Adultery Radiance of Vanitha

[Yesudoss]

Cant wait to read the next moves

[ghost0011]

wow.. this was an outstanding piece of work.

[Kartikjessie]

Will she take pills or happily get impregnated with child of her mama. Waiting for next part.

[sunilserene]

Amma ఏమన్నా story naa దేవుడా
I loved it husband sulking missing

[adams_masala]

Chapter 25: The Morning After

# Scene 1

Dawn in Chennai arrived as it always did, first as a deepening of the silence, a pressure against the windows, and then with a slow, gold-fingered intrusion into every crack and crevice of the house. In Selvam’s bedroom, the light filtered through a broken line of louvered slats, bisecting the bed with parallel bands that shifted and grew with every passing minute.

Vanitha lay on her side, her bare legs drawn up in a loose fetal curl, her cheek pillowed on Selvam’s chest just above the nipple. The dark brown nub grazed her nose with every rise and fall of his breathing. Selvam, flat on his back, had one arm dbangd over her shoulder, his hand cupping her upper arm with absent-minded tenderness. The bedsheets had been kicked down to the foot of the bed, where they tangled with wilted jasmine strands and several vivid streaks of lipstick red, petals crushed during the night and now flattened, like the remnants of old secrets, against the white cotton. The air, thick with a blend of sandalwood, sweat, and the dying sweetness of last night’s garlands, vibrated faintly with the city’s awakening.

For a while neither of them moved. Vanitha’s eyes, still heavy-lidded and rimmed with the kohl that had survived her many small tears and the humid friction of lovemaking, watched the geometry of sunlight creep across Selvam’s chest. She traced the line of his sternum with her nail, feeling the faint drag of hair and the warm pulse beneath, and let her mind replay the night...the taste of him, the sounds he’d made, the sharp shock of the forbidden finally made real. Every moment shimmered in her memory, unstable and precious as a mirage.

At some point she became aware that Selvam’s gaze was awake, fixed somewhere above her head, his fingers tracing idle patterns against her shoulder as if comforting himself. A tiny flicker of muscle in his jaw betrayed that he was thinking very hard about something.

“It’s morning,” she said, when the silence had begun to thicken uncomfortably.

“Mm,” Selvam replied. His voice was rougher than usual, stripped of all the polish and gravity he deployed for clients and family alike. It was the voice of a man who had let his guard down, then realized too late the risks.

“I’m usually up by five,” he added, as if the lateness of the hour explained everything.

Vanitha let out a low, indulgent laugh. “No temple run, no morning yoga? Scandalous.”

He almost smiled. “You wore me out, I think.”

She raised her head, just enough to rest her chin on his pectoral. “That is a compliment I will treasure,” she murmured. “I have never seen you look so... disarmed.”

He reached up to sweep a lock of her hair away from her cheek, tucking it behind her ear with the same practiced gentleness he might use to bandage a wound. “That is because I have never let myself be disarmed,” he said. “Not until last night.”

The admission, so frank and unguarded, made something inside her ache. She pressed her face into his chest, inhaling the scent of sweat and residual sandalwood. “I liked it,” she said, voice muffled by skin. “I liked every bit of it.”

His hand slid down to the small of her back, following the vertebrae one by one. She could tell he was searching for the right words...something to build a scaffold over the wide chasm of what they’d done.

“I want to ask you something,” he said, after a pause. “But first, let me get decent.” He started to rise, but Vanitha pushed him back down, shifting so that she straddled his waist, her nakedness lit up in gold by the morning sun. She made no effort to cover herself; she wanted him to see, to remember, to feel the reality of her body against his.

She arched an eyebrow. “Why start pretending now?”

He grinned, but she saw the flicker of nerves in the way his hands hovered, uncertain of where to rest. She reached for the bedsheet at their feet and pulled it up, dbanging it loosely over her chest...not to hide herself, but to give him a reprieve from his own discomfort.

“There. Now we’re both decent,” she said, eyes glinting.

“Thank you, Miss Chennai,” he said, and the old playfulness crept back into his tone. “May I ask my question?”

Vanitha nodded, solemn all at once.

“Did you know?” he asked. “I mean...did you know before that day you saw me, about SilverFox77?”

She pretended to think, tilting her head theatrically. “I suspected after the first few messages, if I’m being honest,” she said. “Most men do not reference ancient Tamil temple architecture when commenting on my waist chain.”

Selvam winced, a faint blush coloring his cheekbones. “That was careless of me.”

“It was endearing,” Vanitha corrected, a smile ghosting her lips. “And also very, very hot.”

He seemed to absorb that, weighing it. “I was worried you’d find it creepy.”

“I found it flattering,” she said. “If a woman is going to be stalked online, better by a man who knows his marma points.”

They both laughed then, the sound shaky but real, and for a few minutes the awkwardness receded.

Selvam propped himself up on one elbow, the sheet slipping to reveal his chest and the strong ridge of his abdomen. “It started innocently enough,” he said, more to himself than to her. “I just liked the way you wore sarees. The discipline of your posture. The confidence.” He ran a hand over his hair, suddenly self-conscious. “I was proud, in a way. That my daughter-in-law could set an example for modern women everywhere.”

“But then?” Vanitha prompted, her voice soft.

“Then,” Selvam exhaled, “you started posting more. The pictures got bolder. The comments got... riskier. And I started to think about you in ways I shouldn’t.” His eyes met hers, dark and vulnerable. “I wanted to stop, but I kept coming back.”

Vanitha leaned in, her lips brushing his earlobe. “You weren’t the only one,” she whispered. “I liked the attention. The way you made me feel, beautiful, powerful, seen.” She kissed the tip of his ear, then drew back to look at him, her expression unguarded. “It’s why I wore this saree last night. I wanted you to see me.”

He looked at her, searching. “But Ashok..”

“Is in another country,” she said flatly. “And has not touched me in months. He has Latha to take care of, he will be busy and besides…” She broke off, biting her lip.

“Besides?” Selvam prompted.

She hesitated, then spoke in a rush “I always wondered what it would be like. With a man who cared about the rituals, who wanted to worship me properly. Not just as a body, but as something... sacred.” Her voice broke, and she looked away, cheeks flushed.

Selvam reached for her hand, lacing their fingers together. “You are sacred,” he said quietly. “Even in this bed, after all that’s happened. Maybe especially now.”

They sat in silence for a few heartbeats, the world outside growing steadily brighter.

After a moment, Vanitha said, “Do you regret it?”

He considered. “Not yet. Ask me again after my next cup of coffee.”

She rolled her eyes, then collapsed onto his chest, letting her head rest in the notch below his clavicle. She could feel his heart, steady and deep, and the gentle rise and fall of his breath.

For a while they lay like that, the only sound the distant thrum of the city waking up, punctuated by the occasional burst of traffic horn or raucous call from the neighborhood rooster. The sunlight, insistent now, crawled across their bodies, exposing what the night had so artfully concealed.

As the morning pressed in, their nakedness became more obvious. Vanitha pulled the sheet tighter around her, but it was an inadequate shield. Selvam reached for the white veshti he’d worn the night before, gathering it up from the floor, but as he tried to cover himself, the thin cotton caught on the swelling arc of his morning erection and tented up like a small monument to awkwardness.

Vanitha tried not to laugh, but failed, snorting behind her hand. “Good morning, indeed,” she said.

Selvam’s face colored. “It’s a normal physiological response,” he muttered, fumbling with the fabric.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” she said, reaching over and pressing the sheet down over her own chest in a show of solidarity. “If anything, it’s a compliment.”

He tried to hold the veshti with one hand while using the other to smooth it flat, but the more he worked at it, the more pronounced the tenting became. “This is impossible,” he grumbled.

“Would you like me to take care of it?” she asked, voice innocent but eyes wicked.

He stopped moving, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. “What are you plotting?”

