Avantika Deshpande
Chapter 1: The Almond Milk Allegation
“Sunitaaaa!”
The shrillness of the voice pierced through three closed doors, one bathroom exhaust, and the sacred morning silence of the apartment.
Sunita Bai didn’t flinch. She was elbow-deep in a stubborn sink full of greasy kadhi bowls. With the reflexes of someone who’d survived three decades of joint families and four generations of soap dramas, she calmly wiped her hands on her pallu and sauntered toward the battlefield—aka the living room.
There, Mrs. Riya Mehta stood—yoga pants tighter than her tolerance, holding a carton of almond milk like it was a murder weapon.
“You drank this, didn’t you?” she accused, waving the carton as though it would confess.
Sunita blinked. “I drank your what?”
“My almond milk, Sunita! It was full yesterday. Now it’s half! Do you think I don’t notice these things?”
Sunita crossed her arms, matching her malkin’s dramatic energy like a seasoned theatre actress. “Madam, I drink buffalo milk. The one with cream floating on top like national pride. This? This is nut juice.”
“It’s not nut juice. It’s a lifestyle choice!” Mrs. Mehta shot back, cheeks redder than her yoga mat. “Do you even know how expensive this is?”
Sunita squinted at the label. “Rs. 450 for one litre? Arre baba, even cough syrup is cheaper and tastes better!”
Mrs. Mehta placed the carton down with the tenderness of a mother placing her child to bed. “Sunita, I just want my kitchen to run smoothly. You have your section—real milk, real spices, real everything. I have mine—plant-based, lactose-free, cruelty-free, and mood-board-approved.”
Sunita smirked. “Only thing cruel here is your quinoa salad, Madam.”
From the corner, the dog, Toffee, farted in solidarity and rolled over. Neither woman acknowledged him. They had bigger wars to fight.
Riya grabbed a sticky note from her Zen Vibes Only notepad and scribbled “DO NOT TOUCH” in block letters. She slapped it on the almond milk.
Sunita raised an eyebrow. “Next time I’ll label the mop ‘DO NOT SWEEP.’ Let’s see how long this system works.”
“You’re being difficult,” Riya muttered, pulling out her phone.
“And you’re being fancy,” Sunita shot back, marching back to the kitchen. “Call me when your oat flour decides to behave.”
Back in the kitchen, Sunita opened the fridge and looked at the milk shelf. Almond milk. Oat milk. Soy milk. Cashew milk. She shook her head. “So many nuts, no logic.”
Still grumbling, she prepared the tea—real tea with cardamom and boiled full-fat milk. Then, with a sparkle of rebellion in her eyes, she made an extra cup and kept it beside the almond milk in the fridge, labeled “DESI POWER JUICE – Handle With Respect.”
At precisely 9:30 a.m., the doorbell rang. Kitty party aunty No. 3 had arrived, draped in chiffon and opinions. Riya switched moods instantly.
“Sunita, please keep the chia pudding out. And no garlic smells! Also light the vanilla-scented candle—ambience, ambience!”
Sunita rolled her eyes so hard she nearly saw her past life. “Yes, yes, your vanilla dreams are safe.”
As Riya pranced to greet her guest, Sunita dramatically lit the candle with the flair of a temple priest and muttered, “This vanilla smells like heartbreak and shampoo.”
Just then, another crisis. From the dining table: “Sunitaaaa! There’s no pink Himalayan salt in the hummus!”
Sunita yelled back, “Himalayan mountain collapsed from shock.”
After the party, Riya slumped onto the couch, defeated by compliments, sugar-free desserts, and social anxiety. Sunita handed her a glass of water, pausing just enough for theatrical effect.
“Filtered. Not emotionally, just by the machine,” she said.
They both chuckled—begrudgingly.
Later that evening, as Toffee slept under the table and the city buzzed with evening honks and pressure cooker whistles, Riya sat scrolling through Instagram, pouting at her latest yoga reel that got only 27 likes.
Sunita sat beside her, peeling garlic like a therapist on call.
