The Shakuniya bungalow in Pune was not grand. It was a sturdy, whitewashed structure with a red-tiled roof, nestled in a quiet lane. A sprawling peepul tree shaded the front yard, and the air hummed with the scent of jasmine and the distant, rhythmic thump of the MANO textile looms—a sound that was the bedrock of Rajendra's childhood. To Huilan, stepping out of the air-conditioned car into the blinding afternoon heat, it felt like stepping onto another planet.
Laxmi stood at the doorway, a simple figure in a printed cotton sari. She did not smile, but her gaze was assessing, not hostile. "Welcome to our home," she said in English.
The interior was a museum of modest, well-kept middle-class life: polished terracotta floors, framed pictures of gods and family, the faint, permanent aroma of spices and old wood. It was the absolute antithesis of the sterile ministry corridors or Rajendra's sleek, temporary offices.
Shanti Sharma arrived that evening, summoned by a terse call from Rajendra. She entered the sitting room, took in the scene—Rajendra looking uncharacteristically awkward in a simple kurta, the severe Chinese officer sitting stiffly on a rosewood chair, Laxmi presiding over a tea tray—and had to suppress a hysterical laugh. The fate of multinational consortiums and shadow empires now hinged on… this.
"Shanti-ji," Laxmi said warmly, gesturing her to sit. "You are family in business. Now you see our other family."
Over milky, sweet chai, Shanti listened as Laxmi outlined the "month of understanding." She was horrified. This personal melodrama was a catastrophic distraction, a vulnerability their rivals would exploit.
"Aunty, with respect," Shanti said carefully, "the business cannot pause for a month. The Soviet situation is fluid. The China deal is in limbo. We have responsibilities."
"The heart also has responsibilities, beta," Laxmi replied, stirring her tea. "If the foundation is cracked, the tallest tower will fall. This is the foundation."
Rajendra watched Shanti's jaw tighten. She saw recklessness. He saw his mother's unshakeable logic. And Huilan sat silently, observing the dynamic—the sharp, modern partner versus the traditional matriarch, with Rajendra caught between.
The assessment began at dawn.
Day 1 – The Kitchen: Laxmi led Huilan to the small, sunlit kitchen. "Today, we make chapatis," she announced, pointing to a bowl of dough.
Huilan, who had planned supply lines for millions, stared at the soft, sticky mass. Laxmi demonstrated: a smooth, practiced roll, a perfect circle tossed onto the hot tawa. Huilan's attempt was a lopsided, thick triangle that burned on one side and remained doughy on the other. She flushed with frustration.
Laxmi didn't criticize. She said, "Again. The heat must be even. Your mind must be in your hands, not in your plans."
By the tenth attempt, Huilan produced a vaguely round, edible chapati. Her knuckles were dusted with flour, a line of sweat on her brow. She felt a ridiculous surge of accomplishment.
Day 4 – The Language: Laxmi would point to objects. "Pani," she said, tapping a glass of water. "Khana," pointing to food. Huilan repeated them like a cadet learning codes. In the evenings, Laxmi would tell simple stories in Marathi about Rajendra as a boy—his stubbornness, his quiet kindness to the mill workers' children. Huilan understood only fragments, but she watched Rajendra's face soften as he listened, seeing a man she had never known.
Day 7 – The Ritual: It was a Tuesday, a day for worship. Laxmi performed a simple puja before a small idol of Lord Ganesha. She offered flowers, a sweet, lit a lamp. She gestured for Huilan to sit beside her. Not to participate, just to observe.
"This is not about god," Laxmi said quietly, as the incense curled. "This is about gratitude. And remembering what is bigger than yourself."
Huilan, an atheist educated in Marxist materialism, felt no divine presence. But she felt the stillness, the intentional pause in the relentless march of days. It was a different kind of discipline.
Rajendra watched these exchanges from a distance, managing crises via encrypted calls in the back room. A report from Kapoor: Khasan was testing the Dawnlight-7 perimeter again. A query from Krylov about the Consortium delay. He dealt with them, but his mind was split, pulled into the quiet drama unfolding in his own home.
He saw Huilan's rigid competence falter and re-form into something more dogged, more genuine. He saw the brittle officer's shell begin to crack under the relentless, gentle pressure of ordinary life. One evening, he found her alone in the yard, staring at the peepul tree, her expression unguarded and profoundly lost.
"It's a lot," he said, joining her.
She didn't startle. "It is a different… algorithm," she said finally. "No clear objective. No success metric. Only… being."
"And how does the being feel?"
She was silent for a long time. "Tiring," she admitted. Then, softer, "And… quiet. The quiet here is not empty. It is full of small things. The sound of the broom, the smell of turmeric, your mother's humming. It is a system that runs on different rules."
Day 12 – The Crisis: The call from Moscow was urgent. A rival faction, smelling blood due to Rajendra's prolonged "absence," had ambushed a Zashchita supply convoy near Smolensk. Two men were dead, a truckload of medical supplies stolen. Krylov was demanding direction; the board was getting nervous.
Rajendra knew he had to go. The architect had to return to his construction site, or the walls would crumble.
He told his mother over breakfast. Laxmi's face tightened with worry, but she nodded. "Your work calls. Go."
Then she looked at Huilan. "He will be gone for some days. You and I will remain."
A flicker of panic crossed Huilan's eyes. Alone. No Rajendra as a buffer. Just her and the Matriarch, in the heart of the garden.
Rajendra left that afternoon. As his car pulled away, Huilan stood at the gate with Laxmi, feeling more exposed than she ever had on a surveillance mission. The spy was now alone in the heart of the target zone, with no mission parameters except the ones being written, moment by moment, by the quiet woman beside her.
The real assessment had just begun.