2 Weeks before CHEERANJEEV met MUGDHA....

"Poorna...? Poorna, are you in there? Does it hurt that badly?" Anjana knocked gently on the washroom door, concern evident in her voice.

A few seconds later, the door creaked open.

Poorna stepped out dressed in her crisp black chef's uniform, though the slight paleness on her face betrayed her discomfort.

"I'm fine," she said with a forced smile.

"Your face says otherwise." Anjana followed her anxiously as Poorna walked toward the sink to wash her hands. "Is the flow too heavy? Should we go to the hospital?"

Poorna sighed tiredly.

"The flow is normal. It's just my stomach." She pressed a hand lightly against her abdomen. "Feels like someone's playing war drums inside."

Anjana winced sympathetically.

"I took a painkiller. Give me five minutes and I'll survive again." Poorna adjusted the hairnet over her neatly tied bun before fixing her chef's cap properly. "Where's the Boss?"

"Well... uh... he..." Anjana suddenly looked uncomfortable.

Poorna frowned and walked toward the door.

The moment she opened it, she froze.

Towering right outside the ladies' washroom stood Chef Cheeranjeev himself in his immaculate white chef's coat, arms folded, expression unreadable as always.

The Michelin-starred celebrity chef rarely spoke much. Most people working under him had mastered the art of understanding his silence, gestures, and shifting expressions more than actual words.

His eyes immediately dropped toward her stomach.

"All fine?" he asked briefly, pointing a finger toward her abdomen.

Poorna stared at him in disbelief.

"Boss!" She instantly slapped his hand away.

Before he could react, she grabbed his wrist, turned him around, and dragged him away from the washroom entrance.

"Can we please not make my periods a national issue?" she hissed under her breath.

Cheeranjeev looked mildly offended.

"You were never like this before," Poorna continued glaring at him. "Why are you hovering around me over silly periods now?"

"They aren't silly." Cheeranjeev's brows furrowed faintly.

Poorna blinked.

The answer came so immediately and so seriously that it caught her off guard for a second.

Cheeranjeev looked away awkwardly afterward, as though irritated at himself for saying it aloud.

"Boss was wondering whether you'd be able to handle today's Cook a Storm show," Anjana explained quickly as she walked alongside them. "Cooking for a hundred people isn't easy. And you're the only assistant he allows beside him during live events."

Poorna crossed her arms.

"If you're genuinely unwell, we can replace you with Chef Ranjith. He'll be here in another five minutes." Anjana insisted speaking on behalf of Cheeranjeev.

"Oh..." Poorna slowly released Cheeranjeev's wrist, visibly annoyed. "So this is about the show."

"Wrong." Cheeranjeev stopped walking abruptly.

Both women looked at him.

"I asked whether you were feeling well," he said flatly. 

"Not whether you were capable of winning the challenge. I am fond of my words. Do not twist my words to suit your theory." Cheeranjeev rarely spoke this much in one stretch, which itself meant he was irritated.

Poorna opened her mouth to argue.

"I asked you a simple question. Do you want to rest? You have still not answered to that." He continued before she could interrupt.

Finally she exhaled.

"I just need ten minutes of silence and rest," she muttered, holding up all ten fingers dramatically in front of him as though explaining things to a stubborn child. "I'll be perfectly functional before the show starts. Cool?"

Cheeranjeev stared at her fingers for a moment.

"Hmm." He gave a small nod.

Without another word, he turned and walked away toward the studio kitchen to prepare for the reality show shoot that helped maintain HOTEL ANNAPOORNA's massive social media presence.

The moment he disappeared around the corner, Poorna sighed and dropped onto the wellness room couch.

A few minutes later, Chef Ranjith entered carrying a steel tumbler.

"Drink this," he said kindly. "Butter milk. You'll feel better."

Poorna immediately sat upright in embarrassment.

"What really?" she whisper-yelled. "My periods have become breaking news across the entire hotel?"

Ranjith burst out laughing.

"You know how Boss is," he said while stirring the drink before handing it to her. "The second he panics, he loses all control over his mouth. He bombarded me at the kitchen. He would accept defeat than replace you with me for these events. He hates having anybody but you for a partner during such competitions. You know it too well, don't you?"

"He literally called me sounding like the kitchen was on fire." Ranjith chuckled.

"Why?" Poorna groaned and covered her face.