She knelt beside him, tucking her legs under her in a posture of exaggerated decorum, and reached out to smooth the veshti herself. Her hand brushed the tip of his erection, and she felt the muscle twitch beneath the thin cloth.

“You know, for a man your age, this is quite impressive,” she said, running her palm slowly down the length of him.

“Is that so?” he asked, breath catching.

Vanitha pulled the veshti aside, exposing his cock to the sunlight. She watched as it bobbed free, unrestrained and impossibly hard. The foreskin was retracted, revealing the glossy crown, a bead of precum pooling at the tip.

She brought her face close, eyes wide and studious. “I never got to examine it properly last night,” she said, half to herself. “Everything happened so quickly.”

Selvam watched her, his breathing shallow, his hands gripping the edge of the mattress.

“May I?” she asked, not waiting for permission before wrapping her fingers around the base. She marveled at the heat, the weight, the vascular complexity of it. It seemed almost too large for her hand, which pleased her in a way she couldn’t quite articulate.

She pulled gently at the foreskin, rolling it back and forth, fascinated by the way it glided, the pale pink head glistening beneath. She touched the bead of precum with her fingertip, watching as it stretched into a delicate thread.

“I read somewhere that older men produce more pre-cum,” she said, her tone clinical. “I see now that it’s true.”

“You’re enjoying this,” Selvam accused, but his voice was thick with lust.

She nodded, and brought her tongue to the tip, licking up the droplet. It was salty, slightly musky, and she tasted herself in it as well, remnants of the night before, mingled with his own essence.

“Mm,” she said, making a show of savoring it. “Better than filter coffee.”

Selvam groaned, his hips rising involuntarily.

Vanitha took him in her mouth, just the tip at first, then deeper as her confidence grew. She reveled in the feel of him, silk over steel, alive and responsive to her every movement. She hollowed her cheeks and sucked, bobbing her head slowly, her hand following the rhythm.

Selvam’s hands found her hair, threading through the thick strands. He guided her, gently at first, then with more urgency as his restraint faltered.

“Oh, Vanitha,” he breathed, his voice ragged. “That’s… ahh”

She moaned around him, the vibration making him twitch in her mouth. She wanted to please him, to give him something he’d never forget.

She pulled back, lips slick and shiny. “Do you want to fuck me again, mama?” she asked, looking up at him through her lashes.

He was speechless, but nodded.

She climbed onto his lap, straddling him. His cock jutted up between her legs, pressed against the damp heat of her sex. She grasped the base and guided it to her entrance, sinking down slowly, inch by inch, until he filled her completely.

They both gasped at the sensation, the perfect fit, the slow stretch as her body accommodated him.

She rocked her hips, rolling them in small circles, grinding her clit against his pubic bone. Her hair tumbled down around her face, catching the sunlight, casting patterns across her breasts.

Selvam gripped her waist, steadying her as she rode him. His eyes were fixed on her face, drinking in every detail, the flushed cheeks, the parted lips, the sweat beading on her forehead.

Vanitha moved faster, chasing her own pleasure, her hands braced on his shoulders for leverage. She loved the way he felt inside her, the way he groaned her name, the way he let her take control.

She felt herself building toward orgasm, a tightening deep in her core. She ground down harder, and her body shuddered as waves of pleasure radiated outward.

“Oh, god,” she moaned, collapsing forward, her breasts pressed to his chest. “Mama, I’m…”

He thrust up into her, driving her over the edge. She bit his shoulder to stifle her cry, her entire body shaking.

Selvam held her tight, one arm around her back, the other hand cupping her ass as he pumped into her. He chased his own climax, his thrusts erratic, desperate.

“Vanitha,” he groaned, and she felt him swell and pulse inside her, his hot release filling her up.

They lay together, bodies tangled, breathless and laughing.

The sunlight had now fully claimed the bed, turning their sweat-slicked skin to molten gold.

After a while, Vanitha rolled off of him, pulling the sheet up to her chin. “This is a dangerous habit,” she said, her voice sleepy.

He smiled, already dozing. “Tomorrow, I’ll get up at five.”

She curled into his side, resting her head on his chest.

And for a little while, they were just two people, sated and at peace, in a world remade by their own defiance.


# Scene 2

The room had grown warm, the air thick with the musk of sex and jasmine and the faint, clean tang of filter coffee from the kitchen below. Vanitha lay sprawled atop the bed, her legs tangled in the mangled sheet, her chest rising and falling in slow, contented waves. Selvam lay beside her, arm propped behind his head, eyes half-lidded but never leaving her face.

He reached over and brushed a thumb along the curve of her jaw. “You are insatiable,” he said, and it was more awe than accusation.

She licked her lips, tasting the residue of his man juice from the last session. “I was starved,” she replied. “You have no idea.”

He grunted in disbelief. “I suspect I am not finished with you, either.” His hand trailed down her ribcage, palm splaying over the dip of her waist.

She smiled, lazy and feline. “Already?”

“Always,” he said, and in a swift, practiced motion he rolled her onto her back, pinning her with his weight. His morning erection, relentless and heavy, pressed into her thigh.

Vanitha laughed, then gasped as he buried his face between her breasts, mouthing at the skin with a hunger that was almost desperate. She arched her back, hands winding into his hair, and for a long, golden moment they were lost to the world again.

He worked his way down her body with reverent thoroughness, kissing each rib, each mole, each hollow and curve as if memorizing a new scripture. When he reached the juncture of her thighs, he parted them and dove in, feasting on her until she was shivering and incoherent, her hands grasping blindly for purchase.

When he finally surfaced, his lips glistened, and he climbed up to kiss her, sharing the taste of her own pleasure. He guided her hand to his cock, slick with her saliva, and watched as she stroked him with growing confidence.

“Finish for me,” she whispered. “I want to taste it, this time…”

He knelt over her chest, one hand bracing himself on the headboard, the other guiding his length to her mouth. She opened willingly, wrapping her lips around the head, tongue swirling with practiced curiosity.

He groaned, hips bucking, and she felt the pulse of him as he erupted, a hot, salty spurt that coated her tongue and the back of her throat. She swallowed greedily, savoring the act itself as much as the taste.

At that precise, delicate moment, Vanitha’s phone began to ring.

She froze, mouth still wrapped around Selvam’s cock, the insistent jingle of a FaceTime call vibrating through the room.

Selvam looked down at her in horror, then, inexplicably, they both began to laugh, quietly at first, then with a building intensity that made Vanitha’s shoulders shake and her mouth slip off his cock, which twitched against her cheek.

She wiped her lips with the back of her hand, giggling, and reached for the phone on the bedside table.

“Should I…?” Selvam began, gesturing toward the bathroom.

She shook her head, finger to lips. “Stay,” she mouthed.

The screen showed a video call from Ashok. Vanitha took a steadying breath, tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, and answered.

“Hi, hubby,” she said, her voice sunny and controlled.

“Hey, babe!” Ashok grinned, the video quality sharp enough to show his neat haircut and the spartan furnishings of his California home. “You’re up early. Looking so fresh, wow!”

Vanitha flashed a camera-ready smile, ignoring the fact that her hair was a wild, sex-tangled halo and her shoulders bore the faintest imprint of Selvam’s stubble.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said. “How’s everything there?”

“Good, good,” Ashok replied, but his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Listen… is this a good time? I have something important.”

Vanitha felt Selvam’s hand slide up her thigh, gripping it gently, possessively. She shot him a warning glance but didn’t try to move.

“Of course, darling,” she said, the word tasting odd with Selvam’s cum still in her mouth. “What happened?”

Ashok’s face changed. “It’s Latha. There’s… um, there was a complication.” He hesitated. “She lost the baby.”

The words hung in the air, a sudden vacuum that sucked all the oxygen from the room.

Vanitha felt her entire body go cold, then hot, then nothing at all. She sat upright, clutching the sheet to her chest, her free hand covering her mouth.

