Nepo-Nikamma Naoya Zenin & Toji's mid-life wedding proposals
Or what if Toji was from Rajasthan & a good dad?
Previous Chapter - [Tumblr/Ao3]
There was no air conditioning in the Zenin ancestral haveli.
Just ceiling fans that creaked like unpaid interns and the lingering smell of itti incense trying—and failing—to cover three generations of suppressed caste guilt and child-marriages.
Toji stood near the old jharokha like a bouncer at an Indian wedding—arms folded, gym t-shirt soaked in regret. Biceps pumped. Brain buffering. Calculating how many minutes he could last in this mausoleum of male ego before pretending to get an urgent call from “the warehouse” and dipping.
Across from him sat Naobito Zenin—kurta stiff, spine stiffer. Anger simmering just beneath a turmeric-stained Rajput mustache. The kind of man who still believed in “izzat” over ROI and thought Google Sheets was “western propaganda.”
Next to him sat Naoya. White-on-white kurta-pajama, loafers with no socks, chewing Mentos like it was Adderall. iPhone lock screen was a quote in cursive: “Hustle is my love language.”
“Toji beta,” Naobito began, in the oily tone of Indian uncles about to sell you a pyramid scheme, “yeh ladka bigad gaya hai.”
Toji sipped his chai. Steel tumbler. Pinky out. “Aapko ab samajh aaya?”
“Zindagi mein ek bhi kaam theek se nahi kiya has isne,” Naobito snapped, slapping Naoya’s arm lightly. “Sirf reels banata hai, angel round pe angel round udaata hai. Aur coffee startup mein ₹40 crore jala chuka hai!”
Naoya blinked. “I have vision, Dad.”
“You have brain damage,” Megumi, standing awkwardly by a pillar like a fresher forced into a family drama, muttered.
“Toh,” Naobito leaned forward now, voice low, like this was a real estate mafia meeting, “tum training le lo. Do mahine. Tere saath warehouse ghoomega. Toh discipline seekhega.”
Toji raised a brow. “Mai koi IIM nahi chalata hoon, bade bhaiya. Aur internship toh paid hoti hai. Yeh toh mere mental health ka surcharge ban jayega.”
Naoya scoffed. “Mental health? Aap toh dumbbell ke alawa kuch nahi uthate.”
Toji grinned, slow. “Aur tu sirf investor ke paise uthaata hai.”
Toji stood, muscles tense, voice flat. “Dekhiye, mujhe bhi toh nikaala tha, yaad hai? Kyunki main ‘unfavored baap ki aulad’ tha. ‘Corporate etiquette’ nahi tha. Na Angrezi accent, na whiskey-swirl networking. Par main padha-likha tha. Aur maine ground-up infrastructure khada kiya, supply chains optimize ki, aur pan-India delivery standards fix kiye.”
He pointed at Naoya. “Isne kya kiya? Logo copy kara, ₹2 crore ke deck mein Helvetica daala aur investors ko bola, ‘We’re the Starbucks of Bharat.’”
Naoya glared. “It’s brand poetry.”
Toji cracked his neck. “It’s bakchodi.”
Megumi was trying very hard to control his facial expressions.
Naobito slammed a hand on the antique table. “Main isko ghar aur jaydaad dono se nikaal doonga!”
Toji tilted his head, predator calm. “Nikaal do. Jaise mujhe nikaala tha.”
Naoya’s unrepentant smile faltered.
Naobito froze. Something in his old spine cracked—maybe regret, maybe just arthritis.
Silence stretched. A fan groaned above. Outside, a pigeon made a sound like “chhi.”
Then Toji sat again. Calmly picked up a mirchi pakoda. Ate it like vengeance.
“Ek condition,” he said. “Main isko jaisa hoon, waisa hi train karunga. No filters. No ‘corporate mentorship’. Aur agar beech mein bhaag gaya toh… investor deck mein disclaimer likh dena: ‘Founder was a liability.’”
Toji raised a finger. “Aur agar mujhe kisi din Uncle ji bola office me... toh terrace se fenk dunga.”
Naobito sighed like an old man who’d just accepted that his legacy now ran on Google Calendar.
Toji pulled out his phone. Texted Sukuna:
Chhota Zenin aa raha hai. HR ko bol CPR ready rakhe.
Naoya looked between them. “So when do I start?”
Toji smirked. “Kal subah. Paanch baje. Lajpat Nagar warehouse.”
He paused. “Jo late aaya usko main aise tight slap maarunga—legacy lineage sab bhool jaoge.”
Megumi, who’d stayed silent until now, finally spoke up. “Wait. Why are we here again?”
