The headquarters smelled exactly the same as always that afternoon: cold air-conditioning, coffee long past its prime, and the residue of meeting tension ground into the carpet.
On the same floor, the vendor room didn't smell pleasant—but it was immaculate. Too immaculate for a technician space: an exhaust fan that actually worked, tool racks arranged like military inventory, even a water dispenser that didn't leak.
And that… was no coincidence.
In the corner stood a "catering vendor PIC," holding a small portable fan, a folded umbrella tucked into her bag, and several boxes of fruit salad that looked suspiciously fresh for office catering.
She didn't talk much. Almost not at all.
In this building, everyone knew her as: Ma'am from catering.
The one who passed by with only a thin smile.
Who answered questions through writing.
Who nodded once when a vendor issue came up—and somehow, the problem was resolved.
Today, she didn't look like a vendor.
She looked like someone with a personal agenda… completely derailed by another person's meeting schedule.
I knew that because that "catering Ma'am" was Maata.
And I—due to reasons I absolutely could not include in my internship report—had been assigned to HQ that day to oversee a security patch in the branch access system undergoing migration.
GA headquarters called it: "exposure."
The IT team called it: "don't let idiots click links."
I called it: "why am I alive."
***
A red notification blinked across my retina through my smart contact lens:
CCTV feed: Floor 12 | Vendor zone — Restricted Request by Executive Office (EO).
I paused my code patching. In a normal office, I would've ignored it.
But this was Pa's office.
On the small screen, I saw Ma laughing silently, shoulders bouncing, sitting with two building maintenance technicians and one anti-termite vendor. They were eating fruit salad like kids after PE class.
Ma lifted a spoon, pointed at the salad box, then at the wall fan—a sequence that clearly meant: hot, eat, stay alive.
The youngest technician—his face too bright—nodded as if he'd just received a blessing from the goddess of catering.
At the edge of the frame, Menon from procurement admin stood with a clipboard, looking like someone who'd just renewed a catering contract without breathing.
I thought: No wonder the contract is long.
Then a second screen lit up—a secure ping from the Executive Office.
Not a call.
An encrypted internal channel.
One-line burst.
I opened it.
EO: Vendor room. Your Ma.
I exhaled, closed my eyes for half a second, and replied briefly:
Me: Working.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
One second of silence. The unprofessional kind—meaning Pa was drafting a sentence that sounded neutral.
The reply came:
EO: Operational distraction. Send her home.
I glanced back at the CCTV feed.
Ma was lifting candied mango slices and sharing them. The anti-termite vendor laughed until his shoulders shook. This wasn't a vendor room. This was a reunion.
Pa followed up—still in minutes-safe language:
EO: Non-essential social engagement observed.
I almost laughed.
I typed honestly—but professionally:
Me: Noted.
No long reply.
Then one final ping appeared—short, final, wrapped in structure:
EO: Proceed.
The tone wasn't anger.
It was jealousy wearing a meeting suit.
I held back a smile.
Me: On it.
The channel closed automatically.
I inhaled, then opened another message—to the only person who could remove Ma without drama: Suraj.
Me: Suraj bhai, Plan A. "Drop appointment" excuse. Prep the car. Make Ma believe this is your idea, not Pa's.
Suraj replied almost instantly:
Suraj: Sir, understood. Ma'am will argue. I will act tired.
I smiled.
Suraj is the most loyal casualty in our family.
A few seconds later, another notification appeared—a direct message to Ma.
Read status: —
Unread.
One of Ma's bad habits:
when she's having fun, notifications become decorations.
I closed the screen.
Alright. Time for the field.
***
I walked toward the vendor zone. In the corridor, a few office staff passed, glancing at Ma from afar.
No suspicion. No awareness.
To them:
The Founder is "Sir."
The catering PIC is "Ma'am."
The IT intern is… an IT intern.
Done.
Ma was standing when I entered. Her umbrella leaned against a chair. The portable fan hummed. The candied mango was half gone.
In front of her, Naveen—the building technician—was quietly venting.
"Madam, the AC duct area… sometimes suffocating. But here is better. Thank you."
Ma nodded, then raised one finger: a rule.
She pointed at the small sign: NO SMOKING – WORK HOURS
Then at Naveen.
Then at the clock.
