Chapter 50: Chapter 47- Family Saga

Mahir's pov-

It's midnight, and where am I? The kitchen.

Why? Because my dear dadi, in all her infinite wisdom and love for torturing her descendants, has decided that my wife—should prepare 56 dishes. Alone. I repeat, fifty-six! Does she think Siara is some kind of magical kitchen fairy? Absolutely not. She’s exhausted from today's chaos, and there’s no way I’m letting her go through this torture. Not happening.

So here I am, ready to take matters into my own hands. The only problem? I have the cooking skills of a rock.

I took a deep breath. I can do this. I’m a Sehgal. I’ve closed billion-dollar deals, handled ruthless enemies, and even survived Siara’s death glare. How hard can cooking be?

I step inside, the land of unknown horrors, armed with exactly zero experience. The stove looks menacing. The fridge hums ominously, the pressure cooker looks like it has anger issues, and the knives glint under the light, probably whispering, "Let's see how badly you mess up, buddy."

Alright, Mahir, time to strategize. What should I start with? I picked up my phone and did the most logical thing. I opened YouTube.

Search: How to cook like a Michelin star chef in a few hours.

…Okay, that was too ambitious. Let’s tone it down.

Search: Easy recipes for beginners.

Search: Easy recipes for husbands who might burn the kitchen.

Much better. I find a video with a cheerful lady who says, "Even a child can cook this!" Perfect. That means I have a 40% chance of success.

I decide to start with halwa. Simple, right? Mix, stir, cook. How hard can it be?

Turns out, very.

Step one: Heat ghee.

Sounds easy enough. Except ghee heats up too fast and now my pan looks like it's hosting a small bonfire.

Step two: Add sooji.

I pour it in, and suddenly, boom—a dramatic splash sends some flying into my hair. I blink. Am I under attack?

Step three: Stir continuously.

The lady on YouTube is gracefully stirring with a soft smile. Meanwhile, I'm battling this halwa like it personally offended me. It clumps together in defiance. I swear it’s glaring at me.

Step four: Add sugar and water.

Okay, I do that, but the moment I pour the water—sizzle. A loud hiss, a splash, and now my shirt is wearing half the halwa.

I step back, staring at the pan. The halwa stares back. And I'm sure soon Siara will also stare back like this.

I glance at my phone again. The cheerful cooking lady is now saying, "If you’re struggling, just remember, cooking is about love!"

Lady, at this rate, I might divorce the kitchen.

This is already a disaster, but I have to do it. There is no other option. Giving up is not in my dictionary and I'm doing it for Siara. I quickly wipe my face with the least-stained part of my shirt and turn to the next task—potatoes. You can't go wrong with potatoes. You just boil them. Simple.

I put them in the cooker, added water, and proudly place the lid on. With a victorious smirk, I turn the heat on high. Chef Mahir is in action.

Now, onto the dough for puris. I roll up my sleeves and pour flour into a bowl. How hard can kneading be? Just mix flour and water, right? No big deal.

Except... I might have poured too much water. Now it looks like flour soup.

I panic and add more flour. Now it's a dry mess.

More water.

Too sticky.

More flour.

Too dry.

Now my hands are caked in dough, my shirt has patches of white, and I look like I just walked out of a bakery explosion.

I sigh, wiping sweat from my forehead with my arm. Mistake. Now my forehead is dusted with flour, and I officially look like a ghost.

Great.

The pressure cooker suddenly whistles loudly. And then again. And then again. Why is it whistling so much? I stare at it. It stares back.

Wait… was I supposed to count the whistles? I Panicked and run to the stove, but before I can do anything—

BOOM.

The lid flies up a little before settling back. Steam shoots out aggressively. My soul briefly leaves my body.

I quickly turn off the stove and back away, hands up like I’m negotiating with a bomb squad. When the pressure settles, I hesitantly open the lid and poke a potato.

Mushy. Overcooked. Completely destroyed.

Fantastic. Just fantastic.

I shake my head. No time for grief. Moving on.

I somehow manage to roll out the dough into something resembling circles (if you squint really hard). I heat up the oil for frying and drop the first puri in.

