Mishti ignores the way Samrat gives her a bright smile when she serves him breakfast, the woman who had been staying here yesterday out of the house already, not saying a word of gratitude to her ex-husband. Samrat too doesn’t bother doing any of that in context to her, but he pays attention to Mishti and the way she continuously tosses it away, retracting her hand when it accidentally touches his while giving him a glass of water or the way his tie seems crooked even today, but she doesn’t step forward to fix it.

Mishti ignores the way his face falls visibly when he tells her that today's breakfast was done exceptionally well and she doesn’t reply, and even more when she doesn’t whine at the complex dish that he tells her to prepare for the lunch. 

Yes, Mishti is avoiding him but she has a million reasons for doing that, a hundred questions swimming in her head and yesterday’s events hurting her heart: Samrat’s words, his story, still echoing through her ears.

“Tell me,” Mishti says, trying to bring as much stability in her voice as she can, being confident for both of them. 

Samrat shakes his head, a self-deprecating smile taking its place on his lips. “I don’t think you’re interested in listening to my sad story, Mishti.” He says and Mishti inhales in a patient breath. 

“If that’s the case then can you tell me what I want for my birthday?”

“Sorry?”

“Oh, I thought since you know me and my interests so well, you’d be able to talk about my rest of the desires and wishes. No?” Mishti feigns innocence and Samrat mums up that, shaking his head. 

“You’re from a different species, I swear.” He mumbles with a humorous huff.

“I’ve heard that before. But now can I hear what I really want to hear?” she asks, a gentleness seeping in her voice that makes Samrat look up, nodding as he gazes right into her eyes.

He heaves out a long sigh. “My mother…. she’s always been a bit materialistic. She used to encourage me to go and earn money, to do my job so efficiently that no one could reach that pedestal ever. I was in the US those days.” Samrat says, a far-off look on his face. “I knew my father’s health wasn’t in the best state but neither did I know that it was in its worst, he didn’t tell me, neither did my mother. I only realised this when he stopped visiting the orphanages…” Samrat informs and Mishti nods, fully remembering those unfortunate days when the lack of Daya sir's visit turned the orphanage into what it is today; a factory of criminals.

“…. but I trusted my mother. When she told me to go and leave my father under her care, I trusted that she wouldn't let anything happen to him. I too was accumulating money for my father, after all, to pay off whatever he had done for me till now. I used to ask her every day about my father's health and every day she used to answer me with the same words, ‘Everything is fine here, you focus on your work.’ 

“But that day.... that day she lied. Everything was not fine. My father was struggling for his life in the hospital, and I was holding meetings. The minute my meeting ended, my phone rang and then came my mother's sobbing voice telling me that my father was no more. My father.... whom I loved more than anyone in my life was no more; he went away without me. I – I couldn't even see him one last time, couldn't hug him, couldn't talk to him. Everything was not fine. I detested my mother that day. She could’ve told me sooner, could’ve not lied to me and maybe there wasn’t much that I could have done, maybe I couldn’t have done anything, but I could have at least stayed next to my father on his last day.

“My mother then apologized to me, told me whatever she did was for my good, and I swallowed down whatever I wanted to say to her, to blame her. And then – then she started maintaining her distance, I liked that. It gave me peace. I – I couldn't love her ever again.

“At that time, my father's death wasn't the only grief for me. It wasn't only my mother lying. It was someone else as well. The woman who is currently staying in this house, the house that she destroyed herself.” Samrat says bitterly, closing his eyes for a moment, bringing in a calmness that didn’t seem all that serene.

“I had this knack for cooking you see, especially Indian food. I got it from my father. He loved Shai Paneer.” Samrat reveals and Mishti’s mind travels back to the day the man had refused to eat the aforesaid dish. “I used to cook for him and my mother. My father always appreciated me while my mother always hummed at the taste. I was used to their reactions, I wanted someone new to taste test my food,” Mishti smiles at the words, imagining a slightly young version of the man manoeuvring around the kitchen for making food and then expectantly looking at his parents hoping for a compliment or two, Daya sir being unable to resist his son’s endearing efforts.

“Then Sakshi came into this house. We had an arranged marriage. My parents wanted to see me settled at the young age of twenty-two while her parents wanted her to marry into an established family. And so, the marriage happened. I didn't love her, but that was because I didn't need to. Not every marriage needed love, right? Some worked on respect. My parents’ did. And I respected my wife very much. I respected the way she handled the work inside the house as well as her job.

“I admired how efficient she was but still to break the ice between us two, I made dinner for her. Shahi paneer and rice, and of course some naan. I was proud of my creation; I was sure she would like it.” He chuckles reminiscing, the sound turning bitter as he continues. “And then she ate it. I waited for feedback, but it never came. She left the plate half-full. ‘Sorry, Samrat but to be honest I have eaten better-looking dishes. And just to be clear, I don’t like Indian.’ She walked away with it, leaving me standing there not knowing either to put a brave smile on my face or sulk at my useless efforts. I did none and made another dish a few days later, Mexican this time. I had made sure to get it tasted by my colleagues before taking it to Sakshi just so I know beforehand if the food is too bad. Everyone loved it. But this time she didn’t even bother trying. ‘Samrat…I’m very conscious about what I eat. Don’t do this again.’ And I didn’t.

