16-01-2025, 10:53 AM
Weeks later, the memory of Salman's visit had become a secret thrill that Mom occasionally indulged in, hidden behind the mundane facade of her daily routine. Life had resumed its normal pace, with the hum of the AC unit a constant, comforting reminder of their illicit encounter. Then one evening, as she was busy in the kitchen, Dad called her from work, his voice serious. "Nisha," he said, "my boss is coming to India for personal reasons and he's asked if he can stay with us for a few days." Mom's heart skipped a beat, but she kept her cool. "Of course," she replied, trying to sound as casual as possible. "When is he arriving?"
"He'll be here tomorrow," Dad continued. "His flight lands at 8 PM. Make sure the house is clean and the guest room is ready."
Mom nodded, her mind racing. She knew that this could be a disaster waiting to happen, but she also knew that she couldn't refuse. "Okay, I'll get everything ready," she said, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice. "Don't worry, I'll take care of it."
As she hung up the phone, she couldn't help but wonder if the universe had a twisted sense of humor, sending her husband's boss to stay with them so soon after her affair with the AC technician. She took a deep breath and steeled herself for the task ahead, pushing aside the naughty thoughts that threatened to bubble up. After all, she was a married woman, and she had a duty to uphold. But deep down, she knew that the scent of Salman's sweat and lust still lingered in the air of that room, a silent testament to the passion they had shared. And as she went about her preparations, she couldn't help but feel a strange anticipation, a secret hope that perhaps, just perhaps, fate had other plans for her.
Mom had chosen her attire with care, adorning herself in traditional red saree that clung to her curves in all the right places. The gold mangalsutra around her neck sparkled with the light of the setting sun, a symbol of her marital status that she couldn't help but feel a twinge of guilt for. Her bangles jingled with each movement of her arms as she worked in the kitchen, preparing a feast for Dad's boss, Marcus, who was arriving any minute. She had applied kajal to her eyes, which made them appear more alluring than ever, and her ears were adorned with chunky gold earrings that swayed with every turn of her head. But it was the nose pin that drew the most attention - a small, delicate diamond stud that glinted every time she tilted her head. It was a simple accessory, but it added a touch of elegance to her otherwise plain look. The anticipation of meeting Marcus filled her with a mix of dread and excitement, as she couldn't help but think of the stories she had heard about him from Dad - the wealthy, charismatic divorcee from Texas who had made a fortune in the tax business.
As the taxi pulled into the driveway, Mom and I watched in disbelief as the door opened, and out stepped Marcus. He was nothing like the 60-year-old father figure we had pictured in our heads based on Dad's descriptions. Instead, a well-built man with the vitality of someone in his early forties emerged, standing tall at six feet. His athletic physique was a stark contrast to Dad's slightly rounded frame, and his dark hair had only a touch of silver at the temples, giving him a distinguished, yet youthful appeal. His piercing blue eyes scanned the house, taking everything in, and a smile played on his lips as he approached us, his gaze lingering on Mom for just a second longer than necessary. It was as if he could sense the secret that lay hidden within these walls, the scent of Salman's desire still clinging to her like an invisible perfume.
Marcus stepped up to us, extending his hand first to me. His grip was firm, his eyes meeting mine with a kindness that seemed to hold a hint of curiosity. Then, he turned to Mom, his hand reaching for hers, but before it could connect, she stepped back slightly, a blush creeping up her neck. "Mrs. Ahuja," he said warmly, using the formal term of address that made Mom's cheeks burn even brighter. She tentatively offered her hand, and he took it, bringing it to his lips for a chaste kiss that sent a shiver down her spine. She hadn't been kissed by a man other than Dad in over two decades, and the sudden intimacy of the gesture made her feel both thrilled and guilty. Marcus must have noticed her discomfort because he quickly released her hand and stepped back, his smile never wavering. "I'm so sorry," he said, "I've been living in the States for so long, I sometimes forget how things are done here." He stepped closer, leaning in to give her a more familiar hug. She stiffened at first, but then, as his arms wrapped around her, she melted into the embrace, her body pressing against his firm chest. She couldn't help but feel the warmth of his body through her sodden sari, and for a moment, she allowed herself to imagine what it would be like to be in the arms of a man who was not her husband. When they pulled apart, Mom's eyes were downcast, her heart racing. She had never felt so alive, so wanted, and she knew that she was playing with fire. But she also knew that she had no idea how to extinguish the flame that had been ignited within her.