"Because he's nervous about today's cook-off competition. He thinks only you understand his sign language. That chap acts like talking costs him money." Ranjith chuckled softly.

Poorna instantly understood.

The rival team consisted of a group of women in their fifties who had been successfully running a traditional catering company for decades.

For Cheeranjeev, losing publicly was unimaginable.

"He genuinely thinks losing to those aunties would be the greatest humiliation of his career," Ranjith chuckled.

Poorna took a sip of the drink before leaning back against the couch with closed eyes.

"Well," she said lazily, "Boss needs to accept that better cooks than him exist in this world."

"They've been running that catering business for almost thirty years," she continued. "That experience alone is practically equal to Boss's age. There's no shame in losing to them."

"Don't let him hear that." Ranjith smirked.

"I absolutely want him to hear that." Poorna frowned.

Ranjith laughed again.

"Feeling better?" he asked.

Poorna took another sip and smiled softly.

"Yeah. Boss made this drink, didn't he?" She tasted it again, letting the flavours settle on her tongue.

"Gosh! How did you figure that out?" Ranjith stared at her.

Poorna chuckled.

 "Because he turns into a mother hen whenever I'm sick. And this buttermilk is unmistakably his." She lifted the glass slightly. 

"The herbs were crushed fresh—not blended—so their flavours are still sharp and fragrant. The salt is balanced, there's just enough sugar to round out the tang, and the spice hits at the end instead of overwhelming everything. It's exactly how I like it." She took another sip and grinned.

"Was he angry when he was grinding the herbs?" Poorna asked.

"He was pounding them while yelling at me. How on earth did you know that?" Ranjith gaped.

"Hmm..." Poorna swirled the drink thoughtfully. "When he's annoyed, he gets a little overenthusiastic with the mortar and pestle. The herbs are bruised harder than usual—you can taste it. That's his angry cooking."

Ranjith blinked.

"Anyway, I'm fine now. Let's go." Poorna set down the glass and gave him a dramatic thumbs-up.

Ranjith shook his head fondly.

There was something about Poorna that changed the atmosphere of every kitchen she entered.

It was loud.

Warm.

Infectious.

Even on exhausting days, her smile somehow kept everyone's spirits alive.

"Are you sure you can manage the competition?" Ranjith asked as he walked Poorna out of the wellness room.

"Yeah." She straightened confidently. "Boss cannot survive today's competition without me."

Ranjith chuckled as she marched ahead with renewed determination.

The shooting set buzzed with chaos and energy.

Cameramen moved around adjusting angles while crew members hurried between lights, microphones, cables, and production sheets. Massive cooking counters stood beneath the bright studio lights, ready for the highly anticipated cook-off episode.

The moment Poorna stepped onto the set, Cheeranjeev glanced at her from the corner of his eye.

One of his eyebrows lifted in a silent question, checking on her without saying a word.

"I'm fine. You should be the one relaxing a little." Poorna smiled and gave his arm a light mock punch.

For a brief moment, his expression shifted—his brows twitching as though he wanted to say something. Then he simply looked away, the tension in his face easing ever so slightly.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" Inchara's energetic voice echoed across the set as cameras rolled into position. "Welcome to today's special cook-off challenge between the legendary Sharadha Catering service and India's one and only Michelin-starred celebrity chef — Chef Cheeranjeev Vishwanathan!"

The crew and the audience applauded instantly.

"While the Sharadha Catering team is allowed to compete with their full crew," Inchara continued dramatically, "Chef CJ is permitted only a single apprentice so that the challenge remains fair and balanced."

"Are you nervous, Chef?" Inchara turned toward Cheeranjeev with an excited grin.

Cheeranjeev stood in his usual composed posture — hands behind his back, expression unreadable, looking less like a reality-show participant and more like a man attending a board meeting against his will.

Poorna stole a glance at him from beside the workstation.

"He's absolutely nervous,"  she thought instantly. "He just needs twelve business days to process emotions before expressing them."

"Yes... excited," Cheeranjeev answered calmly.

A pause.

"Nervous? Not really." He grunted.

Poorna almost snorted.

Inchara laughed theatrically at his response before immediately shifting the camera focus back onto him.

As usual, she barely acknowledged Poorna's existence.

To the audience, Poorna was merely "Chef CJ's apprentice" — background support in his culinary empire. Across every cook-off show Inchara had hosted, the spotlight always remained fixed on Cheeranjeev. His face brought ratings, trends, fan edits, and millions of views.

