If yesterday I told you about Pitaa—glass rooms, wall clocks, and grown-ups who suddenly start conserving oxygen the moment a big decision walks in—today I have to tell you about Maata.
Not because Maata is "more important" to you, but because if you live in our house long enough, you'll realize one thing: the sharpest plan can hit a wall… simply because Maata has a mood you cannot predict.
I remember this from a few years ago. Afternoon, the last school day of that week. The house was quiet—quiet in a way that made the kitchen fan audible and a spoon tapping a glass feel like a time marker.
I found her sprawled on the sofa, one leg up, the other dangling, hair thrown out carelessly, her phone held at a lazy angle that never fails.
She was laughing.
Not a small smile. Not polite giggles.
But the kind of laugh that made her shoulders bounce—like a student who'd just discovered a forbidden joke.
In her hand: her phone.
On the screen: a pre-wedding video.
I stood at the doorway, existentially confused.
"Ma," I said carefully,
"why does a pre-wed… feel like watching comedy?"
Maata glanced at me. Her eyes were bright, satisfied.
"Because I miss your Pa," she said lightly.
Then she added, as if it were scientific fact:
"Here, Pa's face looks like he's about to present an IPO…
but he's being forced to hold a rose."
I moved closer. Sat down on the floor. The carpet chilled my calves. A faint sandalwood diffuser lingered—definitely Pitaa's choice. A hard contrast to Maata, who once tried mixing jasmine aromatherapy with eucalyptus until the whole house felt like it was trapped inside a giant bottle of medicated oil.
Maata showed me two files.
The first was titled FINAL_EDIT—all caps.
The second: RAW_DONT_DELETE.
She tapped the second one first.
"This is the process," she said casually, like she was opening a failed recipe.
On the screen, Pitaa looked younger—fitted shirt, obedient hair—standing in a simple pre-wed set: a maroon-and-gold fabric backdrop, a softbox light way too close, and a thin velvet carpet with one corner folded up.
The photographer's directions came with full enthusiasm—rapid Hindi mixed with broken English that was far too confident.
"Madam, thoda sa (a little more)… dreamy."
"Sir, smile like… you see your vishwa (world)."
Pitaa stared at the camera. His smile arrived half a second late, like an internet signal finally reconnecting.
Maata beside him was glowing. Not because of studio lighting—because she was clearly enjoying the fact that the most serious man alive was being forced to "act romance" under a backdrop that looked like a birthday curtain.
Tara dropped onto the sofa without permission and pointed at the screen.
"Ma—that lipstick shade is… what do I call it," she frowned dramatically,
"'angry mango lassi'?"
Maata wasn't offended. She looked proud.
"That color is called a statement, Sweety.
SENG PENTING YAKIN! AYU!!"
(The Important Thing is Confidence! Stunning!!)
"A statement?" Tara slapped the pillow, still laughing.
"That's not a statement, Ma. That's a public warning."
I exhaled long. Reflex.
On the video, Pitaa was told to stand. The photographer said:
"Sir, hold madam like you hold… important file."
Pitaa complied. His hug was stiff—not because he couldn't, but because every movement he made came with an SOP. Maata turned to the camera with a sweet smile, then whispered—except the mic caught it.
"Relax, Darling. This is just a photo. Not a meeting."
Tara nearly fell off the sofa.
Our house helper, Kamala, peeked in carrying tea. She watched too, held back a smile—then lost.
"Madam," she said carefully,
"in this one… Sir looks like a salon poster."
Maata laughed again.
"Wait for the final version."
She slid to the next file. The music turned dramatic. A glass-shatter transition appeared—too shiny. Pitaa and Maata went in slow motion, then the frame bounced, the crop jumped, his head nearly got cut off, then got "saved" by a fade. In the corner: the studio watermark—large, confident.
Tara collapsed flat on her back, one hand over her mouth, one finger pointing at the screen.
"AREY, BHAGWAN (GOD)!!—" her breath broke,
"where did his head go?!"
She sat up halfway, hair a mess.
"Ma, why does the edit look like a fever dream—
loud, blinding, but the plot is missing?"
The video froze on a frame glittering with excess. Tara huffed, then laughed again.
"This isn't smooth," she said, fanning the air,
"this is a blessing-level festival—every effect used so the merit is maxed out."
She turned to me, eyes watery from laughing.
"If I saw this at midnight, I'd think the electricity was unstable, not the video."