Marcus nodded his head in gratitude and followed me upstairs to the guest room. His broad shoulders filled the space of the narrow hallway, making me feel small and insignificant in comparison. As I showed him to the room, I couldn't help but notice the way his eyes kept flickering towards Mom, who was busy in the kitchen, her curves swaying with every movement. I could almost see the wheels turning in his head, calculating his next move. He was a predator, and she was the unsuspecting prey. After he had settled in and gone to freshen up, I retreated to my own room, my mind racing with the potential scenarios that could unfold. I felt a strange mix of excitement and fear, like a silent observer to a drama that was about to unfold in the most unexpected way.
That evening, after Marcus had had a short nap to recover from his long journey, he joined us for dinner. Despite the tumult of emotions raging within me, I was surprised to see that Mom had put on a brave face and was behaving as if nothing had changed. She was dressed modestly in a simple cotton sari, her hair tied back in a neat bun, and she had applied minimal makeup. Her conversation with Marcus was polite and friendly, with no hint of the carnality that had marked her encounter with Salman. She served him with a grace that was both poised and unassuming, asking about his travels and his business, all the while keeping her own thoughts and desires tightly leashed. Marcus, for his part, was charming and attentive, regaling us with tales of his life in Texas and his adventures around the world. His blue eyes would occasionally flicker towards Mom, and I could see the hunger in them, the same hunger that had driven him to take what he wanted from her when they were alone together. But for now, he was playing the perfect guest, a mask of propriety hiding the beast that lurked beneath. The air was thick with tension, each bite of food seeming to weigh a ton as we ate in silence, the clinking of cutlery the only sound breaking the unspoken understanding between them. And as the night grew darker outside, the shadows of their secret grew longer, stretching through the house like invisible tendrils of desire, hinting at the passionate dance that awaited them once the rest of the world had gone to sleep.
The next morning, as I was getting ready for college, the sound of the doorbell pierced the quiet of the house. My heart skipped a beat as I wondered if it was Salman again, and sure enough, when I opened the door, there he was, his moustache twitching as he sweated in the already stifling heat. "Is your mom home?" he asked, his eyes scanning the hallway as if looking for a sign of her. I nodded and called out for her, trying to keep my voice steady.
Mom appeared, her expression unreadable as she approached him. She had donned a simple cotton sari, the fabric clinging to her damp skin as she walked over. "Ah, Salman," she said, her voice cool. "You're here to collect your payment, I presume?"
He nodded, his eyes never leaving her face. "Yes, madam."
Mom reached into her purse and pulled out a wad of cash, handing it to him without a second glance. "Here," she said, her tone brisk. "Thank you for fixing the AC."
But instead of taking the money, Salman's hand shot out, grabbing her wrist and pulling her closer to him. "Nisha," he whispered, his breath hot against her neck. "I've been thinking about you, about what we did. It wasn't a mistake for me."
To my shock, she didn't melt into his arms. Instead, she reared back and slapped him so hard that the sound echoed through the hallway. "How dare you!" she spat. "That was a mistake, and it will never happen again."
He stepped back, looking stunned and slightly hurt. "But..." he started to protest, but she cut him off.
"Take your money and go," she said, her voice low and firm. "And don't you ever come back here again."
With that, she turned and walked away, leaving me gaping at the door. I couldn't believe she had the guts to stand up to him like that, and part of me felt a strange sense of pride. But there was also a part of me that felt disappointed, like I had been cheated out of the juicy drama I had been expecting.
As I watched him slink away, clutching his cheek, I realized that maybe Mom wasn't as clueless as I had always thought. Maybe she had more fire in her than anyone gave her credit for. And as the door closed behind him, I couldn't help but wonder what other secrets she was hiding beneath that calm, oblivious exterior.
Mom looked at me with a puzzled expression as I apologized, her hand coming up to gently stroke my hair. "It's okay, beta," she said, her voice filled with the warmth that had always made me feel safe. "You're a good son to worry about me."
I nodded, trying to hide the guilt that was eating away at me. "I just don't want you to get hurt," I murmured, not meeting her eyes.
"I'm a big girl," she said, her voice a little shaky. "I can handle myself."
We sat down for breakfast together, the tension between us palpable. She talked about the usual mundane things - the neighbors, the latest Bollywood gossip, the never-ending pile of laundry. But all I could think about was the way Salman had looked at her, the way he had talked to her, and the way she had slapped him. It was like a soap opera playing out in our own home, and I was torn between feeling like a betrayer and a protector.
