Adultery Born of Deceit

[PELURI]

under the cover of diplomacy was beautifully merged with bound by storm....any such thing likely here....probably not....still, would like to have urvashi back...some how...along with zyed & his room mate sohail....god bless you dear rohini  ji..

[PELURI]

the title "born of deceit" is quite intriguing....




Ps: plz start a IF, which'll run parallel....may end up merged just as the previous one's....story merging will be the unique feature of untamable_rohini...

[untamable_rohini]

The coaching centre in Laxmi Nagar was a narrow four-storey building squeezed between a photocopy shop and a dosa stall. Every morning Tulika arrived by 7:30, climbed the steep stairs to the third floor, and claimed the same corner seat near the window. The classroom smelled of stale coffee, damp notebooks, and the collective anxiety of two hundred aspirants. The teacher—a thin man in his fifties with a perpetual frown—rattled through Polity MCQs at machine-gun speed while students scribbled furiously.

Tulika’s fears had sharpened into something physical over the years. She felt them in the tightness of her throat during mock tests, in the way her palms sweated when the cutoff discussion began. Every time the teacher announced, “Only the top 5% will make it to mains,” her stomach twisted. She was good—consistently in the top twenty in her batch—but good wasn’t enough. Not when lakhs applied for a few hundred posts.

One humid afternoon in late July, after a particularly brutal Quant session where she lost eight marks on simple percentage questions, Tulika stepped out for air. The sky was the colour of wet cement. She crossed the lane to the small chai stall under a tin awning, the one with the blue plastic chairs and the eternal queue.

She ordered a cutting chai and stood to the side, staring at her phone, re-reading the same wrong answer explanation for the third time.

A man in his late forties, pot-bellied, wearing a checked shirt two sizes too small, stepped up beside her. He had small eyes behind thick glasses and a thin moustache stained faintly orange from paan.

“Madamji, SSC?” he asked, nodding at the stack of printed notes peeking out of her bag.

Tulika glanced up, surprised. “Yes. You too?”

He laughed—a short, oily sound. “No, no. I just sit here every day. Watch people like you come and go. Same worried face, same big dreams.”

She gave a polite smile and turned back to her phone.

He didn’t leave. “Tough exam. Very tough. Cutoff keeps rising. You must be preparing for years now.”

“Four,” she said quietly, not wanting to encourage him.

“Four years. Wah. Dedication. But dedication alone doesn’t always win, does it? Sometimes you need… a little push.”

Tulika looked at him properly now. “What do you mean?”

He lowered his voice, leaning closer so the tea-w,.' wouldn’t hear. “I know people. Inside. In the commission. A small amount—twenty-five, thirty lakhs—and your name can move up. Not much. Just enough to cross the line.”

Her stomach dropped. “You’re talking about bribe.”

“Call it facilitation fee. Everyone does it quietly. You think all those selected candidates are purely merit? Come on, madamji.”

Tulika stepped back. “I don’t do that.”

He shrugged. “Suit yourself. But when the result comes and your name is just below the cutoff… remember the offer is open. Ask for Malhotra. Everyone here knows me.”

He handed her a crumpled visiting card—plain white, only a mobile number and “Malhotra Consultancy” printed in faded ink.

She took it automatically, more out of reflex than interest, then dropped it into her bag like it burned.

That evening she told Vikram while they ate rajma-chawal on the small dining table.

“He said twenty-five lakhs. Just like that.”

Vikram’s spoon paused. “And?”

“And nothing. I’m not doing it.”

He nodded slowly. “Of course. But… did he seem serious? Like he actually knows people?”

“I don’t care. It’s wrong.”

Vikram didn’t push then. But the next week, when she passed the chai stall again, Malhotra was there—same chair, same cup of tea.

“Thought about it, madamji?”

“No.”

“Thirty now. Prices are going up. Last chance before prelims.”

She walked past without answering.

It became a pattern. Every few days he would be there—sometimes alone, sometimes with another man in a safari suit. He never raised his voice, never threatened. Just the same calm, oily offer.