“Do you think I’m… too much?” Riya asked suddenly.
Sunita looked up. “Too much what? Noise? Drama? Parsley?”
“Everything,” Riya sighed. “I’m always trying to be this perfect person. Almond milk, fitness, vegan bhel…”
Sunita smiled. “Madam, if you were perfect, you wouldn’t need me. And I… I’d get bored.”
Riya laughed. The honest kind.
“You really didn’t drink the almond milk?” she asked again, softly.
Sunita placed her hand on her chest. “Swear on Kareena Kapoor’s cheekbones—I did not.”
“Then who did?” Riya wondered aloud.
At that exact moment, Toffee yawned. His mouth was suspiciously white and foamy.
Sunita pointed. “There’s your thief. He was licking the leftover almond cereal bowl this morning.”
They both stared at the dog.
Riya looked horrified. “He’s not even lactose-tolerant!”
“Neither are you,” Sunita whispered.
That night, a new label appeared in the fridge.
“Almond Milk: For Malkin and Toffee Only. Bai Sworn Innocent.”
And under it, a smaller one in red pen:
“Desi Power Juice
— Try it once, leave your chakras spinning.”
Bai and Malkin Inc. was unofficially born.
Chapter 2: Dhokla Gone Rogue
It started, as most kitchen disasters do, with misplaced confidence.
Mrs. Mehta had decided to host her monthly kitty party with a twist. No samosas. No jalebis. This time, she would present “Guilt-Free Gujarati Gourmet”—low-carb, gluten-free, air-fried fusion food. The crown jewel? A keto-friendly dhokla.
“Sunita,” she declared, holding a YouTube tutorial like a legal document, “today we shall attempt culinary brilliance.”
Sunita, wielding her spatula like a wand of realism, frowned. “Madam, dhokla is already fine. It doesn’t need therapy.”
“But this is not just any dhokla,” Riya said, her eyes gleaming with ambition and chia seed confidence. “It’s made with almond flour, flaxseeds, and activated mustard essence.”
Sunita blinked. “What’s that? Sounds like a potion from Harry Potter and the Protein Powder of Doom.”
Nonetheless, she obeyed orders. She ground the flaxseeds, strained the almond flour, and even lined the steamer tray with a parchment sheet that smelled suspiciously like lavender-scented drawer paper.
As the batter steamed, the apartment filled with a strange aroma—like a cross between a gym locker and a Gujarati wedding.
“Is it supposed to smell like this?” Sunita asked, eyeing the pan as though it might erupt.
“Beauty takes time,” Mrs. Mehta said confidently, her yoga tights matching the saffron hue of the dhokla.
When the bell rang at noon, the guests arrived in glittering sarees and calorie-counting smiles. There was Shalini with her pearl clutch, Anita with her intermittent fasting wisdom, and Rinku who was already asking if the water was alkaline.
The table was set like an Instagram dream—tiny flags reading “Organic,” “Farm to Fork,” and “Namaste, Not Nasty.” The fusion dhokla sat proudly at the center, cut into geometrically perfect squares, sprinkled with pomegranate and microgreens like confetti on a corporate powerpoint.
Sunita hid in the kitchen, eavesdropping with the help of her best friend—the open sliding door.
“Oh Riya, this looks divine!” cooed Shalini.
“So chic,” added Anita, lifting a square to her mouth.
And then—chaos.
Shalini’s eyes widened.
Anita coughed.
Rinku screamed, “WATER!”
One by one, the guests reached for their purses, fans, and emergency mints. The fusion dhokla had struck.
Mrs. Mehta was frozen in horror. “What happened? Is it… spicy?”
Shalini fanned her mouth. “Spicy? My tongue has disintegrated! It feels like I licked lava in a gym sauna!”
Rinku pointed an accusatory finger. “This isn’t dhokla. It’s dhokHELL.”
Mrs. Mehta ran to the kitchen. “Sunita! What did you put in the batter? I said two green chilies!”
Sunita turned, calm as ever. “I put two. Two Rajasthani mirchis from the freezer.”
