Samrat is avoiding her, Mishti is sure he is.

He had started doing it after the night he had ‘caught’ her and Vivek talking to each other. That was two days ago. And Mishti would’ve understood if the reason behind his avoidance was him getting angry at his workers slacking off but that was evidently not the case because he talked to Vivek just fine. He had even hugged his valet a goodbye this morning while sending him off to his town to attend to his mother who had not been feeling too well, something that Vivek had himself told her even though they were back to being each other’s arch enemies.

Mishti sincerely hoped that nothing bad would happen to Vivek’s mother.

Back to Samrat avoiding her though, Mishti had noticed that his behaviour was way different than the time when he had got to know about his loss. He was quiet and frustrated then and now he was quiet and nervous.

At least that is what it looked like to Mishti if the instances like his lack of review on the foods or avoiding looking her in the eyes were anything to go by.

The indifference wasn’t well digested by Mishti. 

She was beginning to like the way they teased each other sometimes or the way he complimented her dishes or told her to stop smiling when she would grin listening to them.

Mishti wants to confront him. Wants to ask him the exact reason for his avoidance or to tell her that it is all her misunderstanding and that he would never avoid the girl who can’t stop caring about him or the things related to him.

It has been going on for four years now. At least from her end.

But of course, she can’t do that. Can’t reveal any of that. He is her boss, and she is just an employee.

The man in question is not at home now, gone to his company office for his pre-lunch meeting. But his absence isn’t making her any less fidgety.

It is inevitable when it happens; lost in her thoughts when she grabs the knife by her left hand instead of the right and begins to chop the carrot, the knife though not as smart as her doesn’t quite decipher the difference between her thumb and the carrot and slices the former instead.

“Ah!” the knife drops from her hand onto the floor, as she immediately brings her hand to examine the cut. It’s a pity that she can’t because some pathetic tears are blurring her vision, too much blood already coating the cut.

Her first instinct is to call for her brother as she had always done till now.

“It hurts, bhai…. Ahh –”

“It’s almost done, Chutki, see?”

“No, No…it still hurts.”

“Count till three.”

“One, two – Bhai! It’s the Shinchan band-aid!”

“It is. Now it doesn’t hurt anymore, now does it?”

“No, bhai, not at all.”

Oh, but her sweet brother isn’t here to tend to her, neither is this a cut so shallow that it can get better by a Shinchan band-aid. They usually aren’t when grow up.

It’s perhaps for the first and the last time that she is grateful to the agency for providing them all with some medicinal knowledge, teaching them how to suture or give the first aid.

She finishes doing that to her wound, methodically disinfecting it before wrapping a bandage around her thumb, having to encompass the whole hand in it just to stop the bandage from slipping, thankful that it doesn’t need stitches. But her hand throbs, restricting her from going back to the kitchen and resuming her work. And so, she decides to take a five-minute break and give her aching and bandaged hand some rest.

It’s her luck that a bell rings just as she’s about to sit, knowing fully well that it’s Samrat who is across the door, and even though usually it is Vivek who opens the door, his absence doesn’t mean that the personal chef of the house would open the door. There is staff appointed for that as well. Though that’s a different thing that she still wants to go to open the door and make the man confront her. 

She does not. And forsaking her hand’s rest, she goes back into the kitchen, thankful that she had prepared the lunch before her injury, and it was only the night’s dinner that she had been preparing now.

She’s unable to plate the food as deftly as she used to do, but her left hand is still successful in doing the job. 

Wincing, she picks up the tray using both her hands, trying not to hiss as the outer corner of the rectangular utensil pokes repeatedly at her wound. 

It’s then when she sees him, Samrat, who is busy removing his jacket and hanging it behind his chair, quickly unbuttoning his sleeves to roll them up to his forearm and sitting down on the dining table, placing the napkin on his lap, waiting for the food to arrive while scrolling on his phone. 

Not looking towards the kitchen door in anticipation like he does usually.

Ugh, she needs to stop comparing his present rude self to his relatively sweeter past self.

Walking towards the dining table, she quickly places the food in front of the man, setting up the spoons and forks on either side of the plate and a glass of water beside it. 

The man doesn’t look up from his phone, though his gaze seems less focused than before, Mishti witnessing him gulping audibly. 

“Anything else that you’d want?” she asks, finally finding her voice, her hands tied at her front. It is then that the man finally, finally looks up at her, their gazes lining up. He swallows again, this time facing her and Mishti can yet again see that hint of nervousness on his face mixed with an emotion that she can’t quite point out. 

“…. Sir?” she asks again when the man doesn’t respond, simply staring at her. 

Out of habit, she clicks her fingers in front of his face, only that she does it with her right hand which is wounded which makes her wince which in turn makes him shake out of his reverie, his line of sight falling right in her bandaged hand.

He jumps out of his seat.