“Oh,” she whispered. “Ashok, I’m so sorry. What… what did the doctors say?”

He swallowed hard. “They said it just happens sometimes. Nothing she did, nothing anyone could have done.” His voice cracked. “I just… thought you should know right away.”

Vanitha nodded, blinking hard. “Thank you for telling me. How is Latha?”

“She’s devastated. I think she blames herself.”

“She shouldn’t,” Vanitha said automatically, her tone gentle. “Tell her I said that. Please. Tell her I’m thinking of her.”

“I will,” Ashok said, voice small. “I just wish you were here.”

“I know,” Vanitha replied, and for the first time since the call began she really meant it.

Ashok wiped his eyes, tried to recover. “Are you okay?”

Vanitha nodded. “I will be. Don’t worry about me.”

They exchanged a few more tender words before Ashok begged off, promising to call later. The screen went dark, leaving a silence as deep as the ocean.

Vanitha sat motionless for several seconds, then looked at Selvam. His eyes were wide, his hand frozen on her thigh.

“Are you all right?” he asked quietly.

She shrugged. “I never wanted a baby before. Not really. But hearing that it’s gone…”

He reached for her, pulling her into his arms, but she resisted.

“No, let me feel it,” she said. “Let me be sad, just for a minute.”

So he sat with her, silent, as the sun climbed higher, and the world outside kept moving, as it always did.


# Scene 3

Breakfast on the veranda was a ritual that Selvam rarely skipped, no matter how late the previous night’s excesses. He set the small round table with two metal tumblers and a slender steel jug of hot, slightly sweet filter coffee. The idli came out fluffy and white, the sambar thick with vegetables and glistening with an oil slick the color of chili powder. Everything was exactly as it had always been, except for the woman in his chair… her hair still tangled from sleep, her face scrubbed free of makeup, and her hands shaking ever so slightly as she fished a piece of jasmine from behind her ear and dropped it on the tiled floor.

They ate in silence. The city was already awake… someone was hammering on a rooftop three houses away, and the heavy air pulsed with the drone of auto-rickshaw engines and the distant moan of a temple horn. Vanitha sipped her coffee and let her eyes roam the garden, which was already battered by heat despite the early hour.

Selvam watched her. He noticed every micro-expression… the quick dart of her tongue to the corner of her mouth to catch a bead of coffee, the way her fingers toyed with the oddiyanam (chain) at her waist, the small furrow between her eyebrows as she stared into the middle distance.

“Did you sleep at all?” he asked gently.

She shrugged, eyes still fixed on the yard. “Maybe two hours. Maybe none.”

He grunted, unsure what to say. He had never been a master of comfort… his life had been discipline and quiet strength and, when needed, a corrective silence. But last night had left him exposed, his own boundaries pulled taut as a drumhead.

He poured himself more coffee and reached for the newspaper, trying to conjure a normalcy that no longer belonged to them.

“Mama?” Vanitha’s voice was soft, almost uncertain. “Do you ever wonder if we are being punished for what we want?”

He set the paper down. “No,” he said. “I think the universe is mostly indifferent. Sometimes, though, it gives us a warning shot across the bow.” He looked at her, held her gaze. “You can grieve, Vanitha. You don’t have to be strong here.”

She bristled, just slightly. “I wasn’t in love with the baby,” she said, “but I was in love with the idea. That it would fix things. That it would make Ashok pay attention again. That it would put me in control, somehow.”

He nodded. “I understand.”

“Do you?” she asked, a sharp edge in her voice. “Because I think you’ve been in control for so long, you can’t imagine wanting to lose it.”

Selvam considered this, weighing the accusation. “Maybe,” he admitted. “But last night… that was not control. That was surrender.”

Vanitha laughed, but there was no humor in it. “It was everything,” she said. “It was what I wanted. What I still want.”

He felt the tension build in his chest… a raw, primal thing. “Vanitha, what are you asking?”

She leaned forward, elbows on the table. Her eyes glittered with something he couldn’t name. “What if we just… stopped pretending?” she said. “What if we admitted that this is who we are now, and we take what we want, consequences be damned?”

He stared at her. The possibility was both intoxicating and terrifying.

She reached across the table, her fingers finding his. She guided his hand to her stomach, flat and taut under the soft cotton of her saree. “What if I told you,” she whispered, “that I would carry your child if you asked? Not for Ashok, not for the world, but for us.”

He felt his heart hammer in his chest, heard the blood rush in his ears.

“But you said...”

She silenced him with a shake of her head. “I know what I said. I still don’t want to lose this body I worked so hard for. I still want to win. But I also want you, Selvam. All of you.”

He was at a loss, the ground shifting under him.

“Tell me the truth,” she said. “If I got pregnant, would you want that child? Or would it ruin everything?”

He took a long time before answering. When he finally spoke, his voice was so soft it barely carried above the sound of the crows in the garden. “I would want it,” he said. “I would want you. But I would be terrified, every day, of what it would cost.”

Vanitha smiled, and for the first time that morning it reached her eyes. “That’s enough for now,” she said, withdrawing her hand. She stood, collecting the plates and tumblers, and disappeared into the house with a grace that was almost careless.

Selvam sat for a long time, staring at the empty chair across from him. The world was unchanged… garden, crows, distant traffic… but something in him was raw and rearranged, a part of himself torn free and left to tremble in the open air.

He went to his study and dialed Ashok’s number, his hands trembling only slightly.

When the call connected, Ashok’s voice was thin and sleep-addled. “Appa?”

“Son,” Selvam said, “I heard about Latha. I am so sorry.”

Ashok exhaled, shaky. “I just don’t understand, Appa. We did everything right.”

Selvam made comforting noises, let the boy speak. He talked about the doctors, about the hopes they’d built, about how Latha couldn’t stop crying.

Finally, Selvam said, “You should try again.”

There was a pause. “We still have two embryos left,” Ashok said. “But Latha… she’s so scared. She keeps saying it’s a bad omen.”

“Nonsense,” Selvam said, channeling the voice of a patriarch. “You are strong. She is strong. The universe is testing you, but you must not give up. Try again.”

Ashok was silent for a moment, then said, “Okay, Appa. We will.”

They exchanged a few more words… mundane, parental things… and then Selvam hung up.

He stayed in his study for a long time after, staring at the garden outside, thinking about seeds and the violence of their growth, the way some things bloom only after being buried.

The day went on. There would be lunch, and coffee, and a thousand other rituals. But Selvam felt the aftershock of last night in his bones, a new map of fault lines drawn across the landscape of his heart.

Out on the veranda, Vanitha was watering the plants, her hips swaying as she moved from pot to pot. The gold chain at her waist caught the sun, a glint of promise in the hard morning light.

Selvam watched her, and in that moment he knew, this was just the beginning. But he needs to stay a little away from Vanitha, that too if she’s insisting about a baby together and not worry about the consequences.

[jiivajothii]

Awesome update

[Kanavudevathai]

Very hot and spicy stuff

[PELURI]

boss selvam....mind blowing...just out of the world.....she's right....both of you must try for a baby boy...make a stallion....want to witness the process....heavenly it'll be...

[adams_masala]

Thanks Everyone!!

[adams_masala]

Chapter 26: Lines in the Sand

Scene 1

The morning after his resolution, Selvam rose even earlier than usual. The air was already heavy with moisture; sweat beaded on his forehead before he had left his bed. He kept his footsteps light on the stairs, aware that Vanitha sometimes slept late after their nights of excess, but as he crossed the landing he heard movement in the living room...a quick, rhythmic exhale, the swish of fabric, a low, feminine grunt.

