Episode 3: The Family Feast

The morning after Arjun's arrival was a flurry of activity in the Malhotra household. The air, usually so peaceful and serene, hummed with a renewed energy. Mrs. Malhotra, radiant with happiness, bustled through the kitchen, a team of staff trailing in her wake. The long-awaited "family feast" was tonight, a grand celebration to officially welcome Arjun home. Ananya, despite the crushing humiliation of the airport and the painful silence of the previous night, found a small flicker of hope in the chaos. This was her chance. Her last chance, perhaps, to show him that she was more than just a name on a marriage certificate.

She had always believed in the power of food, the universal language of love and comfort. For three years, she had cooked, learned, and perfected the recipes of his childhood, guided by Mrs. Malhotra's loving instructions. She had memorized his preferences, the exact balance of spices he liked, the specific way his favorite dessert, Gulab Jamun, should melt in his mouth. Tonight, she would put all of that knowledge to use. She would create a feast that wasn’t just a meal, but a love letter.

"Bhabhi, what are you doing?" Priya asked, her voice full of concern, as she found Ananya painstakingly kneading dough on the kitchen counter. "Let the staff do that. Maa said you should rest."

Ananya looked up, a thin sheen of flour on her cheek. She forced a smile. "No, Priya. I want to do this. This is for Arjun. I want it to be perfect."

Priya’s expression softened. "I know, Bhabhi. But please, don't put so much pressure on yourself. He... he just needs time."

Ananya sighed, her hands never stopping their rhythmic work. "Maybe all he needs is to be reminded of home. Of the things he loves. Maybe he just needs to feel… seen." She didn't say that she, too, needed to feel seen. She needed him to see her, not just as a duty, but as a person who had spent three years caring for his family, waiting for him, and trying to love him.

Throughout the day, the kitchen became Ananya's sanctuary. She orchestrated the preparations with a quiet determination. She supervised the roasting of the chicken for Arjun’s favorite Butter Chicken, ensuring the marinade had just the right amount of ginger and garlic. She personally ground the spices for the fragrant Mutton Rogan Josh, a dish her mother-in-law had told her was Arjun’s ultimate comfort food. The aroma of cardamom, cinnamon, and cloves filled the air, a warm, inviting scent that stood in stark contrast to the coldness she had experienced. She even meticulously rolled the small balls of dough for the Gulab Jamun, frying them to a perfect golden brown before dropping them into the sugary syrup. Each step was a prayer, a silent plea for a future that seemed to be slipping through her fingers.

As evening approached, the dining room was transformed. The long, mahogany table was set with the finest china and crystal glasses, glittering under the soft light of the chandelier. The air was thick with the rich, intoxicating scents of the feast. Ananya, now changed into a stunning dark red saree that shimmered with gold embroidery, stood by the entrance, her heart a frantic butterfly in her chest. She had done her part. Now, it was up to him.

The family gathered, a portrait of wealth and contentment. Mr. Malhotra, looking much healthier and happier, beamed at his son. Mrs. Malhotra, dressed in a beautiful silk saree, held her husband's arm, her eyes full of love for her family. Priya, chic and modern in a designer lehenga, bubbled with excitement. And then, Arjun appeared.

He was in a crisp white kurta-pajama, the traditional wear a stark departure from the sharp suit he wore yesterday. He looked… more approachable. More like the man she had seen in old family photos. Ananya's heart, which had been in a state of suspended animation, gave a hopeful lurch. Maybe tonight would be different.

The meal began. Mr. Malhotra, as was his custom, led the conversation, his voice a low, steady rumble as he spoke about business and the future of the company. Arjun responded with a practiced ease, his mind sharp and his insights valuable. He spoke with his father, laughed with his mother, and teased Priya about her latest adventures. He was engaged, present, and charming.

But he was a different man with her.

Ananya served the food, her hands trembling as she placed the Butter Chicken and Mutton Rogan Josh on his plate. He nodded politely, a small, perfunctory gesture of thanks that felt more like a stranger’s courtesy than a husband’s appreciation. She sat across from him, trying to catch his eye, to offer a smile, to show him that she was a part of this family, too. But his gaze, when it wasn't fixed on his parents, was directed at his plate, or a point just over her shoulder.

"Arjun," Mrs. Malhotra said, her voice gentle, "your wife has cooked everything herself, just for you."

Arjun finally looked at Ananya, and her heart skipped a beat. But his eyes were devoid of warmth. There was no admiration, no affection. Just a blankness that was worse than anger. He offered her a stiff, polite smile. "Thank you, Ananya. It's very good."

His words, meant as a compliment, felt like a final blow. "Very good." It was a phrase you would use for a stranger's cooking, not a wife's, not the effort of three years of lonely anticipation.

Ananya felt the warmth drain from her face. She looked down at her own plate, the vibrant colors of the food now a muted mess. The Butter Chicken, the Mutton Rogan Josh, the Gulab Jamun—all her efforts, all her hopes, had been reduced to a single, detached sentence. The family around her continued to talk and laugh, but Ananya heard none of it. The silence, a familiar companion, had returned, louder than ever.

The dinner ended, the family moved to the living room for coffee, but Ananya felt too exhausted to follow. The facade of normalcy was too heavy to maintain. She quietly slipped away, returning to the now-empty dining room. The remnants of the feast lay on the table, a testament to her failure. She stared at the plate that had been Arjun's, the half-eaten Butter Chicken and the leftover pieces of Rogan Josh. Her food hadn't reached his heart. It hadn't even reached his conscious thought. He had eaten it as if it were just another meal, a necessity, not an act of love.

The Gulab Jamun, his favorite dessert, was untouched. She stood there for a long time, the silence of the room swallowing her whole, the sugary scent of the dessert a bitter, mocking perfume in the air. The hope that had sustained her all day finally crumbled, leaving her with a hollow, aching emptiness. Her last grand gesture, her final, desperate attempt, had failed. She was just the daughter-in-law who had cooked a nice meal. She was not the wife. Not to him.

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