Saffron Saree & Scandalous Fire

## Chapter 3: Unexpected Encounters

The setting sun painted the desert sky in saffron hues as Veer Singh stood by the window of his Jaipur hotel suite, watching the horizon stretch endlessly before him. The golden glow against the vast expanse of sand should have been just another evening sight—but tonight, it unsettled him.

A memory, unbidden yet vivid, surfaced in his mind: Sharda Chauhan.

Draped in a saffron saree, she had stood before him, her unwavering gaze challenging his presence as if she saw through every layer of his charm and political armor. There had been no reverence, no hesitation—only stark honesty that had left him strangely intrigued. He exhaled sharply, shaking his head at his own foolishness.

"Vishal, get me the Bundi project file," he commanded, turning away from the window with deliberate purpose.

His secretary placed the folder before him, and Veer buried himself in work, drowning in blueprints and budget figures. The night passed in a haze of planning and strategy until, exhausted, he slipped his hand into his pocket before heading to bed. His fingers brushed against something soft.

A jasmine flower.

He held it up, inhaling its scent. It wasn't just the fragrance—it was the feeling it evoked. Calm. Pure. Soft. Like temple offerings.

"I'm definitely out of character," he murmured to himself, a wry chuckle escaping his lips. "But what can I do? I'm curious about women."

Still, he reminded himself that curiosity was dangerous, especially when it involved someone like Sharda. "She's not even my type," he muttered, tossing the flower aside. "She speaks to me as if I looted her house to win my election."

His phone buzzed. A flirtatious voice purred from the other end.

"Chief Minister Sahab, I can't stop thinking about you," the young woman cooed. "Age is just a number, isn't it?"

Veer's jaw tightened. "Listen," he said, his voice edged with irritation. "Think about your age. Just because I have a certain reputation doesn't mean I sleep with anyone." He hung up, meeting Vishal's amused gaze.

"Sir, you do have quite the admirers," Vishal teased, unable to suppress his laughter.

Veer smirked. "Enough. Go to bed. We have meetings tomorrow."

Days merged into weeks. Politics, meetings, speeches—Veer Singh and Sharda both returned to their separate worlds, the memory of their encounter fading like morning mist under the harsh Rajasthan sun. Until one particular Sunday.

At the Chauhan household, Rajveer burst into the kitchen, his excitement palpable. "A special guest is coming for dinner!" he announced to the women. "Make sure his favorite dishes are prepared—Daal Baati, Onion Kachori, and don't forget Carrot Halwa with Rabdi."

Sharda exchanged amused glances with Chhaya, Raj's wife. "And who might this mysterious guest be?" she asked, wiping her hands on her apron.

"Raj Mama, tell us!" Meera and Naina chimed in, curiosity sparkling in their eyes.

Rajveer's smile widened. "That's a surprise."

Meanwhile, Veer Singh spent his Sunday touring remote villages. By evening, as the winter chill painted his cheeks and nose pink, his phone buzzed with a message. Reading it, he chuckled and turned to Vishal.

"How do you feel about some homemade food tonight?"

Vishal's eyes lit up dramatically. "Sir, I've been dying for a proper home-cooked meal! Where are we going? I'll eat like a wrestler tonight!"

On their way, Veer instructed the driver to stop near a temple. After paying his respects, his mother's words echoed in his mind—Never visit someone's home empty-handed. But what could he buy out here?

Just then, a delicate fragrance reached him—familiar, enticing. He turned to find a young girl selling fresh white lotuses. The scent transported him instantly to another memory—her scent. Without hesitation, he purchased the entire basket.

When he returned to the car, lotus flowers in hand, Vishal's lips quirked into a knowing smile. "What a thoughtful gesture, sir. Let me—"

"They're for Rajveer's family" Veer cut him off with a sharp glance, though even he wasn't fully convinced by his own explanation.

That night, upon arriving at Rajveer's ancestral home, Veer was welcomed with warm embraces. "It's been too long, my friend," Rajveer said, slapping him on the back.

"You're looking well," Veer replied, the political fatigue momentarily falling from his shoulders. Rajveer introduced him to everyone—his son Gaurav, nieces Meera and Naina, and wife Chhaya.

"Let's eat in the courtyard tonight," Rajveer suggested. "For old times' sake."

