"Politics isn't merely about power; it's about wielding influence with finesse, orchestrating the dance of nations on the world stage."
•••
Welcome to a tale that echoes through the luxurious enclaves of the capital to its very downtrodden streets.
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"I can't believe no one informed me," Ekta said, her voice laced with mild anger.
She sat stiffly beside the hospital bed where her husband Vishwaraj was lying.
The beeping of the heart monitor punctuated the silence of the sterile room. The soft rustle of nurses' uniforms could be heard just beyond the door of the VIP ward, a constant reminder of the bustling life outside these walls.
"You should be telling this to your grandson," Satveer, Trayaksh's father, pointed out, quickly dumping the responsibility on his only child to escape his mother's wrath. His voice was a mix of defensiveness and resignation, knowing well the matriarch's temper.
On one side, there's the enmity of the entire world, and on the other, a mother's anger; the latter would always be more horrific, especially when it came from Ekta, whose reputation for being the family's iron-fisted yet soft-hearted matriarch was well-known.
In the sitting area of the VIP ward, Satveer sat with his wife Barkha, who was fidgeting with the edge of her saree, her gray eyes occasionally darting to the window where the sunset painted the sky in hues of orange and purple, symbolizing the end of a tumultuous day.
Opposite him, his younger brother Ram and his wife Jhilmil were engaged in a whispered conversation, their pretty, ebony haired daughter Vani was sitting on a chair near the window, her legs swinging idly. She was eighteen.
On the other side of the hospital bed sat Trayaksh, scrolling across his phone.
When he heard his father's words, he spoke without lifting his head, "Instead of mulling over this, you should be asking your husband why he hid from the guards and slipped away under the pretext of going to the washroom."
The powerful ex-CM of Delhi, Vishwaraj, gasped like a kid caught in mischief, "You little...! Why are you dragging me into your fights? I'm a patient; take pity on me." His voice was a mix of indignation and a plea for sympathy, which no one in the room seemed to buy.
"Papa, the doctor had told you to take rest due to your diabetes and not go much in the sun, yet you still did it," Jhilmil said, her brows knit in concern.
Ram, the whipped husband, swiftly nodded at his wife's words, "Exactly."
Barkha shook her head at her father-in-law's antics, "Papa, do you know how scared we all were?" Her voice was soft but carried an undercurrent of sternness. She then turned to her son, frowning, "And you, Dev, should not speak about your Dada Ji in such a manner."
