Destined to Be Yours

The dining table was an array of vibrant dishes, but it was the paneer butter masala that immediately captured Shourya's attention.

As he walked into the room, his gaze fell on the dish, and without a word, he took a seat. There was something about the dish that seemed strangely familiar, almost like a memory he had buried deep within him.

Seeta, standing by the kitchen entrance, caught the slight change in his expression—the softness in his eyes that only appeared when something truly moved him. She looked at Vedha, who was quietly observing from a distance, her heart pounding in her chest as she waited for Shourya's response.

Shourya picked up his fork, his fingers almost reverently hovering over the dish before he took a bite. He chewed slowly, his eyes closing momentarily as he tasted the creamy sauce, the perfect blend of spices, and the tenderness of the paneer. The flavors were unmistakable, and for a moment, he was transported to a time long past—his mother's kitchen, the warmth of her presence, the love she poured into every meal she made for him.

His mind raced, but he remained composed. Slowly, he put his fork down and looked up at Seeta, his eyes still soft but searching for something.

"Who made this?" Shourya asked, his voice steady but filled with curiosity.

Seeta, trying to mask her knowing smile, paused before answering. She glanced at Vedha, who had moved closer, and then back to Shourya.

"This is a special dish," Seeta said lightly. "More like something your mother used to make, isn't it?"

Shourya's eyes flickered in surprise. He leaned forward slightly, his gaze locked on the dish as he took another bite. The rich, familiar taste seemed to stir something deep inside him, a sense of nostalgia he hadn't expected.

He set his fork down, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "It's just like my mom's dish," he said softly, his voice almost wistful. "The flavors... they're perfect. This tastes just like the way she used to make it."

Seeta's eyes widened slightly, but she kept her silence, allowing the moment to unfold.

Shourya took another bite, savoring the comfort that the dish brought him, before his gaze shifted to Seeta once more. "Who made it?" he asked again, his voice now laced with genuine curiosity.

Seeta hesitated for just a moment longer before answering, her voice tinged with a hint of teasing. "Your wife, Vedha."

At that, Shourya's demeanor changed instantly. The warmth that had flickered in his eyes vanished, replaced by a coldness that was barely perceptible but undeniable. His expression became guarded, and he quickly pushed his plate aside.

"I'm full," he said briskly, his tone now distant. He stood up, his movement sharp, as though he were closing the door to something—something he wasn't ready to confront.

Without another glance at anyone, Shourya left the room, his footsteps heavy as he ascended the stairs.

Vedha, who had been waiting anxiously just outside the dining room, felt a pang of hurt hit her like a wave. She had poured her heart into making this dish, hoping it would bring them closer, but instead, the moment seemed to slip through her fingers.

Seeta, sensing the pain radiating from Vedha, moved to her side, offering a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Don't let it upset you, beta," Seeta said softly, her voice reassuring. "He's complicated. But this was good. Really good."

Vedha wiped a tear from her cheek, offering Seeta a faint smile. "I thought... I thought he might appreciate it. It felt like he was happy with it for a moment."

Seeta nodded sympathetically. "People don't always express what's in their hearts. You've done more than you realize. You've brought a piece of his past to the present, a taste of home he's carried in his heart all these years. And that's no small thing. By the way, beta, where did you learn this?"

Vedha's gaze dropped to the floor, her heart heavy with the weight of his unspoken emotions. "I learned it from my father," she said softly, the words barely escaping her lips. "He was a chef... he taught me how to cook before he passed away. I never really knew him. But through his recipes, I've always felt connected to him."

Seeta's face softened with understanding. "I didn't know, beta. I'm so sorry."

Vedha nodded, her voice thick with emotion. "He passed away right after I was born. I don't remember him. But I have his cookbook... everything he wrote down about his dishes. It's all I have left of him."

Shourya sat in his dimly lit study. The lingering taste of the paneer butter masala clung to his mind, pulling him into a whirlwind of emotions he had tried so hard to suppress.

"How could I feel that?" he muttered, his voice tinged with disbelief. "How could her cooking remind me of my mother's? It's ridiculous—Vedha could never... she's nothing like her."

He clenched his fists, frustration boiling beneath the surface. His mother's love had been pure, unshakable, and full of warmth , a sacred memory that no one had the right to touch. Yet, for a fleeting moment, Vedha's dish had broken through his carefully constructed barriers, and it unsettled him.

As he sat there, his thoughts inevitably drifted to Meera.

Shourya closed his eyes, and the memory of Meera washed over him like an unrelenting tide. He could see her in her art studio, surrounded by canvases, her hands streaked with vibrant colors. Her laughter echoed in his ears, soft and carefree , a sound that had once brought him peace.

The pain of losing her was a wound that time had yet to heal. Shourya rubbed his temples, shaking his head. "Focus," he ordered himself. "There's no point in looking back."