Bro Daddy! ~ Sai-Adrija FF ~ Chap 3 on pg 1

Bro Daddy follows 30-year-old Venky and his 46-year-old father, Ashok, whose unusually small age gap makes them behave more like best friends than parent and child. Amid comedy, clashes, and heartfelt moments, their 'bro' dynamic is tested as life, love, and family chaos pull them into unexpected adventures.

Character Sketches

Venkatesh "Venky" Reddy — played by Sai Ketan Rao

Venky, a 30-year-old Hyderabad chef, is talented, meticulous, and secretly soft-hearted beneath his calm exterior. Known for his flawless cooking and gentle humour, he blushes at compliments and avoids confrontation. Though confident in the kitchen, he is awkward in real life—especially when it comes to love, and most of all when it comes to Padmaboti.

Padmaboti Sen — played by Adrija Roy

Padmaboti is a graceful, soft-spoken Bengali Bollywood actress whose elegance hides a quiet loneliness. Calm, introverted, and deeply observant, she values authenticity over fame. Despite her stardom, she remains grounded and warm, carrying herself with gentle dignity. Her love for food and culture draws her unexpectedly toward Venky's world.

Ashok Yadav — played by Manav Gohil

Ashok, Venky's 46-year-old father, is lively, dramatic, and youthful enough to be mistaken for his son's elder brother. A middle-class North Indian man with a humorous personality and a big heart, he treats Venky more like a friend than a child. Their bond—equal parts comedy, chaos, and affection—is at the heart of Bro Daddy.

Rohit Varma — Venky's Best Friend — played by Navin Polishetty

Rohit is Venky's mischievous sous-chef and closest confidant. Quick-witted, loud, and always ready with a teasing remark, he delights in embarrassing Venky, especially about his crush on Padmaboti. Beneath his playful exterior lies deep loyalty; he pushes Venky toward dreams he is too shy to chase himself.

Chapter 1 (When Fate Stirred the Pot)

Present day, Hyderabad

The lunch rush had finally settled at Spice Symphony, one of Hyderabad’s most loved restaurants, and the kitchen smelled of roasted garlic, curry leaves, and sizzling ghee. Venkatesh Reddy—Venky to everyone who adored or feared him— moved through the counters like he owned the place. Because honestly, he almost did.

Chef. Recipe innovator. Plating perfectionist.
The man could caramelize onions while scolding a trainee and humming a Bollywood song at the same time. A multitalented monster, as the staff lovingly called him.

But behind all that confidence was one massive, embarrassing secret—
a secret only one person knew.

That person was currently leaning on the prep table with a wicked grin.

Rohit, Venky’s best friend, sous-chef, and full-time menace, tapped a spoon on the steel counter.

“Oye Venky… did you see Padmaboti’s new interview?” he asked with exaggerated innocence.

Venky froze mid-chop.
That name alone was enough to make his ears turn pink.

Padmaboti Sen.
Bollywood’s most graceful actress. A Bengali beauty with eyes like liquid kajal and a voice softer than sandesh.

Venky didn’t just admire her—he worshipped her. Posters at home, saved interviews on his phone, and a very secret crush he would deny till death.

“Daanni maatalu vaddu ra, Rohit,” (Don’t talk about her, Rohit) Venky muttered, trying to hide the smile tugging at his lips.

But Rohit was unstoppable.

“Crush Venky! Did your heart go dhak-dhak again? Should I call her? Should I tell her Hyderabad’s top chef is ready to make biryani for her on one knee?”

Venky turned red instantly.

“Ay, stop it ra!” he protested, though he couldn’t stop laughing. His blush betrayed everything.

Rohit leaned closer.
“Bro… at this point even the tomatoes know you like her.”

Venky groaned, flicking a bit of flour at him.
But inside, he felt that flutter again—the same one he always felt whenever someone said her name.

Padmaboti.
His dream girl.
His impossible wish.

