Adultery Sakshi's Universe

[yodam69420]

The morning sun bathed the kitchen in a soft, golden hue, its warmth glinting off the steel vessels stacked neatly on the shelf. The rich aroma of dosa and sambar filled the air, wafting through the home like a comforting embrace. Sakshi moved between the stove and the dining table with practiced ease, flipping dosas on the tawa and plating them while keeping a watchful eye on the bubbling sambar. Her saree was pinned just right, hair loosely braided, her movements steady despite the growing current of anticipation that buzzed beneath the surface.
Meena leaned against the granite counter, one leg crossed over the other, sipping from a tall steel tumbler of filter coffee. A playful grin tugged at her lips, though her eyes remained sharp, flicking occasionally toward Sakshi in shared understanding.
Murugan sat at the table, scooping small pieces of dosa into their toddler’s mouth while making train noises with exaggerated gusto. “Chuk-chuk-chuk... here comes the dosa express!” The boy giggled, banging the table with sticky hands.
Ramu had arrived just moments earlier, bathed, his white vest freshly pressed, lungi folded neatly above his knees. His hair was slicked back and his demeanor unusually alert for a man who normally grunted through mornings. He greeted Murugan with a brief smile and a nod and quietly took his seat at the far end of the table. Meena had discreetly passed him a folded wedding invitation card from the groom’s side just before stepping into the house—an essential prop for what was to come. Ramu had accepted it without a word, slipping it neatly into his shirt pocket.
The mood in the house was deceptively casual. Laughter floated easily through the air, the clink of tumblers and sizzle of oil punctuating the soft hum of the ceiling fan. But beneath it all, tension stirred quietly, waiting for the cue.
“I still think that new shop in the bazaar has the better blouse pieces,” Meena said, tearing into her dosa. “Bright colors, good fabric, and not too overpriced. We’ll check it out after breakfast, right?”
Sakshi nodded, ladling more batter onto the tawa. “Yes. The earlier we leave, the better. The sun is already rising fast.”
Murugan snorted without looking up. “I told you already—I’m not stepping into that circus again. Too many women and too many choices. Makes my head spin.”
“No one asked you to come, Murugan,” Meena said sweetly, tossing him a look. “We’re well-trained to do the hunting alone.”
Just then, Meena’s phone, placed on silent, buzzed with an incoming call. It vibrated across the countertop slightly before she reached out and picked it up. She glanced at the screen, frowned, and quickly accepted the call.
“Hello?” she said, her voice rising a pitch. “Now? What happened?”
She turned away from the dining table, stepping slightly into the hallway, one hand resting on her hip, eyes narrowing in concentration.
“What? Now? Are you serious?” A pause. “She was hospitalized? What happened?” Another pause. “Okay, okay. I’ll come. I’ll book my tickets today. I’ll call you back.”
With a sigh, Meena ended the call and turned to face the room again. Her expression had shifted—tight-lipped, annoyed, and ever-so-slightly dramatic.
Sakshi arched a brow. “Is something wrong?”
Meena let out a long breath. “That was my chitti’s daughter. She’s suddenly been hospitalized in Hyderabad and my mom wants me to go check on her and help out there. It’s nothing life-threatening, but there’s no one else available right now. I’ll have to leave by tonight and might be gone most of the coming week.”
Sakshi’s shoulders dropped. Her smile faded. She turned back to the stove, flipping the dosa automatically. “So it’s over then? I can’t go either. You know I can’t travel alone, not with Murugan at work and the baby at home.”
Murugan, overhearing, lifted his head with a slight grin of relief. “Well, these things happen. Last-minute changes. Best to just stay put.”
Before the disappointment could settle too deep, Ramu, who had been finishing the last bite of his dosa in thoughtful silence, cleared his throat and dabbed his mouth with a towel.
“Actually,” he said, his voice slow and deliberate, “I think I might have received a wedding invitation too. My friend’s grandson gave it to me last week when he came by. I didn’t really look at it. Could be the same week.”
Everyone turned to look at him.
