Saturday afternoons are usually quiet. Quiet by this house's standards—no official agenda, no disciplinary schedule, yet the system still runs in the background.
The three of us are still in the living room after Pa ends the call.
Maata rests her head against the sofa back. Her breath is long. Not tired—more like someone who has just realized: longing isn't something logic can postpone.
"Ma misses Pa so much," she finally says.
Flat tone. Honest. Not fishing for sympathy. She stares at the ceiling, then looks at us.
"If it's the normal kind of missing," she continues,
"Ma can still keep herself busy. Cooking. Writing. Reading. Cleaning."
A beat.
"This isn't normal."
Tara straightens immediately. Problem-solver mode: ON.
"Then… Ma should activate outdoor activities?" Her voice is careful. Like she's proposing an option in a family meeting, not issuing an order.
Maata doesn't answer. She goes silent for a few seconds—silence loaded with calculation, the kind that belongs to someone who has seen what tiny decisions can cost. Her fingers freeze mid-air, the nastar not yet reaching her mouth.
Then she shakes her head slowly.
"Ma doesn't want Pa to work with an unsettled mind," she says softly.
"If Ma is too often out of range, Pa won't get suspicious… Pa will think."
I almost smile. I know the difference.
"And you know," Maata continues, her tone lifting half a level,
"if Ma returns to formal work and Pa sees Ma's work raises his cortisol—"
She raises two fingers. Upright. Precise.
"Two hours."
Her voice turns administrative.
"Ma's office can be sealed."
I look down, shoulders shaking as I try not to laugh.
"Imagine," Maata says, clearly enjoying the scene now,
"Ma dresses up properly, leaves early, fully motivated…"
She pats the low table in front of the sofa.
"…and by the time Ma arrives, the door already has a seal the size of a billboard:
OFFICE NOT OPERATING."
Tara's eyes go wide.
"WHAT?!"
"And then the staff asks," Maata imitates a formal, polite-but-panicked voice,
'Ma'am… why is this happening?'
Maata shrugs lightly.
"Ma would be confused too, trying to explain."
I'm already laughing without sound. This isn't wild imagination. This is family risk assessment.
"So," Maata concludes casually,
"Ma works gently. According to mood. It's Ma's passion anyway."
A thin smile.
"And weirdly… that's what keeps this house the most harmonious."
Tara still looks like she's buffering.
"Seriously, Ma?"
"Seriously," Maata answers firmly.
"You think Ma is smart?"
She turns to me, one eyebrow raised.
"Your Pa is far above Ma. He's a system architect—romantic, but headache-inducing."
I laugh out loud.
"Your Pa," Maata continues, now like a guest lecturer explaining a law of nature,
"will let us have passion—while installing a kill-switch on every door."
She nods, admiring.
"That's Pa's way of saying 'I love you' without writing poetry."
A small, appreciative nod.
"Because Pa is a thousand steps ahead of you."
Tara inhales and tries diplomacy again.
"Then… we go out? Walk around. Shopping."
Maata lets out a short laugh, then performs a dramatic sigh—the sigh of someone who has memorized her own system.
"You two don't know," she says softly, almost conspiratorial,
"Ma's personal spending is capped by Pa."
Tara and I, in perfect sync:
"HUH?!"
"Seriously." Maata nods calmly.
"That's how Pa protects Ma… and maybe he's also scared Ma might run away. Hahahaha."
I nearly slide off the sofa.
"Facilities are complete," Maata continues casually,
"but money—just enough. Happiness and crying at the same time."
She lifts her phone.
"Sweetie, in Ma's position, cash is bait. Your Pa is simply making sure Ma doesn't lure the wrong sharks while buying pani puri."
Tara covers her face with a pillow.
"Pa never scolds," Maata says, smiling faintly.
"But Pa thinks. And that… makes Ma behave even more."
The silence doesn't last.
Maata stares ahead—not at us. The stare of someone whose mind has already walked several steps forward. In a family like ours, every expense is a digital trail enemies can use to map weaknesses.
Ma flips her tablet in her hands, the screen still black. Her fingers tap the back—once… twice. Not anxious. More like buffering.
"You know," she finally says, voice returning to flat focus,
"Pa thinking isn't because Ma is spoiled."
Tara and I look up.
"Pa thinks because the world outside this house isn't kind to people who trust too easily."
She turns the tablet on. The glow reflects on her face for a moment—just long enough to shift the atmosphere from warm to alert, without becoming cold.
"That's why," Maata adds lightly, as if remembering something trivial,
"every time Ma misses Pa and Ma's system starts to error…"
She glances at us, the corner of her mouth lifting.
"Ma tells herself: be strong. Ma can handle this."
She shifts her posture, tablet now facing us both.
"And coincidentally," she says, cheerful but precise,
"this case connects to the topic."
I lean back. I can already guess where this is going.
"And by the way," Maata adds, as if changing playlists,
"since you two are home, your brains are still on, and no one has escaped to their room…"
She taps the tablet once.
"…we're dissecting a case."
Tara drops her head to the sofa back.
"Ma…"
I exhale—not annoyed. More like reflex. On the tablet, a video plays.
No music intro. No dramatic opening. Just a mouse click—then a man's narration, neutral, slightly hoarse, like someone who has narrated too many endings.