The Announcement

Rohit was still teasing Venky about proposing with biryani when a sudden burst of sound echoed through the kitchen.

“Volume ekkuva avuthundi, reduce cheyyandi!” (The volume is getting too high, please reduce it!) someone yelled, but the staff member in charge of the break-room TV didn’t listen. Instead, he turned it up even louder.

The news channel flashed bright lights, showing a glamorous shot of Padmaboti Sen smiling at the camera.

Venky’s hand stopped mid-air, a spoonful of coriander hovering.
Rohit’s jaw dropped.
The entire kitchen turned toward the TV.

A reporter’s excited voice filled the room:

“Bollywood sensation Padmaboti Sen has officially announced that her next film will be shot in Hyderabad Film City. The actress will be arriving next week for a month-long schedule.”

The staff screamed, clapped, and whistled.
Hyderabad rarely got Bollywood royalty—this was huge.

Venky simply stared, eyes widening, heart hammering like a pressure cooker whistle.

On the screen, Padmaboti laughed softly during her interview.

“I’m excited. Hyderabad has always been special to me—the food, the culture, the warmth. I can’t wait to spend time here.”

Rohit slowly turned toward Venky with the expression of a man who had just found buried treasure.

“VENKY.”

Just his name. But said like he had unlocked the universe.

Venky blinked. “...Em?” (What? informal; surprised)

Rohit grabbed his shoulders.
“THIS. IS. IT. Your golden chance! She’s coming to Hyderabad, ra! (Ra is a friendly suffix meaning man, bro, dude added when addressing close friends) You can finally meet her!”

Venky recoiled as if asked to jump into hot oil.
“Are you mad? Why should I meet her?”

“Because you love her!”

“I do NOT—” Venky struggled, then sighed, lowering his voice. “I mean… she won’t even know who I am.”

“So what?” Rohit countered. “Go meet her! Get an autograph! At least breathe the same air!”

Venky shook his head violently.
“No. Big no. Double no. Triple no. I’m not embarrassing myself in front of Padmaboti.”

“Bro, you cook for ministers and celebrities all the time.”

“Those people come here to eat,” Venky insisted. “I don’t run after them.”

“This is different,” Rohit argued. “This is PADMABOTI. The girl whose posters are in your bedroom—”

“Shh! Don’t shout!” Venky panicked, covering his mouth.

The kitchen staff snickered.

Venky rubbed his forehead.
“Look… she’s a superstar. I’m just a chef. Why would she even talk to me?”

Rohit smiled slyly.
“Fate already brought her to Hyderabad, macha. Who knows what happens next?”

Venky rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the tiny smile forming.

Padmaboti Arrives – Rohit Persuades

Three days later, Hyderabad buzzed like it had swallowed an entire power grid.

News channels, social media pages, fan clubs—everyone was counting down to the arrival of Padmaboti Sen, Bollywood’s soft-spoken Bengali sensation.

At Rajiv Gandhi International Airport, security struggled to manage crowds holding placards, flowers, and phones ready for a glimpse.

When Padmaboti finally walked out—white cotton saree, sunglasses, hair tied in a gentle bun—the crowd erupted.
She smiled, waved, and folded her hands in a graceful namaste.

Flashlights burst like fireworks, but she remained calm, poised, glowing.

At Spice Symphony

Rohit burst through the kitchen doors like an overexcited meteor.

“VENKYYYY!”

His shout made three cooks drop their ladles.

Venky looked up from his chopping board.
“Em jarigindi ippudu?” (What happened now?)

Rohit slammed his phone on the counter.
“PADMABOTI ARRIVED! She’s HERE, ra! This is your time!”

Venky sighed.
“My time for what? To get trampled by her fans?”

Rohit groaned and dragged a chair dramatically.
“Sit. We’re talking.”

“I’m working—”

“Not anymore.” He pushed Venky into the chair like a strict parent.

