UNSPOKEN BONDS

16. It Is Real

© archanaj1308 2026. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author.

The final two days of Samarth Mehta's residency in Jakarta were governed by a brutal, non-negotiable finality. There were no more exploratory sessions or polite introductory dinners; it was a cold, hard sprint through the cross-border legalities of the integration phase.

Inside the high-ceilinged conference rooms of the Jakarta regional headquarters, Sam sat at the head of the mahogany table, his tailored shirt sleeves turned back precisely twice at the forearms, his voice cutting through the late-night air with the sharp, clinical accuracy of a surgeon.
He didn't look tired. He didn't look distracted.

To the Indonesian board of directors, the young CEO of the Mehta-Srinivasan conglomerate remained an unyielding, terrifyingly efficient machine.

But Chinmay Sharma, leaning back in his chair with his tablet balanced on his knee, was currently running a separate, highly private diagnostic on his brother-in-law. Over the last forty-eight hours, Chinmay had documented three highly unusual anomalies in Sam's standard operating procedure.

First, Sam's black fountain pen, which usually remained perfectly parallel to his legal pad during presentations, was being capped and uncapped with a faint, rhythmic click whenever the regional clock neared the top of the hour. Second, during a critical ten-minute recess on Thursday afternoon, Sam hadn't reviewed the compliance spreadsheets; instead, he had stood by the floor-to-ceiling glass looking toward the northwest skyline-exactly where Singapore sat across the dark expanse of the Java Sea.

And finally, when Arjun had made a remarkably stupid joke about the local infrastructure tax structures during their final debrief, Sam hadn't delivered his standard, dry corporate reprimand. He had simply let out a short, quiet breath that looked dangerously close to a fond smile, his thumb unconsciously tracing the edge of his phone screen.

Chinmay quietly tapped a note into his personal device: Operational status-completely compromised. Proceed with caution.

Meanwhile, thousands of kilometers away in the sun-drenched, high-humidity chaos of Sengkang, Amritha Srinivasan was currently staging a full-scale logistical invasion of her own bedroom.
The floor of her room at Parc Greenwich had completely disappeared beneath two massive, deep-navy hard-shell suitcases. The bed was an absolute battlefield of vibrant linen shirts, structured wool-blend overcoats, silver hoop earrings organized in velvet trays, and three different varieties of French citrus perfumes that she insisted were "essential atmospheric controls" for the temperamental climate of East Asia.

"Amritha, if you attempt to zip that second bag with four different pairs of heeled boots inside, the carbon fiber is going to physically explode," Dhwani announced, sitting cross-legged on the edge of the mattress while aggressively tossing a heavy beige trench coat back into the closet.

"The weather reports for Kyoto say it might drizzle, Dhwani! Do you want me to experience historical temples while suffering from mild hypothermia?" Ammu shot back, her curls pinned back into a fiercely high, slightly chaotic bun as she dropped to her knees beside a towering cardboard box from the Indian grocery store.

"You are going for ten days with the Hibiki Creative editorial board, not migrating to the northern hemisphere permanently," Dhwani countered, though she reached down to help categorize the small, highly strategic mountain of survival rations Ammu had assembled.

With the precise devotion of a military quartermaster, Ammu began lining up her defenses against the culinary unknowns of Japan. First went the heavy packets of thattai, ribbon pakoda, and spicy murukku she had wrestled out of Adyar Ananda Bhavan the previous night. Right beside them, she wedged in six yellow blocks of Maggi noodles, two individual boxes of Maggi Masala-e-Magic sachets for emergency seasoning, a small container of Everest Chaat Masala, and three squeeze-pouches of Maggi Hot & Sweet tomato ketchup.