“I didn’t check the date or where exactly. It’s still in my room,” he added, patting the front of his vest. “Let me go bring it. I’ll see if it lines up.”
He stood up, adjusting his lungi slightly and brushing dosa crumbs off his thighs. The room went quiet again, each of them processing the sudden shift, the new ripple in their carefully staged waters.
Meena and Sakshi exchanged a silent glance, the tension in the air returning like a slow, steady tide.
Ramu walked out of the kitchen toward the stairs with the calm of a man retrieving fate from a drawer.
The scene was resetting itself. And everyone at the table knew: the next act was about to begin.
Ramu returned a few minutes later, holding a slightly crumpled cream-colored envelope in his hand. The edges were worn soft, the corners slightly bent, a clear sign that the card had been handled carelessly and then forgotten—until now. The gold-embossed script shimmered faintly under the kitchen’s flickering fluorescent light, giving the invitation an air of ceremonial weight. He walked in with his signature leisurely pace, one hand behind his back and the envelope held delicately in the other, like he was presenting a relic instead of just paper.
He handed it to Meena with the air of a man delivering final proof. She accepted it with both hands and carefully unfolded it, smoothing the creases like a seasoned reader of secrets.
Sakshi stood only a few feet away, drying a plate with a towel. She paused, eyes shifting toward the card with practiced indifference. Murugan sat frozen at the table, eyes fixed on his now-cold coffee as if it could shield him from what was coming.
Meena read the card and her eyebrows lifted. "Wait a second... this is Mythili’s wedding too," she said slowly, glancing up at Ramu. "Same date, same hall, same groom. This one’s just from the groom’s side."
She passed the card to Sakshi, who took it slowly. Her eyes darted over the gold script, confirming every detail line by line. Venue, time, names—it was all identical. Her fingers tightened on the card just slightly before she handed it back to Ramu.
“So we were all talking about the same wedding this whole time,” she said with a dry chuckle, meeting Meena’s eyes.
“Exactly,” Meena replied. “You got the bride’s side. Ramu got the groom’s. Tamil weddings always come with double paperwork.”
Murugan finally looked up. “So you’re both going to the same wedding and didn’t even know it?”
Ramu gave a casual shrug. “Didn’t bother checking mine. I wasn’t planning to go. Traveling alone at this age? No fun. My boys are busy, and I don’t enjoy dragging myself through long bus rides just to stand in line for coffee at someone else’s celebration.”
He paused, then added with a slight smirk, “But now that I have potential company, maybe it’s worth reconsidering.”
Meena’s eyes lit up. “Perfect! Since I can’t go anymore and Sakshi had everything packed already, it only makes sense. You both were invited to the same wedding. Go together!”
A heavy pause filled the room like thick steam.
Ramu turned to Sakshi with a grin that hovered between polite and knowing. “I wouldn’t mind. Would be nice to travel with someone who doesn’t need constant bathroom breaks and knows how to enjoy silence.”
Sakshi didn’t respond. Her gaze drifted toward Murugan, who had grown visibly stiff. His lips were a tight line, hands resting on the table like he wasn’t sure whether to clench them or not.
Meena chimed in. “You already said you can’t take leave, Murugan. This is just a wedding—not a pilgrimage. And you know how excited Sakshi was.”
Ramu leaned on the back of the chair with one arm. “Besides, I’m probably the safest option around here. No offense, Murugan, but even the street dogs trust me with their pups.”
Murugan scoffed, “That’s because they know you won’t run after anyone.”
Ramu grinned. “Maybe not run, but I can walk slowly and charm them along the way.”
Meena laughed loudly. “See? That’s what Sakshi needs on this trip. Charm, not chaperones.”
Murugan's eyes flicked to his wife, who still said nothing. She was calm, unreadable—but waiting.
“It’s not like they’re strangers,” Meena added more gently. “Same wedding, same destination. You want her to stay behind just because plans shifted a little?”
Ramu said, “Look, I won’t even touch her suitcase if that helps your blood pressure.”
Then, with a glint in his eye, he added, “Unless she asks nicely.”
Murugan narrowed his eyes. “You’ve always had too much tongue for an old man.”