Toji looked at him, tone changing. Softer. Quieter. “Because this property used to be mine. And I’m making sure it goes to you now.”
Megumi frowned. “I don’t even want it—”
“Exactly,” Toji said. “You’re an IIT backend engineer with a MacBook and morality. That’s why I’m doing this. So that if another COVID comes, and I die in some Bikaner Express gym or whatever—”
“—you’re not unemployed AND HOMELESS.”
Megumi sighed. “I live in a studio flat. With a functioning AC. Unlike this place.”
Naoya sneered, “Wow. You’re like, middle class?”
Toji snapped. “Aur tu toh IQ class dropout hai, bhen ke taake—”
Naobito cut in, exhausted. “Bas karo. Dono.”
“Toh likhwa do,” Toji said. “Megumi ke naam property transfer. Naoya intern. Simple.”
“Done,” Naobito grumbled, rubbing his forehead.
Toji grinned. “Karma's a bitch, bade bhaiya. And so is Lajpat’s 5 AM warehouse shift.”
They had just wrapped up the property transfer paperwork in the Haveli’s side office, which still had Windows XP, a stack of red files no one had touched since GST was implemented, and one haunting calendar from 2014 featuring a Jain temple and a motivational quote:
“Time is precious. Don’t waste it unmarried.”
Toji stretched his back, annoyed. Megumi was standing next to him, holding his Aadhar card, looking like a traumatised intern who came to help his dad sign forms and instead became the lead in a generational curse.
Naobito, now mildly redeemed after signing over ancestral land to a 22-year-old backend engineer who wore Gojo’s borrowed LVs, dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief and called out, “Champa, paani laa.”
That’s when the rishta talk began.
“So... Toji beta,” Naobito said casually. Too casually. The kind of casual where you just know betrayal is coming. “Ab toh sab set hai. Property bhi transfer ho gaya. Business bhi chal raha hai... shaadi ka kya socha?”
Toji blinked. “Excuse me?”
Naoya, from behind a pillar, smirked. “He’s like fifty, Dad. You’re so late.”
“I’m thirty-nine,” Toji growled.
Naobito leaned back in his chair like a saas watching Balika Vadhu. “Wahi toh. In Rajasthani years, that’s like fossil level. You’re practically expired.”
Toji squinted. “I bench 240 and can squat your net worth. Don’t push it.”
“Dekho,” Naobito continued, now opening a velvet file, “mere paas kuch achhe proposals aaye hain. Ek hai Bhansali saab ki beti—gayi thi IIM Lucknow. Ghar ka kaam bhi karti hai aur German Shepherds ke shelter chalati hai.”
Megumi looked up from his phone, alarmed. “Wait. Shelter?”
Naobito beamed. “Haan. She loves dogs.”
Toji deadpanned, “That’s a red flag. They always love dogs. Until they meet me.”
Naoya fake-coughed. “Too much protein, not enough serotonin.”
Ignoring him, Naobito continued, like this was an MTV Splitsvilla but with more turmeric. “Doosri hai Gupta saab ki beti. Amazon mein data analyst thi, ab toh uska startup bhi hai—kombucha banaati hai.”
Toji flicked sweat off his forehead. “Mujhe acid reflux hota hai usse.”
Megumi flatly muttered, “It’s literally fermented tea.”
Toji shrugged, “It’s pretentious vinegar.”
Then came the final blow.
Naobito smiled. Slowly. “Aur teesri... Shukla ji ki niece. Bareilly se. Simple hai. Instagram pe sirf bhajan follow karti hai.”
Toji stared at him, horrified. “Bareilly? You want me to marry someone from Bareilly? That’s my villain origin story.”
Megumi cleared his throat. “Can we not shop for stepmothers while I’m still here?”
Toji pointed at him. “Don’t act like this doesn’t concern you. If I marry someone with kids, you’ll have to share WiFi.”
Naobito clapped his hands once, grandly. “Look, all I’m saying is—shaadi kar lo. Property sorted. Ladka settled. Now only one thing is missing: a woman who can handle your temper and your macros.”
Toji cracked his neck. “I don’t need marriage; I need bandwidth.”
But it was too late. Somewhere in the Haveli, Champa Mausi had already started telling the cook to make extra samosas for a “ladki waale wale rishtedaar.”
Megumi texted Nanami under the table:
Nanami responded in 3 seconds:
Tell him to get a pre-nup.
-sent from client offsite
Naoya, now sipping Sprite like he was in a K3G reboot, added fuel, “Uncle, just do love marriage. Swipe right. Even you deserve happiness.”
