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I glance at the menu again, my panic growing.

Menu

Starters:Paneer tikka, hara bhara kebab, dahi ke kebab

Main Course:Butter chicken, palak paneer, dal makhani, mutton rogan josh, dum aloo

Rice & Breads:Jeera rice, butter naan, lachha paratha

Desserts:Gulab jamun and shahi tukda

All this sounded pretty manageable in my head, but now? I’m not sure. I don’t even know where to start. My mind has gone completely blank, and my hands feel like they’ve forgotten how to even hold a spoon. Maybe I should start with the butter chicken? No, maybe the dal makhani is safer. Ugh, why didn’t I accept anyone’s help? This is such a mess.

You wanted to prove yourself, Simran. Congratulations. Now you’re stuck.

Sighing, I grab the spice box and start with the butter chicken, carefully sprinkling red chilli powder into the simmering curry. Just as I’m about to add what I think is garam masala to the butter chicken base, a familiar voice cuts through my panic, “Dad is allergic to that!”

I freeze mid-sprinkle and slowly turn around to find Meher and Devika standing at the kitchen entrance.

“Really?” I ask cautiously. “Or is this another prank like the feet-touching ritual?”

Meher rolls her eyes dramatically as they both step inside. “We don’t pull pranks that’ll cost us our taste buds. That’s ajwain you’re holding, by the way, not garam masala.”

Devika smirks, leaning against the counter.

“Devika told me Dad wants you to cook dinner tonight, and honestly, knowing about your stellar cooking skills, we figured you could use some help.”

“Thanks to whatever friendship we had in the past, we know this isn’t something you can handle alone,” Meher adds, tying an apron around her waist.

I blink, caught off-guard. Their coldness toward me since the wedding had been unmistakable, and I didn’t expect them to offer me anything—least of all help. But I can’t let this moment of generosity slide.

“Thanks, but if I can handle an over possessive and overbearing man like Vishnu as my husband and life partner, cooking for fifteen people should be easy peasy,” I say, trying to muster some confidence.

“You don’t get it, do you?” Devika says, already washing her hands. “We know everyone’s preferences. Kailash uncle can’t handle too much spice, Ayaan loves his food extra spicy, and Pratap uncle needs his dal makhani exactly the way Meher’s mom used to make it.”

“Let us help, or this dinner might end up being your last as the Walia bahu,” Meher suggests, pointing to herself and Devika.

I laugh nervously. “You’re exaggerating, but fine. I’ll take all the help I can get. What’s the first thing I need to know?”

Devika points to the curry pot. “For starters, no ajwain in any of the dishes tonight.”

With that, the three of us dive into the task. Meher chops vegetables with surgical precision, Devika kneads the dough for the naans, and I focus on the butter chicken, feeling a little less alone with my best friends.

“Remember Devika’s first rasoi here at this house?” I suddenly ask, unable to hold back my grin as memories of that day rush back to my mind. “When she thought she could handle preparing fifty people’s worth of Moong Dal Halwa all by herself?”

Both Meher and Devika burst into laughter, their voices filling the kitchen with a sense of warmth and joy.

“Oh, how could we forget!” Meher giggles, wiping a tear of laughter from her eye. “She was sweating bullets that day! The pressure was insane.”

I chuckle, the memory so vivid in my mind. I had been friends with Devika for a few years by then, and that day, she introduced me to her sister-in-law, Meher. It’s funny how life has a way of working things out. Even though I was at the Walia Mansion that day, I never crossed paths with Vishnu, though he lived just here—or rather, in the guesthouse adjacent to the main house. None of us knew back then that he wasn’t just Pratap uncle’s trusted bodyguard, but also his son, born out of wedlock.

“Devika was so nervous that night,” Meher says, leaning against the counter. “And just like you, Simran, she couldn’t muster the courage to tell Dad that she can cook for ten… not fifty.”

Devika groans, shaking her head. “And what did we end up doing? Ordering fromShamsher Sweetsfor everyone and telling them it wasmewho made it!”

I burst into laughter, my stomach already hurting from the sheer hilarity. “Oh my God, yes!”

“I still feel so guilty about it,” Devika admits, though she’s laughing just as much as we are.