Then shook her head.
Naveen nodded rapidly.
"Yes, madam. No smoking."
Ma looked again, slid Menon's clipboard slightly, and wrote something on a sticky note. Her movements were neat, decisive—like someone who didn't need to raise her voice to make people sweat.
Menon glanced at it. His eyes widened slightly.
I stood beside my mother.
"Ma'am."
Ma turned. A thin smile.
Her hand automatically lifted a spoon—reflexively trying to feed me.
Then she remembered: here, she was "mute" and "vendor PIC."
The spoon froze mid-air.
She cleared her throat softly. Lowered her hand.
I whispered,
"Pa's meeting is long. Ma should go home."
Ma's expression shifted—like a kid caught skipping class. She typed quickly on her phone and showed me the screen:
"Yes, I miss him. I thought I could feed him lunch and wait here until he's done."
I looked at the screen. Then at Ma.
I didn't know which was more absurd:
Ma disguising herself to feed Pa, or
Pa ordering his child to send Ma away using fake reasons.
Before turning toward the elevator, Ma stopped directly beneath the CCTV dome.
She looked straight at the lens—like she knew Pa was zooming in 400% on her face.
Then Ma launched the most lethal cyberattack on Pa's defense system:
a blown kiss from her palm, followed by a hand-heart gesture.
Short. Light. Effective.
On my report screen, Pa's status flipped to Idle for fifteen seconds.
System crash due to love.
The final notification came in:
EO: Tell her… next time, don't use the back door.
At that moment, Suraj appeared at the vendor zone entrance, wearing his carefully exhausted expression.
"Ma'am," he said politely,
"car ready."
Ma looked at Suraj, then at me. She typed one last line and showed it to me:
"Tell Pa: focus on the meeting."
I closed my eyes.
Too late.
Ma typed again and showed me:
"Ma hasn't left a note yet. There's something that needs to be settled."
She picked up her umbrella, fan, and candied mango. Before leaving, she turned to Naveen and pointed at the NO SMOKING sign again.
Naveen nodded hard.
"Yes, Ma'am. Promise."
Ma walked away. In the corridor, staff glanced and whispered—I knew tomorrow the rumors would level up. But none of them would land on the truth.
Ma's steps stopped near the operations admin desk.
Suresh Malhotra—Senior Manager with an overly slick suit and an overly pressing voice—stood far too close to Anika, a junior staffer whose face was pale as printer paper. Suresh's heavy perfume flooded the narrow space between them.
The atmosphere shifted.
Ma didn't speak—but her aura changed from Catering Mother to Supreme Judge.
She placed a cup of salad in front of Suresh with a solid thud. Then slid a sticky note into the folder he was holding.
Suresh read it—and instantly, his shoulders collapsed. His dominance evaporated.
"Anika, you can rest now. I… I'll handle the report myself," Suresh said, suddenly polite, almost shaking.
Anika blinked.
"Sir?"
Suresh smiled tightly.
"It's okay. Go."
Anika stepped back slowly—like someone released from forced labor without paperwork. Ma looked at Anika briefly, then typed on her phone and showed it to her:
"Good work. Keep your copy."
Anika nodded fast—eyes slightly wet, but controlled. Because this was an office. I couldn't read the note from here. But I knew Ma's format:
one lineone numberone consequence
I approached Ma.
"Ma… Suraj."
Ma gave a small shrug. Done.
I walked a step behind her. Suraj followed—distance perfect, expression resigned like a guard who'd made peace with fate.
Suraj glanced at me briefly, almost silent.
"Sir… daily."
I sighed.
"Daily."
Ma entered the car. Door closed. Umbrella folded. Fan off. Today was done—administratively.
At the same moment, a notification from the Executive Office came in:
EO: Is she gone?
I replied briefly:
Me: Yes.
No immediate reply.
Ten seconds later, the final message appeared. Not an order. Not a policy.
EO: Next time… tell her to wait.
I smiled. Then I added a sentence that would never pass audit:
Me: Pa, stop watching CCTV during meetings. And just ask her to stay.
No reply.
But inside that meeting room—I was sure—Pa smiled. The smile of a man who only wanted to be fed lunch, and failed completely because he was too busy being serious.
I kept walking.
Tomorrow, the legend of the catering woman would live on again.