Vanitha was in the center of the tiled floor, her mat rolled out, the edges lined with a towel as if anticipating the kind of sweat she planned to wring from her body. She wore a peach-hued sports bra and black leggings that clung to her curves with an intimacy that rivaled last night’s sheets. The leggings dipped so low on her hips that the chain she usually wore over her saree now bisected her bare midriff in a crescent of gold. Her hair was coiled into a high bun, but loose strands...damp already...clung to her jaw and throat. The room was painted with the early sunlight, every angle of her body picked out in gold.

She moved through the asanas with militant focus, almost as if she were trying to burn out some toxin that couldn’t be purged by ordinary means. Each transition was precise, beautiful, slightly aggressive...her arms extended like the wings of a dancer, her spine lengthening until Selvam thought it might snap. He watched from the hallway for a few seconds, hands clasped behind his back, trying to marshal the words he would need for this morning. They came with difficulty.

She saw him instantly, as if she had been waiting for his gaze, and her face broke into a slow, knowing smile.

“You’re up early,” she said, holding a Warrior II that displayed her thigh and the line of her hip perfectly.

“I am always up early,” he replied, voice as mild as he could manage. “But you… you’re working very hard this morning.”

She laughed, breathless, and shifted into a pose that required her to balance on one leg, the other extended behind her like a bow drawn to its full length. “I have to be ready for my next campaign shoot,” she said. “These days the photographers demand more from us than the judges ever did. If your saree does not sit right on the bones, they will say you have become old, fat, lazy.”

He nodded, watching her.

She held the pose for a few more seconds, then collapsed onto her mat in a slow, theatrical fall, as if boneless with exhaustion. She lay on her back, panting, the rise and fall of her chest mesmerizing.

“I suppose you are going for your run, next,” she said, without opening her eyes.

Selvam hesitated. “I thought to have coffee first. Would you join me?”

She sat up with a sudden, coiled energy, her eyes glittering in the morning light. “Of course, mama.” She drew the word out, making it both a challenge and a caress. “Or do you prefer ‘sir’ today?”

Selvam stiffened, then relaxed his face into its usual composure. “Mama is fine,” he said.

She rose, slowly, using the flex of her core muscles to sit upright. The movement was deliberate, calculated to remind him of last night, the way she had used those same muscles to ride him, to milk him, to make him forget who he was for entire minutes at a time. She crossed the room to him, not bothering to towel off, her sweat a badge of effort and honesty.

He made a show of turning away, walking to the kitchen, pouring hot water into the filter pot. She followed, standing close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating off her bare arms.

“I’ll shower and change,” she said, but she made no move to leave. She was waiting.

Selvam busied himself with the coffee, his hands steady even as his mind reeled. Every morning for years he had followed the same rituals, but today the simple act of preparing coffee felt dangerous, loaded. He was hyper-aware of Vanitha’s body behind him, of the way her breathing slowed as she watched him.

When the coffee was ready, he poured two tumblers and handed one to her. She took it, her fingers brushing his with a jolt of static electricity.

“Did you sleep well?” he asked, though he already knew she had not.

She sipped, then licked a brown line from the rim of her cup. “I had dreams,” she said. “Some good. Some… strange.”

He nodded, but did not ask. He could guess the content of her dreams. His own sleep had been haunted by images of her, Vanitha on her knees, Vanitha straddling him, Vanitha pinning him with that impossible gaze and saying, “I want you to breed me, mama.” The memory filled him with simultaneous pride and a deep, nauseating guilt.

She leaned against the counter, her body relaxed now. “What are your plans today?” she asked.

“Groceries,” he said, “and maybe a visit to the temple. There is a new flower stall at the market. The jasmine is said to be extraordinary.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Buying flowers for someone?”

He shrugged. “For the house. For the puja room.”

She came closer, the tips of her toes almost touching his, and reached for his arm. “Let me come with you,” she said. “I could use some fresh air.”

He hesitated, and she saw it.

“I promise to behave,” she said, her tone suddenly sober. “I know you are… upset. About last night.”

Selvam felt his jaw clench, a pulse of anger… at her, at himself, at the universe for putting him here. He forced himself to look at her, really look, and what he saw was not the predatory goddess from his fantasies, but a young woman worn thin by longing and fear.

He softened his voice. “It was not a mistake,” he said, careful to avoid the word regret. “But it is not something we can make a habit of.”

She nodded, and for the first time, he saw her flinch.

He set his coffee down, ran a hand over his face. “Let’s go to the market,” he said. “And we will invite Lakshmi to join us. She has been with this family longer than you or I, and she will need the walk as much as we do.”

Vanitha’s mouth twisted in amusement. “You think a chaperone will stop me, mama?”

“I think it will help me,” he said, not bothering to disguise the truth.

She gave a small, wry bow. “As you wish.”

She disappeared to shower and change, and he watched the empty space where she’d been. Even gone, she left a charge in the room… a kind of afterimage.

When Lakshmi arrived for her shift, Selvam explained that they would go to the market together, and that she should wear her good saree. The woman, stoic and heavy-footed, was pleased by the invitation but suspicious. “You are both looking thin,” she muttered. “I will cook proper food, not this gym diet.”

They walked through the hot, damp streets side by side, Vanitha in a conservative but figure-hugging saree, Lakshmi shuffling along with a string bag and a muttered litany of shopping complaints. At every fruit stall, Vanitha tasted a gbang or a bit of mango and held the piece out for Selvam to sample. He refused at first, then relented; the touch of her fingers to his lips was so brief it could have been nothing, but it felt like a promise.

He bought the jasmine, a thick, fragrant strand that filled the whole air around them. Lakshmi sniffed the air and said, “This is how a home should smell,” and Selvam found himself oddly comforted.

When they sat for breakfast at the outdoor café, Vanitha did not try to touch him under the table, nor did she flirt. She laughed at Lakshmi’s jokes, called the server “brother,” and wiped a bit of sambar from her chin with the back of her hand. For a while, she was just a woman, eating her dosa, surrounded by the noise of the city.

But later, walking home, she hung back while Lakshmi forged ahead. She leaned in, just close enough that only he could hear.

“I liked this,” she said. “I liked being out with you.”

He looked straight ahead. “We can do it again. But I need you to give me time.”

She nodded, the scent of jasmine suddenly overwhelming.

He wanted, more than anything, to turn and take her into his arms, to bury his face in her neck and lose himself again. But he thought of Ashok, of Latha, of the fragile network of promises that had kept this family together.

Instead, he walked on, the gold of the morning turning harsh and bright around them.

When they got home, Vanitha went straight to her room, closing the door with a soft finality. Selvam lingered in the kitchen, the weight of her absence like a new kind of gravity.

He poured himself a second cup of coffee, black and unsweetened, and drank it slowly, waiting for the world to settle.

But the tension… the wanting… only deepened. He knew it was only a matter of time before the next fault line opened.


# Scene 2

By early afternoon, the air in the house was thick with the scent of frying onions and toasted cumin. Vanitha, usually meticulous in her self-presentation, had allowed a film of turmeric and oil to stain her hands, yellowing the flesh at her cuticles. She wore a fresh saree for the occasion… a rich teal with a silver border that shimmered when she moved… and had braided her hair with a string of the new jasmine. In the kitchen, every motion was studied, deliberate: the rolling of dosa batter, the sprinkle of coriander, the careful arrangement of steel bowls on a bright banana leaf. It was, to any observer, an act of devotion.

She caught sight of Selvam through the archway, sitting at the small table with his reading glasses perched on his nose, absorbed in the newspaper. The sight of him, so domestic and peaceful, sent a complicated jolt through her body: part affection, part longing, and part a kind of animal defiance. She wanted to disrupt him. She wanted to remind him that the line they had drawn in the sand was, at best, a temporary barricade.

She arranged the table with a kind of sensual perfection: a clay diya candle, a small bowl of ghee for dipping, the silver cutlery she had polished herself. When everything was ready, she called to him.

“Lunch is served, mama,” she said, softening the word as if it were their own private joke.

