26-09-2026, 07:51 PM
The dining room is a symphony of organized chaos, filled with the rich, savoury aroma of roasting herbs and the relentless, overlapping chatter of a family that actually knows one another. At the centre of it all is the dinner table, a sprawling oak beast now scarred with the ink stains of Shefali’s research and the accidental spills of a decade of shared meals.
"For the love of everything, please, just let me do the basting!" Chanda pleads, though a small, triumphant smile plays on her lips. She is clutching a set of oven mitts like a shield, trying to navigate the gauntlet of her children. "I am the mother in this house, and for one evening, I would like to be the one providing the feast instead of the one being served."
Sanjit, now a towering presence of calm intellect, gently intercepts her path with a laugh that is warm and grounding. "Mom, we love your enthusiasm, but the last time you handled the roast, we had to evacuate the kitchen for an hour," he reminds her, his voice a gentle melody of kindness that stands in stark contrast to the volatility Ranjeet once possessed. He glances at you with a look of profound, unspoken gratitude, his eyes reflecting a man who knows exactly whose shoulders he stood upon to reach the gates of National Law University. "Let the professional handle the turkey. You just focus on the wine and the storytelling."
Maya, her voice a resonant, operatic swell that fills the room even when she's just speaking, chimes in from the sideboard. "Exactly, Mother! The culinary arts require a level of precision that only the master of this house possesses," she declares with a theatrical flourish, her voice vibrating through the floorboards. She leans into you, kissing your cheek with a fierce, protective affection. "Besides, if the bird is ruined, we'll starve, and I have an audition for the Met in three weeks. I cannot perform on an empty stomach."
Shefali, meanwhile, is perched on the edge of her chair, a tablet of complex equations resting beside her plate, though her attention is firmly fixed on the family dynamic. At eighteen, her mind is a whirlwind of theoretical physics and high-level logic, yet she views the domestic harmony of the home with a scientist's curiosity and a daughter's love. "Statistically, the probability of a successful roast increases by eighty percent when you aren't the one touching the oven, Mom," she adds with a playful, genius-level smirk. "It's simply an optimization of resources."
Chanda sinks back into her chair, laughing softly, her eyes shimmering as she looks at the three of them. She looks at Sanjit—the spitting image of Ranjeet in jaw and brow, yet possessing a soul of gentleness and empathy that the other man never understood. The contrast is a constant, quiet reminder of the victory you won; not through force, but through the sheer, unwavering presence of a father's love. She reaches across the table to squeeze your hand, her touch lingering and sincere. "They're absolutely insufferable," she whispers, her voice thick with a contentment that only comes from knowing her children are safe, loved, and whole.
"Alright, alright, enough flattery," you respond, a playful glint in your eye as you slide the golden-brown turkey onto the platter. The aroma of sage and butter fills the room, anchoring the family in the present moment. "If you all keep praising me, I might actually start believing I'm the favourite." The table erupts in a chorus of laughter and protests, with Maya dramatically claiming she is the favourite and Sanjit shaking his head with a knowing smile. In this noise, there is no ghost of the past, no shadow of "Dolly," and no trace of the cold architecture Shiela once tried to impose on your life.
As you carve the meat, the conversation drifts toward Sanjit’s future. "National Law University is a beast, Sanjit, but you've always had a way of seeing the truth in a situation," Chanda says, her voice warm and genuinely proud. "I can only imagine the look on your professors' faces when you dismantle their arguments with that quiet patience of yours." Sanjit looks up from his plate, his gaze shifting toward you. "It’s the only way I know how to argue," he admits softly. "Someone taught me that the loudest person in the room is rarely the most powerful."
The comment hangs in the air for a moment, a subtle nod to the ghost of Ranjeet, but the mood remains light. Maya, unable to stay silent, lets out a sudden, melodic trill of laughter that vibrates through the glassware. "Imagine the courtroom drama! Sanjit, the calm storm, and me, the diva of the opera house. We shall be the terror of the East Coast!" She reaches over to playfully nudge Shefali, who is staring intently at the turkey as if analysing its thermal properties. "Shefali, tell them! Tell them how our combined IQ is probably higher than the entire admissions board at NLU!"
