Kabir Mehra
The morning sun flooded the dining room of 7, Lok Kalyan Marg, bathing the room in golden light.
Yet the atmosphere remained cold.
My tablet rested beside a crystal pitcher of juice as I reviewed live updates on the agricultural relief fund. A stack of intelligence briefings waited beside my plate while I switched between policy drafts on public healthcare infrastructure and the day's schedule.
"Kabir, eat your breakfast. The files won't disappear," my mother, Gayatri Devi, said from the head of the table. Her voice carried the authority of a seasoned political matriarch.
Without looking up, I replied, "I'm reading, Ma. I have a cabinet briefing at seven-thirty."
Across the table, Kiara loudly clanged her spoon against her oatmeal bowl.
"You’re doing it again," she complained, narrowing her eyes at me. "You're staring at the screen. You're going to get radiation eyes. Then who's going to read me bedtime stories? The Home Minister?"
Mother's posture stiffened immediately.
"Kiara!" she snapped. "That is no way to speak to your father. He is the Prime Minister of this country. Show some respect and finish your breakfast."
"Ma."
My voice cut through the room.
I closed my tablet and looked directly at her.
"Do not scold my daughter. I am perfectly capable of handling her."
For a brief moment, resentment flashed across Mother's face.
Our relationship had become nothing more than carefully controlled silence. Under my household rules, she wasn't allowed to spend time alone with Kiara whenever I wasn't home.
She knew why.
So did I.
Turning toward Kiara, I softened my tone ever so slightly.
"Finish your breakfast properly."
I pointed toward the fruit bowl.
"And eat all of that too. Your homeschooling begins at nine. I expect your mathematics assignment completed before I return tonight."
"Fine," she muttered, stuffing a piece of papaya into her mouth. "But only if you actually look at it."
"I always do."
I finished my breakfast, stood, and adjusted my white kurta.
"Study well. Don't trouble your tutor."
My eyes lingered on her for a moment before I walked away, leaving behind the father and becoming the Prime Minister once again.
---
Kiara Mehra
The moment Papa disappeared, the room felt empty.
Grandmother looked at me as though I were an inconvenience.
"Go to your study room," she said coldly. "Your tutor will be here in ten minutes."
I nodded.
My head felt strange.
Heavy.
Like it was filled with cotton.
As I stood, the room suddenly tilted.
Everything spun.
I grabbed the back of my chair before I could fall.
"What is it now?" Grandmother sighed impatiently. "Trying to skip your history lesson?"
I shook my head.
"I'm not acting."
"My head feels... spinny."
She walked over and briefly pressed her hand against my forehead.
"No fever."
She stepped back immediately.
"The Mehra family doesn't raise weaklings, Kiara. Stop making excuses and go to class."
I bit my lip.
"Yes, Grandmother."
Slowly, I walked toward the study room.
I missed Mumbai.
I missed our tiny apartment.
I missed when Papa used to carry me whenever I felt sick instead of leaving me in this enormous house where everyone seemed to care more about politics than people.
---
Kabir Mehra
"The public sentiment is completely against this, Devendra."
My voice echoed across the PMO briefing room.
"I will not approve his candidature."
My uncle slammed his pen onto the mahogany conference table.
"He is your cousin, Kabir!" Devendra hissed. "The state unit wants him as Chief Ministerial candidate. He has the Mehra name. Your father would have approved him."
"My father is no longer the Prime Minister."
I folded my hands calmly.
"I am."
I slid the intelligence report across the table.
"Our latest surveys show overwhelming public opposition to dynastic politics. If I appoint my cousin simply because he's family, we lose every ounce of credibility we've built."
"The answer is no."
"We choose a merit-based candidate."
Devendra leaned forward.
"You think you're untouchable because of your clean image?"
His eyes hardened.
"Don't forget how you got that chair."
A cold sweat spread across my back.
But my expression never changed.
The path that had brought me here...
The sacrifices.
The manipulation.
The decisions made after Father's death.
Those ghosts never left me.
"This meeting is adjourned."
I stood.
"Anand, bring me the rural education initiative file."
As everyone filed out, I unlocked my encrypted personal phone.
A secure live feed from Kiara's study room appeared on the screen.
I always monitored her homeschooling sessions whenever Parliament kept me away.
Today, her tutor sounded unusually harsh.
Too harsh.
I immediately texted her security detail.
Tell the tutor to lower her tone and take a fifteen-minute break.
Then I zoomed in.
My heart stopped.
Kiara looked unusually pale.
She was slumped over her desk, barely holding her pencil.
Something was wrong.
---
Kabir Mehra
By eight that evening, I had skipped the scheduled press briefing and returned directly to the residence.
Nothing was more important than Kiara.
As I entered the main corridor, Mother stood near the sitting room holding a glass of water.
She expected me to acknowledge her.
I walked past without slowing down.
Without even looking at her.
The truth of how she had helped place me in the Prime Minister's chair stood between us like an unbreakable wall.
She had lost her son long before I stopped speaking to her.
I quietly opened Kiara's bedroom door.
The lights were dim.
She lay beneath her duvet, clutching her favorite teddy bear.
She wasn't asleep.
She was simply staring at the ceiling.
"Kiara."
My voice softened instantly.
She turned slowly.
Her eyes were dull.
Dark circles shadowed the skin beneath them.
"Papa..."
She managed a faint smile.
"You're back."
I placed my briefcase aside and sat beside her.
The back of my hand touched her forehead.
Normal temperature.
Next, I checked her pulse.
Too fast.
Far too fast for a child resting in bed.
"You didn't finish your fruit today," I said gently.
"And your tutor said you couldn't concentrate."
I looked into her eyes.
"Tell me what happened."
"My head felt like a merry-go-round," she whispered.
"Grandmother said I was pretending."
She looked at me hopefully.
"But I wasn't, Papa."
Protective anger surged through me.
I buried it.
Instead, I gently pulled down her lower eyelid.
Her conjunctiva was pale.
Very pale.
I already knew what tomorrow's blood work would likely show.
"I know you weren't pretending."
My thumb brushed softly across her cheek.
The Prime Minister disappeared.
Only her father remained.
"Tomorrow we're doing a full blood panel."
She frowned.
"Will it hurt?"
"Not while I'm the one holding your hand."
I tucked the blanket around her shoulders.
"Now get some sleep."
She slowly reached for my hand.
"Will you stay?"
For a brief second, I looked toward the door.
The files on my desk.
The unread intelligence reports.
The speeches waiting for my approval.
They could all wait.
I slipped off my shoes, lay down beside her, and gently wrapped an arm around her.
"Tonight," I whispered, kissing the top of her head, "Papa isn't going anywhere."
Within minutes, Kiara's breathing evened out as she fell asleep curled against my side.
I lay awake beside her, listening to every breath, praying the morning wouldn't bring the diagnosis he already feared.
Write a comment ...