It puffs up perfectly. I stare, amazed. My first success. This is it. I am unstoppable.

Next puri.

Drops in.

Oil splashes.

I jump back, yelping. A tiny drop lands on my arm, and I let out a dramatic gasp. The oil is plotting against me.

I grab a spatula like a weapon, prepared for battle. Carefully, I try again, but now I’m flipping the puris like they’re dangerous creatures that might attack me.

One lands on the floor.

I stare at it. The floor stares back.

Somehow, by what I can only describe as divine intervention or sheer dumb luck, I managed to put together a few dishes. Whether they were edible or classified as biohazards was yet to be determined. I was in the middle of roasting nuts—very professionally, might I add—when my gaze landed on the door.

I froze. Shivay stood there, half-asleep, staring at me like I had just committed the ultimate crime against humanity.

Wow. Now, on top of ruining half the kitchen, I had to endure this humiliation too.

I was about to throw a casual ‘go back to sleep’ when I realized something. Shivay wasn’t alone. One by one, every single person in this house (except the elders, thank god) shuffled inside as if I was a rare alien species they were observing. Even Avi, who was rubbing his eyes and squinting at the disaster I had created.

Divya, of course, was the first to react.

She dramatically placed a hand over her heart. "Bhai… we thought only we all love our bhabhi so we came to cook on her behalf but clearly, you’re the president of her fan club. Look at this devotion! The great Mahir Sehgal, standing in a battlefield of flour,"

Kabir, who had already pulled out his phone, was recording the scene. "Live footage of Mahir Sehgal losing his dignity in real-time. This will go in the Sehgal history books."

I groaned. "Get out. All of you."

Shivay, still half-asleep, rubbed his eyes. "Am I dreaming, or is bhai actually standing in the middle of the kitchen looking like he just fought a war with the flour?"

Avi tilted his head. "I think the flour won."

Avya pointed at the counter. "Bhai one genuine question. Are those puris… or prehistoric fossils?"

I grabbed the nearest kitchen towel and threw it at her. "Say one more word, and you’re cooking the rest of this yourself."

She ducked, laughing. "No thanks. I like my food non-toxic."

Mahi peeked into a pot and gagged. "What is this? A new kind of soup? Or a potion to summon ghosts?"

"It’s dal," I said through gritted teeth.

Kabir, who had now zoomed in with his camera, whispered like a documentary narrator, "And here, we see the rarest sight of all—a Sehgal man attempting to cook. Scientists are still trying to understand what possessed him."

Kavya walked over to the pot of halwa, took one look, and placed a protective hand over her belly. "Bhai, even my baby is saying no to eat this."

I sighed. "Then tell your baby to sleep instead of joining the rest of you in making fun of me."

Devansh laughed. "We came to help Bhabhi, but never knew we'd meet you here instead. What an unexpected disaster."

Shivay, still half-asleep but suddenly feeling important, clapped his hands like he was the finalist of MasterChef. "Alright guys, we have the night to ourselves. So let’s start cracking the dishes—sorry, cooking."

One by one, they all grabbed aprons like they were about to revolutionize the culinary world. I doubted any of them knew even one percent of the struggle I had been through till now.

Kabir pulled out his phone and searched for recipes. "Mahi, what is a chhonk? Do we need one?"

Mahi peeked at the screen. "Sounds dangerous. Avoid it."

Meanwhile, I continued with my portion, pretending not to notice the absolute circus going on around me. That is, until I heard a loud thud.

I turned around. There she was—Divya—not on the floor this time, surprisingly. Instead, a huge container had landed squarely on her head, thanks to Shivay’s incredible butterfingers.

Divya dramatically removed the container and glared at Shivay. "Are you trying to eliminate me? Just say it, don’t be subtle!"

Shivay blinked. "It slipped!"

Myra snorted. "Yeah, like your brain did at birth."

Kabir, still scrolling through recipes, frowned. "Guys, I think we need something called 'tadka.' This lady is saying it again and again. Should I order it on Amazon?"