Ramu chuckled, unfazed. “And still your wife doesn’t seem to mind. Must be the stories I tell.”
Sakshi’s lips twitched into a smile despite herself.
Murugan finally sighed, a long, theatrical exhale that filled the room.
“Fine,” he muttered. “Let her go. But if you two come back with coordinated outfits or some secret handshake, I swear—”
“I’ll teach it to you too,” Ramu interrupted with a wink.
“Deal,” Meena said before anyone could argue.
Sakshi gave Murugan one final look. Not triumphant. Not guilty. Just grateful.
Ramu clapped his hands together. “Then we’ll pack light and bring back only memories—and maybe some sweets, if you behave.”
Murugan gave one final grunt. “Just behave, both of you.”
Ramu winked. “Always, Murugan. Especially when I’m not.”
And with that, the matter was settled.
The following morning, the mood in the house had settled into a strange blend of relief and anticipation. The breakfast table was quieter than usual, but not in an uncomfortable way—more like a calm before the next flurry of activity. Sakshi poured coffee into the tumblers while Meena munched on a piece of toast, scrolling on her phone.
“Any updates?” Sakshi asked, sliding her tumbler toward Meena.
“Yeah,” Meena said, looking up with a sigh. “I checked the flights again. Nothing available tonight. The earliest I can go is tomorrow morning. So I’ve still got one day here.”
“That’s something, at least,” Sakshi said, managing a smile. “One last outing before you vanish into wedding chaos.”
“Exactly what I was thinking.” Meena grinned and stretched. “So, madam, shall we go shopping today anyway? Even if I can’t attend the wedding, you still need to find something to stun the groom’s side.”
Sakshi chuckled. “I won’t even know half the people there.”
“Even better,” Meena said with mock drama. “New people, new saree. Let’s go find something with just enough backless drama.”
Murugan, passing by with his towel slung over one shoulder, raised an eyebrow. “As long as it still has a back.”
Meena rolled her eyes. “You sound like her father-in-law.”
He smirked. “Well, someone has to.”
Sakshi shook her head. “I’m wearing whatever I want. No lectures.”
As the three laughed, Ramu stepped into the hall, scratching his head and yawning.
“Shopping?” he asked groggily.
“Yes,” Sakshi said, “we’re heading to the bazaar. Need to buy a saree, blouse material, and matching accessories. It’s going to be a full-day thing.”
“Want to come?” Meena asked, eyes twinkling. “We know you haven’t bought clothes in what—ten years?”
Ramu snorted. “Closer to fifteen. I think my last new shirt was from my son’s engagement.”
Sakshi tilted her head and gave him a look that danced just on the edge of teasing. "Aiyyo, Ramu anna, I can't let you come beside me at the wedding looking like a retired postman. People will think I'm escorting my uncle."
She winked deliberately, her voice honey-sweet. "Wouldn't you rather show up like a proper 'match' for me? Shirt pressed, a little cologne—who knows, I might even walk in with you on my arm."
Murugan, mid-sip of his coffee, choked slightly. "Sakshi... what nonsense."
"It’s not nonsense, Murugan," she said brightly. "We need to look presentable. Imagine the gossip if Ramu anna and I walk in—me glowing in silk, him glowing in sweat."
Ramu laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Now I have no choice, huh? She's threatening my image."
"Not threatening, just polishing," Sakshi replied, her tone dipped in mischief. "And besides..."—she leaned closer—"if you're well-dressed, I might even let you match my blouse color. Only if you behave."
Murugan stared into his coffee with a sour smile. "This house is becoming a drama stage."
Sakshi crossed her arms. “Then it’s settled. You’re coming. You can’t go to a wedding in that faded vest and lungi. We’ll help you pick something decent.”
Ramu grumbled playfully. “As long as you don’t put me in one of those shiny sequined shirts.”
“No promises,” Meena said. “You’ll look like a silver fox.”
