Time passes by quickly for Mishti, without her getting any breather, and in the week that she has spent in this house, she realizes many things at once.
Samrat is a very hardworking individual as opposed to what she had thought of him formerly. He works all day long, spending the time between nine to two in his office and the rest of the time in his home office. But that's not all. The devil in him makes sure that everyone works just as hard as him, be it his office staff, house help, his valet - who willingly runs behind him holding different coloured ties asking his boss what he'd like better, all that with a pleased smile on his face, what a weirdo - or Mishti.
She can't leave herself out when Samrat torments her the most, or at least that's what she likes to believe because what else excuse can be given to the unpronounceable dishes (yes, he had guessed it right) he demands Mishti to make for him?
The way after every meal he gives his much-needed review, with Mishti posing as a five-star sous chef and him as a food critic. That's a routine.
He makes sure to incorporate all three meals of the day in his busy schedule, starting from breakfast at sharp 8:30 which is surprisingly very easy to make, consisting of nothing but two pieces of buttered toasts with a glass of pineapple juice to satisfy the man.
He takes his lunch as soon as he arrives back from the office at 2, loosening his tie, rolling up his sleeves and calling up a 'Lunch, please!' in which he usually takes a pesto pasta dish, or some savoury Korean pancakes, or just a beetroot and kidney bean sandwich. The dinner time spans from 9 to 10 and honest to god, is the most excruciating meal of all, of course for Mishti and not for him. He expects a new dish from her every day at nine as he sits in his sweatpants at the dining table, busy typing away on his laptop, taking a look through the kitchen window every once in a while, when he smells something nice. It's an endearing habit, one that Mishti can't find it in herself to mind.
Currently, though, it's time for that same meal of the day and Mishti doesn't find her boss endearing not at all, not when he has asked her to make a Panko-crusted cottage cheese with a Moroccan chickpea stew, and a salted caramel pie to be served as dessert. She is freaking out, to say the least, because she knows absolutely nothing about the dish, having spent the whole day mugging up the step-by-step recipe of the dish, still not having started on it.
Not to forget the call that she had got from her brother today, telling her that she'll have to carry out her first task anytime this week, the thing that she is supposedly here for, asking her to get ready.
Oh, but she isn't; not for the dinner, not for the task, not to hurt the man she had come here for only assuring the wellbeing of.
It's inevitable the way she jumps when a voice, right behind her wonders, "What's taking you so long?"
She sees with horrified eyes and a yelp when the sauce laden ladle slips from her hand and falls on the ground but not before marring the man's pristine white coloured shirt with the red substance right in the middle.
"Oh, God!" She exclaims, terrified, her gaze flitting from the man's now dirtied shirt to his face that she can't properly see because he too is busy assessing the damage of his god knows how many thousands worth shirt.
"I'm sorry," Mishti screeches, looking around the kitchen to find a remedy for this disaster, any rag or wet napkins. Though she knows none of it will be able to undo this. "I didn't mean to, I am sorry," She frets, her hands flailing in the air in front of the dirtied spot on Samrat's shirt, not knowing what to do, where to touch - whether to touch at all or not.
Her attention though immediately averts to the silence that is prevailing in the kitchen if you substract Mishti's panic-filled voice.
The man isn't saying anything.
"Sir? Are you ok? Why aren't you saying anything? Are you having a stroke? Did this shock you too much? Paralysis? Why aren't you moving? Oh, God!"
And just as Mishti finishes whining, she hears a noise escaping the man's mouth, or was it his nose? It wasn't exactly similar to the yelling she had been expecting or getting fired from her job, so sue her for getting confused.
It is only when Samrat looks up at her, does she realises with utmost bewilderment what the sound was. It was.... it was a huffed-out humoured breath, a mix of a snort and a scoff with the man's brows raised in amusement.
"Really?" he says after what feels like hours, looking at her with that same gaze that he had for the first time: assessing if she's this stupid or acting like one. Mishti still hasn't got any answer to that.
"Paralysis? Stroke? That is what you've got to say." Another huffed out a breath.
"Vivek! Arrange a new shirt - scratch that, set up my pyjamas'." The man calls from the kitchen looking at her all the while as he gives the instruction.
"Will do sir," The reply comes instantly and Mishti internally rolls her eyed at the instant answer.
She hasn't ever seen such a devoted househelp in her life. Not even her brother who once had posed as one to con an abroad returned businessman.
"One dedicated man he is, isn't he?" Samrat remarks, eyes narrowing mirthfully.
"You have five more minutes to place the food on the table." He says, his hands busying themselves in unbuttoning the first few buttons of the sauce adorned shirt as he makes his way out of the kitchen.
"And the food better be good." Samrat calls out, just as steps on the threshold. "You have a paralysis and a stroke to make up to." This time Mishti can't unhear even if she wants to, the thoroughly amused chuckle that the man leaves in his wake.
*
"Tara."
"Mihir."
Tensed atmosphere, chipped voices, and sharp gaze. That's how the sibling trio find their friends getting introduced to each other after years of staying apart. To be fair though, they had never been good friends or even decent ones, they honestly should've expected it.
"You're here," Mihir mutters, voice still cold, a hint of disbelief sneaking into it.
Tara raises a brow. "I am." And feeds herself a spoon full of some homemade dal-chawal.
"Raghav had said his friends would be happy to see me, I assume you aren't his friend, yes?" Tara quirks, a smirk crawling up her lips, leaving Mihir flabbergasted for that particular second.
He recovers quickly. "I am very much his friend, thanks. And believe it or not, am glad to see you safe." He says, the coldness finally rubbing off his voice, not entirely gone but enough to slacken the atmosphere.
At that comment, Tara gives him a sickly-sweet smile, one that she gives to strangers when she's planning something mischievous. It isn't one of those genuine smiles, but it's not like Mihir wants them anyway. He's very much ok being a stranger to her.
"Well, that's bloody brilliant because I do plan to let you see me for some time more considering it were you guys who had kidnapped me. Weren't you?" She quips, winking in Ranveer's direction, who grins in return. "I hope I'm not asking too much of you, Mihir." She gives him that fake sugar coated smile once again which he returns with his tight-lipped one, promoting a quick, "No."
Their harmless, or not so harmless banter stops there, leaving them with an awkward silence until Ranveer chirps in with his loud laugh and voice.
"You're never going to change, are you?" he asks. It's a rhetorical question but because it is Tara, she still answers. "Of course not, why would I when you guys haven't changed. Take our Ruhi for instance, she's still as sweet and quiet as ever." Tara coos, glancing at the girl who is sitting beside her brother and Mihir, looking back at her with a small smile on her face.
"We're glad to have you back, Tara." She says genuinely, discreetly nudging her foot against Mihir who clears his throat at the comment.
"Well, I'm glad to be back. I missed you guys so much, and especially the food, Dal-Chawal has always been my favourite. I really want to know who is the cook behind this scrumptious plate?" she asks, her eyes flitting between the plate of her childhood favourite ghee garnished dal-chawal and her friends, finally settling at Ruhi who stifles a chuckle and points to Raghav, who sits there quiet, all red and shy.
"No way! Raghav, did you make this?" Tara asks with wide eyes and when she sees him nodding in reply, she all but throws herself at him, encircling her arms around his neck.
"You're such a darling and such an amazing cook." She praises and doesn't wait to see how Raghav's face has gone so red that it could shame a tomato before she digs back into the plate.
The rest of the three (yes, Mihir too) laughing at the newborn tomato in their group.