Selvam set aside the newspaper and came to the table, pausing in the doorway. He took in the scene… the color of her saree, the flicker of the candle, the sharp, earthy smell of fenugreek… and for a brief second, he looked at her the way he had the night before. It was a flash, quickly masked, but she caught it and filed it away.

“This is too much,” he said, but his voice was gentle. “You must have been working all morning.”

She shrugged, lowering her eyes in a practiced demure. “I needed something to do with my hands. Too much time to think, otherwise.”

They sat across from each other. Vanitha spooned sambar onto his rice, dotting it with a perfect cube of melting ghee. “You used to like it this way,” she said, watching him for a reaction.

He smiled, but it did not quite reach his eyes. “You remember my preferences better than my own son,” he said.

She let that linger, then reached across the table to brush a fleck of coriander from his cheek. Her hand lingered a moment longer than necessary, the skin-on-skin contact electric. He did not flinch, but he did not reciprocate, either.

They ate in silence for a while, the only sounds the scbang of cutlery and the hiss of pressure cookers from neighboring flats drifting through the window.

Finally, Selvam broke the quiet. “I spoke to Ashok this morning,” he said, folding a piece of dosa into a perfect triangle. “I told him you and Ashok should try another IVF through Latha. The doctors say it is possible, after a short rest. You have two more embryos.”

Vanitha paused, her own bite suspended in air. “So soon?” she asked, unable to hide the incredulity in her voice.

He nodded. “You and Ashok must do everything properly. I know you are very… diligent.”

Vanitha scoffed, not kindly. “Diligent,” she repeated, the word twisting into something brittle. “She looks at Ashok as if he hung the moon, even when he forgets she is just our surrogate.”

She stopped herself.

Selvam’s eyes were sad, but steady. “It’s not a competition, Vanitha.”

She stabbed at her rice with unnecessary force. “I never said it was.”

He let that pass. “You could have your own baby, you know. Through Latha.”

Vanitha looked away, jaw clenched. “Maybe after a while.”

He set down his fork. “It would help Ashok, too. He feels very alone there, in that city. So far from everything he knew.”

“I know what that feels like,” Vanitha said, her tone sharp enough to cut.

He reached for a new topic. “The garden needs attention,” he said. “Lakshmi says the curry leaf plant is dying. I was going to trim it this afternoon. Would you join me?”

She laughed, a little too bright. “So, what, we are partners in horticulture now? You and me, the model couple?”

“It is better than being enemies,” he said, with quiet conviction.

She looked at him then, really looked. “Do you even want me, anymore?” she said, so softly he almost missed it.

Selvam blinked, and for a moment, all the steel in his resolve melted. He wanted to reach for her across the table, to pull her into his arms and tell her yes, he wanted her, he wanted her so much it terrified him. But he did not move.

He chose his words with care. “I want you to be happy,” he said. “I want to do what is right, for both of us. But for now, we need to be strong. For Ashok. For your future baby through Latha.”

Vanitha inhaled, then exhaled slowly. The jasmine in her braid trembled as if it, too, had heard his verdict. “You sound like my therapist,” she said, but she was smiling now, the edge gone from her voice. “Fine. We will be strong.”

They finished the meal, and as she cleared the dishes, she let her fingers linger on his forearm as she took his plate. “I forgive you,” she whispered, her voice almost playful.

“For what?” he asked, genuinely perplexed.

“For pretending not to want me,” she said, and before he could reply, she swept out of the room, the tail of her saree flashing behind her like a banner of defiance.

Selvam sat in the aftermath of her departure, staring at the empty space across from him. He felt both lighter and infinitely more burdened.

He stood, wiped the table with mechanical precision, and went to the garden, where the sun had scorched the earth to a fine white powder. He bent to the dying curry leaf plant, hands steady, heart in riot.

The house was quiet now, but Selvam felt every molecule of Vanitha’s presence, like heat trapped in the walls.


# Scene 3

That evening, Vanitha transformed the studio room for her next reel. The curtains were drawn, filtering the sunset into a diffuse honey, and the antique lamp in the corner cast a soft golden glow over everything it touched. She wore a saree of arresting crimson, the pleats so sharp they looked knife-cut, the pallu dbangd in a way that managed to be both artful and just a little off-kilter, so that any shift in movement, any twirl, any intentional stumble would send it fluttering, exposing the fine lines of her waist and the deep-v of the blouse.

She had rigged her phone on a tripod, propped at exactly the right angle, and tested the focus with a few trial frames: a half smile here, a turn of the neck there. She deleted them all, dissatisfied, waiting for the real performance to begin.

When she heard Selvam’s step on the stairs, she cleared her throat and called to him, voice bright. “Mama! I need your help for something.”

He appeared in the archway, garden dirt still on his hands, a towel slung over his shoulder. He paused, taking in the transformed room, the camera, and most of all her. For a moment, he was silent.

She beckoned him forward. “I need a cameraman,” she said. “You can just press the red button, no acting required.”

He wiped his hands and came over, the scent of damp earth and sweat riding just ahead of him. She showed him the phone...how to tilt it, how to hold steady, the sequence of buttons. “Don’t worry,” she said, “it’s easier than you think.”

He grunted, skeptical, but when she started the playback, his face softened with fascination. “You do this for hours?” he asked.

“Sometimes more,” she replied. “It has to be perfect. One wrong step, and all anyone remembers is the mistake.”

She adjusted the phone, turned on the music...a lilting remix of an old Tamil love song...and took her mark. The first part was simple: a slow turn, a hand on her hip, a flirtatious glance over the shoulder. She nailed it on the first try. But the second step required her to twirl, catch the edge of the sofa with her toe, and spin into Selvam’s arms, as if caught by surprise.

On the first take, she spun too fast and missed him entirely, careening into the sofa. Selvam’s eyes widened. “Are you alright?”

She laughed it off. “Next time, catch me, okay? It’s for the shot.”

He nodded, a flush rising on his cheeks.

The second take, she slowed down, but at the moment of the catch, she let her body go limp, tipping forward into his embrace. For a brief, heated second, his arms went around her, palms pressing against the small of her back, her chest soft against his. She could feel the tension snap into place, could feel the thud of his heart and the involuntary flex of his fingers.

Then, just as quickly, he let her go. She stumbled back, the pallu sliding off her shoulder, and she caught herself on the arm of a chair.

Selvam stepped back, the flush now a full bloom. “You should be careful,” he said, voice too formal. “You could hurt yourself.”

She righted her saree, drawing the fabric tight around her. “You were supposed to catch me,” she said, her tone half-teasing, half-scold.

He did not meet her eyes. “I’m not an actor,” he said, and fiddled with the phone, hands trembling. “Maybe Lakshmi can help you, tomorrow.”

She walked to him, placed a hand on his forearm. “I only want your help, mama,” she said. The words hung in the space between them, heavier than they should have been.

He jerked his arm away, almost as if burned, and set the phone down on the sideboard. “I have to shower,” he said, and left the room.

She stood for a long minute in the after-silence, the only sound the faint trill of the playback loop, the old love song cycling over and over. She watched herself in the phone screen, saw the moment her body collided with his, saw the flicker of heat and then panic in both their faces.

She wanted to delete the video, but instead, she saved it, uploading it to her private folder. She would watch it again, later, when she needed proof that the pull between them was not a figment of her imagination.

Vanitha sat on the edge of the sofa, hands folded in her lap, her heart stuttering like a trapped bird. She thought of the careful distance Selvam kept, the way he looked at her only when he thought she wouldn’t notice.

She was determined to break him. She was determined to win.

In the bathroom upstairs, Selvam stood under the cold spray, eyes squeezed shut, willing his body to forget the memory of her in his arms, the scent of jasmine and sweat, the shape of her pressed against him. He gripped the edge of the sink and breathed, slow and deep.

He would not be broken, he told himself. He would not be the cause of more ruin in this house.