Murugan emerged from the bedroom, buttoning up his shirt and glancing toward the lively chatter echoing through the hall. He lingered near the doorway for a moment, listening to the ripple of laughter that followed one of Sakshi’s quips. Ramu’s chuckle joined it, deep and amused, and Meena’s teasing reply overlapped with the clink of bangles as she readjusted her duppatta. He moved toward them slowly, brushing a crease from his shirtfront and raising an eyebrow as he stepped closer, observing the trio’s animated preparations. His gaze shifted from the handbags waiting by the door to Sakshi’s gleaming eyes, filled with playful fire. There was a strange flicker in his chest—faint and buried—but it lingered as he asked, with mock seriousness but a glint of hesitation, “So all set for your grand adventure to the bazaar, huh?” in the hall. He raised an eyebrow as he stepped closer. “So all set for your grand adventure to the bazaar, huh?”
“Of course,” Sakshi said, brushing a few strands of hair from her forehead. “We’ve recruited Meena for backup and dragged Ramu into this makeover mission. Can’t let him show up looking like the ghost of weddings past.”
Murugan laughed. “Good luck with that. Don’t let them overcharge you, anna.”
Ramu rolled his eyes. “If I survive this trip, I deserve sweets from both houses.”
“Done,” Meena said. “Now get your chappals. We leave in ten.”
Before grabbing her handbag, Sakshi turned slightly to Ramu, a teasing glint in her eyes. “Ramu anna, since you’re going to be my official partner for this wedding, I need your opinion.”
Ramu raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “My opinion?”
“Yes,” she said sweetly. “Tell me—what kind of saree would you want me to wear when we walk in together? Be honest. You’re my date now, after all.”
Meena burst into a snort-laugh while Murugan froze, eyes flicking upward slowly from his tumbler, his expression tightening though he didn’t speak.
Ramu chuckled, clearly enjoying the attention. “Ah, if you’re really asking… always wanted to see a deep maroon silk saree, thin gold border, pleated high. And the blouse…”—he grinned—“sleeveless, tight, with a low cut at the back. I tried for years to convince my wife, God rest her, to wear one like that. She’d chase me out with a broom every time.”
Sakshi placed a hand over her heart theatrically. “Ramu anna, your wish might finally come true. I always wanted an excuse to try something bold.”
Murugan’s jaw clenched subtly. His hand, still holding the empty tumbler, twitched just slightly.
“But don’t worry,” Sakshi added with a wink, looking over her shoulder at her husband. “Only my wedding partner gets a say this time. You forfeited that right when you skipped the invite.”
Murugan offered a thin smile. Inside, though, his thoughts churned bitterly. 
He watched the easy way Sakshi leaned toward Ramu, the way her laughter lilted freely around him. She had never asked Murugan what saree he preferred on her. Never asked his opinion on her blouses, her look, her styling—not in the years they'd been married. And yet here she was, practically offering herself for styling tips from the upstairs widower.
He could feel his jealousy rising like bile, but he swallowed it. There were three of them now—Sakshi, Meena, Ramu—joking, teasing, playing their little game. What could he say that wouldn't make him look petty? Insecure? Controlling?
So he said nothing. Just gritted his teeth behind that thin smile and watched them get ready like it was a play he wasn’t cast in.
“Just don’t let him pick your jewelry too,” he managed to mutter.
“No promises,” she said with a grin.
“All set?”
“Let’s go,” Meena said, already slipping into her sandals.
Ramu gave one last dramatic sigh and followed them out.
And just like that, the trio stepped into the bright sunlit street, the hum of the bazaar already calling them forward.
The bazaar was already alive with the pulse of morning commerce when the trio arrived. The sun filtered down in beams through colorful cloth awnings, casting shifting shadows on the uneven stone paths. Every corner overflowed with noise and scent—shouted bargains, bangles clinking, incense, turmeric, jasmine, and the irresistible aroma of roasting groundnuts. 
Meena led the way like a queen in her domain, Sakshi close at her side, clutching her handbag and eyes scanning every window with the trained precision of a saree connoisseur. Ramu trailed behind, amused and slightly out of place—older, less nimble, but clearly enjoying being pulled into their rhythm. There was a hint of pride in the way he watched them, especially Sakshi, who walked with a quiet purpose and growing glow.