"The dining hall would be more appropriate—" Veer began, but his protest died on his lips as they stepped into the courtyard.

It was a vision from his childhood—flowers of every hue, a white water fountain gurgling softly, and large trees framing the open space. The dinner had been set up on traditional cots under the star-studded sky.

"This reminds me of Gangapur," Veer admitted, a rare vulnerability creeping into his voice. "Thank you, my friend."

As they settled on the cots, Veer admired the garden. "Who designed this beautiful space?"

Naina and Meera exchanged mischievous glances. "It's all our mother's work," Naina revealed. "She loves flowers more than anything in the world."

"Your mother sounds remarkable," Veer said, suddenly remembering the lotuses. "Vishal, bring the flowers from the car."

As Vishal hurried off, Veer's curiosity grew. "Call your mother," he urged the girls. "I'd like to meet the woman with such exquisite taste."

"CM Sahab," Naina laughed, "she's busy making halwa just for you. She'll join us soon."

Vishal returned with the lotus flowers, and Veer stood to receive them. Just then, a soft voice called from behind.

"Namaste."

The moment he turned, his breath caught.

Sharda Chauhan.

Dressed simply in a saree, her long hair tied in a ponytail, pearl earrings catching the evening light—she stood before him like an apparition from his thoughts. Their gazes locked in mutual shock.

"You?" they both exclaimed silently, their expressions betraying their disbelief.

Regaining his composure first, Veer channeled his political training. "I'm surprised to see you as Raj's sister... or should I say, pleasantly surprised?"

Sharda's expression remained controlled, though her eyes flashed. "If I had known this leader was coming for dinner," she said with quiet emphasis, "I wouldn't have cooked. I don't particularly care for men of his... character."

Before Veer could retort, Meera clapped excitedly. "What beautiful white lotuses! Give them to Mother. She loves flowers more than anyone."

"Yes," Naina added. "Especially now that her dance academy project is moving forward. Mother is the head of it, you know."

Trapped by social grace, Sharda extended her hand for the flowers. As Veer placed them in her palm, his fingers deliberately brushed against hers, lingering longer than necessary. The simple touch sent an unexpected current through him—freshness, calmness, a quiet peace that he seldom experienced in his chaotic life.

For a moment, Sharda too seemed transported. Looking at the lotuses, her expression softened. A memory flickered behind her eyes—her father at the Pushkar fair, his gentle voice explaining the symbolism of white lotuses. "These flowers represent the heart's purity and the soul's potential to blossom despite worldly challenges," he'd said. "They're offered to Maa Saraswati, the goddess of wisdom. And you, my Sharda, are nothing less than a goddess to me."

A gentle smile touched her lips at the memory, unguarded and genuine.

Veer noticed. And for reasons he couldn't explain, his heart felt fuller.

As they settled down for dinner, the atmosphere charged with unspoken tension. Veer found himself seated directly across from Sharda, their eyes meeting occasionally over the food.

"Raj," Veer said, breaking the silence with deliberate casualness, "you never told me your sister was such an accomplished woman. Dancing, gardening, cooking—is there anything she can't do?"

Rajveer beamed with pride. "Sharda has always been exceptional."

"I can see that," Veer replied, his gaze fixed on Sharda. "Tell me, Sharda ji," he added, deliberately using the honorific with a mischievous glint in his eyes that belied his notorious reputation with women, "do you apply the same... discipline to your dance that you do to punctuality?"

Sharda caught the playful yet respectful way he addressed her as "Sharda ji," noticing how it contrasted with the rumors she'd heard about his character. Despite herself, she felt a flicker of confusion—this was not the dismissive attitude toward women she had expected.

"Discipline is the foundation of art, CM Sahab," she countered smoothly, meeting his gaze unflinchingly. "Something that transcends mere schedules."

"A subtle jab," Veer laughed, reaching for the Daal Baati. "I admire a woman who speaks her mind."

"And I admire men who keep their word," she countered smoothly.

As the meal progressed, Veer found himself increasingly drawn to her quiet dignity. Throughout the dinner, he continued addressing her as "Sharda ji," each time with that same blend of respect and playful familiarity that seemed at odds with the rumors about him. The contradiction wasn't lost on Sharda, who found herself studying him more closely, wondering if the stories were merely that—stories.

