Chapter 43 Turning Point Of VR
It is early morning, exactly 7 AM. The sky above Mehergaon is wrapped in a soft mist. The chilly breeze carries the scent of the moist earth from the fields, and somewhere in the distance, the sweet melody of a koel echoes, filling the tranquil morning with a soothing, soulful presence.
Through this peaceful and picturesque village, a black luxury car moves along the dusty, unpaved road, raising light clouds of dust as it approaches an old yet majestic haveli. Though aged, every wall and window of this haveli bears testimony to its pride, heritage, and stature.
But today, there is a special sight to behold. Standing outside the haveli is Chaudhary Sahab, dressed in an immaculate white kurta-pajama, his face glowing with a welcoming smile, and in his hands a garland of fresh flowers. His eyes reflect pride, warmth, and affection like someone eagerly waiting to receive a dear guest.
As the car comes to a halt, Vihan’s driver steps out quickly and opens the car door. Vihan emerges, his wrist adorned with a fine watch, stylish sunglasses covering his sharp eyes, and his entire presence exuding a calm yet powerful charisma.
The moment Vihan sees Chaudhary Sahab standing there, he steps forward with mild surprise. Chaudhary Sahab greets him with heartfelt warmth, gently placing the flower garland around Vihan’s neck and says with joy, “Welcome, Vihan Babu! We heartily welcome you to Mehergaon.”
Vihan slightly bows in respect, accepting the garland, and replies with a courteous smile, “Your warmth and hospitality I truly don’t know how to thank you.”
Chaudhary Sahab folds his hands and says with sincerity, “Guests like you bring honor to us. Come inside, the drawing room is all prepared for you.”
Vihan’s two bodyguards follow as they step inside. As the grand wooden doors of the haveli open, the sound of an old brass bell echoes, and before Vihan lies a magnificent living area walls adorned with portraits of ancestors, antique showpieces made of ivory, and a vintage sofa set completing the regal ambiance.
Vihan respectfully bends and touches Chaudhary Sahab’s feet for blessings. Chaudhary Sahab smiles and says, “Always stay blessed, son.”
Both men sit down. Vihan’s face is as calm and composed as marble, but his voice carries genuine respect. Getting straight to the point, he says,
“Chaudhary Sahab, I’ve come to discuss the land we spoke of over the phone. I want to set up my factory here in Mehergaon.”
Chaudhary Sahab looks at Vihan carefully, measuring his intent, and after a thoughtful pause, asks, “I’m willing to give the land, son. But I want to understand why a big businessman like you chooses this village to set up a factory?”
Vihan takes a deep breath, and with empathy shining in his eyes, he replies, “Because I believe the people of this village are forced to migrate to cities for work. I want to bring employment here, so their lives improve. Let work come to their doorstep, so the village thrives.”
Chaudhary Sahab remains silent for a moment, absorbing the sincerity of his words. Then, with a proud smile, he says, “I must say, Mr. Vihan… you’re not just a businessman, but a good human being. Rare are those who think of others’ well-being along with their own profit.”
He leans forward and adds, “And how is Ajay Sahab? He’s an old friend of mine.”
Vihan’s smile deepens, “He’s doing well. He often mentions you with great respect.”
Chaudhary Sahab’s eyes light up, “That’s wonderful. So it’s settled the land is yours, and our friendship just got stronger.”
The formal talk is over, but now comes the part that matters deeply to Chaudhary Sahab: hospitality, the essence of village honor. For a man like him, welcoming someone like Vihan into his home isn’t just courtesy; it is a matter of pride and love.
Vihan, accustomed to schedules and precision, stands and says, “Shall we proceed to see the land?”
But Chaudhary Sahab stops him, smiling warmly, “Not so fast! First, you must have lunch with us. We can’t let you leave without sharing a meal it’s both our duty and our joy.”
Vihan is about to respond, but Chaudhary Sahab raises his hand playfully and says, “And you’re not allowed to say no. That’s an order straight from the heart.”
Vihan sighs softly, a rare smile flickering in his eyes, and bows his head slightly, “Alright, as you wish.”
Chaudhary Sahab, pleased, adds, “And one more thing: while you’re in this village, you’ll stay in our haveli. That’s non-negotiable.”
Vihan politely objects, “Please don’t trouble yourself. I can stay nearby, don’t worry about me.”
Chaudhary Sahab clasps his hands and says with affection, “Come now, don’t underestimate our humble abode. It may not be a grand city villa, but it’s not lacking in warmth and love. The haveli is old, but our hearts are full of new emotions.”
Vihan, humbled, replies, “Of course, Chaudhary Sahab. Your home is an honor for me.”
Chaudhary Sahab smiles, “Then it’s settled. You will stay here, as our guest.”
Vihan gives another deep breath, his face now softened, “Very well, as you say.”
Chaudhary Sahab immediately calls out, “O Bansi! Take Sahab’s luggage to his room. Handle it carefully don’t miss a single thing.”
The servant quickly obeys, taking the luggage from Vihan’s guards and heading toward the guest quarters of the haveli.
Meanwhile, Vihan and Chaudhary Sahab engage in warm conversation about the village, its people, and the dreams of a better tomorrow.
After a while, Chaudhary Sahab looks at Vihan and says, “Go on now, freshen up. Rest a little. Then we’ll share a good lunch together.”
Vihan nods with a soft smile and follows the servant toward his room.
Two days pass since Shorya returns from Rajasthan. As his car halts in front of Shekhawat Villa, a strange restlessness flickers across his face despite the usual tiredness from his business trip. He steps out of the car and looks around—the house is just as he left it, yet something about it feels eerily quiet.
He enters through the main gate and walks directly toward the drawing room, his sharp eyes scanning the space. But no one is in sight. Confused, he raises his voice and calls, “Dad? Neeti?”
A few seconds later, Mr. Shekhawat steps out of his room with a knowing smile. There is something secretive in his expression, something playful.
Shorya walks to him, bends down for a respectful touch of his feet, and says, “Yes Dad, how are you?”
“I’m perfectly fine, son. But how are you? How was the trip?” Mr. Shekhawat replies warmly.
Shorya nods, then looks around again and asks, “Where’s Neeti?”
Mr. Shekhawat smiles, his tone casual, “She went to her parents’ house. I sent her myself. Poor girl, what would she do here all alone? Managing everything here by herself must be tiring sometimes.”
A flash of anger crosses Shorya’s face. His voice turns sharp, “Why, Dad? Why did you send her away? And if she left, why hasn’t she come back yet? Didn’t she know I was returning today?”
Trying to suppress his amusement, Mr. Shekhawat says, “Son, if you need anything, just ask the servants. Even Neeti is human; she gets tired. Let her rest for a few days.”
Frustrated, Shorya snaps, “I’m going to my room,” and without waiting for a reply, storms off.