“Those aren’t green chilies! Those are weapons of mass digestion!” Riya shrieked.
Sunita shrugged. “You wanted fusion. So I fused Gujarat with Jodhpur. Historic partnership.”
Mrs. Mehta slumped onto a stool. “My kitty party will become a viral meme.”
Sunita patted her shoulder. “Viral is good, Madam. Means you’re trending.”
Back in the living room, guests were busy updating their group chat.
Shalini: “Burnt tongue. Betrayed by almond flour.”
Rinku: “Dhokla from hell. RIP to my tastebuds.”
Anita: “Regret is gluten-free too.”
To redeem herself, Mrs. Mehta brought out emergency brownies (baked by Sunita, thank heavens) and a fresh round of “cooling cucumber shots” (basically watery raita in a fancy glass).
Things calmed.
Barely.
Later, after everyone left—some limping, some burping—Mrs. Mehta collapsed on the sofa, still holding a cucumber.
“I wanted to be remembered for breaking stereotypes,” she sighed.
“You will be,” Sunita replied. “As the woman who created chili-infused keto bombs.”
“I should’ve just made samosas,” she mumbled.
Sunita nodded sagely. “Always trust the triangle.”
Then, dramatically, she fetched the leftover dhokla, placed it on the table, and wrote on a note:
“Caution: May cause personality loss.”
They both burst into laughter, the kind that echoed off the glass cabinets and settled somewhere near forgiveness.
From the corner, Toffee eyed the dhokla, licked it once—and ran into the bedroom like a cartoon on fire.
“Even the dog respects fusion now,” Sunita chuckled.
Mrs. Mehta groaned but smiled. “You know, if we ever opened a food truck…”
Sunita jumped in: “We’ll call it Khaati Peeti Bai & Co.. Tagline: Eat at your own risk.”
“Done,” Riya laughed. “And no almond flour. Ever again.”
Chapter 3: Hashtags and Headaches
It was 8:00 a.m., and Mrs. Riya Mehta was already in warrior pose.
Yoga mat unfurled, hair tied in a bun so tight it threatened her third eye, she adjusted the ring light and whispered to herself, “Today’s reel will be it. Sunrise, serenity, and Sun Salutations.”
In the corner, Sunita Bai was busy scrubbing a suspicious turmeric stain off the wall that Riya swore was “a reflection of inner fire” during last week’s lentil experiment.
“Sunita,” Riya called out without breaking pose, “don’t make any noise for the next 20 minutes. I’m filming a mindfulness reel.”
Sunita looked up, alarmed. “Mind full of what?”
“Mindfulness! Quiet. Centered. Aesthetic,” Riya replied, moving to downward dog with the grace of a giraffe in socks.
Sunita snorted softly. “If quiet was your goal, you should try sleeping.”
Camera rolling, Riya inhaled deeply. “Welcome to another morning of movement with Riya… Today, we embrace calm. We honor the self.”
At that precise moment, Sunita’s phone buzzed with a call from her cousin Bunty, whose ringtone was an unholy remix of “Lungi Dance”. The entire house vibrated with bass.
Riya froze mid-cobra. “SUNITA!”
“I told Bunty not to call before noon!” Sunita growled, swiping furiously at the phone. “He wants to borrow the iron again.”
Riya pinched her brow. “Can you—just for today—not ruin the vibe?”
“I am the vibe,” Sunita muttered.
Ten minutes later, as Riya flowed into what she hoped looked like a peaceful tree pose, Sunita entered the frame, completely oblivious, carrying a mop like a javelin.
The camera caught everything: Sunita humming “Bidi Jalai Le” while twirling the mop, sneezing dramatically from the vanilla candle fumes, then bending over to inspect a cockroach carcass with all the grace of an investigative journalist.
“Madam!” she shouted mid-recording. “Your spiritual corner has an expired soul!”
“Get out of the frame!” Riya hissed, half-tree, half-fury.
