Adultery Nalini and The Unseen Virus

[tweeny_fory]

Nalini aged 35 stands tall at 5'8" with a graceful poise that belies her robust build. Her skin, kissed by the warm Indian sun, has a rich caramel hue that glows in the soft light of her modest yet vibrant home. Her eyes, almond-shaped and a deep shade of brown, are often the first thing one notices - they hold a world of warmth and intelligence, a silent story of resilience and kindness. Her thick, black hair is usually tied in a neat bun at the nape of her neck, with a few strands escaping to frame her round, friendly face. She dresses in traditional South Indian attire - a crisp cotton sari dbangd elegantly around her.

Nalini was born and raised in a bustling neighborhood in Chennai. She met her husband, Mohan, during her university days, where they both pursued their passions for literature. They soon fell in love and started a family, welcoming a son, Arjun, and a daughter, Anjali.


The pandemic has thrown their lives into disarray. With her husband, an essential worker, forced to stay away from home and he is stuck in another city. She is left alone at home to manage her household.


Her children, Aarav and Anjali, were safe with their grandparents in the countryside, miles away from the chaos of Chennai. She had made the difficult decision to send them there when the pandemic had first hit, not wanting to expose them to the potential dangers of the city. Despite the video calls that brought smiles to their faces every evening, the house felt eerily quiet without their laughter echoing through the halls. The absence of her husband, Mohan, was palpable too. He had been stuck in Bangalore for work since the lockdown began, and she missed his reassuring presence more than she cared to admit.


Nalini's day started early as always. The aroma of freshly ground coffee beans filled the kitchen, a comforting routine that had remained unchanged for years. She poured the steaming liquid into her favorite mug, feeling the warmth seep into her palms. As the morning light streamed in through the small kitchen window, it reflected off the gleaming steel pots and pans hanging on the wall, creating a dance of shadows and light.


The once-lively neighborhood had transformed into a deserted maze of shuttered homes. Most of her neighbors had either moved to their native places or were stuck inside, afraid to venture out. The only sounds that broke the silence were the occasional caws of crows and the rustle of leaves in the wind. The chaiwala's cart no longer made its cheerful rounds, and the local grocer had reduced his hours significantly. Nalini had to plan her shopping trips meticulously to avoid the crowded times, her heart racing every time she stepped out into the desolate streets.


Her beauty remained untouched by the gloom of the pandemic. Her skin, the color of roasted almonds, glowed with the warmth of the South Indian sun. Her eyes, deep pools of chocolate brown, held an intelligence that made her seem wise beyond her years. Her long, dark hair was usually tied in a neat bun at the nape of her neck, but today it cascaded down her back in soft waves. Her nose, a perfect slope, and her full lips, a shade darker than the rest of her face, gave her an air of regal elegance. She wore a simple cotton sari, the shade of a freshly plucked mango, which complemented her complexion and made her look like a timeless beauty from an ancient Tamil painting.


But the spark that usually danced in Nalini's eyes had dimmed. The laughter lines that crinkled around her mouth were less pronounced, and her smile, though still genuine, was tinged with a hint of sadness. The house, once a bastion of love and laughter, had become a fortress of solitude. The walls seemed to close in on her, each room holding a memory of a shared joke, a stolen kiss, or a comforting hug that now felt like a distant echo. Her husband's chair at the dinner table was vacant, his side of the bed cold, and his toothbrush, still in the stand, stood as a silent sentinel, reminding her of his absence.