When the Carrot Halwa was served, he watched as she placed a small portion on his plate.

"My mother used to make it exactly like this," he said softly, more to himself than to her.

Something in his tone made Sharda look up, catching a rare glimpse of vulnerability in the politician's eyes. For a brief moment, she saw past the charming facade to the man beneath.

"Food carries memories," she replied, her voice gentler than before. "It connects us to our roots."

Their eyes held for a heartbeat too long before Vishal broke the spell with a political anecdote that had everyone laughing.

As the dinner concluded, Sharda rose to clear the dishes. In the kitchen, she stood at the basin, washing her hands of the sweet rabdi that had coated her fingers during serving. Lost in thought about the strange evening, she didn't hear the footsteps behind her.

"The halwa was exceptional," Veer's voice came suddenly, startling her.

Sharda turned, finding herself unexpectedly close to him in the confined space of the kitchen. "Thank you," she replied formally, taking a step back. "My mother's recipe."

Something in her reserved demeanor challenged him. Without thinking, Veer reached out and took her hand, preventing her from turning away.

"What are you doing?" Sharda asked, her voice low but sharp, eyes widening in alarm. She tried to pull her hand away, but his grip was gentle yet firm.

"I'm trying to understand something," Veer replied, his usual confident tone tinged with genuine confusion.

"Let go of my hand, CM Sahab," Sharda insisted, a flush rising to her cheeks. Her heart raced uncomfortably as she glanced toward the doorway, terrified someone might walk in. "This is highly inappropriate."

But Veer didn't release her. Instead, he looked down at their joined hands with a curious expression. Her skin was surprisingly soft against his calloused palm, warm and delicate. A strange sensation spread through him—unfamiliar, unsettling.

"Why do you dislike me so much, Sharda ji?" he asked quietly, the respectful address contrasting sharply with his bold action. His eyes met hers, searching. "Is it the rumors? The politics? Or something else?"

The way he said "Sharda ji"—with that mixture of deference and mischief—confused her more than his touch. It was as though he was deliberately challenging the image she had formed of him.

Sharda's breath caught in her throat. The directness of his gaze made her uncomfortable in ways she couldn't articulate. "I don't know you well enough to dislike you," she managed, her voice steadier than she felt. "But I know your reputation."

"And you believe everything you hear?" A hint of bitterness colored his words.

"Please," she said again, more forcefully this time, tugging her hand. "Let go."

Something in her expression—perhaps the genuine distress—made him relent. He released her hand slowly, almost reluctantly.

"Forgive me," he said, stepping back. "I don't know what came over me."

Sharda rubbed her wrist, though he hadn't hurt her. It was the lingering warmth of his touch that disturbed her more than anything. "This isn't appropriate," she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper.

Veer ran a hand through his hair, genuinely perplexed by his own actions. In politics, every move was calculated, every word measured. But around her, his carefully constructed control seemed to slip.

"You're right," he admitted. "I apologize."

The sincerity in his voice surprised her, and Sharda found herself looking at him more carefully. For a brief moment, she glimpsed something beneath the politician's mask—uncertainty, perhaps even vulnerability.

Before either could speak again, the sound of approaching footsteps broke the tension. Naina and Meera entered the kitchen, chattering happily.

"Mother, Uncle Raj is asking for more rabdi," Meera announced.

Composing herself with effort, Sharda nodded, careful not to look at Veer. "Of course. I'll bring it right out."

As the girls turned to leave, Meera glanced between them curiously. "Is everything okay?"

"Perfect," Veer answered smoothly, his political face sliding back into place. "I was just complimenting your mother on her excellent cooking."

When the girls left, Sharda finally met his gaze again. "Whatever game you're playing, CM Sahab, I'm not interested."

Veer watched her gather herself, admiring despite himself the dignified way she collected her composure. "It's not a game, Sharda ji," he said quietly, the honorific now spoken with unexpected sincerity. "That's what confuses me."

Left alone with these words hanging in the air, Sharda felt a tremor run through her body. The man standing before her—charismatic, powerful, controversial—was nothing like the men in her carefully ordered world. And that made him dangerous in ways she wasn't prepared to face.

As she followed him back to the courtyard, a single thought troubled her: Why did his touch linger so persistently on her skin?