Toji turned to him like a demon. “Say 'uncle' one more time.”
Naoya gulped. “Sir. Sorry. Sir.”
Toji patted his legs, muscles stiff with generational shame. “I’m leaving. This place is cursed. And if I hear the word ‘kombucha’ again, I will burn this Haveli down and make a protein shake out of the ashes.”
Sometime later, they were still in the sitting room—three cups of chai cold, the mirchi pakode congealed with regret—when the rishta talk took a darker, dumber turn.
After rejecting every match like he was a 2009 Salman Khan with better hair, Toji thought the assault was over.
Naobito cleared his throat dramatically, a smug thakur-on-his-final-move expression returning. “Thik hai, tu nahi karega. Then what about your son?”
Naoya perked up from his phone. “Oh yeah, Megumi! He’s what—22? You know, in our village, by 10, they should’ve done sagai, and by 16, a proper marriage. Roka ke baad toh jagran hota tha, shaadi ka nahi—reincarnation ka.”
“Shaadi ke baad honeymoon bhi Mathura le jaate the,” Naobito added, sipping his cutting chai like he hadn’t just suggested legalising child marriage.
Megumi looked up, face blank but somehow still broadcasting deep protest. “Uncle, I’ve literally just been employed. And emotionally constipated. Please.”
Naobito ignored him. “There’s a girl in Jaipur. Simple. Didn’t even do school. Knows how to make haldi ghati chicken in mitti ki handi. Good stock. No Instagram. No opinions.”
Megumi flinched like he’d been slapped with a marriage certificate.
Toji’s chair creaked. Once. Loud.
“Don’t,” he said, voice low.
Naobito laughed. “Arey, why not? Shaadi young hoti hai toh zindagi settle rehti hai.”
Naoya looked up. “Bro, chill, he just means tradition—”
Toji’s voice cracked open like a fracture. “That tradition killed my wife.”
Like a generator shutting down mid-loadshedding.
Even the pigeon outside paused.
Toji’s hands curled into fists. His mouth tightened, like he’d swallowed twenty years of pain and suddenly it wanted out.
“She was sixteen,” he said, not looking at anyone. “Barely knew how to cook without burning herself. Couldn’t even handle periods without shame because your pados wali phuphiji kept telling her she was impure. And you—you bastards—married her off to me so you could ‘clean my bloodline.’”
He looked older suddenly.
Like all the Rajput pride in him had calcified into guilt.
“She died giving birth to Megumi. Bled out. Alone. Because your family’s ego wouldn’t let us go to a hospital in a city. Said it would bring shame.”
In typical Indian fashion, he knew bits. Hints.
But Toji never told him this.
Toji looked straight at Naobito, eyes sharp like gym-cut glass. “You think I slept around because I was shameless? I never married again because I didn’t want some new woman raising her hands at my kid. Calling him baggage. Calling him cursed.”
“I’d rather let him eat cup noodles every day than risk a stepmom putting poison in his brain like y’all put in mine.”
Naoya whispered, shaken, “…damn.”
Megumi just stared at his father.
The man who grunted more than he spoke.
Who called him “duffer” but added extra chicken in his meal-prep boxes.
Who sent him three-liner texts that looked like death threats but always included Google Pay.
Something inside Megumi ruptured for his father.
Quietly. Without fanfare.
Naoya looked at Naobito. Then back at the door. “…Can I come too? I feel like we’re going to get McDonald’s.”
In the car, Toji didn’t speak.
Just turned the AC on full blast, put on Jagjit Singh, and stared ahead.
Naoya was in the backseat, looking like a kid whose summer internship just turned into a Bollywood tragedy.
Megumi sat shotgun, silent.
Then—softly, like it hurt—asked, “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
Toji kept driving. Jaw clenched. Then, after a beat, he spoke, “What good would it have done? You already hate your last name. You think I wanted you to grow up with more reasons?”
Megumi shook his head. “I don’t hate it. I just didn’t understand it.”
Toji smirked faintly. “Welcome to the club. We don’t even have matching t-shirts.”
Megumi looked out the window. Then back at him. “I’m not marrying anyone either.”
Toji side-eyed him. “Not even once you are of age?”
Toji chuckled. Just once. A low, tired sound.
Naoya, from the back, “So like… do I still have to intern tomorrow?”
Toji, without looking back, grumbled, “Only if you want to die in Lajpat Nagar.”
A/N: What did this make you feel like? I really wanna know for feedback :)
Next Chapter (First glimpse of the one you are dating in this fic.) - [Tumblr/Ao3]
