Page 48

Veer is squirming in his crib, his little face scrunched up in discomfort. Without hesitation, I reach down and lift him into my arms, marvelling again at how natural it feels to hold him, even though I’ve only known that he’s mine for a few days. His cries soften at being picked up, but he’s still fussy, squirming against my chest, and I feel a flash of helplessness.

I’ve spent years reading people, sensing and anticipating their needs and moods, always ready to protect them. I can tell when my father is stressed just by the way he holds his shoulders, know when Meher is upset even before she speaks, and can predict potential threats to my family before they materialise. But standing here, holding my son, I feel completely lost. I don’t know what he wants. I don’t know how to comfort him properly, and I don’t know what each cry means.

The realisation hits me hard—I’ve missed so much. Eighteen months of learning his patterns, understanding his needs, witnessing each milestone, watching him grow. Every tiny moment that would have taught me how to be his father slipped past me. I look down at his face, so much like mine, yet softened by Simran’s smile, and feel a deep ache in my chest that’s becoming all too familiar. I have so much to learn about him and so much lost time to make up for as I try to soothe my crying son.

I hold Veer close to my chest, his tiny fingers curled around my thumb, when I notice a movement from the corner of my eye—Simran has followed me into the nursery. She’s doing that thing with her hair, twisting it into a neat bun, as if she’s preparing to take care of Veer.

She walks to the closet and pulls out supplies with the efficiency of someone who’s done this countless times before. When she turns back and approaches us, her arms extending to take Veer, something possessive flares inside me. I instinctively tighten my hold on our son.

“Hand him over, Vishnu,” she says, her voice carrying that authoritative tone she’s developed since becoming a mother.

I lift my chin, meeting her gaze.

“I’m here to spend time with my son. That includes tending to his needs. Just tell me what to do.” The words come out harder than I intended, heavy with the weight of all the lost time and regret.

Her eyes widen.

“You can’t do this, Vishnu. I mean, you—”

“Ican’t?” I cut her off, my arrogance masking the hurt beneath. “I can take care of my son without you, just like you did without me.” The moment the words leave my mouth, I realise how cruel they sound, but I can’t take them back.

A challenging glint appears in her eyes.

“Fine,” she shrugs. “Prove it.” Before I can react, she hurls a fresh diaper at me. I catch it midair, staring down at the thing like it’s a ticking time bomb. Veer lets out a bubbly laugh, clearly finding this entire situation highly entertaining. She threw his diaper at me. And then it clicks. Does Veer need a diaper change? Is that why he is so fussy?

Simran’s lips curl into a knowing smirk.

“What happened? Having second thoughts about changing your son’s smelly diaper? Has all that ego and talk about handling your son without his mother gone out the window?” she taunts.

I shrug, holding the diaper up and examining it before replying to her.

“I can hold my breath for four minutes underwater. How hard can changing a baby’s diaper be?”

The confident smile on Simran’s lips now turns into a full-fledged grin as she steps closer. Her proximity sends an unwelcome shiver down my spine.

“Trust me,” she whispers, her breath tickling my ear, “it’s worse.” She steps back, crossing her arms, waiting.

She’s just scaring me, I know. Ignoring her, I look down at Veer again, who gazes up at me with those innocent, trusting eyes. I lay him down carefully and begin opening his current diaper. The moment I peel back the adhesive tabs, an unholy stench assaults my nostrils, making me want to gag. My eyes water as I stare in horror at the sheer extent of the mess my son has somehow managed to create.

“F*ck—” I stumble back, one hand clamping over my nose, the other still supporting Veer.

The sound of Simran’s laughter echoes through the room, and Veer joins in, clearly thinking this is all amusing.

“That’s why I said you can’t handle him without me,” she says between fits of giggles. “Protecting him is one thing... but changing a diaper is a whole other universe, Mr. Vishnu Pratap Walia.”

I try to formulate a comeback, but all I can manage is a series of coughs. Before I can recover my dignity, Simran steps in, calmly takes over and starts cleaning Veer, keeping him entertained with silly faces and baby talk.

“Who’s Mama’s good boy? Yes, you are! Look at those tiny toes, so clean now!”

As I watch them, something profound and bittersweet unfurls in my chest. I watch her, my eyes tracing her every move, captivated by how effortlessly she does all this. There’s a grace in her actions—a deep, motherly instinct that comes so naturally to her. And despite all the threats I made about taking Veer from her, a part of me realises I never could do that. Watching her with our son, I know that Veer needs her as much as he needs me. I may not forgive Simran that easily for what she has done to me, but Veer deserves the love of both his parents, working together to protect and nurture him.

She cleans him with practiced ease, cooing and giggling along with him, and within moments, Veer is all cleaned up and ready, flashing his innocent little smile at me as if to rub it in. Simran finishes up with a final flourish, securing the fresh nappy and planting a kiss on Veer’s belly.

I make a silent promise that my son will never know the pain of choosing between his parents. We may be broken, Simran and I, but for Veer, we will find a way to be whole.

Simran glances up, catches me staring, and she pauses, her laughter fading, replaced by something much softer. A beat of silence stretches between us and I clear my throat, breaking the tension.

“Don’t get used to winning,” I mutter, pretending to brush off what happened.