Shefali looks up, her eyes twinkling behind her glasses. "Actually, Maya, the probability of us being 'terrors' is high, but the probability of Sanjit actually winning his cases is nearly one hundred percent. He has a level of emotional intelligence that is statistically rare." She turns her gaze toward you, her expression softening into a look of pure, intellectual respect. "He learned it from watching you. The art of the long game. The ability to remain still while everyone else is spinning in circles."
The table falls into a comfortable, humming silence for a moment, the kind that only exists between people who truly trust one another. Chanda reaches out, her fingers brushing against yours on the tablecloth, a gesture that is no longer about dominance or ownership, but a quiet acknowledgment of partnership. "It’s strange," she muses, her voice barely a whisper above the clinking of silverware. "To think that for so long, we thought we were the ones shaping this house. We were so focused on the reflection in the mirror that we didn't realize the foundation was being built right under our feet."
"Well, the foundation is currently craving more of those mutton kebabs," Maya interjects, her operatic voice cutting through the sentimentality with a playful, sharp edge. She reaches across the table, nearly knocking over a gravy boat in her enthusiasm, and scoops a massive portion onto her plate. "And once we've finished the feast, I expect a full debate on my repertoire for the fall season. Shefali, you're the judge of the technicality; Sanjit, you're the legal counsel for my artistic license."
Sanjit chuckles, leaning back in his chair as he watches his sisters with a fond, weary expression. "I'm not sure my legal training covers 'artistic license' in the context of a soprano who thinks the living room is a concert hall," he says, though his eyes are twinkling. He glances toward you, his expression turning contemplative. "Though, honestly, the most impressive thing about this table isn't the IQ or the vocal range—it's the fact that we actually like each other. I think that’s the real miracle of the Das household."
Chanda lets out a soft, genuine laugh, leaning her head against your shoulder for a moment. "He's right," she admits, her voice devoid of the artifice she once wore like a garment. "We’ve spent so much time arguing about who is the smartest or the most talented that we forget how rare it is to just... belong. To be seen." She looks up at you, her gaze lingering on the quiet confidence in your face, a stark contrast to the man she had once tried to erase. "Thank you for staying, even when the world we built for you was so small and suffocating."
"For the love of everything, please, just let me do the basting!" Chanda pleads, though a small, triumphant smile plays on her lips. She is clutching a set of oven mitts like a shield, trying to navigate the gauntlet of her children. "I am the mother in this house, and for one evening, I would like to be the one providing the feast instead of the one being served."
Sanjit, now a towering presence of calm intellect, gently intercepts her path with a laugh that is warm and grounding. "Mom, we love your enthusiasm, but the last time you handled the roast, we had to evacuate the kitchen for an hour," he reminds her, his voice a gentle melody of kindness that stands in stark contrast to the volatility Ranjeet once possessed. He glances at you with a look of profound, unspoken gratitude, his eyes reflecting a man who knows exactly whose shoulders he stood upon to reach the gates of National Law University. "Let the professional handle the turkey. You just focus on the wine and the storytelling."
Maya, her voice a resonant, operatic swell that fills the room even when she's just speaking, chimes in from the sideboard. "Exactly, Mother! The culinary arts require a level of precision that only the master of this house possesses," she declares with a theatrical flourish, her voice vibrating through the floorboards. She leans into you, kissing your cheek with a fierce, protective affection. "Besides, if the bird is ruined, we'll starve, and I have an audition for the Met in three weeks. I cannot perform on an empty stomach."
Shefali, meanwhile, is perched on the edge of her chair, a tablet of complex equations resting beside her plate, though her attention is firmly fixed on the family dynamic. At eighteen, her mind is a whirlwind of theoretical physics and high-level logic, yet she views the domestic harmony of the home with a scientist's curiosity and a daughter's love. "Statistically, the probability of a successful roast increases by eighty percent when you aren't the one touching the oven, Mom," she adds with a playful, genius-level smirk. "It's simply an optimization of resources."