Poorna rarely received screen time.

Rarely received introductions.

Rarely even appeared important enough for viewers to remember her name.

Fully aware of Cheeranjeev's poor communication skills, Inchara wisely shifted her attention toward the women of Sharadha Catering service, who stood proudly near their cooking stations on the opposite side of the stage.

As the host, it was her responsibility to keep the competition entertaining while the cooking chaos unfolded.

"So tell us," Inchara beamed dramatically into the mic, "how does it feel to appear on such a massive platform and compete directly against Chef CJ himself?"

The audience cheered loudly.

"Do you genuinely think you can defeat him?" Inchara continued playfully. "After all, Chef Cheeranjeev Vishwanathan has never lost a cook-off challenge till date."

Inchara paused for effect before clutching her arms dramatically.

"But honestly... your team feels dangerous. I'm already getting chills on behalf of Chef CJ." Inchara acted getting chills.

The audience laughed.

Sharadha, the head cook of the catering company, stepped forward with calm confidence. The elderly woman carried the quiet authority of someone who had spent decades feeding people through love rather than fame.

"Before becoming cooks," Sharadha began warmly, "we were mothers."

The audience softened immediately.

"And when a mother cooks with love," Sharadha smiled, "food tastes ten times better."

Applause erupted across the set.

"That is why we insisted that the judges today should be a hundred children from an orphanage." Sharadha glanced toward the excited group of children seated nearby. "Let them decide whether a mother's love wins today... or beautifully decorated food made by Chef sir."

The crowd oohed loudly.

"Because food should taste good," Sharadha added smoothly, "not merely look good."

A deliberate pause.

"Chef sir's food certainly looks beautiful." Her smile widened innocently. "Whether it tastes as good as it appears on television... that remains questionable."

The audience exploded into applause and whistles at the direct jab.

Inchara immediately spun toward Cheeranjeev with delighted chaos energy.

"Chef! A direct challenge!" Inchara exclaimed. "Sharadha madam says your food only looks good!"

All cameras instantly focused on him.

Cheeranjeev remained exactly as he was.

Unbothered.

Composed.

Expressionless enough to make even statues look emotional.

Finally, he simply pointed vaguely toward the children seated in the judging section.

"That..." Cheeranjeev said calmly, "they will decide."

Meanwhile, from the audience section—

"They have no idea Boss already did his groundwork," Anjana whispered excitedly into Ranjith's ear.

"He secretly ordered every fast-selling dish from Sharadha Catering as an anonymous customer and tasted everything beforehand. He already knows their flavor profile and exactly how they cook." Ranjith smirked knowingly.

"He's always two steps ahead," Ranjith admitted quietly.

"But this challenge is still risky." Ranjith's expression shifted with concern.

Anjana nodded slightly.

Cooking for a hundred children within a strict time limit was difficult enough already.

Doing it with just one assistant while the opposing team consisted of seven experienced women made it far more brutal.

"Those women are highly efficient," Ranjith muttered thoughtfully. "And they've probably mastered quantity cooking over decades."

He glanced toward Cheeranjeev and Poorna standing at their station.

"Boss and Poorna handle massive restaurant orders daily, sure... but this is different. This is live pressure. Limited manpower. Limited time."

"And the worst part?" Anjana sighed.

"The opposing team gets to choose the cuisine." Ranjith stated.

Which meant Sharadha Catering would naturally pick dishes that were their strongest specialty—Not Cheeranjeev's.

"I honestly wonder whether Boss was foolish for agreeing to their conditions," Ranjith admitted. "If they choose traditional bulk-cooking cuisine, those women will dominate through speed alone."

"And Poorna's still recovering from cramps." Anjana leaned forward nervously.

Both of them looked toward the stage instinctively.

Cheeranjeev stood silently adjusting his knives.

Beside him, Poorna rolled up her sleeves slowly.

Neither of them looked nervous.

Which somehow made the challenge feel even more dangerous.

"Let's see what those women are planning," Anjana murmured nervously. "They look fully determined to defeat Boss today."

On stage, Inchara flashed an excited smile toward Sharadha.

"So then... what special dish are you planning to challenge Chef CJ with today? What's on the menu?"

Sharadha folded her saree pallu over her shoulder confidently.

"I've heard Chef sir is excellent at making pasta..." Sharadha began.

Then came the pause.