“Our relationship, if there was any, went downhill from thereon. She started staying late in the office, more than she had done before and I stopped caring. And yet, the day I saw those pregnancy reports sprawled on her bed as if she couldn’t care less if I saw them knowing fully well that the child wasn’t mine considering that we hadn’t even ever held hands properly until now, I couldn’t hold it anymore.

That was when I knew. I had been lied to and betrayed all this while. And all this happened as soon as I got back to India to mourn my father’s death.

“I didn't go to her. I didn't confront her. I called my lawyer, told him to get the divorce papers ready and send them to her as soon as he could. I told Vivek to pack her bags and send them to her house. And once everything was done, settled, destroyed, I permitted myself to cry. To break down, to drown in alcohol, to pity myself, to laugh at my fate. I tried not hating people but liars... I couldn't stand them.” Samrat says with his hardened face and vulnerable eyes. 

He smiles to himself. “I find it hypocritical of myself for not hating that one stranger whom I had encountered that day. Her words had worked as a bandage to my broken heart, picked me up when I was at my lowest, maybe I knew I wouldn't meet her ever again, that’s why. She had a sweet voice, Mishti, and big eyes, just like you… but I knew that she was lying. You wouldn't lie, right?” Samrat asks and Mishti gulps, blinking away the burning tears, having no answer to the question.

Samrat doesn't wait for one.

“But with mother, nothing felt close and that woman, Sakshi, she's still on ruining my life. I don't understand what I did to her. Why is she punishing me like that? She knows that I'm not close to my mother like I had been once but still she keeps publishing articles against her. She calls her corrupt, says that she didn't leave her job but was ostracized. She called my mom a murderer, a murderer, Mishti. It's not right of her to say that; to try and make me hate the only blood relation in my life.” He reveals and Mishti bites back the words that threaten to fall out of her lips, wanting to tell him the truth and yet wanting to protect him from the harsh reality. She stays quiet, yet again. 

“Still, I couldn’t leave her alone on the street today where I found her. Dad would have wanted me to help her, nonetheless.... right?”

Mishti had nodded with a smile that she had conjured with a lot of effort, pushing back any intruding thoughts and blinking back the mistiness from her eyes to see Samrat smiling back at her, an unexpectedly content look on his face.

It was then Mishti had known. 

Aside from the guilt that had been simmering in her heart all this while, there was something else taking its shape. Something that she had only realised when she saw the man sitting in front of her, his head thrown back in exhaustion, a beautiful vulnerability visible all over his face.

She knew that the fondness that seemed to grow in her heart whenever she would see the man smiling was nothing but that. The pain she felt in her heart when he sat in silence and reflected on his past was nothing but that. The value with which she treasured his rare and sweet words was nothing but that. The way her heart thudded against her chest, loud enough for the world to hear was nothing but that.

All the feelings that she had never felt before Samrat with his sarcastic remarks and the sincerest of eyes had come into her life was nothing but that.

Nothing but love.

Mishti loves him; a con artist who does nothing but lie loves the man who hate lies. 

Opposites like these never attract, they never have a future together, do they? Even those sappy movies that promise a happy ending for the most ridiculous reasons are sometimes unable to give the ill-fated people like hers their happy ending all because their love had found its foundation on a lie.

Mishti had promised herself to never hurt the man, but what is she doing right now? What will she do when she'll have to go from here now that she has done her third and the last task.

And it's not like the man has to say much about her presence? He won't miss her if she leaves, will be fine when she goes.
She wouldn't put any focus on how his gaze seemed to linger on her face when cooked in front of him, or the way his fingers purposefully brushed against hers, eyes gaining a glimmer and ears shading pink whenever she called him by his name.

Four years ago too it was Mishti who had fallen for an unknown, drunk stranger with the innocence of a child. Four years later too, it is Mishti who has fallen for him again.

Mishti doesn't think there is a happy ending meant for them. And even if there is a sliver of hope, the unanswered questions have been sucking the life out of her.

How on earth did Samrat’s mother know about all the things happening with him; the robbery of his watch or the transaction, or the way she was not surprised when she had heard her name falling from Samrat’s mouth, or why the agency had told them to steal the vase, something so cheap yet so precious, holding an importance that only a family member would know about.

Was it his mother all along?

Did she want to catch her red-handed? Is she making her son prey for that? Is the agency and his mother working together? Will Samrat ever believe that what his ex-wife published is true, that his mother is indeed a murderer? 

Would he ever accept a liar like her in his life?

Maybe she knows the answer to the last question, and that is exactly why she wants to maintain her distance with the man, not willing to hurt her heart or his in a way that can't be ever mended again.