Anil Deshmukh and Seema Verma weren't the kind of parents who favored sons over daughters.
In fact, they cherished their daughters even more than their sons. But, of course, when they said "daughters," they meant Rani. Not Anaya Deshmukh.
Not that Anaya Deshmukh cared.
She wasn't attached to these people. They weren't her real family. And she knew the rules of this world—cannon fodder characters were only meant to serve as stepping stones for the protagonists. She had no intention of fighting against fate. Instead, she would lie low and take each day as it came.
For now, she would enjoy the little things—like the bowl of chicken soup placed in front of her.
She took a sip, her expression shifting into one of pure satisfaction.
[Oh my god, this is incredible. No wonder Rani would later covet Seema Verma's secret recipes and use them to make a fortune.]
There was no chicken leg in her bowl, only soup and a few small pieces of meat. But even so, the rich, savoury taste was enough to make her feel momentarily content.
Still, if she could get her hands on a drumstick, that would be even better.
A single chicken. Two drumsticks. One had gone to Rajesh Deshmukh, and the other naturally belonged to the head of the household, Anil Deshmukh, Even Seema Verma, who had cooked the meal, only had chicken meat and broth.
Yet, Anil Deshmukh, who genuinely cared for his wife, had taken the time to strip half the meat from his drumstick and place it into Seema Verma's bowl. "I should've kept the other drumstick at home instead of letting our eldest take it away," he muttered. "Then you could've had one, too."
Seema Verma wasn't paying attention. She was staring at Anaya Deshmukh, her dark eyes widening in disbelief.
"Anaya," she asked hesitantly, "do you like the chicken soup?"
Anaya Deshmukh barely looked up from her meal, her response both simple and sincere. "Yes. It's delicious."
[A master-level dish! How could it not be good?]
She picked up a piece of cucumber and popped it into her mouth, savoring the crisp, refreshing taste.
[Even a simple dish like smashed cucumbers tastes amazing. If I can have meals like this every day, maybe living here wouldn't be so bad.]
Though Anaya Deshmukh had never been much of a cook, she was a true food lover. A connoisseur. To her, good food was one of life's greatest pleasures.
Hearing her daughter's inner thoughts, Seema Verma felt her cheeks grow warm.
She had always thought her cooking was decent—but a "master-level" chef? That was a bit much.
Still, she couldn't deny the happiness that bloomed inside her. She had worried that Anaya Deshmukh, having grown up in the city with officials as adoptive parents, wouldn't be able to adjust to life in the countryside.
After all, when Rani had first gone to the city, she had called home, saying that Anaya Deshmukh refused to return, that she looked down on her biological parents, that she deliberately wore patched-up clothes to make it seem like she had suffered under her adoptive parents' care.
Rani had insisted that she had left her own clothes behind in hopes that Anaya Deshmukh would wear them.
Seema Verma had believed all of it.
She had braced herself for a difficult, resentful daughter. But now, hearing Anaya Deshmukh's unspoken thoughts, she realized something—
Anaya Deshmukh wasn't as indifferent as she seemed. In fact, beneath her cool exterior, she was lively and warm.
And more importantly—only she could hear her daughter's thoughts.
Seema Verma's heart pounded with excitement.
If she could hear Anaya's true feelings… wouldn't this be a chance to truly understand her?
With renewed determination, Seema Verma spoke again, carefully testing the waters. "Anaya, your clothes seem quite worn. There are some clothes in your room that Rani left behind. They're still in good condition, without any patches. Why don't you wear those for now? Once I've saved up enough ration coupons, I'll buy fabric to make you something new."
Across the table, Kavita Deshmukh perked up at the mention of new clothes, but when she saw the old, patched outfit Anaya Deshmukh wore, she scoffed silently and said nothing.
Anaya Deshmukh's fingers stilled around her spoon, a cold sneer flashing in her eyes.
"No need," she said evenly. "I prefer my own clothes."
[So in my mother's eyes, her real daughter only deserves hand-me-downs from Rani?]
Her grip tightened slightly.
[These clothes are worn and patched because ever since I can remember, I've lived in the Lal Tara Village, Maharashtra. I was never in the city. I wasn't raised in luxury. My so-called adoptive parents took me to the countryside, where survival was a daily battle.]
[People think I had fifteen years of wealth and comfort? If only they knew. Those fifteen years were spent in hunger, in rags, in endless toil. Meanwhile, Rani was here, cherished, doted on, free from labor, free to study, free to dream.]
[And now they expect me to wear her castoffs?]
Her lips curled into a mocking smile.
[Rani left those clothes on purpose. She thinks they're beneath her but kept them here just to rub it in my face. How generous.]
(End of Chapter)