"...those fancy, tasteless Italian noodles."

The audience burst into laughter.

"I challenge him to prepare authentic South Indian Mutton gravy with Raagi balls." she declared proudly.

The audience gasped excitedly.

"Inteeeeresting..." Inchara dragged out dramatically before turning toward Cheeranjeev. "Chef, have you ever prepared authentic Raagi ball with mutton gravy in HOTEL ANNAPOORNA? This is serious South Indian traditional cuisine."

Cheeranjeev glanced once at the wooden setup.

"Not for a customer really" he admitted calmly. "But Raagi ball is my comfort food too."

A tiny shrug.

"Sounds doable." Cheeranjeev seemed to be planning his moves inside his mind while he answered to Inchara.

"Hahaha! Eating Raagi balls once in a year doesn't make it one's comfort food, Chef sir. You belong to the category that eats Maggi and pasta thrice a day." Sharadha laughed loudly.

The audience applauded again.

But unlike most celebrity chefs, Cheeranjeev showed no irritation at the mockery.

Instead, there was quiet respect in his tone when he answered—

"I've eaten enough authentic versions to understand the texture and flavor." He adjusted his chef coat sleeves calmly. "I'm confident I can recreate what I've tasted."

From beside him, Poorna watched him silently.

Cheeranjeev glanced briefly toward her.

She immediately blinked back with a reassuring smile.

That single dimple appearing on her right cheek somehow made her smile brighter under the harsh studio lights.

"And what is the next challenge for Chef CJ?" Inchara quickly turned back toward Sharadha's team.

Sharadha's eyes gleamed mischievously.

"Chef sir may have prepared flavoured rice for his VIP customers..." she began slowly, "but I doubt if he has ever prepared authentic chicken Biryani."

The audience reacted instantly.

"I heard your catering house is famous for its chicken Biryani. How many plates do you sell on a daily note?" Inchara asked her.

"Nearly 300 plates on a daily note." Sharada answered proudly.

"My own mother gives up after making six raagi balls for a family of three," Inchara laughed dramatically. "And you expect Chef CJ and his single apprentice to prepare it for a hundred children? The competition seems unfair to Chef CJ at this point of time. I am nervous on behalf of the chef."

Sharadha merely smiled proudly.

"My women are trained for large-scale catering." She gestured confidently toward her team. "Watch carefully today and you'll understand how our kitchen functions."

The audience applauded loudly.

Meanwhile, in the audience section—

"This is impossible! While Chicken Biryani seems doable, preparing Raagi balls for hundred kids with a single apprentice?" Ranjith muttered in panic.

Anjana looked equally worried.

"Poorna is excellent with traditional South Indian cooking," Ranjith continued, "but hand moulding hundreds of piping hot raagi balls requires physical strength and speed."

"And she's already unwell." Anjana shook her head.

Both of them instinctively looked toward Poorna.

"Alright everyone..." Inchara raised the whistle dramatically. "Your time starts now!"

The whistle pierced through the studio as she pointed toward the giant wall clock mounted above the set.

The teams had exactly half a day to prepare the dishes, execute the cooking, and finally present the food before a hundred hungry children.

The moment the timer began, Sharadha's catering team instantly sprang into action like a well-rehearsed machine. Some women began preparing the Raagi dough while others sorted vegetables, lit stoves, and arranged giant cooking vessels with practiced speed.

On the opposite side, Cheeranjeev immediately motioned for Poorna to come closer.

"Kids love colors and shapes," he said in a low voice, already mentally dissecting the challenge and rebuilding it in his head. "Food has to catch their eyes before it reaches their mouths. We keep the same ingredients, the same flavors, the same soul of the dish. We only change the color, texture, and presentation."

Poorna nodded, instantly following his train of thought. Those few instructions were enough. He wasn't planning to replace the traditional dishes—he was planning to reinvent the way they were experienced.

"If we can draw the children to our counter first," she pointed out, "we've already won half the battle."

"Hmm." The sound was more thoughtful than dismissive. 

The nervousness that had lingered around him earlier seemed to be fading. Instead of worrying about the challenge ahead, he looked energized by it. His eyes carried the familiar spark that appeared whenever he was about to create something new.

"Fighting!" Grinning, Poorna thrust out her fist.

Cheeranjeev looked at her extended fist, then at her.

"You watch way too many K-dramas." His own hand remained unmoved.

"Never mind, Mr. Mugambo." Poorna sighed dramatically.

