Adultery My wife through the lens of CCTV

[tharkibudda]

Chapter 2 - Mumbai Meri Jaan, but not for her

The first few weeks were a whirlwind of excitement. I felt like a new man, my steps lighter as I boarded the crowded local train each morning, the weight of my new responsibilities and the joy of my marriage lifting me up. The commute, which had once felt like a never-ending slog through the bowels of the city, was now filled with thoughts of Dhristi waiting for me at the end of the day. Her sweet smile, the way her eyes lit up when she saw me, made the cramped journey seem like a minor inconvenience.


In our new home, we discovered each other's quirks and habits. She liked to wake up early, making me tea . Her voice was like a melody as she hummed folk songs  and I found myself smiling even before I'd had my first sip. I taught her about the fast-paced life of Mumbai, the art of navigating the crowded streets, and the importance of a good bargain at the local bazaar. She was a quick learner, her curiosity and willingness to adapt a balm to my soul.

Every evening, as the city lights began to flicker on, she would stand by the window, her eyes searching the horizon for my return. I could see the exhaustion etched on her face, the toll of the day's work evident in her weary smile. But the moment she heard the jangle of my keys, she would straighten up, her eyes lighting up with excitement. She would give a warm embrace after the cold shoulder of the city's concrete jungle.

The aroma of her handcooked meals filled the apartment, a stark contrast to the unhealthy meals that had been my staple for so long. She had learned to cook from her mother, who had instilled in her the belief that food was love made edible. And oh, how I feasted on that love.

But it was the nights that truly became our sanctuary. After the day's bustle had quieted and the city outside had gone to sleep, we would come together in the sanctity of our tiny bedroom. Her shyness remained a part of her, a delicate veil that she'd let slip away bit by bit each time we made love. We'd start with soft whispers and gentle caresses, my hands tracing the curves of her body that she still shielded from my eyes with a modesty that seemed almost out of place in the heat of passion.

Our lovemaking grew more intense with each passing day, our bodies learning the intricate dance that could only exist between us. I'd kiss her neck, her earlobes, her breasts, and she'd arch her back, her gasps of pleasure a sweet symphony in the silence. I'd push into her, feeling the tightness that never fully disappeared, a testament to her untouched past. Our rhythm grew more urgent, the slap of our skin against each other echoing in the stillness of the room. And when I could hold back no longer, I'd release with a roar, feeling her pussy clench around me, her nails digging into my back as she found her own release.

The weekends became our escape, our time to revel in each other without the constraints of work or the prying eyes of society. Sometimes, we'd make love two times in a single night.  My stamina had improved; I could now last between two to five minutes, a stark improvement from the first night.

We explored the concrete jungle of Mumbai, her eyes wide with wonder at the grandeur of the city. Every weekend, I'd take her to a new place: the Gateway of India, the bustling streets of Colaba, the  Marine Drive. She was like a child in a candy store, her eyes lighting up at every new sight, We'd walk hand in hand, lost in the sea of people, her excitement a stark contrast to the jaded expressions of the city dwellers.

But what truly surprised her was the fashion of the city's women. She'd stare, unabashed, at the girls in short skirts and deep necklines, their bodies on display for the world to see. She'd whisper to me, "These are the things they only show in the movies, right?" I'd chuckle, squeezing her hand, "It's the way of the city, Dhristi."

One evening, as we sat in the local park watching the sunset, a couple next to us engaged in a passionate kissing. Dhristi's eyes went wide as she took in the sight, her cheeks flaming red. She whispered, "Back home, if a girl did that, she'd be shunned!" Her voice was tinged with both shock and fascination.

"Things are different here," I said, trying to sound casual. "But I prefer our love, private and pure."

Dhristi nodded, her eyes still on the couple. I could see the curiosity in them, a hint of longing for the freedom she hadn't yet experienced. "But why do they do it?" she asked. "Isn't it only for marriage?"

I sighed, not quite ready to dive into the complexities of modern relationships. "Some do it for love, some for fun," I said, hoping that was enough.

Her gaze remained on the couple, a mix of anger and confusion playing on her features. "But it's wrong, isn't it?" she finally asked, turning to me.

I took a deep breath, understanding the cultural gap she was trying to bridge. "It's not about right or wrong, Dhristi," I said, choosing my words carefully. "It's about what two people agree upon, what makes them happy. "

But she wasn't convinced. "But what if they get caught? What if someone sees them?" she whispered, her voice carrying the weight of her village's judgment.

"In the city, people have their own lives to live," I replied, trying to soothe her worries. "They don't care as much about what others do."