“Twenty-eight lakhs. Cash. One instalment. Your roll number moves up. Simple.”

“Twenty-five final. I like you, madamji. Special discount.”

“You look tired today. Result tension? One phone call from me and tension over.”

Tulika started taking a different lane to avoid the stall, but the lane looped back to the metro anyway. Malhotra was always there, patient as a vulture.

One rainy afternoon in September she was soaked, umbrella forgotten in the classroom. She ducked under the awning for shelter. Malhotra was already sipping chai.

“See? Even the sky wants you to listen.”

She glared. “Stop following me.”

“I sit here every day. You’re the one who keeps coming.”

Silence stretched between them, broken only by rain drumming on tin.

“Twenty lakhs,” he said quietly. “Last price. After that, offer closes. Think of your husband. Think of the flat EMIs. Think of how many more years you want to sit in that classroom.”

Tulika’s hand tightened on her bag strap. She thought of the latest mock test—missed cutoff by seven marks. She thought of Vikram coming home defeated again, of the growing stack of bills on the fridge.

She turned and walked into the rain without a word.

But the card stayed in her purse.

And that night, when she lay beside Vikram, listening to his even breathing, the number on that card burned quietly in her mind.

[untamable_rohini]

[untamable_rohini]

That night, after Tulika had fallen into a restless sleep beside him, Vikram quietly took her purse from the bedside table. He pulled out the crumpled visiting card. The cheap paper felt warm in his fingers, as if it had been burning a hole in their lives for weeks.
He didn’t sleep.
The next morning, while Tulika was in the bathroom, he saved the number in his phone under the name “Property Client – M”. He told himself he was just going to gather information. Nothing more.
Three days later, on a Thursday afternoon, Vikram took an auto to Laxmi Nagar.
He found Malhotra exactly where Tulika had described—sitting on the same blue plastic chair under the tin awning, sipping tea from a kulhad. The man looked up as Vikram approached, his small eyes narrowing behind the thick glasses.
“You must be the husband,” Malhotra said with a slow smile, gesturing to the empty chair opposite him. “Sit. Chai?”
Vikram sat. The plastic chair creaked under his weight. “No chai. Let’s talk.”
Malhotra nodded, waving away the tea-w,.'. He leaned back, folding his hands over his belly. “So. Your wife has been telling you.”
“She has.”
“Good. Saves time. Let’s speak like men. Twenty lakhs. Cash. No bank transfer, no UPI. Half upfront, half after prelims result. That’s my final offer.”
Vikram’s jaw tightened. He had come prepared to hear thirty, maybe twenty-eight. Twenty felt like a trap.
“Too much,” Vikram said, surprised by how steady his voice sounded. “We don’t have that kind of money.”
Malhotra chuckled softly. “Nobody has it lying around, beta. That’s why people come to me. You borrow, you sell gold, you take a personal loan—people do what they have to do. Twenty is already generous. Last month I took twenty-seven from an engineer for his son.”
Vikram’s mind raced. Twenty lakhs. He could liquidate the fixed deposit they had saved for a new fridge. He could borrow ten from his cousin in Ludhiana. Maybe mortgage the flat for a short term. The numbers spun in his head like a roulette wheel.
“Fifteen,” Vikram countered, even though his stomach twisted at his own audacity. “Fifteen, and I can arrange it faster.”
Malhotra’s smile faded. He picked up his kulhad and took a slow sip, watching Vikram over the rim. “Fifteen won’t even get her past the first gate. You think this is like buying vegetables? The people I deal with don’t negotiate like this. They have fixed rates. I’m already giving you a family discount because your wife is… persistent.”
Vikram felt a flush of anger, but he swallowed it. “Then tell me exactly what twenty gets us. I need to know it’s real.”
Malhotra leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Twenty gets her name moved up by 800 to 1200 ranks. Enough to clear prelims comfortably. After that, if you want mains help, we can discuss separately. But prelims is guaranteed. If she doesn’t clear after my help, you get your money back. I don’t do business on maybes.”
Vikram’s heart pounded. A guarantee. That word tasted dangerous—sweet and poisonous at the same time. He thought of Tulika sitting in that classroom for six years. He thought of the way her shoulders slumped when she checked the mock results. He thought of the credit card bills hidden in his drawer. He thought of finally having breathing room, of telling her they could afford another attempt without panic, of maybe even taking her on a small vacation.
But mostly, he thought of what would happen if it went wrong. If they paid and nothing changed. If Tulika ever found out he had gone behind her back.
“Eighteen,” Vikram said, his voice lower now. “Eighteen, half now, half after prelims. And I need some proof that you can actually deliver.”
Malhotra studied him for a long moment. The rain started again, light at first, drumming on the tin roof above them.
“Eighteen and a half,” Malhotra replied. “And proof I cannot give until money is in my hand. That’s how this world works, Kapoor sahib. Trust is expensive.”
Vikram stared at the muddy water pooling near his shoes. His mind screamed at him to get up, to walk away, to tell Tulika to keep studying like she always had.
But the number eighteen and a half kept echoing.
He looked up. “I need a few days to arrange the money.”
Malhotra smiled again, slow and knowing. “Take your time. But don’t take too long. Opportunities like this have a habit of disappearing.”