Maata narrowed her eyes, pleased.
"One is honest," she said, pointing to RAW.
"One is convincing," she patted FINAL_EDIT.
Kamala nodded slowly, respect still intact.
"The honest one… feels more alive, Madam."
Maata grinned.
"Miss Tara," she said abruptly, looking between us,
"I went to that pre-wed studio."
Tara's head snapped up.
"For what?"
Her voice was full of suspicion—and an enthusiasm that was honestly unhealthy. Kamala nodded.
"Madam told me to choose the gift."
I raised an eyebrow.
"A gift?"
Kamala nodded quickly, like she was afraid the details would evaporate if she didn't spill them right now.
"A new mixer. A fan that doesn't sound like a helicopter. LED lights for photos. And then—"
she paused, lowering her voice,
"a mirrorless camera. Not the kind that shows off. The kind that… if someone knows, they go quiet."
Tara clicked her tongue softly.
"That's… expensive."
Kamala nodded, her expression half impressed, half envious.
"I actually thought," she admitted,
"if I married that photographer, my life might be brighter. Literally."
We laughed.
"But Madam said," Kamala continued, perfectly mimicking Maata's intonation,
"'Don't say who it's from. Just say it's a gift from distant family.'"
I turned to her.
"Distant family?"
"Yes," Kamala said firmly.
"I told them—it's from my cousin in Mysuru. Just an ordinary job.
So it wouldn't make people think strange things."
Tara held in a laugh.
"And they believed you?"
"They did," Kamala said without blinking.
"The photographer smiled wide.
He said, 'If all clients are like this, I'll marry my tripod instead.'"
We went silent for a fraction—then laughed together. Kamala leaned her back against the counter.
"Since then, their studio slowly climbed," she said.
"More jobs. More cameras. The edits are still shocking, but the clients keep increasing."
She looked at the screen, at young Pitaa's face.
"They also took your childhood photos. But in their album, you two are—"
she smiled faintly,
"my cousin's children. So don't let anything get lost. We took the photos straight away. They didn't keep backups."
I turned toward her. Kamala lowered her voice, like a kitchen secret.
"I told them," she said,
"my cousin's husband is not just anyone. Not the smiling type.
If he doesn't like something, you disappear from his vendor list forever."
Tara covered her mouth—half shocked, half impressed.
"Seriously?!"
Kamala nodded firmly.
"The photographer immediately said,
'Ma'am, I'll edit it right here. I won't keep the raw files. I swear to God.'"
She chuckled softly.
"After that, they never asked for an extra portfolio. They just… believed."
I inhaled slowly. Tara flopped onto the carpet.
"What kind of family is this—an intelligence network?" she muttered, staring at the ceiling.
Then she lifted herself halfway, suddenly enlightened—too late.
"Oh… that's why," she said.
"Our childhood photos look so different from the kids at International School."
She frowned, genuinely confused.
"I thought when we were born, Pitaa was still building from scratch."
I turned slowly.
"Building from scratch?" I raised an eyebrow.
"We're talking about a man who had a master plan before he could even shave. His timeline was never that simple, Beta."
Tara went quiet.
Then she nodded faintly—like she'd just remembered some timelines are never announced to the public.
"Ma," Tara suddenly said, turning to Maata who had been listening while sipping tea,
"how did you even find that studio?"
Maata shrugged.
"Instagram."
I turned my head too fast.
"Instagram?"
"Yes," she said lightly.
"I was bored. Then I saw people leaving mean comments at their Portfolio. Laughing. Mocking. And their followers were tiny."
She took a sip of tea.
"So I messaged them. Told them I'd use their service if I ever got married here. We prayed for each other."
I stared.
"Ma… you asked for prayers from people you don't even know?"
Maata looked at me. Her smile was thin, certain.
"Why not," she said.
"That's exactly the point, Honey. Prayers from people we help without them knowing who we are—those frequencies are purer. No filter of interest. That's called Gupt Daan (hidden charity) with bonus free prayers."
I closed my eyes for a second. Not every strategy feels like a strategy. This one felt like faith, accidentally disciplined. Kamala continued, softer now.
"When I delivered the gift, Sir's legal team came."
My eyes opened.
"The same day?"
"Yes," she said.
"But no drama. They only—"
Kamala moved her hands, mimicking someone opening a file carefully,
"talked neatly."
"They said there were papers that needed signing," she continued.
"So the story ends there."
Tara blinked.