As I finished my meal, she gave me a small smile. "Now go on," she said, her eyes misting over. "You'll be late for college."
I nodded, getting up from the table. "I'll be back soon," I said, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice.
Mom nodded, her eyes never leaving mine. "Take care, Shan," she said softly.
"He'll be here tomorrow," Dad continued. "His flight lands at 8 PM. Make sure the house is clean and the guest room is ready."
Mom nodded, her mind racing. She knew that this could be a disaster waiting to happen, but she also knew that she couldn't refuse. "Okay, I'll get everything ready," she said, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice. "Don't worry, I'll take care of it."
As she hung up the phone, she couldn't help but wonder if the universe had a twisted sense of humor, sending her husband's boss to stay with them so soon after her affair with the AC technician. She took a deep breath and steeled herself for the task ahead, pushing aside the naughty thoughts that threatened to bubble up. After all, she was a married woman, and she had a duty to uphold. But deep down, she knew that the scent of Salman's sweat and lust still lingered in the air of that room, a silent testament to the passion they had shared. And as she went about her preparations, she couldn't help but feel a strange anticipation, a secret hope that perhaps, just perhaps, fate had other plans for her.
Mom had chosen her attire with care, adorning herself in traditional red saree that clung to her curves in all the right places. The gold mangalsutra around her neck sparkled with the light of the setting sun, a symbol of her marital status that she couldn't help but feel a twinge of guilt for. Her bangles jingled with each movement of her arms as she worked in the kitchen, preparing a feast for Dad's boss, Marcus, who was arriving any minute. She had applied kajal to her eyes, which made them appear more alluring than ever, and her ears were adorned with chunky gold earrings that swayed with every turn of her head. But it was the nose pin that drew the most attention - a small, delicate diamond stud that glinted every time she tilted her head. It was a simple accessory, but it added a touch of elegance to her otherwise plain look. The anticipation of meeting Marcus filled her with a mix of dread and excitement, as she couldn't help but think of the stories she had heard about him from Dad - the wealthy, charismatic divorcee from Texas who had made a fortune in the tax business.
As the taxi pulled into the driveway, Mom and I watched in disbelief as the door opened, and out stepped Marcus. He was nothing like the 60-year-old father figure we had pictured in our heads based on Dad's descriptions. Instead, a well-built man with the vitality of someone in his early forties emerged, standing tall at six feet. His athletic physique was a stark contrast to Dad's slightly rounded frame, and his dark hair had only a touch of silver at the temples, giving him a distinguished, yet youthful appeal. His piercing blue eyes scanned the house, taking everything in, and a smile played on his lips as he approached us, his gaze lingering on Mom for just a second longer than necessary. It was as if he could sense the secret that lay hidden within these walls, the scent of Salman's desire still clinging to her like an invisible perfume.
Marcus stepped up to us, extending his hand first to me. His grip was firm, his eyes meeting mine with a kindness that seemed to hold a hint of curiosity. Then, he turned to Mom, his hand reaching for hers, but before it could connect, she stepped back slightly, a blush creeping up her neck. "Mrs. Ahuja," he said warmly, using the formal term of address that made Mom's cheeks burn even brighter. She tentatively offered her hand, and he took it, bringing it to his lips for a chaste kiss that sent a shiver down her spine. She hadn't been kissed by a man other than Dad in over two decades, and the sudden intimacy of the gesture made her feel both thrilled and guilty. Marcus must have noticed her discomfort because he quickly released her hand and stepped back, his smile never wavering. "I'm so sorry," he said, "I've been living in the States for so long, I sometimes forget how things are done here." He stepped closer, leaning in to give her a more familiar hug. She stiffened at first, but then, as his arms wrapped around her, she melted into the embrace, her body pressing against his firm chest. She couldn't help but feel the warmth of his body through her sodden sari, and for a moment, she allowed herself to imagine what it would be like to be in the arms of a man who was not her husband. When they pulled apart, Mom's eyes were downcast, her heart racing. She had never felt so alive, so wanted, and she knew that she was playing with fire. But she also knew that she had no idea how to extinguish the flame that had been ignited within her.
