghoom rha hu "

( It must be in the kitchen. It's not like I'm carrying it around with me.)

There was no room for argument.

All three nodded and marched off in different directions like soldiers sent into unknown terrain.

Rithvik walked toward the section where the chefs had been chopping earlier.

Vegetables, he thought. They must be here. Obviously.

He opened the first drawer.

Fruits.

Apples. Oranges. Pears. All neatly arranged.

He stared at them.

"Why," he muttered to himself, "are fruits everywhere?"

He began moving them - not onto the counter, not onto the floor but into one corner of the drawer. Mixing apples with oranges like they had personally offended him.

He shut the drawer.

Opened the next.

Berries.

Strawberries. Blueberries. Mulberries Things he barely ate.

He frowned. "Who even eats these?"

He pushed them all together, ruining whatever category system existed before, then closed the drawer with satisfaction.

Next drawer.

Green vegetables.

Spinach. Capsicum. Beans.

"This is promising," he murmured.

He rummaged. No tomatoes.

He rearranged them anyway.

Because why not.

If I don't find tomatoes, his mind reasoned calmly, at least I'll know what exists.

Another drawer.

Nothing useful.

Another.

Nothing.

His jaw tightened.

"How many drawers," he muttered darkly, "does one kitchen need?"

Finally after what felt like an eternity,he opened the last drawer.

Tomatoes.

Five of them.

He stared at them like he had discovered a new species.

"There you are," he whispered, almost reverently. "I was starting to think you were fictional."

He picked them up.

Then, without even realizing it, completely messed up the drawer behind them.

Satisfied, he closed it and walked away.

Mission accomplished.

Chaos left behind.

On the other side

Arin stood in front of the spice section like a man facing an unsolved crime.

He crossed his arms. Narrowed his eyes. Leaned slightly forward.

"This," he muttered to himself, "is psychological warfare."

Rows and rows of small jars stared back at him. Some transparent. Some opaque. Some labeled in neat handwriting. Some in fonts that looked aggressively confident.

Salt. Sugar. Pepper. Turmeric. Kasuri methi.

Simple words.

Deceptively simple.

Arin opened the first cabinet.

Tiny boxes. Even tinier jars.

He picked one up, shook it near his ear.

"Why is it silent?"

He frowned. "Salt should make a sound. Everything important makes a sound."

He put it back.

Second jar. White powder.

"Okay," he whispered seriously, "this could be salt."

He smelled it.

Instant regret.

He pulled the jar away like it had personally betrayed him.
"No. Absolutely not. Salt does not attack."

He read the label.

Cornflour.

"Corn... flour?" he scoffed. "Why is corn pretending to be flour?"

He placed it aside, making a mental note: suspicious.

Next jar. Another white powder.

"This one looks calmer," he said, nodding at it like a professional.
He dipped the tip of his finger, tasted the tiniest bit-

His face froze.

"...WHY IS IT SWEET?"

He stared at the jar in horror.

Sugar.

"Who keeps sugar next to suspicious white powders?" he hissed. "This is how mistakes happen."

He shoved it back but slightly to the left, so it wouldn't "influence" the others.

He read the label twice.

"Baking," he repeated slowly. "We are not baking."

He squinted. "And soda is a drink."

He shook the jar. Still silent.

"So," he concluded confidently, "this is fake."

He placed it far away from everything else.

Then came Turmeric.

Yellow. Loud. Aggressive.

"Oh, this one I know," Arin said proudly. "This stains souls."

He grabbed it without hesitation.

Red chilli powder came next.

He sneezed just by opening the lid.

"Yes. Definitely this. Weapon-grade."

He took it.

Pepper.

Small. Black. Looks angry.

He nodded. "Pepper is basically chilli's quieter cousin."

Into the collection.

Now salt.

Salt had become personal.

He opened another jar. White crystals.

He sniffed cautiously. Neutral.

He tasted the tiniest grain.

His eyes widened.

"Yes," he breathed. "This is boring. This is salt."

Victory.

Finally, Kasuri methi.

He stared at the dried leaves.

"Is this even food?"

He smelled it.
His expression softened.

"Oh. This smells like....effort."

He took it.

Arin stepped back, surveying his findings.

In his hands: turmeric, chilli powder, pepper, salt, sugar, kasuri methi.

On the counter: cornflour exiled, baking soda rejected, dignity slightly bruised.

He nodded to himself.

"Efficient. Logical. No casualties."