Kamala paused, then laughed quietly to herself.
"They were polite. Just serious. That studio's AC was colder than their tone—but still not cold enough."
I looked back at the screen. The video was still playing—lights too bright, music too grand, edits filled with good intentions and bad direction.
I had seen the other version.
Perfect production. Silent. Elite. Everyone dressed sharp, lighting soft, no standing fan accidentally entering the frame. Even Pitaa's smile there looked like a decision approved by three divisions.
I glanced at Maata.
"Why did Pitaa agree to make a version… like this?"
Maata grinned, leaned forward like she was whispering a war secret.
"Because your Pa knows," she said,
"if I don't have at least one thing to laugh at for the rest of my life…
I'll find another alternative."
Tara snapped in, innocent but ruthless:
"Like forcing Pa to join a socialite moms' event?"
Maata's grin widened, eyes gleaming mischievously.
"Imagine your Pa sitting between stacks of Hermès bags, discussing silk saree discounts while holding a porcelain teacup. That's my ultimate jugaad (my creative improvisation) to make him wave the white flag."
I sighed. Again.
On the screen, Pitaa glanced at the camera. His expression stayed flat, but there was something in his eyes—like someone who'd calculated the risk, and still stepped forward.
And strangely… it was sweet.
Not loud sweet.
Quiet sweet: I'm doing this because you asked.
I watched Maata smiling on the sofa, Tara still wheezing with laughter, and that small phone playing our family history in a resolution that was too honest.
In other houses, love might look like flowers and music.
In our house, love sometimes looks like: an NDA, a legal folder, a tacky gold backdrop… and a man willing to be "mildly embarrassed" as long as his wife has something to laugh about.
And yes—maybe that's how they say I love you.
Without ever saying it.
***
I once asked—too innocent for a subject that heavy, and maybe a little rude.
"Pa," I said back then,
"why Maa?"
Pitaa didn't stop what he was doing.
Didn't turn. Didn't think long.
"Universe's Power."
I wasn't satisfied.
"Anything else?"
"Pretty."
Done.
I nodded. The answer sounded final—like a brief report that didn't need attachments. But honestly, thinking back, it felt… too simple. If Pitaa wanted, he could have chosen a woman with more… intimidating girl's CV.
A woman whose name appears in the news.
A professor with two degrees.
A diplomat with a passport full of stamps.
A CEO who makes everyone stand when she enters.
Or an actress whose face never leaves a billboard.
Pretty, magazine-pretty.
Smart, panel-discussion-smart.
Objectively, to me, Maata was a random variable inside Pitaa's perfect equation. Pitaa had an algorithm for everything, but Maata was the only bug he deliberately kept—because it made the outcome more interesting.
And maybe because of that, one night—no preface, no drama—she sat on the floor with me and Tara, a tablet between us like a board game.
"This," she said lightly, opening a folder,
"Pitaa's Ex-es."
We both leaned in automatically. The list was… long and detailed. Too long for someone who at home often looked quiet and neat. I stared at the screen, then at Maata.
"What is this?" I asked.
"Radar," she answered casually, like she was explaining a kitchen tool.
"Not just for me," she added.
"But for the dharma of our family system."
She slid the tablet toward Tara, her finger stopping on one name—not to dramatize, but to make sure we saw it.
"If any of them," she said calmly,
"enters your Pitaa's orbit again, you must know."
Tara frowned. Maata shrugged—small gesture, heavy meaning.
"Because a stepmother isn't about feelings," she said.
"It's about systems."
Tara and I exchanged a look. Not because we didn't understand—because we understood too well.
"This isn't possessive," Maata continued.
Her tone was flat, like reading a safety manual.
"This is family risk management."
I didn't know whether to feel impressed or terrified. Maybe both. Tara raised her hand slightly, like in class.
"But Ma," she said,
"where did you even get this data? Pa would never give it."
Maata smiled.
That small smile that always shows up before a dangerous answer.
"Sweetheart," she said gently,
"if Maata waited to be given things, we would all be late."
She leaned back into the sofa, eyes moving between us.
"A woman who thinks far ahead," Maata said slowly,
"always leaves patterns. The way she talks, the way she leaves, the way she returns."
She nudged the tablet, not pressing anything—just making sure we stayed with her.
"And a man who's used to being at the center of power," she added,
"rarely truly closes doors. They just change the locks…
and forget who still has copies of the key."