But the camera had already captured Sunita’s close-up, mid-sneeze, saying, “No amount of lavender can hide a dead cockroach, Malkin.”
The reel was ruined.
Or so Riya thought.
Later that day, while trying to salvage the footage, she accidentally posted the unedited clip.
By evening, her phone buzzed like a pressure cooker on steroids.
Sunita’s face—blurry, expressive, full of indignation—was now circulating in WhatsApp groups, meme pages, and even an Ayurveda-themed Instagram account called “KarmaKleen.”
The caption?
“When your bai is more real than your yoga.”
#DomesticDiva #RealReelsOnly #DesiZen
Within 12 hours, the reel had 22,000 views.
By the next morning: 80,000.
Sunita didn’t even know she was viral until the vegetable vendor said, “Didi, you’re on Insta! You were scolding cockroaches!”
Sunita nearly dropped her bhindi. “What nonsense are you saying?”
Riya, sheepishly, showed her the post.
Sunita watched, horrified and amazed, as her sneeze replayed in slow motion with lo-fi music in the background.
“They made me look like some cleaning goddess,” she said.
“You kind of are,” Riya replied, sipping her green tea with forced nonchalance.
For a second, Sunita considered being angry. But then she noticed the comments.
“Bai is the main character.”
“She speaks truths we fear.”
“Protect her at all costs.”
One even wrote, “Can we get more of Sunita Bai? She’s the real influencer.”
Sunita leaned back on the kitchen stool and grinned. “So now what? Do I get endorsement deals for mops and phenyl?”
Riya laughed. “I mean… maybe.”
For the next few days, Riya’s followers doubled. All thanks to the unfiltered, unapologetic, garlic-scented charm of Sunita Bai.
Brands began sliding into DMs with collab offers:
“Hi, can your domestic help model our organic floor cleaner?”
“Would Sunita be open to reviewing our holistic desi spice box?”
“She’s iconic.”
Sunita took it all in stride. “I’ve been an icon since 2003. Just no one filmed it.”
One morning, a parcel arrived.
Riya opened it to find a hand-written note and a pair of branded rubber gloves.
“To the queen of candor. Please feature these in your next reel. With love, CleanZen.”
Sunita examined the gloves. “They smell like ambition.”
Then, dramatically, she pulled them on and posed near the sink, one eyebrow raised like a Bollywood villainess. Riya burst out laughing and snapped a photo.
That photo alone got 10,000 likes.
At dinner that night, as they sat eating dal chawal together like two women from vastly different WhatsApp groups, Riya said, “You know what, Sunita? I think we’re becoming a brand.”
Sunita nodded. “Let’s name it Bai and Malkin Inc. Tagline: Cleaning messes—yours, mine, and existential.”
They clinked steel tumblers like wine glasses and toasted to unexpected fame, mild chaos, and the unmatched power of a sneeze.
Chapter 4: Where’s the Ring?
It was a calm Thursday morning. The kind of morning where the washing machine hummed a bhajan, the gas hissed gently under the tea pot, and Sunita was humming “Tera Mujhse Hai Pehle Ka Naata Koi” while scrubbing yesterday’s lasagna off a Pyrex tray that had seen better days.
Then came the scream.
A banshee-level, throat-burning, glass-shattering kind of scream.
“MY RING!”
Sunita dropped the tray. It landed with a dramatic clang and a bit of cheese flew onto Toffee’s nose, who promptly licked it like it was caviar.
She rushed to the bedroom, breathless. “Who died?”
Riya Mehta was pacing in circles, one hand on her forehead, the other pointing frantically at the dressing table like it had personally betrayed her.
“My ring! My grandmother’s ring! The heirloom diamond one! It was right there!”
Sunita looked at the empty velvet box. “Are you sure?”
“YES! It was next to my perfume! The one that smells like jasmine and insecurity!”
Sunita scanned the room. “Well, unless the diamond grew legs or your perfume became radioactive, we have a problem.”
The Malkin was spiraling. “I wore it yesterday for that picture. Remember? The ‘throwback elegance’ reel?”