He marched back toward the center of the kitchen like a warrior returning from battle.

But Arin completely unaware of the chaos he had narrowly avoided stood proud.

Mission accomplished.

_________&&

Kabir stood frozen in front of the pantry like it was a high-security vault. Rows of packets, jars, and containers stared back at him, all neatly organized. And somewhere in the chaos was the Moong lentils.

He ran his hand along the shelf. Nothing.
He crouched, peeked behind tins. Nothing.
He leaned on his tiptoes. Still nothing.

"Are you hiding from me, or am I blind?" he muttered under his breath, his voice low, tense. "Moong lentils... you can't be this hard to find."

He opened a drawer labeled "Pulses & Grains." Empty.
Another drawer. Empty.

He squatted in front of a towering shelf of packaged goods, muttering darkly to himself, "It's just lentils, Kabir. How hard can this be? You've survived worse. But apparently, this" He paused, shaking his head, "this is an impossible battle."

His fingers grazed a small, nondescript packet. "Is this?" He froze. The label was partially hidden. Could this be it?

He pulled out his phone. Quick searches. His brows knitted together. "Moong lentils....small, yellow.....looks like someone shrunk peas and made them angry."

"Angry peas," he muttered to himself, "perfect of course, everything in life has to have attitude."

He scrolled through a couple more images, eyes narrowing. Then, finally, the moment of truth. He held up a small, transparent packet in his hand. Tiny greenish-yellow lentils stared back at him.

Kabir exhaled sharply, relief washing over him like rain on a desert. "Found you," he said, half in disbelief, half like he had just conquered Everest. "You thought you could hide, huh? Not on my watch."

Rithvik, watching silently, raised an eyebrow. "Took you long enough," he said in a dry, professional tone.

Kabir didn't even flinch. "Do you understand the trauma I went through?" he asked, his voice heavy, almost theatrical. "I didn't know what they looked like. I googled them. I stared at pictures. I analyzed them like.... like some top-secret intel. And now" He held the packet like a trophy, "now I hold victory in my hands. Victory"

And with that, he carefully set the packet on the counter, still staring at it like a man guarding a treasure chest.

The kitchen might have been chaotic, but Kabir? He had won his first battle. The Moong lentils didn't stand a chance.

______________&&___________

Hey guys, so....

What can I even say? Honestly, these three-Arin, Kabir, and Rithvik have completely destroyed my patience.

Not a single thing has gone right Wattpad mafia were cooking, dancing, gyming and they can't even make a simple meal

Seriously, my author image is gone, I swear, I'm done for.

At this point, only my Arnav can be the superhero and save my poor, ruined dignity, because with these three around, I am literally exhausted.

Now, moving on to something serious, not related to Wattpad or the book this is real life.

Back in December 2021, a senior MLA and former Speaker made of an extremely controversial remark during a session of the Karnataka Legislative Assembly. While trying to describe a chaotic situation in the House, he said something like:

"There is a saying that when rape is inevitable, lie down and enjoy it."

Yes, this happened five years ago, but it came back into the limelight recently. And honestly, I couldn't stop thinking about how cruel this world is. I know not every woman is innocent, but that doesn't give anyone the right to rape. Just because someone wears short clothes doesn't mean they are asking for it. I honestly can't understand how people think like that.

We are from a country where plants are treated as Mother, the land is treated as Mother, animals, rivers, mountains everything is Mother. And yet, women are still not safe.

Harassment, assault and now e-harassment. People threaten you online, misuse your dignity, and often, the world just looks the other way.

How much lust can a human heart carry that it destroys someone else's life?

I've even seen some Wattpad books that well, I'm not judging anyone, but personally, I cannot understand how people write stories where a 50-year-old man takes advantage of a 20-year-old girl, and somehow, the story expects us to believe she "falls in love with him." Are you serious?

Sometimes I think no matter how much we grow up, the burden of staying safe, being protected from stares, harassment, and assault never goes away. I wish we could change this, but often, no matter how loudly we speak, lust overpowers dignity.

And to all the boys reading this:
please, make the people around you feel safe. One thoughtful action from you can protect someone's future.

And
And
And

I have a practical tomorrow, so I'll see you the day after tomorrow with the chaotic chapter. And yes, I'm a little(nahi bhout sara waala) angry with you all - you didn't even follow me properly

How cruel are you guys to me, huh?

Dal, chawal pakki, kaati

Now go on, make me happy

Enjoy your day, love you anuvians miss me and please stay safe and strong.

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