Chapter 2:
Three hours later, a visibly proud Prerna walked out of the restaurant smugly.
Mr. Bajaj who?
Kookie, on the other, proudly perched on her daddyâs arms.
Sneha Aamara Rishabh Bajaj.
She quite liked that.
What she didnât like was when her daddy claimed that she replaced his Cookie for her Ammaâs Aam. To which her Mumma replied, âIndia mein humein aam hi pasand. Cookie toh biscuit hai, Mr. Bajaj.â Kookie remembered covering her mouth to suppress her pears of laughter while Mr. Sen mentally rolled his eyes.
âAapki mumma toh very funny hai, Kookie?â (âyour mom is very funny Kookieâ) her father exclaimed sarcastically to which innocent Kookie nodded enthusiastically. Her Mumma was the funniest person ever. Much to Prernaâs annoyance her carefully grabbed her baby before swinging her playfully exclaiming âYour Kookie needs to be dipped in chai, Mr. Bajaj,â. Prerna then grabbed her Kookie as they twirled as Mr. Bajaj placed a careful arm on Prernaâs back as if to break any possible fall. But what would break his?
Thatâs how Mohini and Moloy Basu found the three of them on their way back from their weekly dinner at the resort. Who the heck was this Bajaj? And Prerna? That gold digger? Mohini Basu knew the liked of her. She had warded off the likes of Prerna Sharma and would possibly be doing the same in the future. She couldnât possibly imagine why the Bajaj scion was so fascinated by her so as to marry her almost immediately. And Sharma? That crook. She had played Mohiniâs sonâs emotions until her darling son Anurag almost force Mohini and Moloy to rishta the Sharmaâs. Moloy didnât mind his son marrying his best friend / employeeâs daughter. But Mohini. Mohini hated every miniscule moment of it.
Thatâs when they began: the rumors of that infamous Miss Sharma with a much older single-dad Mr. Bajaj. They had been spotted at parties, clubs, restaurants and get-togethers. And just like that Prerna Sharma became Mrs. Bajaj. In an intimate wedding with the societyâs cream-de-la-crème. Backed by the Mishra-Bose family, Prerna Sharma and Rishabh Bajaj were wed. Prerna Sharma turned her back on her family. Refused to acknowledge her siblings and maternal family and was often seen flanked by the Bose family as Priyansh Bose â Mishra accompanied his best-est friend in the whole wide world Kookie Bajaj as the little royalty scribbled the town blue. Why? Blue was Kookieâs favorite color. And Kookie was Priyanshâs favorite. But whatever it was: Mohini Basu was excited to get rid of that stupid Sharma girl.
And the Sharma girl was equally happy to get rid of that Basu boy.
And gold digger? Prerna Sharma was a platinum digger or diamond digger! Whatever sounded better.
Mostly, Prerna Sharma was sick of being a pawn. Prerna Sharma was sick of the Basuâs. She was sick of the insults, the misery and constantly of being put on the sacrificial platter. Prerna Sharma was no sacrifice. She was Prerna Sharma. If that made any sense. So, when Rishabh Bajaj countered: âGold?â snorted Bajaj, âYou could be gold, Mrs. Mohini Basu. Easily accessible. If my wife has to be a digger of sorts... Would it be Rhodium? Or platinum?â Then he looked at his wife, Mrs. Prerna Bajaj with inexplicable awe as he audibly whispered, âBut I dig for Taaffeite.â
And Prerna resisted such a terrible urge to smack hi, right there and then for his obvious perverted joke. But crooked Bajaj would counter with those silly puppy dog eyes, blank eyes and sheer clueless attitude as he then rolls his eyes. And Prerna hated every bit for it made her heart skip a beat.
Mr. Bajaj on the other hand felt that he was raising not one but two kids.
Two annoying, noisy kids whom he loved to bits. His sulky Sneha (uff, Kookie) had gone from the quiet chipmunk hiding in a corner of their massive mansion to the mischief master in their penthouse apartment. Yes, the glorious Mr. Bajaj who owned the most magnificent, glorious, expensive and as his Mrs. put it âaestheticâ mansion in the city moved into a dingy three stored penthouse apartment that might have cost some family their combined fortunes for several lifetimes. To Bajaj, it was still a dingy apartment that his wife and daughter loved. An apartment without staff where his wife (when testing boundaries) called him âBajjuâ, pulled his cheeks as she scrunched her lips to go âawwwwâ and Kookie giggled at her motherâs antics. And like every other parent blamed each other for Kookieâs flaws (though Bajaj saw none). So, his wife went: âYeah, speak more. My poor Kookie. How will she learn any vocabulary when you stay mute and stare at her face? And then you want to send her to scary doctors? My poor baby!â
So, imagine to Rishabh Bajajâs extreme shock when he came home on fine night to walk upon his wife and daughter in their mickey mouse pajamas as they jammed to Bollywood music. His baby Kookie who rarely spoke grooving to the songs Bollywood called hip. And Bajaj decided to invest in whatever the producer produced next.
NOTE:
I'm kind of doing the update-as-I-write thing now. Tell me if you prefer longer chapters and a schedule.
Edited by AraBearxo - 6 years ago