Sunita nodded. “The one with the antique filter and ten hashtags.”
“Yes! That one! I took it off right after and kept it in this box!”
“Maybe the dog took it,” Sunita suggested, only half-joking.
Riya glared. “Toffee is a vegan now. He wouldn’t eat diamonds.”
Toffee yawned and burped softly.
Within 30 minutes, the building was buzzing with gossip. It wasn’t just about a lost ring anymore—it was a mystery. A suspense thriller with zero suspects and one very anxious Malkin.
Riya, still in a silk robe, called for reinforcements.
Enter Aunty Gaitonde, floor secretary, self-proclaimed Sherlock Holmes, and a devotee of both turmeric face packs and conspiracy theories.
She arrived armed—with a magnifying glass and a diary labeled “Observations: Confidential.”
“Where was it last seen?” she asked, scanning the room like a detective on an Ekta Kapoor set.
Riya pointed helplessly at the empty box.
Aunty Gaitonde bent down, sniffed, and then looked around suspiciously. Her eyes landed on Sunita.
“Bai, you were here when the ring vanished?”
Sunita folded her arms. “Madam, I was here when Riya Madam was still calling brinjal ‘aubergine’. I didn’t touch your ring.”
“I didn’t say you did,” Gaitonde said with a wink that screamed I definitely think you did.
Sunita rolled her eyes and stormed into the kitchen.
“I clean this place like a temple and now I’m being treated like a temple thief,” she muttered.
Meanwhile, Aunty Gaitonde launched a full investigation. She checked under cushions, inside jars, beneath the yoga mat (where she found a dried almond, which she pocketed with pride), and even accused Toffee of being a “furry decoy.”
Three hours passed.
Riya was exhausted, Gaitonde was disappointed, and Sunita had made two cups of rage-filled chai.
Then came the twist.
Toffee, ever the opportunist, was sniffing behind the curtain. Suddenly he began pawing at something. Sunita noticed.
“Dog’s found something!” she called out.
Everyone gathered as Toffee triumphantly dropped… a sparkling, slightly saliva-soaked diamond ring onto the floor.
There was a collective gasp.
Riya picked it up, horrified and relieved. “It’s wet!”
“Congratulations. Your family heirloom has now been blessed with canine love,” Sunita said, smirking.
“But how did it get there?” Riya asked, wiping it with her dupatta.
Sunita answered, arms crossed. “Remember yesterday, you flung your robe in drama because your smoothie wasn’t purple enough?”
Riya nodded slowly.
“And the ring flew off your finger with the robe. I saw Toffee chewing something shiny later, but thought it was another one of his plastic toys.”
Aunty Gaitonde, defeated, muttered something about “false alarms” and quietly left, taking her almond with her.
That evening, Riya placed the ring back in the box and taped the box shut. Then added a post-it: “No drama near ring. Or robe.”
Sunita stood at the door, arms full of laundry, and grinned. “Next time, I’ll just call CID before you scream.”
“Next time,” Riya replied, laughing, “I’ll just hide the ring inside the quinoa jar. No one ever opens that.”
Sunita nodded. “Not even the ghosts.”
And with that, balance was restored in the house of Bai and Malkin Inc.—at least until the next crisis.
Chapter 5: Malkin’s MIL & the Mystery Tiffin
Sunita knew something was wrong the moment she saw the doormat had been changed.
Gone was the beige “Live. Laugh. Lounge.” rug that Riya Mehta swore by. In its place was a stern maroon mat with gold embroidery and the words: “SANSKAR. SHANTI. SWAGAT.”
Sunita squinted. “Yeh to… MIL vibes.”
Her suspicions were confirmed two seconds later when the lift door dinged and out stepped Mrs. Shanta Mehta, Riya’s mother-in-law, luggage in tow, bindi sharper than most knives, and the aura of a retired principal with unfinished business.
Riya greeted her with the same enthusiasm one reserves for spinach smoothies—polite but pained.
“Mummyji! You came early!”