But the fury in her voice was unmistakable. "City girls have no shame," she spat, her eyes still on the couple. "They throw their bodies around like it means nothing."

She added "And dont ever try to kiss me in public," her voice laced with anger. "My love is not for everyone's eyes. It's only for you, in the sanctity of our bedroom." Her words were a reminder of the contrast between her village upbringing and the liberal culture of Mumbai.

The weeks passed, and Dhristi began to adapt to the chaotic rhythm of the city, but her disgust for the city's morals remained unshaken. She'd often compare the immodest behavior of city women to the virtuousness of village girls, leaving me feeling torn between defending the place I called home and supporting her views.

One day, as we walked through the crowded market, a group of men leered at her, making lewd comments. Her cheeks burned with humiliation, and she clung to my arm, her eyes downcast. I felt a surge of anger, but she squeezed my hand, reminding me of her strength. "These men have no respect for a married woman," she whispered, her voice filled with disdain. "Back home, they'd never dare."

Her words stung, a stark reminder of the city's harshness. I realized that while I had been enamored with the freedom and glamour of Mumbai, she saw only the ugliness that lurked beneath the surface. Her purity and innocence were not a hindrance, but a bastion of strength. In her own way, she was a rebel, holding onto her values in a world that seemed determined to strip them away.

As the days turned into weeks, I noticed a shift in her. The brightness in her eyes dimmed, and the spring in her step grew heavier. She spoke less of her village and more of her longing for the simplicity of life there. The noises of the city, which had once fascinated her, now seemed to grate on her nerves. The endless sea of people, the honking of cars, and the blaring of horns became a cacophony she longed to escape.

A lot of village girls would have used this opportunity to escape from the traditions of their small-town lives, eagerly embracing the anonymity and freedom that Mumbai offered. They'd shed their conservative attire for sleek outfits that whispered of rebellion with every step, their eyes hungry for the sights and sounds of the city's decadence. But not Dhristi. Instead of letting the city's allure sweep her away, she felt nauseated by it all. The glitz and glamour held no appeal when juxtaposed with the wholesome simplicity she'd left behind.

My friends and relatives had warned me not to bring a village girl to the city. They spoke of how lonely housewives were easy prey for the casanovas that roamed the streets, looking for a secret affair. They painted a picture of a life where temptation lurked around every corner, where marital vows were as flimsy as a paper boat in a monsoon storm. I'd laughed it off, confident in Dhristi's innocence and purity.

But as the days passed, I began to see their concerns reflected in the shadows of doubt that danced in her eyes. She was a fish out of water, her simplicity a stark contrast to the complex tapestry of Mumbai. The long hours of solitude weighed on her, turning her into a recluse within the four walls of our apartment. Her days were spent cooking and cleaning, her nights filled with longing for the quiet whispers of her village's nightfall.

I tried to distract her with trips to the mall, to the cinemas that played the latest Bollywood blockbusters, but she remained unmoved, her gaze drifting to the horizon, searching for something she could never find here. The vibrant colors of the city only served to highlight the dullness in her soul.

One evening, as I lay in bed with her, her eyes wide open in the dark, I made a decision. "Dhristi," I whispered, "I think we should move to a smaller town. Maybe somewhere quieter, with a slower lifestyle and we can breathe."

Her eyes searched my face in the moonlight, a spark of hope igniting in their depths. "Do you think we can?" she asked, her voice small.

"We have to," I assured her, feeling a weight lift from my shoulders. "This isn't living. We're meant for more."

The next day, I began the quest for our escape. I approached my colleagues and friends with a newfound urgency, inquiring about opportunities in smaller towns. The city's hustle and bustle had always been my muse, but now it felt like a cage that stifled the very essence of Dhristi's being.

Days turned into weeks, and the job search grew more intense. Finally, a glimmer of hope appeared in the form of a job offer from a small tier-3 town nestled in the heart of North India. The company was a manufacturer of corrugated tiles, a humble yet stable trade. The salary was a tad lower than what I was making in Mumbai, but I realized the cost of living would be significantly less. The prospect of a less frugal life, one that allowed us to breathe and enjoy each other's company without the suffocating embrace of the city's chaos, was intoxicating.

I discussed the offer with Dhristi, her eyes lighting up at the mention of a town that reminded her of her own. The thought of leaving the claustrophobic confines of Mumbai brought a smile to her lips, a smile that had been missing for far too long. The quietude of a small town, the simplicity of life, and the absence of lecherous eyes—it was a promise of a sanctuary she hadn't dared to dream of.