The Kashyap kitchen gleamed in the mid-morning light, copper pots hanging from hooks, the aroma of freshly ground spices lingering in the air. Maira tied her dupatta around her waist like an apron, striking a mock-serious pose.
"Alright, Teju," she declared, brandishing a ladle like a sword, "today, we conquer this kitchen. Two daughters-in-law, one mission: make the this family cry tears of joy after tasting our delicious meals... or at least not disown us."
Teju laughed, the tension of earlier slowly easing from her shoulders. "You mean make our husbands forget their names? That's what mother-in-law said."
Maira grinned. "Right. So, should we start with something simple? Or should we aim for legendary status? Like… seven-course, spice-infused culinary poetry?"
"Legendary, of course," Teju said with a spark in her eyes. "But let's start with what we actually know." She glanced around the kitchen, her fingers brushing over the jars of turmeric and cumin, before picking up a basket of fresh vegetables. "How about aloo-palak and dal tadka? Comfort food. Simple, but… full of love."
"I like that," Maira said warmly. "You're the strategist, I'll be your loyal sous-chef."
They got to work, laughing as they fumbled over who should chop onions and who should knead the dough. Teju's hands moved instinctively, muscle memory guiding her as she ground spices on the stone slab. For a while, the rhythm of chopping, stirring, and sizzling filled the room with an easy harmony.
But as the scent of mustard seeds crackling in oil rose around her, Teju's smile faltered. The memory came unbidden—Ojas, her adoptive mother, humming softly in a sunlit kitchen, showing her how to roll perfect rotis.
"Press gently, beta, let the dough breathe," Ojas's voice whispered in her mind.
The image shifted, darkened—the day her adoptive father had walked in, eyes cold, voice like steel.
"Enough. She's not your real mother. She's not even blood. This attachment ends now."
She remembered Ojas's tear-streaked face as she was forced to leave, the sound of the door closing behind her like the final strike of a gavel.
A soft thud brought her back—she'd dropped the rolling pin. Maira was already by her side.
"Teju? Hey... what happened?"
Teju blinked rapidly, but the tears still came. "I… I was just remembering her.Mom Ojas. She taught me everything I know in the kitchen. She loved me like I was hers. And he… he tore us apart because I wasn't… enough."
The words broke on a sob she hadn't meant to release.
Maira's heart clenched. Without hesitation, she drew Teju into a hug, flour and all. "Hey. Stop. Don't you ever say you weren't enough. That man didn't see your worth—his loss, not yours. Ojas auntie loved you, right? That's what matters. That love is still here," she said, tapping lightly over Teju's heart. "Every time you cook, every time you laugh, every time you are happy—that's her in you."
Teju trembled against her, letting the comfort sink in.
Maira pulled back slightly, smiling through her own misty eyes. "You know, there's a poem I used to tell myself whenever I felt… down. Want to hear it?"
Teju nodded.
Maira's voice softened, melodic as she recited:
"Roots unseen still hold the tree,
Through storm and night, silently.
Blood may bind, but love defines,
The family that we claim as mine.
So walk, my heart, and never fear,
For those who love you walk you here."
Silence settled in the kitchen, warm and full. Teju's tears had stopped, replaced by a small, genuine smile.
"That's beautiful," she whispered. "Thank you, Maira."
Maira grinned. "Now, let's honor Ojas properly. By making the best damn dal tadka this family has ever tasted."
Teju laughed through her sniffles. "Challenge accepted."
As they turned back to their cooking, the atmosphere lightened again. Outside, in the hallway, unseen by either of them, Mihir/Daavansh paused, listening. A faint, cold smirk curved his lips as he watched through the slightly ajar door.
"So much love," he murmured under his breath, voice low and poisonous. "Perfect things are the easiest to break."
Unnoticed by the women in the kitchen, Mihir lingered in the hallway a moment longer. The muffled sounds of their laughter reached him—soft, genuine, irritating. His jaw tightened.
With deliberate calm, he turned and walked to his room. The door clicked shut behind him, cutting off the warmth of the household like a blade.
The moment the lock slid into place, the mask dropped. His eyes flared an unnatural crimson, the color swirling like liquid fire. A cruel smile curved his lips as he raised his hands and murmured an incantation under his breath, the words guttural and old, vibrating through the room.
The air grew heavy. The temperature plummeted.
Before him, reality itself seemed to ripple. From the shadows in the far corner of the room, something grew. Twisted, black roots coiled upward like serpents, sprouting into the gnarled trunk of a monstrous tree—the Daayan Vriksh, its bark pulsing faintly as though alive, its branches tipped with claw-like thorns. The stench of decay filled the air.
Mihir—Daavansh—stepped closer, running a hand lovingly over the rough, cursed wood. The tree seemed to shiver under his touch, a whispering chorus of dark voices rising from within it.
He reached into a knot in the trunk and pulled out a single, writhing root—long, black, and slick with a strange, glistening sap. It squirmed faintly in his grip, like a living thing.
"Soon," he hissed, eyes gleaming brighter. "Soon, their perfect little world will rot from the inside. Their laughter will turn to screams, their love to ashes. And when all they hold dear is dust..."
He raised the root to his lips and kissed it mockingly.
"...I will feast on their despair."
The Daayan Vriksh's branches creaked, almost in approval.
Daavansh tucked the root into his pocket, his smile widening into something truly monstrous. Then, with a casual wave of his hand, the tree melted back into shadow, leaving the room as pristine and ordinary as before.
A knock sounded faintly at the door. Sapna's voice called cheerfully from the hall, "Mihir beta, lunch will be ready soon! Are you coming down?"
Daavansh smirked, voice smooth as honey when he replied, "Of course, Ma. I wouldn't miss it for the world."
Inside, his crimson eyes still burned.
The kitchen was a glorious mess—bowls stacked haphazardly, spoons abandoned in spice jars, and a thin layer of flour dusting the countertops. But amidst the chaos, two steaming dishes sat proudly on the center counter: aloo-palak and dal tadka, rich with aroma and color.
"Mission accomplished!" Maira declared, raising her ladle in triumph. "If this doesn't impress them, nothing will."
Teju wiped the back of her hand across her forehead, leaving a streak of turmeric on her skin. "I can't believe we actually pulled it off," she said, laughing as she looked at Maira's equally disheveled state. "You've got flour on your nose."
Maira grinned mischievously. "Oh? And you've got turmeric war paint." She reached over and dabbed a bit more on Teju's cheek.
Teju gasped dramatically. "Sabotage! Right before the big reveal!"
They dissolved into giggles, the earlier heaviness between them fully eased.
"Come on," Maira said, glancing at the clock. "We have to present this in ten minutes, and we look like we've been wrestling with the food instead of cooking it. Let's go clean up."
"Good idea," Teju agreed, grabbing her dupatta.
They left the kitchen still laughing, their voices fading down opposite hallways.
As their footsteps disappeared, the kitchen fell silent again. On the counter, unnoticed, a faint tendril of black mist slithered from the corner of the room, curling around the two finished dishes like a caress. The steam above the dal tadka shimmered unnaturally for a second before settling back to normal.
Upstairs, in his locked room, Mihir/Daavansh sat cross-legged on the floor, eyes closed, fingers poised as if pulling invisible strings. The stolen root from the Daayan Vriksh pulsed faintly in his palm.
His lips curved into a cruel smile.
"Cook with all the love you want, little birds," he murmured. "Soon, that love will be the knife that guts you."
The black mist in the kitchen twitched in answer, invisible to everyone else.