Avi, who was already judging Kabir’s existence, slowly lifted his head and shook it like a disappointed father. "Bro… she died during the Ramayana."

Well how could shivay stay behind, he seriously added "Not died bro, she was killed"

Kabir, now officially panicking, clutched his chest. "THEN WHY IS THIS LADY ASKING FOR HER IN A COOKING VIDEO?! IS THIS A SUMMONING SPELL?!"

Mahi nearly fell off her stool laughing. "Kabir, you clown, tadka is a cooking technique, not a person!"

Shivay deadpanned, "Just put 'soul of tadka' in the search bar and let us know if a ghost shows up at the door."

Divya, now mostly clean from her flour explosion, picked up some ladoo mixture and effortlessly rolled a not at all perfect sphere. Devansh tried next. His ladoo was somewhat round, but it looked like it had been run over by a truck.

Avi, on the other hand, decided to ignore the rules entirely and smashed the mixture together like a stress ball.

Devansh gasped. "Avi. That’s not a ladoo. That’s a weapon."

Avi proudly held up his creation. "This ladoo can break bones just like my sister." Shivay picked it up and dropped it on the counter. It didn’t even crack.

Mahi clapped. "Congrats, Avi. You’ve invented the first bulletproof ladoo."

While Kabir just shook his head. "Forget food, we should sell this to the army."

Shivay suddenly gasped, "WAIT. Bua is coming tomorrow, right?" We all nodded suspiciously.

A slow, wicked grin spread across his face. "Amazing. I’m preparing a special platter just for her. And this ladoo…" He dramatically held up Avi’s rock-hard creation like a sacred artifact. "…will be the star dish."

Kavya cackled. "Shivay, are you trying to eliminate Bua?"

Shivay placed a hand on his heart. "Of course not. I’m simply testing her jaw strength. Oh my God, imagine if she takes a bite and her tooth flies out."

Myra collapsed against the counter. "Bhai, we’re going to hell."

I groaned, rubbing my temples. This was supposed to be a serious mission—cook, survive, and make sure Siara doesn't murder me for letting her rest. But no. These lunatics had turned my kitchen into a full-fledged comedy circus.

The counter looked like a war zone, flour floated in the air like post-apocalyptic ash, and somewhere in the chaos, a puri had somehow landed on the ceiling. I didn’t even want to know how.

Kabir stared at it with deep concentration. "Should we… call for backup?" While Avi squinted. "Like who? NASA? Because that puri is in orbit now."

Shivay, ever the genius, grabbed a rolling pin. "Stand back. I got this."

Before anyone could stop him, he launched the rolling pin like a javelin. It missed the puri entirely but did not miss the kitchen shelf, which shook violently before knocking over a jar of turmeric powder. The bright yellow powder exploded all over... Of course divya. She stood there, blinking, now looking like a very disappointed sunflower.

Meanwhile, Avi—who had been watching all this while eating a burnt chapati like it was popcorn—sighed dramatically. "At this point, I feel like we should be on the menu tomorrow. Dii is going to roast us anyway."

Kabir nodded. "I'll just marinate myself now. Any seasoning preferences?"

I looked around at the absolute circus that had unfolded. It was 4 AM, we still had a lot to cook, and at this rate, there was a very real possibility we’d end up serving emergency room bills instead of food.

I was focused on my work with the utmost concentration, determined to salvage whatever dignity I had left in this kitchen disaster. But suddenly there was just....silence.

A silence so thick, so absolute, that even the kitchen utensils seemed to hold their breath. Something was very wrong.

Slowly, as if sensing impending doom, I lifted my eyes. And there she was.  My lovely wife. Siara stood at the entrance, arms crossed, eyes scanning the disaster zone with the precision of a crime scene investigator. Her glare—sharp enough to slice through steel—landed on me first. Then, one by one, it swept over the rest of my equally guilty co-conspirators.

Good. I wasn't the only one.

She blinks. Once. Twice. The kind of slow, calculating blink that made my survival instincts kick in. Then, with all the elegance of a queen, she took a single step forward And that’s when fate—normally Divya's greatest enemy—decided that today, it had other plans.