Mrs. Mehta Senior patted her shoulder with a firm thump. “It’s not early, Riya. It’s on time. Some of us don’t follow Instagram Standard Time.”
Sunita bit her tongue to stop herself from clapping.
From that moment, the apartment transformed.
Cushion covers were replaced with hand-embroidered doilies. The electric diffuser was replaced with a camphor bowl. Riya’s carefully curated minimalist décor was buried under brass idols and framed pictures of long-forgotten ancestors.
Riya sulked in corners, sighing at her green smoothies while Sunita watched the drama unfold like a daily soap come alive.
The real twist came on Day 2.
As Sunita prepared breakfast, MIL sauntered into the kitchen.
“Beta,” she said to Sunita, “do you know how to make masala thepla with fresh methi?”
Sunita lit up. “Of course, Auntyji! My thepla is famous on two WhatsApp groups and one railway canteen!”
Thus began a most unlikely alliance.
While Riya did Zoom yoga in the living room with wireless earbuds and passive aggression, Sunita and MIL were in the kitchen making tiffins.
By Day 3, they had created a routine.
Morning chai together.
Afternoon gossip about ‘that new Bengali aunty from Flat 8B.’
Evening debates over whether paneer should be grated or cubed.
Riya walked into the kitchen one afternoon to see Sunita and MIL sharing pickles and secrets over freshly fried bhajiyas.
“I didn’t know you made bhajiyas,” Riya muttered.
MIL smiled. “She doesn’t make them for everyone.”
Sunita winked.
Riya’s eyes narrowed. A storm was brewing.
Later that evening, the final blow came.
Sunita presented the dinner—aloo rasawala, thepla, and mango chunda, all arranged in a shiny four-tier tiffin box.
Riya frowned. “What’s this?”
“Today’s menu,” MIL replied, sipping buttermilk like royalty. “We’re calling it ‘Shaadi Season Tiffin Service.’”
Riya looked between them. “Wait—what?”
Sunita grinned. “We got two orders already! Flat 10C and 6A. Tired aunties. They say no one makes food like this anymore. So we’re doing a pilot run.”
Riya stared, mouth open. “So now my bai and my MIL are running a food business from my house?”
MIL smiled sweetly. “It’s not your house. It’s our house.”
Sunita whispered, “This is better than ‘Anupamaa.’”
Riya stormed into her room.
Later that night, she sulked with Toffee, who had refused the thepla because he missed almond biscuits.
“I don’t even get breakfast on time anymore,” Riya grumbled.
Toffee whined.
Meanwhile, the tiffin business was booming. Two more orders came in from the nearby yoga studio. One client wrote in a review: “Food tasted like home. My chakras are aligned again.”
Sunita was thriving. MIL was glowing. Riya was imploding.
Finally, on Day 5, Riya burst into the kitchen.
“Enough! I’m taking over dinner tonight.”
Sunita and MIL exchanged glances but nodded.
That evening, Riya cooked. She steamed quinoa, grilled tofu, and made what she called “Buddha bowls.”
She even served it in coconut-shell halves, because aesthetic.
MIL took one bite and politely asked, “Is this meant for humans?”
Sunita coughed loudly into her dupatta.
“I tried,” Riya muttered.
MIL softened. “Beta, no one’s stopping you from being modern. But don’t forget where comfort lies. It’s okay to sprinkle a little ghee in your life.”
Sunita added, “And maybe some jeera too.”
They all laughed—awkward, warm, inevitable.
From that night, dinner became a collaboration.
Riya made fancy salads. MIL added her pickles. Sunita ensured the tempering was correct. And somehow, it all worked.
Later, Sunita muttered as she mopped the floor, “Bai and Malkin Inc. now has a CEO: Saas Unlimited.”
Toffee wagged his tail in agreement, still waiting for someone to remember the almond biscuits.
Chapter 6: The Business of Friendship
The morning began like any other—with the usual background score of honking autos, a boiling kettle, and Mrs. Mehta doing yoga poses while sneakily checking her phone notifications.
But Sunita didn’t show up.