“Your hand.... what happened to it?” he asks, his own hands hovering over hers, undecisive of where to keep them. It’s when he turns up his face to look at her does Mishti see it, that expression of worry, brows furrowed in concern and mouth upturned in distress. He’s probably the only person apart from her brother and her friends who have reacted to her pain in that way. 

It warms her heart and momentarily pushes back the thought of poising the man’s food for avoiding her for days. 

“It’s nothing, sir, you please go back to your food.” She says modestly, forcing a small smile on his face that the man does not return, and instead gives her the most affronted expression existing in mankind.

“What? Do you really expect me to go back to my food when I know that you’re hurt? Have you checked on with a doctor? You probably haven’t. Come on, let’s go. Mukesh!” he calls out the driver, speaking hastily not giving her any chance to respond to him.

“No, sir. Sir!” she says loudly to get his attention, her good hand holding getting hold of his arm to achieve the task. 

He looks at her at once, his gaze falling to where his arm is clutched in her hand, as he clears his throat and twists it back until Mishti notes the action and immediately drops his hand. 

That mere action forces him to avoid looking at her yet again, a dejected sigh leaving Mishti’s mouth.

“I was just – it’s …. I’m fine.” Mishti finally says, not looking him in the eyes and walking back to the kitchen, blinking back the unexpected tears that sting at the back of her eyes when she tries to keep them at bay. 

Just a few moments later, however, another pair of steps join her in the space, clearing his throat just like he had done earlier. Mishti doesn’t turn around, trying to hide her sullen face as she busies herself in picking out fresh vegetables for the night, having thrown the earlier cut carrot because of the accident.

“Will you stop doing that? You’re hurt.” Samrat says from behind, but she doesn’t listen. Though when she goes to hold on a knife, she’s unable to do so, with her thumb injured and not one of the fingers. 

“I said stop it!”

Mishti holds the knife in her left hand, all set to repeat the stupidity that got her injured in the first place because anything will be better than obeying the man who has been on her mind, bothering her since past few days.

And just as she’s about to start with the task, a loud “Mishti!” barrels through her ears and her hands still. Because this is the first time in days that the man has said her name.

“Are you deaf? I’m telling you to stop doing all this, but you aren’t listening. Do you want to hurt yourself even more?” his voice comes closer as does he.

“You’re not allowed to enter the kitchen for the next few days – the whole week actually.” He states in a voice that he uses when he doesn’t want anyone protesting. 

But Mishti isn’t anyone. 

“I’ve to make your food, sir. I can’t –”

“Yes, you can. I’m the boss here and I want you to take a break.”

“But –”

“And you’re going to do that.”

He stares her down, a stern look gracing his face and arms folded across his chest. It makes Mishti furious.

“No!” she states, mimicking his stance.

“Excuse me?” he wonders, incredulity visible on his face.

“I said no. I’m not going to do what you’ll say to me. So kindly go back to avoiding me just like you’ve been doing for days!”

That makes him shut up, a silence prevailing in the atmosphere for good seven seconds.

Samrat gulps audibly. “I – I am not…. avoiding you.” He says in a low voice, his gaze downcast focused on his feet. 

The answer has Mishti scoffing even though she tries her best to stifle it. 

Samrat lifts his gaze to her.

“Was that – was that scoff meant for me?” he asks in whole genuineness.

“No, for the person standing behind you.” 

The man turns around and looks, leaving Mishti to bite back an amused smile. 

He turns around, his eyes still wide but when he takes in the sight of her highly amused face, he relaxes.

“You’re mean.” He speaks.

“So are you.” Mishti answer.

Samrat doesn’t protest.

“Is it the food?” she asks after a while, gazing intently at her boss who yet again seems to be avoiding any sort of eye contact. 

“What?”

“Is there any problem regarding the food? Is it not to your taste? Is that why you’re avoiding me?” 

“What? I’m not – I’m not….” Samrat sighs defeatedly, his gaze flitting towards the kitchen door as if wanting to just rush out of the place but then it lands on Mishti’s bandaged hand, and he sighs again. 

“I’m honestly not avoiding you, Mishti. It’s just…” he gulps, racking his brain for the right words.

“It’s definitely not because I’m jealous of you and Vivek talking because that would be absurd…” Mishti thinks she hears the man saying but there is a high chance that she has misheard those words because they don’t make sense to her mind even though they appeal a bit too much to her heart. 

“I’m just trying to figure something out…. It’s nothing. Just stop now and go to your room. I’ll call for a doctor, he’ll check your hand.”

Mishti thinks of protesting again, refusing to obey him but one look at his pleading gaze and she knows she has lost. 

“Fine,” she says belatedly, her narrowed eyes swimming with an amused glint. “Who is going to make your dinner? Vivek had told me that you don’t eat takeout and prefer the homecooked meals.”

It’s Samrat who scoffs this time, his chest puffing out. “I would like to assure you that I am a self-sufficient man who knows to fend for himself and is an excellent cook at that. You will get to know it once you taste my food.” He sniffs proudly.

“We’ll see.” Mishti challenges.

“You will see!” Samrat accepts.