The puri.

The same cursed puri that had somehow defied gravity and gotten stuck to the ceiling. It chose this exact moment to give up on life. And land directly on Siara’s head.

For a second, no one moved. No one breathed. Siara, my terrifyingly beautiful wife, stood perfectly still, an entire puri balanced on her head like some kind of culinary crown.

Avi choked first. A strangled, dying-walrus kind of sound. Kabir, the idiot, snorted while Shivay wheezed so hard he had to hold onto the counter.

Divya? Oh, she collapsed behind the kitchen island, her shoulders shaking violently as she tried—and failed—to contain her laughter.

I?  I valued my life. So I did what any smart man would do. I straightened up, put on my most serious expression, and said, “It suits you.”

With the precision of a trained assassin, she plucked the puri off her head, weighed it in her hand like a weapon… and launched it straight at my face.

Direct hit. Right between my eyes. Alright I got it, she didn't like my commitment.

She sighed, grabbed a handful of tissue papers, and walked over to our brand-new sunflower—Divya—who was still standing there, proudly drenched in turmeric like she was auditioning for a Holi commercial.

She wiped her face first, muttering something about regretting all her life choices, before turning to Avi whose head was still dripping with raw egg yolk thanks to shivay’s earlier experiment.

With the patience of a saint (or maybe an executioner), she reached up and tried to clean his hair, but the egg had other plans. It refused to cooperate, sliding down his forehead in the most disgusting way possible.

Siara hissed through gritted teeth, "What. Is. This?"

Shivay, ever the genius, answered seriously, "Protein treatment."

Siara closed her eyes. Took a deep breath. And then, in a voice so calm it was terrifying, asked, "Anything else I should know before I start committing crimes?"

Shivay couldn't resist anymore,"Kavya bhabhi, put your baby in sleep mode, bhabhi is about to do something evil"

Meanwhile, Myra, being the adorable traitor she was, stepped forward with big, round, innocent eyes, holding her ears like a guilty schoolchild. "Sorry bhabhi, we just wanted to help you…"

Siara slowly turned to her, narrowed her eyes, and said in a sickeningly sweet tone, "You sweet little liar. What part of this—" she gestured dramatically to the war zone of a kitchen, "looks like help?!"

Kabir snorted. "Bhabhi, we’re here for moral destruction—I mean support."

Siara’s eyes landed on a golden platter sitting suspiciously in the corner. Her brows furrowed as she took a step closer, analyzing it like it was an unidentified species. "What. Is. This?" she asked, each word slow and full of danger.

Shivay, the absolute idiot, puffed up with pride and announced, "That’s my special creation for Buaji!"

He gestured to the items like a fancy waiter introducing a five-star meal. "Behold! Bitter gourd paratha, bulletproof ladoo, brinjal roll, and—wait for it—drumstick halwa!"

Siara blinked. "Drumstick halwa?"

Devansh made a gagging noise and clapped Shivay’s back. "If Buaji survives this meal, she deserves an award."

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It was finally over. The ultimate cooking challenge. After an entire night of pure chaos, destruction, and more near-death experiences than any kitchen should ever witness, we had somehow—against all odds—managed to complete all the dishes.

The kitchen, which had previously looked like a crime scene, was now spotless. Because Siara made sure of it. No one was allowed to escape until every last trace of flour, oil, and broken dreams was scrubbed away.

Now, as we dragged our feet toward our rooms, we looked like war survivors. Avi had egg still crusted in his hair, Kabir's apron was more burnt than some of the food he made, and shivay... well, shivay was muttering something about being haunted by floating puris.

Devansh, voice hoarse from exhaustion, mumbled, "Bhai... if anyone asks me to step into a kitchen again, I’ll file a case for mental harassment."

Divya, practically sleepwalking, added, "From now on, leave me out of your plans. Acha karne jati hu kaand ho jata h." While Mahi wiped her face tiredly. "I feel like I’ve lived three lifetimes in one night."

But however drained, exhausted, and borderline traumatized we were... there was one undeniable fact—We had done it. For Siara.