Chanda sinks back into her chair, laughing softly, her eyes shimmering as she looks at the three of them. She looks at Sanjit—the spitting image of Ranjeet in jaw and brow, yet possessing a soul of gentleness and empathy that the other man never understood. The contrast is a constant, quiet reminder of the victory you won; not through force, but through the sheer, unwavering presence of a father's love. She reaches across the table to squeeze your hand, her touch lingering and sincere. "They're absolutely insufferable," she whispers, her voice thick with a contentment that only comes from knowing her children are safe, loved, and whole.
"Alright, alright, enough flattery," you respond, a playful glint in your eye as you slide the golden-brown turkey onto the platter. The aroma of sage and butter fills the room, anchoring the family in the present moment. "If you all keep praising me, I might actually start believing I'm the favourite." The table erupts in a chorus of laughter and protests, with Maya dramatically claiming she is the favourite and Sanjit shaking his head with a knowing smile. In this noise, there is no ghost of the past, no shadow of "Dolly," and no trace of the cold architecture Shiela once tried to impose on your life.
As you carve the meat, the conversation drifts toward Sanjit’s future. "National Law University is a beast, Sanjit, but you've always had a way of seeing the truth in a situation," Chanda says, her voice warm and genuinely proud. "I can only imagine the look on your professors' faces when you dismantle their arguments with that quiet patience of yours." Sanjit looks up from his plate, his gaze shifting toward you. "It’s the only way I know how to argue," he admits softly. "Someone taught me that the loudest person in the room is rarely the most powerful."
The comment hangs in the air for a moment, a subtle nod to the ghost of Ranjeet, but the mood remains light. Maya, unable to stay silent, lets out a sudden, melodic trill of laughter that vibrates through the glassware. "Imagine the courtroom drama! Sanjit, the calm storm, and me, the diva of the opera house. We shall be the terror of the East Coast!" She reaches over to playfully nudge Shefali, who is staring intently at the turkey as if analysing its thermal properties. "Shefali, tell them! Tell them how our combined IQ is probably higher than the entire admissions board at NLU!"
Shefali looks up, her eyes twinkling behind her glasses. "Actually, Maya, the probability of us being 'terrors' is high, but the probability of Sanjit actually winning his cases is nearly one hundred percent. He has a level of emotional intelligence that is statistically rare." She turns her gaze toward you, her expression softening into a look of pure, intellectual respect. "He learned it from watching you. The art of the long game. The ability to remain still while everyone else is spinning in circles."
The table falls into a comfortable, humming silence for a moment, the kind that only exists between people who truly trust one another. Chanda reaches out, her fingers brushing against yours on the tablecloth, a gesture that is no longer about dominance or ownership, but a quiet acknowledgment of partnership. "It’s strange," she muses, her voice barely a whisper above the clinking of silverware. "To think that for so long, we thought we were the ones shaping this house. We were so focused on the reflection in the mirror that we didn't realize the foundation was being built right under our feet."
"Well, the foundation is currently craving more of those mutton kebabs," Maya interjects, her operatic voice cutting through the sentimentality with a playful, sharp edge. She reaches across the table, nearly knocking over a gravy boat in her enthusiasm, and scoops a massive portion onto her plate. "And once we've finished the feast, I expect a full debate on my repertoire for the fall season. Shefali, you're the judge of the technicality; Sanjit, you're the legal counsel for my artistic license."
Sanjit chuckles, leaning back in his chair as he watches his sisters with a fond, weary expression. "I'm not sure my legal training covers 'artistic license' in the context of a soprano who thinks the living room is a concert hall," he says, though his eyes are twinkling. He glances toward you, his expression turning contemplative. "Though, honestly, the most impressive thing about this table isn't the IQ or the vocal range—it's the fact that we actually like each other. I think that’s the real miracle of the Das household."
Chanda lets out a soft, genuine laugh, leaning her head against your shoulder for a moment. "He's right," she admits, her voice devoid of the artifice she once wore like a garment. "We’ve spent so much time arguing about who is the smartest or the most talented that we forget how rare it is to just... belong. To be seen." She looks up at you, her gaze lingering on the quiet confidence in your face, a stark contrast to the man she had once tried to erase. "Thank you for staying, even when the world we built for you was so small and suffocating."
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