[untamable_rohini]

Vikram returned home that evening just as the streetlights flickered on outside their Rohini flat. The rain had stopped, leaving the air heavy and damp. He found Tulika at the small dining table, surrounded by open books and a laptop screen glowing with a mock test scorecard—another near-miss, seven marks short of the simulated cutoff.

She didn’t look up when he entered. “You’re late.”

“Client meeting ran over,” he lied smoothly, hanging his jacket on the hook. He washed his hands at the kitchen sink, the cold water doing nothing to calm the pulse hammering in his ears. Malhotra’s words kept replaying: *Eighteen and a half. Half now, half after prelims. Trust is expensive.*

He dried his hands slowly, buying time. Then he walked over, pulled out the chair opposite her, and sat.

“Tulika,” he began quietly. “We need to talk about what you told me. About that man at the chai stall.”

She closed the laptop with a soft click. “I already told you. I’m not interested.”

“I know what you said.” Vikram leaned forward, elbows on the table, forcing himself to meet her eyes. “But I went to see him today.”

Her expression hardened. “You went behind my back?”

“I went to ask questions. Only questions. I needed to know if he’s real or just another fraudster preying on desperate people.”

Tulika crossed her arms. “And?”

“He seemed… credible. He knew things—specific things—about how the commission works, the internal ranking process, the way names get adjusted in the final list. He even mentioned a batch from last year, gave roll numbers that matched the selected list. I checked online after I left. It’s true.”

She stared at him. “So what? That doesn’t make it right.”

“I’m not saying it’s right.” Vikram’s voice dropped lower, almost pleading. “I’m saying it’s happening. Whether we like it or not. And we’re running out of time, jaan. Six years. Six attempts. Every time you come so close, and every time something small—a silly mistake in Quant, a bad day in English—pushes you back. You’re brilliant. You know that. But the system isn’t fair. It never has been.”

Tulika looked away, toward the balcony where the potted tulsi plant shivered in the evening breeze. “I won’t cheat.”

“This isn’t cheating on your part,” he said carefully. “You’ve already done the work. You’ve studied more than most people ever will. This is just… levelling the field. A one-time adjustment. After that, it’s all you—mains, interview, everything on merit. You’ll shine there. I know you will.”

She shook her head. “You sound like him now.”

“Maybe I do. Because I’m tired, Tulika. Tired of watching you kill yourself over this exam. Tired of seeing you come home with red eyes and that look—like you’re failing me, failing us. Tired of the bills piling up while we wait for a miracle that might never come.”

He reached across the table and took her hand. She didn’t pull away, but her fingers stayed stiff.