She grabbed her own fist and punched it against the other with full enthusiasm.

"I'll motivate myself." Poorna marched off determinedly.

Across the stage, Sharadha watched Poorna leave and smiled knowingly.

"Where did your apprentice disappear, Chef sir?" Sharadha asked while supervising her team. "Did she get frightened already?"

Cheeranjeev barely looked up from the ingredient list in his hand.

"We did not arrive with all the ingredients, equipments and utensils like your team did, Madam," he answered calmly.

His tone came out colder than intended.

Not because he meant disrespect but because his brain was already operating under pressure.

Unlike Sharadha's catering company, which had arrived fully equipped with ingredients, utensils, and traditional cooking tools, Cheeranjeev and Poorna had to gather everything from Hotel Annapoorna's storage units from scratch. That was the challenge.

They weren't allowed to pre-stock ingredients or arrange equipment in advance as their opponents had. Every pot, every spice, every utensil had to be located, collected, and organized after the clock started.

To make matters worse, they were short-handed.

Every second mattered. Every trip to the storeroom cost precious time. Every delay threatened to widen the gap between them and a team that had spent years working together like a well-oiled machine.

Back in the audience section—

"Where the hell are they?" Anjana panicked. "Those women are already halfway through cooking!"

Ranjith looked equally stressed.

"It's been thirty minutes and Boss's cooktop is still empty." Anjana groaned dramatically. "At this rate, he's definitely losing today."

A while later, both Cheeranjeev and Poorna finally returned to the set pushing multiple loaded trolleys filled with utensils, ingredients, spices, and improvised equipments.

Without delay, Cheeranjeev grabbed a massive stainless-steel cauldron and placed it over the floor burner.

The way he rotated and balanced the heavy vessel effortlessly before setting it down drew spontaneous applause from the audience.

Even his smallest movements carried precision.

Cheeranjeev immediately began pouring water into the cauldron.

Sharadha observed carefully before calling out—

"Careful, Chef sir! Raagi flour forms lumps easily if unskilled hands stir the broth. And kids hate lumps in their food." Sharadha folded her arms knowingly.

Cheeranjeev didn't react to the taunt.

"Thank you, Madam," Cheeranjeev answered calmly while stirring the mixture. 

That was all he said in his defense.

His focus had already shifted to Poorna.

At the other workstation, Poorna prepared a large cauldron of long-grain basmati rice. As the water came to a boil, she added whole spices—bay leaves, Jeera and cinnamon sticks. Reaching for a handful of cardamom pods, she paused and glanced at Cheeranjeev, seeking his opinion without a word.

He immediately shook his head.

Poorna blinked before understanding.

"Right. Kids hate biting into whole spices," she muttered. "One cardamom pod in a mouthful of biryani and the entire meal is ruined. They'll spit it out instantly."

Setting the cardamom aside, she chose saffron instead, allowing it to infuse the rice with fragrance and color without becoming an unpleasant surprise.

Sharadha, whose team was operating with the efficiency of a seasoned army, found enough time to stroll over to inspect their station.

Her gaze landed on the cauldron.

"Basmati rice?" Sharadha asked with obvious disbelief. "We use regular rice for biryani. Chef sir, you're cooking for children from an orphanage, not VIP clients. Basmati rice is for the rich, not ordinary people."

Cheeranjeev didn't even look up from his work.

"Food that leaves my kitchen has standards," he replied evenly. "Whether it's served to VIP clients or offered as charity, the quality remains the same, Madam."

His tone remained respectful despite the constant jabs aimed at him.

Poorna hid a smile and returned to her task.

Remembering his instructions—innovate, but preserve the flavor and soul of the dish—she began creating natural colours from the vegetables they had gathered.

Standing beside the workstation, she quickly blended fresh spinach leaves into a smooth, vibrant green purée.

The audience exchanged puzzled looks.

What was she doing?

Before anyone could ask, Poorna poured the spinach purée directly into the ragi mixture Cheeranjeev was preparing.

A murmur rippled through the crowd.

Green ragi?

Now they were paying attention.

Sharadha frowned immediately.

"Children don't like spinach," she protested. "And spinach is definitely not used in Raagi balls. You people are changing the recipe."

The thickened raagi-flour mixture slowly transformed into smooth green dough beneath the steam rising from the cauldron.

And for the first time since the competition began the audience leaned forward with genuine curiosity.