They stepped into a spacious saree showroom tucked beneath an ornate signboard. Inside, the air was cool and perfumed, the lighting soft and golden, and gentle instrumental music played overhead. Racks of vibrant dbangs beckoned like waves of molten color. A young salesperson, hair stiff with gel and smile glued in place, bounded toward them.
“Aunty, looking for bridal saree?” he asked eagerly.
Meena laughed, waving him off. “No weddings for us, pa. Just trying to outshine the actual bride.”
They moved to the premium section at the back, surrounded by thick bundles of Kanchipuram and Banarasi silks. Sakshi reached out and ran her fingers down a deep green weave threaded with gold. But just as she pulled one free, Meena’s phone buzzed. She frowned, eyes narrowing at the screen.
“One sec,” she murmured, stepping aside with a sigh.
While Sakshi continued flipping through options, holding some up to her shoulder, Ramu leaned against the display case, watching her with mild admiration and something deeper simmering beneath. Her fingers lingered a little longer than necessary on a lavender piece trimmed in copper. He noticed.
Minutes later, Meena returned with a resigned look.
“Hey… I’m really sorry,” she said, voice a touch regretful. “I’ve got to run. Amma’s yelling about some courier parcel mess, and it has to be fixed before I fly tomorrow. She’s in a panic. You know how she gets.”
Sakshi’s brows lifted. “You’re leaving me now?”
Meena leaned in close, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Don’t be silly. You’re in good hands. Ramu anna will help you—maybe even better than I would. He’s got sharper eyes and… more dangerous taste.”
She gave Sakshi an unmistakable wink, followed by a smirk aimed at Ramu. "Take your time. Find something that makes his eyes widen—and his jaw drop."
Sakshi blushed. “Meena… behave.”
Meena was already backing away. “Bye! Don’t call me unless it’s to tell me the blouse color you *shouldn’t* be wearing!” she called out, disappearing into the street with a laugh.
Left alone in the gentle hum of the shop, Sakshi turned toward the saree counter again. “Looks like you’re stuck with me,” she said, trying to sound casual.
Ramu approached her with a half-smile. “Not stuck at all. Honestly, I was hoping she’d disappear.”
She picked up a wine-colored silk with a soft sheen. “You heard her. Apparently, I’m yours to style now.”
He stepped closer, his voice softer now, intimate. “Then let me be honest. Pick something daring. Not too bridal. Not too demure. Deep tones. Something rich… like that plum one you brushed past earlier. It needs to hug your curves here.”
He let a finger hover just above her hipbone, where the pleats would tuck.
Her breath hitched. “And the blouse?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Sleeveless. Gold trim. Deep scoop in the back, tied with delicate strings. A bit of shimmer. You’re walking in with me—I want every man there regretting who they married.”
She glanced at him sideways. “Shameless.”
“Honest,” he said, brushing invisible dust off his kurta. “And you asked.”
She turned toward the mirror, dbanging the fabric across her chest. “Let’s see if you can handle what you’re wishing for.”
Just then, the salesperson returned with a fresh stack and glanced between them. His curiosity couldn’t be contained.
“Madam,” he asked sheepishly, “this sir… is he your father?”
Sakshi turned slowly, lips curving into a dangerously sweet smile. “No, not my father,” she said, pausing just long enough for effect. “He’s my partner for the wedding. The only one who gets a say in what I wear that day.”
The boy blinked, caught off guard, clearly trying to compute the dynamic. “Oh… I see, madam. Sorry, I assumed—”
“No need to assume anything,” Ramu said smoothly. “All you need to know is—she’ll be the most stunning woman in that hall. And I’ll be the luckiest man to walk beside her.”
The salesperson nodded, cheeks flushing with awkwardness. “Of course, sir… madam… you will definitely turn many heads.”
Sakshi laughed softly, flicking her fingers through a shimmering stack of silk. “That’s the plan.”