“Eighteen and a half lakhs,” he continued softly. “I can arrange it. I’ll sell the fixed deposit, borrow from my cousin in Ludhiana, maybe take a small loan against the flat. It’s a lot, but it’s doable. And if it works—if your name clears prelims comfortably—you’ll have the peace to focus on the next stage without this constant fear hanging over you.”

Tulika’s eyes filled. “And if it doesn’t work? If he takes the money and disappears?”

“Then we lose the money. But we’re already losing—time, health, hope. At least this way we take a real shot. One calculated risk. For our future. For the life we talked about on Necklace Road. Remember? The postings abroad, the flat with a view, the security we both deserve.”

She was silent for a long time. The clock on the wall ticked loudly in the quiet room.

Vikram squeezed her hand gently. “I won’t force you. I swear. If you say no right now, I’ll delete his number and never mention it again. We’ll keep going the way we have—hard work, merit, whatever comes. But I had to ask you to think about it. Really think. Because I love you, and I hate seeing you suffer like this.”

Tulika looked down at their joined hands. Her wedding ring glinted under the tube light—simple gold, slightly scratched after all these years.

“How much time do we have?” she asked finally, voice barely above a whisper.

“He said the offer closes soon. Before prelims registration ends.”

Another long silence.

Then, so quietly he almost missed it: “I need to think.”

Vikram nodded. He released her hand, stood up, and went to the kitchen to make her favourite adrak chai. When he returned with two steaming cups, she hadn’t moved. She took the cup without looking at him.

They sat like that for the rest of the evening—quiet, separate, but still in the same room. The weight of the decision settled between them like a third presence, patient and unyielding.

Outside, the city hummed on, indifferent to the small, desperate choices being made in one flat among thousands.

[PELURI]

just saw the update posted....want to first thank you rohini ji for the update....now I'll read

[PELURI]

wonderful narration, gripping in a dark way...calm n collected....yet shooting up my BP...already waiting for the next update....

[untamable_rohini]

The next afternoon, Tulika sat alone on the balcony with her phone in her lap. The sky was a flat grey, the air still heavy from last night’s drizzle. Vikram had left early for a “site visit” he claimed would bring in a small commission. She hadn’t asked for details. She hadn’t spoken much since their conversation the previous evening.

Her thumb hovered over Rashi’s name in the contacts.

Rashi—her college roommate from Osmania, the one who had married well and moved to Gurgaon. They hadn’t met in over a year, but they texted on birthdays and festivals. Rashi was the kind of friend who always answered, no matter how long the gap.

Tulika pressed call.

It rang twice.

“Tu! Oh my god, finally!” Rashi’s voice burst through, bright and unchanged. “I was thinking about you just yesterday. How are you? Still killing it with the exam prep?”

Tulika managed a small laugh that didn’t reach her eyes. “Trying. You know how it is.”

They talked for a few minutes—surface things: Rashi’s new flat with the infinity pool view, her husband’s promotion, the latest family drama back in Hyderabad. Then Tulika’s voice dropped.

“Rashi… I need to ask you something. It’s big.”

A pause. The background noise on Rashi’s end faded; she must have stepped into another room.

“Tell me.”

Tulika swallowed. “We’re in trouble. Financially. Really bad. Vikram’s deals aren’t closing, the EMIs are killing us, and… I’m thinking of taking a shortcut for the exam. Someone offered to help—for money. A lot of money.”

Silence stretched. Then Rashi spoke softly. “How much?”

“Eighteen and a half lakhs. We can scbang together maybe twelve or thirteen if we sell things, borrow from family. But the rest…”

Rashi didn’t hesitate. “I’ll send you three. Cash. Today itself.”

Tulika’s breath caught. “Rashi, no. That’s too much—”

“Tu, stop. It’s three lakhs. For me, it’s not even a month’s grocery bill. My husband won’t even notice. And you’re my sister from another mother. You’ve helped me through so many breakdowns in college. Let me do this.”

Tulika’s eyes filled. “I’ll pay you back. I swear. As soon as I get the job—”

“Whenever. No hurry. Now listen—my driver will come to your place in two hours. He’ll bring an envelope. Don’t tell anyone how you got it. Just use it.”