“Venky, listen. Life doesn’t give chances like this all the time. She’s in the same city. Same air. Same biryani zone. And YOU—” he jabbed a finger at his chest— “have adored her for years.”

Venky looked away, cheeks reddening.

“Bro, what’s the worst that can happen? She won’t bite. She’ll just smile, say hi, take a photo.”

“And the best?” Venky asked quietly.

Rohit’s eyes twinkled.
“She tastes your food one day, realises you’re insanely talented… and maybe destiny has bigger plans.”

“Enduku cinema laaga matladthunnav?” (Why are you talking like it’s a movie?)

“Because,” Rohit whispered dramatically, “this is fate, macha.”

Venky sighed.
“I don’t even know where she’s staying.”

Rohit smirked.
“I do.”

Venky paled. “How?”

“Internet, bro. Fans found it already. Luxury hotel near HiTech City. AND—” he raised a finger— “she’ll be visiting top restaurants for a food segment.”

Venky blinked.
Food segment.
Restaurants.

A spark lit inside him.

“You are one of the top chefs in Hyderabad,” Rohit reminded him. “They might pick us. At least go see her once.”

Venky’s pulse thundered.
Rohit rested a hand on his shoulder.

“Do it for yourself, bro. You’ve waited too long.”

A long moment passed.

Finally…

Venky exhaled slowly.
“Okay,” he whispered.
“I’ll go.”

Rohit screamed so loudly half the staff thought the fire alarm went off.

“YES! OUR BOY IS GOING TO MEET PADMABOTI!”

Venky covered his face as the kitchen erupted in cheers.

But behind all the embarrassment…
a shy, hopeful smile bloomed.

For the first time, Venky wasn’t just a fan.
He was a man taking a real, trembling step toward the woman he had adored for years.

Little did he know…
life had already started writing a scene where the chef who admired Padmaboti secretly…
would no longer remain a stranger.

------

To be continued.

beautifully written

I could imagine the same way you have written. Liked the playful masti between Venky and Rohit and Venki admirable crush for padmaboti.

I am glad you chose Sai Adrija for this fanfic because they scream sizzling chemistry even when they aren't sharing the same frames.

Waiting for the next part

Chapter 2 (A Star in Hyderabad)

Padmaboti’s First Day in Hyderabad

Hyderabad woke up early that morning.

Not because of the usual IT crowd or metro rush—
but because Padmaboti Sen had officially stepped into the city.

At the luxury hotel in HiTech City, the lobby buzzed with a quiet tension. Staff adjusted their ties twice, polished the marble floors thrice, and rehearsed their greetings for the twentieth time.

At exactly 8:15 a.m., Padmaboti walked in—simple, elegant, and painfully beautiful even without makeup.

A soft pink kurta.
Minimal jewellery.
Hair tied loosely.
A calm smile that melted the stiffness of the hotel staff instantly.

She folded her hands politely.
“Namaskar… thank you for having me.”

Her voice was warm, gentle—like she was speaking to old friends, not strangers.

Her manager, Trina, bustled beside her, already juggling calls.

“Boti, remember—we have a photoshoot at 11, script reading at 2, and the director wants a meeting tonight.”

Padmaboti nodded, but her mind wasn’t in the schedule.

Her eyes drifted to the massive glass windows.
Hyderabad shimmered outside—sunlight bouncing off buildings, auto horns weaving into the wind, and the faintest aroma of masala dosa floating from a nearby café.

She smiled to herself.
“Feels good to be here,” she murmured.

Later that afternoon

The film’s PR team arranged a short segment titled “Taste of Hyderabad”, where Padmaboti would explore top restaurants for authentic Hyderabadi flavours.

Trina handed her the list.

Padmaboti scanned it.

The first name on the list caught her eye:

Spice Symphony — Chef: Venkatesh Reddy

She paused.

“Chef Venkatesh?” she repeated, testing the name aloud.

There was something comforting about it.
Something warm… homely… musical.

