Warrior Hearts

Manik

"Voila!" Malhotra exclaims, the walls of the hall echoing with the unconcealed sense of triumph in his voice. Grinning, I watch as he re-enters the dining hall through the door that connects it to the kitchen, his hands holding a plate up high as if he's displaying a trophy with great pride. Skeptically, I allow my gaze to fixate on the cake that is resting on the platter, my lips wavering ever so slightly at the sight.

Other than in its circular shape, the so-called, 'Cake,' bears no resemblance, whatsoever, to any other of its kind that I have ever seen before. Instead of resting against the surface of the crystal platter with utter ease, the poor thing is struggling to keep from falling off it. Although the cake is meant to be a chocolate flavoured one, it has an odd combination of various colours splattered along its sides at intervals, and in no particular pattern from what I can gauge. However, that isn't the end of the sore sight in front of my eyes. The entire cake is also tilting to one side.

Tucking my lower lip in between my teeth, I suppress a burst of laughter at the handicapped cake. As Malhotra draws even closer to me, I realise that alongside being a wreck both, visually, and physically, the cake is also melting with alarming speed. In fact, if Malhotra and I delay the cake cutting by another few seconds, the entire frosting will form a pool at the base of the plate, leaving the cake's walls naked like a newborn babe.

"Please cooperate," Malhotra hisses, his tone barely above a whisper. Furrowing my brows, I allow my eyes to trail up to his face, only to realise that he is speaking to the miserable excuse of a cake that's in his hands. "Don't melt," he warns it, glaring at the poor thing. Although my shoulders begin to shake with mirth, I bite down on my lower lip to keep my expression firmly in check. After all, laughing at Malhotra's efforts is the last thing on my agenda at the moment.

"Malhotra," I say, drawing his attention away from the cake. "Did you, by any chance, lather the cake with frosting when it was fresh out of the oven?" I don't, however, point out the fact that the weak consistency of the frosting could also very well be at fault. Pouting at me with wide innocent eyes, Malhotra nods his head with the vigour of an enthusiastic child, who doesn't quite know that treating the walls as his canvas won't win him a standing ovation from the adults in his family.

"I love it when the cakes are made like that, don't you?" I improvise, refusing to stamp on Malhotra's high spirits, and hard work. He's put in hours of his precious time into baking me this cake through trial and error, and I will not dampen his mood. On the contrary, I will cut it and enjoy it, I decide. After all, I'm sure the cake doesn't taste as bad as it looks. At least, I very much doubt anything can be worse than its physical appearance, or so I hope.

"Really?" Malhotra asks, his tone interlaced with uncertainty. Raising his eyebrows at me, he searches my eyes for a truthful answer.

"Absolutely!" I exclaim, slapping a convincing smile onto my face. However, the feat isn't a tough one to accomplish. After all, putting on a momentary facade to convince the man in front of me that his efforts aren't in vain is nothing in comparison to everything that he has done for me today. A few seconds of silence pass by between Malhotra and I, as his gaze remains locked on mine, seeking the truth.

"Well then, Princess, I suggest we cut this cake before the entirety of it melts away in front of our eyes," Malhotra says. The grin that breaks out across his features is proof that I am not as bad of an actress as I thought I was, and that Malhotra has bought my lie without an ounce of doubt. Bending down, he places the platter ever so gingerly at the head of the table. Stepping away from the table, Malhotra offers me the butter knife I didn't realise he was concealing underneath the platter.

"Go ahead, Princess." Malhotra encourages, nodding his chin towards the platter. Eagerly, I take the knife from his outstretched hand, and step into place behind the cake. Genuine excitement begins to course through my veins at the thought of slicing into the handicapped treat in front of me. However, my emotions towards the cake are not because of how it looks, or what it'll taste like. On the contrary, my actions are fuelled on by the pure intentions which were incorporated into its recipe, complemented by Malhotra's efforts of course. Without further ado, I press the knife against the lopsided surface of the cake. Surprise courses through me at the ease with which the blade slips through, straight to the very bottom of the moist cake.