But even as he said it, he knew: this was a battle already lost.

The music looped on, filling the empty house with longing.


# Scene 4

That night, the house felt hollowed out by tension. The walls, stripped of daytime noise, seemed to close in, amplifying every footstep, every muted sound from the garden. Vanitha found herself restless, unable to settle to a book or her phone. She finally took her coffee out to the veranda, where the city’s humidity pressed against her skin and the air smelled faintly of wilted jasmine and rain.

Selvam appeared at the threshold, framed by the rectangle of lamplight from the hallway. He did not approach at first, but stood with his hands clasped behind his back, watching her. She pretended not to notice, swirling her coffee, but her body betrayed her...shoulders stiff, back a little too straight.

He cleared his throat. “May I join you?”

She shrugged, not looking up. “It’s your house.”

He came and sat across from her, folding his large hands neatly on the tabletop. For a while, neither spoke. She sipped her coffee, letting the silence stretch, but she could feel his gaze on her, weighing, measuring.

Finally, he spoke. “We need to talk.”

She raised an eyebrow, still not meeting his eyes. “About what? The weather? Lakshmi’s complaints about the neighbors? Or would you like to review my latest reel?”

He didn’t smile. “About us,” he said.

She put the coffee down. “There is no us,” she said flatly. “You made that very clear this afternoon.”

He winced. “You know it’s not that simple.”

She finally looked at him, and the force of her anger surprised even herself. “Then make it simple, mama. Tell me what you want from me.”

He inhaled deeply, steeling himself. “I want us to stop. Not forever, maybe. But for now. We have to give Ashok and you to have your baby through, give Latha a chance to heal. We need to focus on the family. On the baby.”

She barked a short, humorless laugh. “There is no baby. You saw to that.”

He did not rise to the bait. “That was not anyone’s fault,” he said. “Sometimes it happens. You know that.”

She turned away, staring into the night. “You say you want to help Ashok and me. But you’re the one who took everything from him. You took me.”

He shook his head. “I am not proud of what we did. But we cannot take it back. The only thing we can do now is move forward, the right way.”

She made a face. “The right way. Always the good son, the perfect father. What about what you want, mama? What about what I want?”

He looked at her, and for a moment, the mask slipped. She saw the longing there, raw and undiminished, and her breath caught.

“I want you,” he said, voice low. “But I can’t have you, not like this. Not while people we love are hurting because of us.”

She stared at him, the muscles of her jaw working. “And if they weren’t?” she asked. “If I was never married to Ashok, would you want me then?”

He nodded, the truth plain in his face.

She looked down at her hands. The silver rings gleamed on her fingers, reflecting the faint light.

“I feel like a villain in someone else’s story,” she whispered. “I never wanted to be the bad guy, mama. I only wanted…” She trailed off, unwilling to say it.

He reached for her hand, and after a moment, she let him take it. His palm was rough, the grip gentle.

“We can’t change the past,” he said. “But we can try to do better now.”

She was silent for a long time. The sounds of the city, far-off and indistinct, filled the space between them.

Finally, she said, “You think if we pretend long enough, it will all go away?”

He shook his head. “No. But we might find something worth saving.”

She looked at him, really looked, and saw that he meant it. The anger leaked out of her, replaced by a hollow ache.

“Fine,” she said. “We’ll try it your way. But don’t expect me to smile and play house. I don’t forgive easily.”

He smiled, a sad, grateful thing. “You never have,” he said, and the old affection glimmered for a second between them.

He squeezed her hand once, then let go.

Vanitha watched as he stood, as he squared his shoulders and went back into the house. She stayed on the veranda, listening to the city, to the faint, regretful echo of her own choices.

She wondered if he would come to her room that night. She wondered if she would open the door.

When at last she went inside, the hallway was dark. She touched the wall for balance, feeling her way through the unfamiliar contours of this new, enforced distance.

In his bedroom, Selvam stood at the window, staring out at the night. He did not sleep for a long time, his mind turning over the conversation, every word, every possibility.

He believed in self-denial, in the discipline of the will. He believed in second chances.

But as he closed his eyes, he saw her face, and the longing in his body burned so fierce and bright, it was all he could do to keep from going to her.

They were two forces in perfect opposition, balanced for now on the knife-edge of longing.

The city went on, indifferent, humming in the dark.


# Scene 5

In the pink haze before sunrise, Selvam walked the old perimeter of his neighborhood. The city was mostly still, the air touched with dew and woodsmoke, the roads bearing only the ghosts of yesterday’s traffic. The world, emptied of its audience, let him drop his performance.

He moved with purpose, head down, ignoring the stray dogs and the call of the first vendors. He stopped only at the shrine on the corner, the one with a blue-painted Ganesha, half-buried in marigold petals. He pressed his hands together and bowed, but the prayers that rose in his mind were not of forgiveness, or even guidance.

They were simple: Let me be strong. Let me not go to her tonight.

He lingered, breathing in the charred sweetness of burnt camphor, before resuming his circuit. The path would always bring him back to the house, to the one problem that had no good solution.

Vanitha woke alone in her bed, the sheets twisted and damp from her restless sleep. She stared at the ceiling, one hand curled around her phone, the other pressed to her stomach as if to ward off some old, dull pain.

She scrolled through her gallery: the old photos, the reels, the filtered perfection of her own smile. She watched, with a sense of unreality, the video from the night before… the moment she crashed into Selvam’s arms, the look of panic and hunger on his face.

She should have been angry. She should have resented him for his cold resolve, for making her feel small and childish in her own house. Instead, she found herself respecting it. Wanting it. Wanting him.

She set the phone aside and lay back, eyes burning. She wished she could hate him. She wished she could hate herself. But the truth was, she felt more alive than she had in years.

In the garden, Selvam bent to uproot a weed from beneath the curry leaf tree, his fingers sinking into the damp earth. He thought of all the roots that grew unseen, the secret networks that held everything together.

He would not touch her today. He would not allow himself that luxury. But the memory of her… the scent, the laughter, the ache, ran in his veins like a fever.

Vanitha showered, dressed, and came to the kitchen to make coffee. She found Selvam at the table, reading, the day’s calm a mask on his face. She poured herself a cup, added cardamom, sat across from him.

They did not speak. They did not need to.

The city woke around them, the ring of bells, the drone of horns, the slow, unstoppable march of ordinary life.

A breath, a pause. A new day.

And somewhere in the shared silence, the knowledge that nothing was resolved. That the wanting would only grow, until one of them broke again.

But not today.

[adams_masala]

Chapter 27: Fault Lines

# Scene 1

Vanitha could not sleep past dawn, not anymore. The city’s humidity pressed against her window, suffocating the air even before sunrise. She padded to the kitchen in her camisole and shorts, brewed herself strong coffee, and, with the first scalding sip, began mentally plotting out her day’s content...the angle, the backdrop, the precise moment when the sunlight would catch the iridescent beads of her saree, the illusion of effortlessness conjured by hours of obsessive planning.

The Instagram algorithm was a jealous, ravenous god, demanding new tributes daily. Vanitha had built her following on a precise equilibrium: the dignity of tradition, the provocation of exposure. Her fans expected both. The post from last week...her in a teal silk saree, the pallu in calculated disarray, a flash of navel and a band of delicate skin between the blouse and the waist chain...had gone viral, with comments in every language she could read and a few she couldn’t. There were offers for collaborations, DMs from ad agencies, the occasional proposal from an overeager NRI. And always, always, the echo of her own name, over and over, as if the world were reassuring itself that she was real.

She clung to this routine now, when the rest of her life felt adrift. Every small choice...lip color, bindi shape, which parting to use in her hair...felt weighted with consequence. In the first shoot of the day, she wore a peach organza saree, dbangd with a practiced art that left her right hip bare, the waist chain tight against her skin. She’d chosen a blouse with cap sleeves and a plunging neckline, the fabric so thin it was nearly translucent in the morning light. She set up the tripod at the corner of the living room, where the indirect sunlight pooled, and cued up the background track...a retro Ilaiyaraaja ballad, remixed with a pulsing house beat.