Trina peeked at the sheet.
“Oh, he’s very popular. Hyderabad loves him. People say he cooks with heart.”

Padmaboti smiled gently.
“Sounds lovely.”

She traced her finger over the name Venkatesh without realising she was doing it.

Little did she know—
the man whose name she found oddly pleasant
was currently panicking in a kitchen across the city
because he might have to meet her.

Meanwhile, at Spice Symphony

Rohit Varma flew into the kitchen like a cyclone.

“VENKY! Guess which restaurant Padmaboti might visit today?!”

Venky looked up, half-terrified.
“Don’t say it… please don’t say it…”

Rohit wiggled his eyebrows.

“SPICE. SYMPHONY.”

Venky dropped the ladle.

“Oh god… oh god… Rohit… I’m not ready… anni perfect ga undali (Everything has to be perfect)… kitchen clean unda? (Is the kitchen clean?) Curry leaves fresh ga unnaya? (Are the curry leaves fresh?) Plates shiny ga unnaya? (Are the plates shiny?)”

Rohit slapped his back.
“Bro, calm down. You look like you’re delivering a baby, not serving food.”

Venky glared.
“This is worse!”

The staff giggled.

Rohit crossed his arms.
“Either way, she’s coming. And you—” he pointed at Venky’s chest— “better not faint.”

Venky took a deep breath.

Today was the day.

Padmaboti Sen was in Hyderabad.
She was coming to Spice Symphony.
And Venky Reddy was about to serve her a meal that might become the beginning of something neither of them expected.

Preparing for Padmaboti

The moment Rohit dropped the bomb, Spice Symphony turned into a battlefield—
and General Venky marched into action.

Venky rushed across the kitchen, sweat forming at his temples as he barked instructions.

“Anni perfect ga undali! (Everything has to be perfect!)
Meeru biryani base start cheyyandi! (Start preparing the biryani base!)
Paneer marinate chesara? (Did you marinate the paneer?)
Garnish ready ga undali! (The garnish should be ready!)”

The staff scrambled behind him like soldiers during an inspection.

He pulled out his signature recipes—
the ones that made Spice Symphony famous:

· Gongura-paneer fusion

· Cashew-cream biryani

· Tamarind-spiced roasted vegetables

· Nannari rose mocktail

· His special coconut-jaggery dessert

He worked like a man possessed.

Rohit leaned against the counter, watching Venky with a mix of amusement and pity.

“Venky… breathe. You look like you’re about to enter the Olympics.”

Venky muttered while tasting a sauce,
“Rohit… nenu chala nervous ga unnanu. (Rohit… I’m very nervous.)
What if she doesn't like the food? What if it’s not perfect? What if—”

Rohit pressed a finger to Venky’s forehead.

“Stop.
Padmaboti is going to love anything your hands touch. You have magic, ra. Magic.”

Venky paused, stunned by the compliment.
His voice softened.

“Ay… magic enti? (Ay… what magic?)
Nenu normal chef ne.” (I’m just a normal chef.)

Rohit rolled his eyes so hard they almost flipped backward.

“Normal chef? Bro, please. People travel across the city to eat your cooking. Influencers cry after tasting your biryani. Food reviewers literally called you ‘the man who can romance vegetables.’”

Venky groaned in embarrassment.

“Evaru ade annaru?” (Who said that?)

“Everyone,” Rohit said proudly.

Venky turned back to his dishes, still nervous, hands trembling slightly as he sprinkled coriander.

Rohit walked up behind him, lowered his voice, and said:

“Venky… relax.
She’s just a person.
A very beautiful person, yes…
but still a person.
Serve her your heart in that plate, and she’ll feel it.”

Venky blinked.

“Heart enti plate lo ista? (My heart? How do I put that on a plate?)”

Rohit facepalmed.
“Figure of speech, ra! Just cook!”

The staff laughed.

But beneath the chaos, there was a quiet sincerity in Venky’s movements.
Every spice, every garnish, every flick of the wrist carried one silent wish:

Let her like my food.
Let her smile because of something I created.

