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Raichand Villa - Two Days Later

It was pizza party day—the one Nandini had quietly looked forward to all week, even if she pretended otherwise, and the one her friends were far too excited about. The buzz of laughter and excited chatter was only moments away, but for now, she was in her grandfather’s room, helping him get ready.

Grandpa sat on the edge of the bed, holding out his kurta while Nandini slowly slipped it over his arms. Then, she gently helped him settle back against the pillows.

“You don’t have to listen to him, you know,” he suddenly said.

Nandini paused, a brow raised. “Listen to whom?”

“Mr. Grump. Who else?” He scowled. “He said no extra cheese on my pizza today. Can you imagine that? What kind of cruel punishment is that? A pizza without extra cheese is just... sad bread.”

Nandini chuckled. “Don’t worry. I’ll put extra cheese on yours, Daadu. Promise. Happy now?”

“Ecstatic,” he muttered, but a smug grin gave him away.

As she helped him into his wheelchair, Grandpa’s curiosity suddenly sparked. “So, what pizzas have you ordered, hmm? I hope you didn’t get any of those boring veggie ones.”

Nandini smiled, adjusting the blanket over his legs. “Don’t worry, I’ve got the good stuff. Margherita, tandoori paneer, spicy jalapeño and corn, farmhouse, chicken pepperoni… and yes, some of them are cheese bursts.”

His eyes widened. “Cheese bursts? Then I’m only having that tonight. That’s non-negotiable.”

Nandini gave him a sly look. “And I suppose we’re keeping that little detail between us and not informing the health inspector next door?”

Grandpa chuckled and gave her a subtle nod of approval, clearly delighted by this tiny rebellion. Then his tone shifted, a bit more thoughtful.

“I’ll admit... I thought he’d give up. I thought my tantrums would scare him off, and Shaurya would stop coming after a couple of days.”

Nandini zipped her lips. That thought had crossed her mind too, more than once. But he hadn’t left.

“All week,” Grandpa continued, shaking his head as if surprised, “he’s been here. Like a shadow. An annoyingly persistent one at that. Reading newspapers, bringing his exercise plans, giving those awful healthy snack suggestions...”

She laughed quietly, adjusting his shawl.

“But the thing is...” he went on, with the tone of someone reluctantly giving credit where it was due, “this stupid exercise regime of his... it might actually be working. I can feel a difference. My leg’s not throbbing as much anymore.”

“I also heard you told Lakshmi Aunty that he gives a pretty decent arm massage,” she teased.

Grandpa made a face and waved his hand dismissively. “That’s between me and Lakshmi. And maybe... he still thinks he’s responsible for my fall. I never exactly corrected that bit.”

“You mean the lie you spun to get sympathy and attention?” she said, rolling her eyes.

He shrugged, unapologetic.

Once she wheeled him out of the room and down the hallway, he looked towards the garden. “Take me to the mango tree,” he said suddenly. “Let me sit there a while before the house gets filled with loud youngsters.”

Without a word, she rolled him out to the verandah, guiding him gently over the threshold and onto the stone pathway that led to the old mango tree. It stood tall and wild, its branches stretching into the evening sky like an aging monarch.

She helped him settle beneath it, adjusting his cushion, and was about to head back when he caught her hand.

“Don’t forget my cheese burst pizza,” he reminded, his eyes filled with joy.

She gave his hand a quick squeeze and then a mock salute. “On it, sir.”

As she walked back towards the villa, the doorbell rang. Her friends had started to arrive. The laughter she’d missed in the house was about to return.

Meanwhile, Grandpa sat under the tree, looking at the tangled branches above him. The ground around him was strewn with fallen leaves and half-ripened mangoes, and though he would never admit it aloud, the neighbour had a point. Itwasa bit much.

He sighed reluctantly and asked Lakshmi to bring his phone. When she returned with it, he dialled a familiar number.