Her movements before the camera were a choreography of micro-calculations. A half-twist, shoulders rolled, the left hand feathering the pleats just so. She glanced over her own shoulder, a flick of hair, a deliberate hesitation as the pallu slipped off her breast and pooled at her elbow. Her eyes, lined in kohl, caught the lens, lingered. She knew exactly when the camera’s autofocus would pulse. In the next take, she leaned back on the sofa, one knee drawn up, the saree’s folds riding low enough to reveal the tattooed crescent just above her hipbone, a detail she rarely allowed the public.

Vanitha was not vain, but she was ruthless in her pursuit of perfection. Each reel was played back, dissected, the best moments clipped and spliced. A single imperfection...a roll at her waist, a pimple half-concealed by foundation, the way her smile faltered just before the song’s hook...meant a retake, a reset. She filmed again, sweat beading under her arms, the weight of the studio lights oppressive. It didn’t matter. Her followers would expect nothing less.

She did all of this alone, the only audience the cold eye of her phone and the silence of a house that still felt, at times, like a stranger’s. Lakshmi’s cleaning in the background, the clatter of vessels in the sink, only sharpened the sense of isolation. Each time Vanitha caught her own reflection in a pane of glass, she saw the ghost of last week’s woman...flushed with shame, lip bitten, legs tangled in white bedsheets, her body yielding to the one man she had sworn to keep at arm’s length.

She had told herself that night was a mistake. That morning had been a second mistake, and every pulse of memory was its own, smaller failure. She told herself that Selvam would keep his word, that he would not touch her again, that this new regime of distance was necessary and right.

But she missed the hunger in his eyes. She missed the feeling of being wanted, not just by a chorus of faceless strangers but by someone who saw every facet of her...the discipline, the pride, the secret longing...and ached for her anyway.

The day’s work passed in a blur of costume changes and takes. For the final shoot, she changed into a black georgette saree, the pallu pinned low, her midriff exposed in a way that felt, even to her, almost obscene. She painted her lips in dark plum, lined her eyes sharper than a blade, and chose a gold chain that lay across the hollow of her stomach like a mark of ownership.

She filmed the final reel in the hallway, the camera at hip height, so that the entire video was just her walking away, hips swaying, the thin strip of skin shimmering in the filtered light. She imagined, as she walked, that someone was watching her from behind, pulse quickening at the sight. She imagined the envy, the admiration, the envy again.

When she watched the reel back, she saw herself through the eyes of a stranger...unapproachable, untouchable, a weaponized version of everything the world wanted her to be. The comments would come in droves, she knew. Some would call her goddess. Some would call her a whore. A few would say both, and neither would sting as much as the knowledge that she had manufactured this effect on purpose.

She uploaded the reel, added a caption in English and Tamil, and set her phone to vibrate on the coffee table. The first comment landed within seconds. The dopamine hit was instant, hot as a blush, then gone.

The restlessness did not abate. She changed out of the black saree, hung it up with deliberate care, and stood before the mirror in her slip, examining her stomach from every angle. She arched her back, ran her palm along the ridge of muscle, pinched the flesh at her waist. She looked for signs that her body might betray her...any flaw, any evidence that she was less than what the world expected.

She heard Selvam’s footsteps on the stairs, his slow, deliberate tread as he came down for his evening tea. Vanitha did not move to greet him. She watched herself in the mirror, imagined what he would see if he entered the room at that moment. The bra strap sliding off her shoulder, the faint latticework of saree pleats impressed on her skin, the red mark at her hip where she had pressed too hard with a safety pin.

She wondered if he thought of her, even now, or if he was really as resolute as he claimed. She wondered if he wanted her to break first.

The hunger in her belly was not for food. She closed her eyes and pressed her forehead to the cool surface of the mirror. She let the ache roll through her, then straightened her shoulders and set her face in the expression of unbothered grace she had practiced for years.

When the next notification pinged on her phone, she turned from the mirror and picked it up, thumbs flying. The world would see what she wanted it to see...a woman radiant and self-contained, every inch of her engineered for admiration. The hollow inside her would remain her own secret, at least for now.


# Scene 2

Later that afternoon, Vanitha meticulously set up the iPad on the kitchen counter, the camera propped at a flattering downward angle. She wore a pale green saree that complemented her skin and offset the shadows under her eyes. The pallu was dbangd off-shoulder, as if by accident, but the border sparkled with tiny mirrors and drew the gaze up toward her face. She rechecked the position three times before calling Selvam in for the “family update” video call.

He arrived from the study in a fresh white shirt and the scent of sandalwood, his hair combed with military neatness. He hesitated at the threshold, glancing at the tripod and then at her. “You look very nice,” he said, with an odd note of apology.

“It’s just a regular call,” Vanitha replied, fussing with a bangle. “They’re expecting both of us.”

Selvam sat at the edge of the frame, folding his hands in his lap. He let her control the space, the lighting, the pacing...she was, after all, the one with something to prove.

She tapped the screen and waited for the call to connect. Ashok’s face filled the window, California sunlight bleaching his features. He looked tired, but the smile was genuine. Behind him, the walls were painted a warm, aspirational beige.

“Hi, Ma!” he said, and then, more formally: “Hi, Appa.”

Selvam nodded. “Ashok. You’re well?”

“I’m okay. Latha is here...just a sec.” Ashok’s hand disappeared from frame and returned, tugging a second face into view.

Latha’s presence on camera was somehow both dazzling and self-effacing. She wore a lavender salwar kameez, modest and pressed, her hair neatly parted and braided over one shoulder. The only ornament was a bindi, a soft, petal-pink dot. She looked at the camera, then away, then back, her smile bright but unsure.

“Hello, Akka, Mama,” she said.

Vanitha smiled, but it was the smile of a hostess whose meal had just gone slightly off. “Latha! You look so well. Ashok, is she eating enough? I don’t want her losing any weight before the next cycle.”

Ashok nodded. “She’s eating fine, Ma. She likes my pasta.”

“Pasta is not enough,” Vanitha said, the words too quick. “She needs lentils, greens, healthy fats.”

Latha said, “Ashok is a good cook,” as if to defend him, but the effect was only to make Vanitha feel more like a bystander in her own life.

Selvam saw the shift, the tightness in Vanitha’s jaw. He interjected, “Latha, are you keeping up with the supplements? The folic acid, the vitamin D?”

“Yes, Mama,” she said, eager. “I’m following the chart you sent. Every day.”

“Good girl,” said Selvam, and Vanitha heard the old paternal pride, the gentle, coaching tone he had never once used with her.

“Have you been for walks?” Vanitha asked, trying to sound concerned instead of competitive. “You should be doing at least thirty minutes, slow pace, nothing too strenuous. Ask Ashok to get you good shoes.”

Latha nodded. “He bought me a pair yesterday. They are very comfortable.”

Ashok reached over and squeezed her hand, an unconscious gesture. “She even wears them around the house,” he said.

Vanitha noticed how Latha’s skin glowed, how her arms looked fuller, as if she had absorbed all the nurturing energy that should have been Vanitha’s. She felt a twinge...a hot, sour jealousy she tried to reframe as maternal concern.

“I have a list of meal plans,” Vanitha said, scrolling on her phone. “I can send them. Just… ignore the cheese-heavy ones. I know how sensitive your digestion is.”

Latha smiled with genuine gratitude. “Thank you, Akka. That will help a lot.”

They talked for a few minutes more, the conversation looping through practicalities...insurance paperwork, appointment times, the names of the different drugs and their side effects. Selvam listened, only occasionally inserting a reminder or a word of praise for Latha’s diligence.