His hands moved with urgency, nervousness…and hope.

The Almost-Meeting

The restaurant shifted from its usual lunch calm to a silent suspense.

Everyone knew.
Everyone waited.
And Venky… was on the verge of a meltdown.

Rohit peeped out from behind the reception counter.

“Ayyo… Venky… she’s here. She’s actually here.”

Venky’s heart dropped straight into his shoes.

“Ekkuva aravaakunda cheppu! (Don’t shout so loudly!)
Nenu ready kaaledu, Rohit! (I’m not ready, Rohit!)”

He immediately ducked behind a pillar, apron half-tied, hair slightly messy from rushing around the kitchen.
His hands trembled like a student seeing the examiner enter the hall.

The glass doors slid open.

Padmaboti Sen stepped inside.

Soft yellow kurta.
Open hair brushing her shoulders.
Eyes filled with gentle curiosity.
A presence so quiet yet so powerful that the entire restaurant seemed to inhale and hold its breath.

The staff stared in awe.

Even the ceiling fans slowed down in respect.

Padmaboti smiled politely at the manager and looked around—absorbing the ambience, the lighting, the faint aroma of spices lingering in the air.

Her eyes turned toward the kitchen area.

Venky, peeping from behind the pillar, froze.

For a split second—
their eyes met.

Or… almost met.

Padmaboti saw someone peeking, but not his full face—just a pair of wide, startled eyes and a half-hidden figure who immediately ducked like he was avoiding snipers.

Padmaboti blinked, surprised.
Was someone hiding from her?

Venky clutched the pillar like his life depended on it.

“Rohit… nenu chachipothanu. (Rohit… I’m going to die.)
She looked this way! Did she see me? Ayyo, did she see me?!”

Rohit shoved him lightly.
“Of course she didn’t! She only saw your big round eyes like some scared forest animal!”

Venky groaned in humiliation.

Padmaboti turned toward her manager and whispered,
“Someone is watching us?”

Trina shrugged.
“Fans, Boti. Happens everywhere.”

Padmaboti nodded, but her gaze flickered again toward the pillar.

There was something strangely familiar…
not visually, but emotionally.
Like she had stepped into a place where someone cared deeply about what she felt.

Inside the kitchen

Venky paced like a nervous bridegroom.

“Rohit… nenu bayamga unnanu. (Rohit… I’m scared.)
What if I mess up? What if she hates my food?”

Rohit slapped his back.
“She won’t even see your face, bro. You’re safe. Just serve.”

Venky took a shaky breath.

Then another.

But outside, Padmaboti had already taken her seat—
and destiny had taken its first step.

She hadn’t seen Venky completely.
He hadn’t seen her fully either.

Just a flicker of eyes.
A moment of shared breath.
A spark that had no name yet.

But the pot was slowly simmering.

And something was starting to cook.

-------

To be continued.

Chapter 3 (A Feast for the Forgotten)

The Order That Shook the Kitchen

Padmaboti settled gracefully into her seat, the soft fabric of her dupatta falling over her shoulder like a brushstroke of light. The gentle clink of cutlery, the mellow hum of soft instrumental music, and the faint aroma of roasted spices created the perfect frame around her presence.

She adjusted her dupatta delicately, her fingers moving with a dancer’s poise. Then she lifted her gaze toward the waiter, gifting him a smile so warm it melted every trace of nervousness from his face.

“Could you serve me the dishes of the day?” she asked, her voice a blend of politeness and curiosity. “I’d love to try whatever your chef recommends.”

The waiter felt his heart somersault. Padmaboti Sen wants the dishes of the day… from their kitchen… from THEIR chef.

He nodded vigorously, almost bowing in excitement.

“Of course, ma’am! Certainly, ma’am! Right away, ma’am!”