Marcus nodded his head in gratitude and followed me upstairs to the guest room. His broad shoulders filled the space of the narrow hallway, making me feel small and insignificant in comparison. As I showed him to the room, I couldn't help but notice the way his eyes kept flickering towards Mom, who was busy in the kitchen, her curves swaying with every movement. I could almost see the wheels turning in his head, calculating his next move. He was a predator, and she was the unsuspecting prey. After he had settled in and gone to freshen up, I retreated to my own room, my mind racing with the potential scenarios that could unfold. I felt a strange mix of excitement and fear, like a silent observer to a drama that was about to unfold in the most unexpected way.
That evening, after Marcus had had a short nap to recover from his long journey, he joined us for dinner. Despite the tumult of emotions raging within me, I was surprised to see that Mom had put on a brave face and was behaving as if nothing had changed. She was dressed modestly in a simple cotton sari, her hair tied back in a neat bun, and she had applied minimal makeup. Her conversation with Marcus was polite and friendly, with no hint of the carnality that had marked her encounter with Salman. She served him with a grace that was both poised and unassuming, asking about his travels and his business, all the while keeping her own thoughts and desires tightly leashed. Marcus, for his part, was charming and attentive, regaling us with tales of his life in Texas and his adventures around the world. His blue eyes would occasionally flicker towards Mom, and I could see the hunger in them, the same hunger that had driven him to take what he wanted from her when they were alone together. But for now, he was playing the perfect guest, a mask of propriety hiding the beast that lurked beneath. The air was thick with tension, each bite of food seeming to weigh a ton as we ate in silence, the clinking of cutlery the only sound breaking the unspoken understanding between them. And as the night grew darker outside, the shadows of their secret grew longer, stretching through the house like invisible tendrils of desire, hinting at the passionate dance that awaited them once the rest of the world had gone to sleep.
The next morning, as I was getting ready for college, the sound of the doorbell pierced the quiet of the house. My heart skipped a beat as I wondered if it was Salman again, and sure enough, when I opened the door, there he was, his moustache twitching as he sweated in the already stifling heat. "Is your mom home?" he asked, his eyes scanning the hallway as if looking for a sign of her. I nodded and called out for her, trying to keep my voice steady.
Mom appeared, her expression unreadable as she approached him. She had donned a simple cotton sari, the fabric clinging to her damp skin as she walked over. "Ah, Salman," she said, her voice cool. "You're here to collect your payment, I presume?"
He nodded, his eyes never leaving her face. "Yes, madam."
Mom reached into her purse and pulled out a wad of cash, handing it to him without a second glance. "Here," she said, her tone brisk. "Thank you for fixing the AC."
But instead of taking the money, Salman's hand shot out, grabbing her wrist and pulling her closer to him. "Nisha," he whispered, his breath hot against her neck. "I've been thinking about you, about what we did. It wasn't a mistake for me."
To my shock, she didn't melt into his arms. Instead, she reared back and slapped him so hard that the sound echoed through the hallway. "How dare you!" she spat. "That was a mistake, and it will never happen again."
He stepped back, looking stunned and slightly hurt. "But..." he started to protest, but she cut him off.
"Take your money and go," she said, her voice low and firm. "And don't you ever come back here again."
With that, she turned and walked away, leaving me gaping at the door. I couldn't believe she had the guts to stand up to him like that, and part of me felt a strange sense of pride. But there was also a part of me that felt disappointed, like I had been cheated out of the juicy drama I had been expecting.
As I watched him slink away, clutching his cheek, I realized that maybe Mom wasn't as clueless as I had always thought. Maybe she had more fire in her than anyone gave her credit for. And as the door closed behind him, I couldn't help but wonder what other secrets she was hiding beneath that calm, oblivious exterior.
Mom looked at me with a puzzled expression as I apologized, her hand coming up to gently stroke my hair. "It's okay, beta," she said, her voice filled with the warmth that had always made me feel safe. "You're a good son to worry about me."
I nodded, trying to hide the guilt that was eating away at me. "I just don't want you to get hurt," I murmured, not meeting her eyes.
"I'm a big girl," she said, her voice a little shaky. "I can handle myself."
We sat down for breakfast together, the tension between us palpable. She talked about the usual mundane things - the neighbors, the latest Bollywood gossip, the never-ending pile of laundry. But all I could think about was the way Salman had looked at her, the way he had talked to her, and the way she had slapped him. It was like a soap opera playing out in our own home, and I was torn between feeling like a betrayer and a protector.
As I finished my meal, she gave me a small smile. "Now go on," she said, her eyes misting over. "You'll be late for college."
I nodded, getting up from the table. "I'll be back soon," I said, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice.
Mom nodded, her eyes never leaving mine. "Take care, Shan," she said softly.
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