I swallowed. That didn't sound jealous. It sounded like research. Tara huffed—more curious than cynical.
"Ugh, Ma. You are so possessive."
I snapped my head to Tara.
"Wrong," I said reflexively,
"Pa is the more possessive one."
Tara stared at me.
"Huh?"
"So…" she tilted her head,
"Pa is actually scarier than Ma?"
I looked at her sharply.
"Beta," I said fast,
"if you have to ask, it means it's not time yet."
Tara narrowed her eyes.
"Stingy."
"Not stingy," I shot back.
"Strategic."
Maata laughed—this time clearer. Not laughing at Tara. Laughing at both of us.
"If you want to know," she said lightly,
"you can observe for yourself."
Tara sat up straight.
"How?"
I raised one finger.
"Make a smart negotiation."
Tara looked at me.
Looked at Maata.
Then threw herself back on the sofa dramatically.
"Cancel," she said, flopping down again.
"In this house, unmeasured curiosity is expensive.
I choose survival."
I smiled faintly. That was the most rational decision she'd made all day.
Tara rolled half her body on the sofa, one leg dangling, chin propped on a pillow. Her voice was casual, but her eyes weren't joking.
"Okay," she said,
"seriously. Now, why did Ma love Pa?"
Maata didn't answer immediately. She crossed her legs, spun her phone in her palm like she was choosing a filter—not for a photo, but for a story.
"Huh?" she said lightly.
"What kind of question is that?"
Tara huffed.
"Just answer."
Maata raised an eyebrow, expression far too calm to be honest.
"Who," she said softly,
"wouldn't love your Pa"
I sighed on instinct. Tara protested immediately.
"Ma. Don't dodge."
Maata chuckled and leaned deeper into the sofa.
"I also keep wondering," she continued, staring at the ceiling fan,
"how those Ex-es could all break up with him."
Tara sat up straight.
"Why?"
"Because, If I were them," Maata said, face too serious to trust,
"I would handcuff him. Throw the key into the Ganga. If needed… call a pandit."
"MA!!!" Tara screamed, half-laughing.
"This is realistic," Maata continued shamelessly.
"A man like Pitaa—he doesn't appear twice easily. Like a blue-chip stock. Not for casual trading."
I covered my face with one hand.
"But," Maata's voice dropped slightly,
"that's just the funny part."
She looked at us.
"I chose your Pa," she said slower,
"because he's tough."
Silence fell for a moment. Not awkward—more like a space deliberately emptied.
"From the start," Maata continued,
"I actually avoided men like him the most."
"Why?" Tara asked quickly.
"Exhausting and complicated," Maata answered honestly.
"Men like that shake the stability of my peace,
and my prayers get louder for his safety."
She laughed softly at herself.
"Who am I?" she went on.
"Local Cinderella. At the end of the month, my account breathes short.
My brain runs nonstop, but my system crashes often."
Tara listened, mouth slightly open.
"And then your Pa came," Maata said,
"with a stable life, shoulders that looked strong,
and patience that made me feel inferior as hell."
I frowned.
"Inferior?" I repeated.
Maata nodded decisively.
"Severely," she said.
"I didn't dare speak much at first. Afraid of the wrong words. The wrong position."
She tapped her chest gently.
"Even applying to be a helper in his company—my CV would fail."
"And then?" Tara pushed.
"And then," Maata smiled faintly,
"he didn't leave."
Silence again. Warmer.
"He was patient," Maata continued.
"Not the kind that stays quiet. The kind that stays."
Tara exhaled long.
"This is so beautiful," she whispered.
"Like a novel."
Maata grinned instantly.
"Right?! I think so too. Sometimes I suspect your Pa got cursed by his Ex-es, and I got the good prayers because I've been hurt a lot."
I shook my head.
"If it was only about pity and patience," I said calmly,
"our parents wouldn't be married, Beta."
Two pairs of eyes turned to me.
"And if Maata had acute inferiority," I continued,
"Pitaa wouldn't be constantly anxious every time Maata comments in public."
Maata froze for one second. Then burst out laughing. She grabbed my head and ruffled my hair aggressively.
"Aaaaw, so cuuute," she said, satisfied.
Tara pouted.
"What is that? I don't get it," she complained.
Maata pinched Tara's cheek gently.
"You two," she said softly,
"are the most expensive gifts even strategy can't plan."
I inhaled. Again.
In our house,
love isn't a magic story—
it's a decision that keeps getting updated.
—To be Continued—