Tulika nodded even though Rashi couldn’t see. “Thank you. I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything. Just clear that damn exam and call me when you get selected. We’ll celebrate with champagne in Gurgaon.”

They hung up. Tulika sat there, staring at the potted tulsi until the leaves blurred.

Two hours later, a black Innova stopped outside the building. A uniformed driver got out, looked around, then walked up the stairs. He rang the bell, handed her a thick brown envelope without a word, and left.

Inside: Bundles of new currency notes, neatly rubber-banded. Tulika counted them twice, hands shaking. Real. Heavy in her palm.

She hid the envelope in the bottom drawer of her study table, under old notebooks.

That night, everything shattered.

They were eating dinner—simple khichdim- when the doorbell rang. Sharp, insistent knocks.

Vikram frowned. “Who at this hour?”

He opened the door. Three men stood there—broad-shouldered, faces hard under the corridor light. The leader, a man with a thick neck and a gold chain, stepped inside without invitation.

“Kapoor? You owe us five lakhs. Time’s up.”

Vikram’s face drained of colour. “I told you next week—”

“Next week was last week.” The man’s eyes flicked to Tulika, who had frozen at the table. “You think we run a charity?”

They pushed past Vikram. One grabbed him by the collar, slammed him against the wall. The other two started ransacking—drawers yanked open, cushions thrown, the TV stand kicked aside.

Tulika stood. “Please. We’ll pay. Just give us time—”

The leader turned to her, eyes cold. “Time is over, memsaab.”

He pulled a switchblade from his pocket. The blade flicked open with a soft click. He stepped closer to Tulika, the knife hovering near her throat.

“Strip,” he said.

Vikram struggled against the man holding him. “Don’t touch her!”

The leader ignored him. “I said strip. Or we take it off for you.”

Tulika’s hands shook as she reached for the pallu of her saree. Tears streamed down her face, but she moved mechanically—pallu falling, blouse hooks undone, saree pooling at her feet. She stood in her bra and petticoat, arms crossed over her chest, shivering.

The men looked. One whistled low. The leader stepped closer, blade tracing the air an inch from her skin—down her collarbone, along the edge of her bra, stopping just above her navel.

He smirked. “Pretty. But we’re not here for fun.”

He stepped back. “Five lakhs. Now.”

Vikram, pinned, gasped. “The drawer—study room—bottom one.”

One of the men went, came back with the envelope Rashi had sent. He opened it, counted quickly, nodded.

“Five exactly.” The leader pocketed the cash. “Next time you borrow, remember—we don’t give extensions.”

He gestured. They released Vikram, who slid to the floor, coughing.

The men left without another word. The door clicked shut behind them.

Tulika stood frozen in her underclothes, arms wrapped around herself. Vikram crawled to her, pulling her down, wrapping his arms around her trembling body.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered over and over. “I’m so sorry.”

She didn’t cry. She just stared at the wall, the envelope gone, the three + two lakhs vanished into the night along with any illusion of control they had left.

[PELURI]

thanks for a very quick update...excited to see Rashi come back as a well to do married bhabi ..short lived...khelpidi hogaya....short curt incidents not helping...long updates plz...

[Dumeelkumar]

Now friend will turn foe. awesome

[PELURI]

Now friend will turn foe. awesome

what's likely to happen...???...some pathan money lender will make an appearance....?

[untamable_rohini]

[untamable_rohini]

The next morning dawned grey and muggy. Vikram woke before Tulika, his body aching from the bruises the lenders had left—dark purple marks blooming across his ribs and a split lip that stung when he spoke. He lay still for a long time, staring at the ceiling fan spinning lazily, replaying the night: the knife at her throat, her saree falling, the envelope disappearing into the leader’s pocket. Five lakhs gone. Three from Rashi, two scbangd from their own hiding spots. And nothing to show for it except shame and silence between them.