Not at 8:00.
Not at 8:30.
Not even by 9:00, which was her “I’m late because the elevator stopped between floors again” time.
By 9:15, Riya was pacing like a caffeine-deprived squirrel.
She checked her phone. No message.
She opened the front door three times as if Sunita might materialize from thin air.
She even texted:
“All okay? Didn’t get almond milk, don’t worry. Come back.”
No reply.
Panic set in. Not because of the dishes in the sink, or the laundry, or the fact that Toffee had eaten half a flip-flop. But because something felt off.
At 10:00 a.m., the doorbell finally rang.
Riya flung open the door.
There stood Sunita. No pallu. No sarcasm. Just tired eyes and a plastic bag.
“I’ve come to give notice,” she said quietly.
Riya blinked. “Notice? Like… you’re quitting?”
Sunita nodded. “My sister is unwell in Nashik. I’ll need to go for a few weeks. Maybe longer. I can’t say yet.”
There was a long pause.
“Oh,” Riya said, trying not to sound like someone who just got emotionally slapped with a frying pan.
“I packed your steel dabba from yesterday,” Sunita added, placing the bag on the table.
Riya looked at the familiar tiffin. A bit of dal had leaked onto the side. It felt… devastating.
“Will you be okay?” she asked.
Sunita nodded again. “I will be. But… I didn’t want to leave without saying thanks.”
“For what?” Riya asked, genuinely confused.
“For making me famous,” Sunita said with a crooked smile. “For calling me your partner, not just your help. And for almond milk wars, Instagram drama, and letting me win that thepla debate.”
Riya’s throat tightened.
“I’m the one who should thank you,” she whispered. “You cleaned my home and fixed my life while I was busy…posting quotes about balance.”
They stood in silence, the kitchen suddenly too clean, too quiet.
Riya broke it.
“You’ll come back, right?”
Sunita gave a half shrug. “If Nashik doesn’t absorb me into some emotional TV serial, then yes.”
“And if it does?” Riya asked, trying to joke, but her voice cracked.
“Then I’ll send a cousin. She’s loud, laughs like a truck horn, and thinks tofu is a conspiracy. You’ll love her.”
Riya laughed, tears in her eyes. “Not possible.”
Sunita turned to leave, then paused. “Oh, and don’t forget to turn off the gas when you make chai. Last time it boiled like a volcano.”
“I remember,” Riya smiled. “You threatened to write ‘Chai Crimes’ in red lipstick on the fridge.”
As the door closed behind her, Riya stood for a long time, holding the tiffin, blinking hard.
For the first time in weeks, Toffee didn’t bark or steal a sock. He just sat beside her, tail still
Three weeks later, an Instagram notification popped up.
@bai_and_malkin_inc tagged you in a video.
Riya clicked.
It was a clip of Sunita standing in a Nashik field, holding a rolling pin like a mic.
“Hello from exile!” she said dramatically. “Riya Madam, I made thepla here and they’re calling me ‘Methi Queen of Ward No. 3.’ Also, I taught my niece how to mop with one hand while holding gossip in the other. She’s ready for you.”
The video ended with her winking. “See you soon, Malkin.”
Riya smiled so wide it hurt.
A minute later, she uploaded her own reel.
“Guess who’s coming back? Our co-founder, chaos-bringer, and certified spice level expert. Bai and Malkin Inc. is back in business, people!”
Caption:
Friendship. Filter-free. Dishwasher optional.
#BaiIsBack #KitchenChronicles #DesiSoulmates
When Sunita returned two weeks later, the first thing she said was, “Where’s my mop? It better not be retired.”
Riya handed it over like a trophy. “It missed you.”
And just like that, things went back to normal—if you could call almond milk thefts, mystery tiffins, yoga fails, and endless bickering “normal.”
They weren’t just employer and employee anymore.
They were business partners in life’s biggest venture: Unexpected Friendship Incorporated.
And the kitchen, once again, was full of laughter, cinnamon, and enough spice to scandalize a saint.
THE END