If smiling were allowed in strict service protocol, he would’ve grinned from ear to ear. Instead, he pressed his lips together and hurried off, nearly colliding with a table on the way.

He rushed toward the kitchen like a soldier carrying intel from the battlefield to the command center.

Inside the Kitchen

He burst in like a man escaping a wildfire, out of breath, eyes wide.

“Chef Venky sir! Padmaboti madam wants the dishes of the day!”

The kitchen froze.

The sizzle of oil, the chop of knives, the clang of ladles — everything halted as every cook paused mid-motion.

But no one froze harder than Venkatesh Reddy.

His ladle slipped from his fingers and clattered onto the counter. His heart didn’t just skip a beat — it entered an Olympic sprint.

“Ayyo… nenu ready kaaledu!”
(Oh no… I’m not ready!)

Venky’s voice cracked like an adolescent’s. He paced in a tight circle, hands shaking, eyes darting around like a deer caught in headlights.

“Em cheddam, Rohit?!”
(What do I do, Rohit?!!)

His voice climbed an octave.

Rohit, leaning casually against a counter munching a biscuit, sighed dramatically as if he were dealing with a hyperactive child.

“Calm down, ra. You made everything perfectly. She’ll love it.”

But Venky wasn’t hearing anything.

His brain had entered full disaster mode, pulling out every unimaginable scenario in the history of cooking:

What if the biryani is too spicy? What if she hates gongura? What if the paneer texture isn’t right? What if she thinks it’s bland? What if the presentation is too rustic? Too modern? Too traditional? Too experimental? Too safe?

His heart hammered against his ribs like a festival dappu drum.

He wiped his sweaty palms on his apron — once, twice, thrice — but they kept getting clammy again, as if his body refused to cooperate.

“Ayyo ayyo ayyo…” he muttered like a broken record.

Then suddenly…

Something outside the glass wall caught his trembling gaze.

A shadow.
Movement.
Small figures gathering near the tiled entrance area.

He squinted.

His panic momentarily paused.

“Idi enti…?”
(What is this…?)

Whatever he saw pulled him out of his spiral, anchoring him in a different kind of shock.

And that single distraction…was about to change everything.

The Children at the Door

Venky leaned forward, brows knitting, as he tried to understand the shapes outside the frosted glass. The harsh sunlight hit the pavement outside Spice Symphony, making everything glow with a golden halo — but in that halo, he saw something that didn’t belong to the world of polished cutlery and gourmet plating.

Children.

Tiny silhouettes.
Slender arms.
Dusty hair.
Faces pressed to the glass.

Venky’s breath caught.

He stepped closer to the window, ignoring Rohit calling after him.

The closer he got, the clearer the picture became.

A group of beggar children—seven or eight of them—stood barefoot on the hot pavement, craning their necks, trying to peer inside.

One of them, a girl with a torn pink frock and large eyes that reflected equal parts innocence and hardship, pressed her palms against the glass.

“Padmaboti akka lo undanta…”
(They said Padmaboti sister is inside…)

The boy beside her, barely eight, tried to stand on tiptoe to see.
His shadowed cheeks were hollow, but his eyes sparkled with hope.

Another boy tugged the girl’s sleeve.
“Oka sari ayina choodali… please…”
(Just once, I want to see her… please…)

Venky swallowed hard.
A lump formed in his throat.

He wasn’t thinking about biryani temperatures or garnish precision anymore.

These kids… on this hot afternoon… were just trying to catch a glimpse of the star he worshipped from afar.
The star who was now sitting gracefully inside, sipping water from a crystal glass.

But before even a sliver of hope could land in their tiny hands—

Security stepped in.

The Guards Interfere

Two uniformed guards marched toward the children with practiced sternness.

“Hey! Move! Don’t stand here!”

One of the guards pushed the little boy aside a bit too roughly.

The boy stumbled back, nearly falling, catching himself at the last second.

Padmaboti’s PR assistants joined in, clearly irritated.

“This is a five-star client area,” one of them snapped.
“You can’t stand here. Go!”

