The monsoon rains lashed against the windows of the ancestral home, a rhythmic drumming that seemed to sync with the pulse of life within. The air was humid, thick with the scent of wet earth, sandalwood incense, and the undeniable, fertile musk of pregnancy.
Nilima, my wife, reclined on a pile of silk cushions on the wide divan. Her belly was a magnificent, ripe curve beneath the thin cotton of her kurta, swollen with our child—my child. Her skin, usually like polished teak, glowed with a luminescent warmth, and her eyes held a deep, placid contentment that could only come from carrying life. But tonight, that contentment was edged with a sharp, urgent hunger. Her fingers traced the outline of her navel, which had popped outward, a perfect button of flesh.
Nilima, my wife, reclined on a pile of silk cushions on the wide divan. Her belly was a magnificent, ripe curve beneath the thin cotton of her kurta, swollen with our child—my child. Her skin, usually like polished teak, glowed with a luminescent warmth, and her eyes held a deep, placid contentment that could only come from carrying life. But tonight, that contentment was edged with a sharp, urgent hunger. Her fingers traced the outline of her navel, which had popped outward, a perfect button of flesh.
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