Vanitha could not help but notice that, when Latha addressed Selvam, she always used “Mama,” with a softness that made the syllables sound less like an honorific and more like a small, private devotion.

She wondered if Ashok noticed. She wondered if he cared.

At one point, Selvam asked about the next appointment, and Ashok explained, “It’s scheduled for Thursday. They’ll check the lining, see if it’s ready for transfer.”

“Are you both going together?” Vanitha asked, a challenge masked as a question.

“Of course,” Ashok replied. “She doesn’t like the hospital alone.”

Latha blushed. “It’s too big. And the nurses are sometimes rude.”

Ashok squeezed her hand again. “I’ll take care of it, Ma. Don’t worry.”

The words were for Vanitha, but the look was for Latha. It was a look of partnership, of shared mission, of two people united against the world.

Vanitha said, “You should wear loose clothes for the appointment. And no makeup, just in case you react to the tape.” She could feel herself babbling, layering advice over advice, trying to wall out the ache.

“Thank you, Akka,” Latha said again. “I will.”

Selvam watched all of this with a clinical detachment, his own calculations running quietly under the surface. The biology was simple. The emotional calculus less so.

He said, “Latha, if you have any discomfort, or even just anxiety, you must tell me immediately. I will call the doctor myself if needed.”

Latha nodded, her eyes wide with gratitude. “Thank you, Mama. You are so kind.”

Vanitha felt a tiny rupture...a fissure in her composure, a betrayal she had not prepared for.

Ashok glanced at the clock, said, “We should let you go, Ma. Latha needs to rest before dinner.”

Vanitha said, “Of course. Good luck, darling. Take care of her.” The words sounded hollow, even to her.

After the call, she watched the blank screen, her own reflection superimposed over the last frozen image of Ashok and Latha, their heads bowed together, foreheads nearly touching.

Selvam cleared his throat. “You are being too hard on yourself.”

She looked up, startled.

He said, “You are not in a competition with her. She is just the vessel. The baby will be yours.”

Vanitha’s hands clenched under the table. “Then why does it feel like I am losing?”

He shook his head. “You are not losing. You are protecting your family. That is what matters.”

She looked away, wiping an imaginary spot on the countertop.

Selvam did not move to comfort her. He simply said, “You should be proud of your strength.”

She said nothing, just sat there in her pale green saree, alone with the afterglow of a conversation that had left her feeling both irrelevant and raw.

Selvam returned to his study, but Vanitha stayed at the table, scrolling through the Latha’s WhatsApp status...pictures of home-cooked meals, a new hair clip, a selfie in the sunlight. She compared each one to the images in her own gallery. She saw, suddenly, how similar they were, and how little that similarity mattered.

Vanitha thought of Latha, half a world away, sleeping in the bedroom next to theirs, and wondered what it would be like to wake up with someone’s dreams inside your body, not knowing if they were truly yours.

She scrolled up to the video call preview, paused it on the frame where Latha had smiled so radiantly at Selvam. The envy was a knife, but she pressed into it anyway, savoring the honesty of the pain.

She closed the app, then re-opened it, unable to resist. She watched the frame again and again, until the only thing left was the sound of her own shallow breath and the echo of the one word she could never say aloud: replaceable.


# Scene 3

The garden was a riot of untended green, the monsoon having transformed every spare inch into a contest between creeper, weed, and stubborn curry-leaf sapling. Vanitha crouched at the far end, hands sunk deep in potting soil, her nails ringed with black and a thin line of snot threatening to escape her nose. The afternoon light was flat, colorless, a screen for old shadows and tears that refused to dry.

She had not intended to cry here, but the fury of it had overtaken her after the call. She dug and dug, rearranging tiny flowerpots as if their fate would redeem her own. She thought about the way Ashok looked at Latha...was that ever how he’d looked at her? Was she really so easy to replace? Was her beauty, her discipline, her every careful sacrifice so invisible to the world that a single, wide-eyed surrogate could step in and erase her?

The sound of slippers scbanging on concrete startled her. Selvam appeared at the edge of the patio, carrying a mug of tea and, improbably, a small towel. He watched her for a few seconds, then set the mug on the stoop and approached, moving with the cautious grace of someone entering a storm.

“Vanitha,” he said, very quietly.

She made a show of ignoring him, but could not help glancing up. The look on his face...equal parts concern and bafflement...nearly undid her again.

He said, “You will ruin your nails.”

She scoffed. “Who is here to care?”

He offered the towel, which she accepted and immediately buried her face in. It smelled of detergent and, faintly, of him.

“Why are you here?” she asked, voice muffled.

Selvam knelt beside her, careful not to let their knees touch. “I came to see if you were alright.”

She wiped at her eyes, then her nose. “You win. I’m not alright. I am… what is the word? Unravelling.”

He waited.

She let the silence grow, then: “You saw how he looks at her. Like she is some… miracle. He used to look at me like that, maybe. Now I am just a taskmaster, a checklist, a nagging voice on a phone.”

Selvam considered, then said, “Latha is not a threat to you. She is… only an instrument.”

Vanitha’s laugh was wet and ugly. “Yes, well, instruments can be replaced too. Ask any man who has upgraded his phone.”

He smiled at that, but not unkindly. “You are not a phone, Vanitha.”

She shook her head. “Don’t. I do not need comfort. I need honesty.”

He hesitated, then said, “Alright. You are jealous. That is natural. You spent your whole life perfecting yourself...body, mind, public image. Now you see a girl with none of your training, none of your discipline, and she is doing the one thing you said you did not want to do: carry a baby.”

Vanitha nodded, tears springing anew. “She makes it look easy. As if she was born for it.”

Selvam placed a hand on her shoulder, heavy and warm. “Some women are. But you were born for other things.”

“Like what?” The word was a challenge, but there was a quaver in it.

He looked at her, his expression more open than she had ever seen it. “Like beauty. Like strength. Like making every room you enter a better place. Like bringing a man to his knees with a look.”

She turned away, embarrassed. “You always say the right thing.”

He said, “Not always.”

They were silent for a while, the distant drone of a scooter blending with the chatter of crows in the mango tree.

She said, “Sometimes I think… maybe I made a mistake. Maybe I should have just had the baby myself. Then Ashok would never have looked away. He would never have needed Latha.”

Selvam’s hand slid, almost accidentally, from her shoulder to her side. His thumb pressed into the soft flesh just above her waist, where the green saree left a narrow strip of skin exposed. She stiffened, but did not move away.

He said, “Your body is perfect, just as it is. There is nothing you lack.”

She looked at him, wary. “Even now, you say this.”

He nodded. “I have never lied to you.”

She shivered, though the air was still and muggy. She was aware of every point of contact, the heat radiating from his palm, the way his fingers tensed and relaxed in slow, involuntary pulses.

“Why do you do this?” she whispered. “Why do you make it so hard to hate you?”

He laughed, low in his throat. “If you hated me, I would not be sitting here.”

His hand, now emboldened by her lack of resistance, moved with exquisite slowness over the curve of her waist, tracing the line of the gold chain that glinted against her skin. She felt a rush of warmth, a tightness coiling at the base of her spine.

She said, “We agreed, no more mistakes.”

He nodded, but the hunger in his eyes belied the promise. She saw, with something like triumph, the unmistakable swelling beneath his cotton veshti, the evidence of his desire as obvious as the sun. He saw her notice, and for the first time, he blushed...a deep, honest red that crept from his collarbone to his cheekbones.

He withdrew his hand, abruptly, and stood. “You should finish your tea,” he said, voice rough. “It will get cold.”

He walked away without looking back, the towel still clutched in her lap.

She wiped her face and, after a minute, sipped the tea. It was already lukewarm, but she drank every drop, feeling the heat settle in her stomach. She stared at the place where he had knelt, and smiled.

She was not ready to let herself be replaced. Not yet.