A girl, no older than six, flinched at the harshness.

“But we… just want to see her…” she whispered, voice trembling.

“No. Move aside.”

Venky watched this unfold, his insides twisting painfully.

A familiar heat rose inside him — the same heat he felt whenever he saw injustice or cruelty toward someone powerless.

“Idi correct kaadu…”
(This isn’t right…)

His fists clenched.

Rohit saw his expression and immediately sensed impending disaster.

“Oh no. Ohhh no. Venky—don’t. don’t. Don’t do what I think you’re about to do.”

But Venky wasn’t listening.

Something in him snapped clean through.

Venky Steps Forward

Venky pushed through the kitchen doors, wiping his hands on his apron, eyes burning with purpose.

“Venky! Venky! VENKY!”
Rohit chased after him.

But Venky was already outside.

The heat slapped his face; the children turned toward him instantly, startled but hopeful.

The guards straightened themselves.

“Sir, these kids are loitering—”

Venky raised a hand.

“Nenu handle chestha.”
(I’ll handle them.)

His voice was calm.
Firm.
Quietly authoritative — the voice of someone who didn’t need permission to care.

The guards stepped back, surprised.

The children stared up at him.

Their eyes glistened — not with the excitement of seeing Padmaboti, but with the pain of being chased away like stray animals.

Venky crouched down so he could look at them eye-to-eye.

“Why are you crying?” he asked softly.

A boy sniffled.
“They didn’t let us even look at Padmaboti akka…”

A girl wiped her nose with the back of her hand.
“We won’t touch her… we won’t shout… we won’t go inside… we’ll just stand far away… but they said no…”

Venky felt his chest tighten.

He placed his hands gently on the shoulders of two nearest children.

“Listen… you wanted to see a star, right?”

They nodded timidly.

Venky smiled — not wide, not cheerful — but warm.
A smile that carried reassurance.

“Then today… I’ll give you something even better.”

Behind him, Rohit slapped his forehead so hard it echoed.

“Oh my god. He’s doing it. He’s really doing it. I should have tied him to the stove.”

Venky’s Wild Decision

Venky stood up and walked back into the kitchen.

Not running.
Not rushing.
Walking with a stillness that came from absolute conviction.

He lifted the plates he had arranged so delicately for Padmaboti.

The gongura-paneer fusion.
The cashew-cream biryani topped with caramelized onions.
The roasted vegetables glistening in tamarind glaze.
The Nannari rose mocktail chilled to perfection.
The coconut-jaggery dessert shaped like a little lotus.

Every dish was perfect.
Every dish was the best of him.

Rohit’s eyes widened in horror.

“No. NO. Venky no. Venkatesh Reddy no. Put that down. PUT THAT DOWN.”

Venky didn’t even blink.

The waiter peeked in, confused.
“Chef…?”

Venky set the dishes into takeaway packs with gentle precision.

“For today,” he said quietly, “these belong to them.”

Rohit looked like he was about to faint.

“Bro… you just took Padmaboti Sen’s entire lunch… and gave it to a bunch of kids… ARE YOU TRYING TO GO TO JAIL?!”

But Venky walked back outside.

One step.
Another.
Then another.

He carried the parcels like gifts.

The children gasped.

“Is this… for us?”

“For all of you,” Venky said softly.

“Eat well.”

When the first child opened the packet and saw vibrant, aromatic biryani inside, her eyes widened like she had received something divine.

“Thank you, anna!”
“You’re the best!”
“Food! Real food!”

Their delighted screams echoed across the pavement.

And Venky — shy, quiet, nervous Venky — felt his heart loosen, warm, soften.

This was what food was for.

Not stars.
Not critics.
Not influencers.

But people.

Real people.

Rohit stood behind him, hands on his hips, looking up at the sky in despair.

“God… if you’re listening… please give me strength… because I’m best friends with a literal saint.”

-------

To be continued.