Poorna gripped the massive cauldron firmly with her kitchen gloves and flipped the steaming dough onto the steel table with practiced force.

The audience gasped at the speed of her movements.

Without wasting a second, she began kneading the hot dough skilfully with a thick wooden rod despite the rising steam burning against her gloves. Once the texture turned smooth, she rolled portions of it into smaller lumps and transferred it into a pasta extruder.

Suddenly one of the women from the catering team pointed toward the opposite counter and shrieked—

"Sharadha Amma! They're using an electric extruder!"

All cameras instantly shifted toward Poorna.

Standing beside the workstation, Poorna expertly operated a commercial pasta extruder. Streams of vibrant raagi pasta emerged in colourful ribbons—green from spinach while the cameramen zoomed in dramatically to capture every detail.

The audience burst into applause.

Children leaned forward in their seats, their eyes fixed on the colorful strands.

Sharadha stared in disbelief.

"I said raagi balls, not colorful raagi pasta!" Sharadha protested as Poorna neatly cut the extruded strands and dropped them into a pot of boiling water.

Poorna worked with practiced ease. It was clear this wasn't her first time. She had prepared raagi, oat, and rice-based pastas countless times for customers with gluten intolerance.

"Today, I'm cooking for children. The ingredients don't need to change. The presentation does." Without looking up from his station, Cheeranjeev answered calmly.

He nodded toward Poorna.

A brief silence followed.

"With a chef's touch." Poorna flashed a grin.

A ripple of laughter spread through the audience.

Sharadha merely chuckled.

"Technology may help you make pasta," she said confidently, "but what about the mutton gravy and chicken biryani?"

She gestured toward her team.

"We have everything chopped, cleaned, and ready. They still have to prepare their vegetables and meat by hand. They've wasted precious time making colorful pasta."

The women beside her nodded proudly while continuing their work in perfect rhythm.

Their knives rose and fell with the precision of long years of experience.

Meanwhile, Cheeranjeev and Poorna stood alone against an entire catering team.

Yet neither of them looked concerned.

 Cheeranjeev had already begun preparing the next batch.

This time with beetroot puree.

Soon the duo moved like synchronized machinery.

Spinach green.

Beetroot pink.

Carrot orange.

Purple cabbage violet.

One after another, colorful raagi-flour doughs emerged across their workstation, slowly transforming the once plain counter into something vibrant and visually striking.

But the process consumed time.

Too much time.

By the halfway mark of the competition, Sharadha's team had already moved ahead to the Raagi ball stage. The women skilfully moulded smooth Raagi balls with astonishing speed born from decades of experience.

"What do you think now, Ma'am?" Inchara walked toward Sharadha dramatically. "Do you believe Chef CJ can still meet your expectations?"

Sharadha was out there preparing the marination for chicken Biryani calmly before answering—

"At this point..." Sharadha smiled knowingly, "I genuinely do not understand what Chef sir is trying to prepare."

The audience burst into collective laughter.

"Only two hours left. Preparing Mutton gravy and Chicken Biryani in that time is no child's play. Will children eat only Raagi Pasta strips and those flavoured rice?" Sharadha added with a victorious smile.

And for the first time since the challenge began even the audience began wondering whether Cheeranjeev and Poorna had finally met a challenge impossible to overcome.

Poorna began by finely dicing onions and garlic, her knife moving so quickly that the blade became a blur. The neat piles disappeared into a massive wok moments later.

As the onions hit the hot metal, a sharp sizzle echoed through the arena.

She tossed the wok effortlessly.

A burst of flame leapt upward, drawing gasps from the audience as she flipped the aromatics through the heat with the confidence of a seasoned chef. The fragrance of caramelizing onions and garlic began drifting across the venue.

Cheeranjeev stepped over to her station, his attention fixed on the wok. He added measured amounts of spices—each one chosen with purpose rather than habit. Coriander, black pepper, red chilies, and roasted spices disappeared into the mixture.

Poorna didn't question him.

He dictated the flavor profile; she executed it.

Moving to the butcher's station, Poorna caught hold of her mutton knife. She tossed it once into the air and caught it smoothly in a single motion.

The audience cheered.

Before her lay an entire dressed sheep.

Her expression sharpened.

The knife flashed.

Long, confident strokes separated muscle groups cleanly. Precise cuts followed, reducing large sections into perfectly uniform pieces. There was no hacking, no wasted motion—only technique honed through years of professional kitchen work.