Tulika had barely spoken after the men left. She’d dressed again with mechanical movements, made him tea without asking if he wanted it, then gone to bed facing the wall. He hadn’t dared touch her.

By 10 a.m., Vikram was dressed in yesterday’s shirt—blood speck on the collar—and heading back to Laxmi Nagar. He needed answers. Or money. Or both.

Malhotra was in his usual spot under the tin awning, reading a Hindi newspaper, kulhad of chai balanced on his knee. He looked up when Vikram’s shadow fell across the page.

“Kapoor sahib,” Malhotra said mildly, folding the paper. “You look like you had a rough night.”

Vikram didn’t sit. He stood rigid, hands clenched at his sides.

“Five lakhs,” he said, voice low and rough. “Last night. Three men came to my house. Beat me. Threatened my wife with a knife. Took everything we had in cash. Including the three lakhs we were going to use for your… arrangement.”

Malhotra’s eyebrows lifted slightly. He took a slow sip of tea, eyes never leaving Vikram’s face.

“Loan sharks?”

“Obviously.”

Malhotra sighed, setting the kulhad down. “People borrow from the wrong places, things get ugly. Classic story. What do you want from me? Sympathy?”

“I want to know if you can still help,” Vikram said. “We’re short now. Very short. But if you lower the amount—or give us time—I can still arrange something.”

Malhotra leaned back, chair creaking. “You think I’m running a charity? I told you—eighteen and a half. No discounts after the first one. And definitely no after your little midnight drama.”

Vikram’s voice cracked. “They stripped her, Malhotra. Held a knife to her throat. She’s… she’s broken. We did this because we believed you could fix things. Now we have nothing. Nothing.”

For the first time, something flickered in Malhotra’s eyes—pity, or calculation, it was hard to tell.

He gestured to the empty chair. “Sit. You’re drawing attention standing there like a wounded dog.”

Vikram sat. His hands shook on the plastic table.

Malhotra spoke quietly. “Listen carefully. I don’t control who your wife borrows from. That’s on you. But the deal stands. Eighteen and a half. If you can bring even half by tomorrow—nine lakhs—I’ll talk to my people. Maybe push her name enough for prelims. But no more haggling. No more stories. Money talks. The rest is noise.”

Vikram stared at the muddy ground. “Nine lakhs. By tomorrow. After last night… we have maybe two left in the bank. The rest is gone.”

“Then find it,” Malhotra said flatly. “Sell the car. Pawn jewellery. Beg your relatives. People do miracles when they’re desperate. You want a miracle? Make one.”

Vikram’s laugh was bitter. “You make it sound easy.”

“It’s not easy. It’s survival.” Malhotra picked up his newspaper again, unfolding it like the conversation was over. “Tomorrow, same time. Bring what you can. Or don’t come at all. Your choice.”

Vikram didn’t move for a long minute. The tea-w,.' passed by, offering fresh chai. Malhotra waved him away without looking up.

Finally Vikram stood. His voice was barely audible.

“If I get the money… you swear it’ll work?”

Malhotra glanced up, eyes flat. “I swear nothing. But I deliver what I promise. Always have. Now go. And tell your wife to stop looking so scared. It doesn’t help negotiations.”

Vikram walked away without another word, shoulders hunched against the gathering rain. The weight of last night clung to him heavier than any bruise. Nine lakhs by tomorrow. A knife at her throat. A promise that might be a lie.

He didn’t know how he would face Tulika when he got home. But he knew one thing: he couldn’t go back empty-handed again. Not after what they’d already lost.

[123personalxx]

Semma

[PELURI]

gd mrng rohini ji...

[Aadhivaasi]

Great twists

[abcturbine]

Wonderful writings....take it slow and seductive....superb...

[PELURI]

gd mrng rohini ji...



Ps:- plz continue / restart 'bound by storm...'...dearly miss both the sisters and zyed....you have created a warm soulful erotic family drama and now cannot abandon us...plz

[Jayam Ramana]

Very good

Seeing the name Rashi, heroine of your previous story. i thought this is your universe of stories.