"Case file number—"
A clip appears: a brick house on the outskirts of a British town, captured from Google Street View.
Grey sky.
Tidy front garden.
The warmth of a small family with cute children.
The narrator continues, without emotional pause.
"An Indian businessman. Married. Two children under three."
A family photo appears:
a man in a white shirt, smiling awkwardly;
his wife beside him, hair neatly pinned;
two toddlers passed between arms—round cheeks, still-innocent eyes.
Next slide.
"They lived here. Away from extended family. No local support system."
Tara stops chewing. Maata no longer reclines—her spine is straight now, hands still in her lap. The narrator continues, same tone.
"The businessman hired an employee with a criminal record."
A blurred CCTV still: a man behind a warehouse counter.
"Former convict. Previously connected to a large-scale narcotics network."
No mistake.
No warning.
Just facts arranged like grocery items.
"The hiring decision was driven by compassion."
A censored WhatsApp chat appears. Short lines. A job request through an old staff member. A heavy life story.
"Access was gradually expanded."
A simple diagram appears—arrows multiplying. One account becomes two. Two becomes full.
"No clear role segregation."
Maata exhales softly—almost inaudible. The video continues.
"Domestic pressure appeared normal."
A dining room photo. Children's toys in the corner.
"The wife wanted to return to India. To be closer to family. Emotionally safer."
A document title appears on screen:
Draft: Company Sale Agreement
"The businessman began considering selling his company."
The narrator's tone shifts slightly—not emotional, just slower.
"At this point, persuasion turned into coercion."
A close-up on a document. A signature column highlighted.
"The employee demanded control."
A pause—still not for drama, more like rereading a note.
"At this stage, the businessman understood something was wrong."
A minimal reconstruction appears: a man in an office chair, suit still neat, but collar slightly crooked. No screaming. No chase scene.
"He knew he would not be allowed to walk away."
The screen shows an illustration of a man's sock—circled in red, on the inside.
"In his final moments, he wrote down the names."
The narrator doesn't say evidence.
Doesn't say document.
"The perpetrator's name was concealed inside his sock."
Tara swallows. Maata interlaces her fingers—tight, as if locking something that must not leak. Next slide comes fast.
"The businessman's body was never meant to be found."
A grey sea. Low waves. Faint coordinates in the corner.
"He was disposed of at sea."
No body photo.
Only a map.
Only a dot.
The narrator continues, still reporting.
"The rest of the family met a different fate."
A photo of the back garden. Grass trimmed too neatly.
"His wife."
"Their two children."
"And his mother."
Police tape appears on screen.
"They were buried in the backyard of the perpetrator's romantic partner."
One extra line appears—only now does the narrator add context:
"A widowed socialite with children."
A party photo: evening gown, crystal lights, wine glasses.
"The primary motive was not desperation."
A half-beat pause.
"It was lifestyle restoration."
"The perpetrator sought to return to a life of luxury."
"And to secure the affection of his partner."
Next: officers digging. Floodlights at night.
"The bodies were later relocated," the narrator adds coldly.
"Authorities were getting close."
The video ends. No one speaks immediately.
Maata lowers the tablet volume—not because it's loud, but like she's closing a door. The living room feels colder, though the AC hasn't changed.
Maata looks from me to Tara. No excessive emotion on her face—only precision.
"You know," she says softly,
"what this man has in common with your Pa?"
Tara and I answer almost at the same time, without looking at each other.
"Family man."
Maata nods.
"In the patterns Ma observes," she continues,
"love is always tested."
A beat.
"Before marriage. During marriage. Or after."
She leans forward slightly—not pressuring, inviting thought.
"Now," she says calmly,
"regardless of our empathy for the victim…"
"What risk management was not executed?"
Tara doesn't answer right away. She rubs her thumb along the edge of a pillow—the habit of someone assembling her thoughts.
"The perpetrator is pitiful too, Ma," she says finally.
"He only wanted to get the love of his partner."
She lifts her head.
"But the victim is more pitiful. He was a good person, Ma. He gave access too fast—because he wanted to be a good human being."
Tara's voice trembles a little.
"Aren't we taught to give second chances?"
Maata watches Tara—sharp, but not judging.
"In the outside world, Tara," Maata says quietly,
"a second chance without supervision is no longer kindness. It's an invitation to suicide."
I add, softer.
"Single point of trust," I say.
"Everything is stacked on one node. No compartmentalization. If that node falls—everything collapses."
Maata smiles faintly.
"Life isn't that simple," she says.
Then she adds, measured:
"The primary victim also mixed Khandan—family matters—with business operations."
She reclines again.
"That's why," Maata continues, her voice softer now,
"Ma doesn't want Pa making rushed decisions just because Ma is missing him."
She looks at us. A pause.
"In that case," she says quietly,
"the wife wasn't the problem."
"The problem was the system that let one desire—no matter how well-intended—shake the entire security structure of a family."
She exhales long.
"So," she adds lightly, almost joking,
"as long as Ma can hold the longing, Ma will redirect."
"Lying down. Snacking. A bit of drama."
Tara snorts.
"But," Maata continues, eyes narrowing mischievously,
"if it hits the limit—"
She raises one finger.
"—even if Pa is in a meeting on Mars, Pa must be present that second."
I let out a short laugh. Tara shakes her head, smiling.
We look at each other.
No words needed.
We understand.