Within minutes, the enormous quantity of meat had been transformed into evenly sized cuts ready for cooking.

The audience watched in stunned silence before breaking into applause.

At the opposite end of the counter, Cheeranjeev was equally focused.

He marinated the boneless chicken with practiced precision, massaging the spices into every piece to ensure even absorption. Yogurt, herbs, aromatics, and freshly ground spices coated the chicken in layers of flavor.

Then Cheeranjeev and Poorna seamlessly switched stations.

Cheeranjeev moved to the mutton gravy, carefully examining its texture, consistency, and depth of flavor, making subtle adjustments where needed. Meanwhile, with the gravy preparations complete, Poorna shifted to the chicken, wok-tossing the marinated pieces over high heat as flames danced around the pan.

Without exchanging a word, each stepped into the other's workflow as naturally as if they had planned every movement in advance.

"Where's the leg piece in your biryani, Chef sir? People fight for the leg piece, you know?" Sharadha asked, peering into his marination.

"Exactly. I don't want a hundred children fighting over leg pieces today, Madam," Cheeranjeev replied.

While the mutton gravy simmered, Poorna trimmed banana leaves into neat strips with a pair of scissors. Cheeranjeev spooned portions of fragrant rice onto each leaf, topped them with marinated chicken and half a boiled egg, then folded them into compact parcels. Together, they tied the bundles and returned them to the steamer, allowing the flavors to meld as the rice absorbed the seasoned juices.

"Can I taste your mutton gravy?" Sharadha walked over toward their workstation curiously.

"Sure." Poorna politely offered her a spoonful.

Sharadha tasted it thoughtfully.

"Well?" Inchara leaned in eagerly.

Sharadha clicked her tongue.

"There's no life in this gravy." She dramatically dropped the spoon into the sink. "Are they preparing hospital food for patients?"

The audience laughed.

"Mutton gravy should be spicy," Sharadha continued proudly. "Bold. Full of flavor."

"But...?" Poorna instantly stopped speaking the moment she felt a firm grip settle over her shoulder.

Cheeranjeev's fingers tightened just enough for her to understand the message.

Poorna understood immediately that she was not supposed to offer explanations at the point of time.

Poorna immediately fell silent.

From the audience section—

"They have no idea," Anjana whispered excitedly to Ranjith.

Ranjith smirked knowingly.

"Boss visited the orphanage before the competition," Anjana explained proudly. "He actually ate the children's regular mess food to study their eating habits and spice tolerance."

"He analyzed their palate beforehand." Ranjith nodded.

Back on stage—

"Look there!" one of the women from Sharadha's team suddenly exclaimed.

Everyone turned toward Cheeranjeev's counter.

Cheeranjeev carefully arranged the colorful raagi pasta ribbons across elegant ceramic plates while Poorna ladled rich mutton gravy around them, creating a vibrant contrast of colors. A final drizzle of fresh ghee over the pasta released an irresistible aroma.

"Your fancy food only looks good for now," Sharadha laughed loudly.

The audience chuckled along.

Unfazed, Poorna unwrapped one of the banana-leaf parcels and gently transferred its contents onto another ceramic plate.

A collective gasp swept through the studio.

Layers of fragrant, saffron-tinted rice mingled with vibrant colors from the vegetables, nestled around tender pieces of chicken and topped with half a perfectly cooked egg. The dish looked playful enough to captivate children yet refined enough to belong in a chef's kitchen.

The aroma alone was enough to make mouths water.

People found themselves wanting to taste the biryani before a single word had been spoken about it.

Even Sharadha's smile wavered for a moment.

She glanced toward her own team's plating station.

The women were serving their food traditionally on banana leaves. There was nothing wrong with it—in fact, it looked comforting and familiar—but beside Cheeranjeev's creations, it didn't stand out.

She had complete faith in the taste.

The presentation, however, was another matter.

Around them, the studio buzzed with growing excitement. The competition suddenly felt much closer than anyone had expected.

Because suddenly what looked impossible a few hours ago no longer seemed impossible at all.

***

WHO DO YOU THINK IS GONNA BE WINNING THE COOKING CHALLENGE?

WHO WOULD THE KIDS CHOOSE?

CAN TASTE WIN OVER PRESENTATION?

CAN CHEF BEAT THE SKILLED WOMEN IN TASTE?