After finalizing the plum silk saree with the elegantly woven gold border, Sakshi led Ramu through a narrow passage to the tailoring section tucked behind the main showroom. This part of the shop had its own atmosphere—intimate, busy, and filled with the quiet hum of sewing machines and the rustle of fabrics. Folded blouses in a rainbow of shades hung like trophies from hooks overhead, measuring tapes swung lazily from wooden pegs, and the warm scent of starch, fabric glue, and freshly pressed cotton lingered heavily in the air.
A middle-aged tailor with a slightly hunched back and thick glasses perched on his nose approached them with a practiced smile. “Madam, blouse stitching? Ready size or custom fit?”
“Custom,” Sakshi said without hesitation, already taking the plum saree from the bag. Her eyes sparkled with excitement.
The tailor nodded and gestured toward a curtained corner with a faded floral pattern. “You can show your design there, madam. We’ll take your measurements also.”
Sakshi walked confidently toward the partition but then paused, turning her head. “Ramu, come here. I need a second opinion.”
Ramu raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement creeping into his expression. “Me? Inside?”
She grinned. “Yes. Who else is going to help me decide how scandalous I should be?”
Chuckling under his breath, Ramu followed her behind the curtain, leaving the tailor behind with his notebook, blinking in surprise.
Inside the small changing space, Sakshi pulled the fabric against her chest, holding it up like a shield and a weapon both. “So… if I’m to wear a backless blouse, how low is too low?”
Ramu leaned against the wall, eyes locked on her. “You’re asking a dangerous man for that answer.”
She turned slowly and lifted her hair, revealing the graceful curve of her back. “Here?” she asked, tapping just above her waist.
He stepped closer, voice lower now. “No, a bit lower. Let them wonder where it ends. Tie it with doris—thin gold cords. Make it a slow-burning mystery.”
She smirked. “You’ve clearly imagined this before.”
“I have,” he admitted, barely above a whisper. “Too many times. But never with someone who’d actually wear it for me.”
Outside, the tailor cleared his throat. “Shall I come in for measurements, madam?”
Sakshi called out calmly, “Yes, come in.”
Ramu stepped aside, brushing the curtain back as the tailor entered with a tape around his neck. The tailor gave Ramu a quick, respectful nod and focused on his task. Sakshi stood tall, composed, eyes forward as the tailor gently looped the tape around her bust, shoulders, waist, and arms. Ramu watched in silence, every inch of his restraint tested.
“Neck style, madam? High back, square, scoop…?”
“Low back,” she said firmly, then looked at Ramu over her shoulder. “With doris?”
He nodded slowly, the corner of his mouth lifting. “And a plunging V in front. No lining. Let it flow.”
The tailor blinked, pen pausing midair. “Okay, madam.”
After a few final notes, the tailor excused himself and ducked out.
The curtain settled. The silence returned.
Sakshi turned back to Ramu, her expression unreadable, then slowly broke into a wicked smile. “So, you’ll get your fantasy blouse. But only because I want to see your face when I wear it.”
Ramu’s smile deepened, slow and full of heat. “Then I’ll remember every detail—the fabric, the cut, the way your voice sounded when you said yes.”
She stepped past him, deliberately brushing her shoulder against his chest. “Let’s get you a sherwani next. I don’t want to outshine you too much.”
“Impossible,” he murmured, following her out. “But let’s try.”
As they stepped out of the tailoring section, Sakshi adjusted the pallu of her plum saree with delicate fingers, letting it fall just so over her shoulder, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction. The fabric shimmered faintly under the market's golden sunlight filtering through the boutique's glass panes. Ramu, silent but steady, walked over to the cashier’s counter, pulling out his thick, worn leather wallet. Without drawing attention, he slid several crisp notes into the tailor’s hand and tucked the bill inside before Sakshi could see.
“Hey,” she said, catching his motion from the corner of her eye. “I could’ve paid for mine, you know.”
Ramu didn’t look up as he signed the receipt. “You could’ve. But I didn’t let you. Consider it a gift. A retired man’s indulgence. I’ve got pension piling up, stock market ticking in the green, and no one to spend it on but troublemakers like you.”
Sakshi narrowed her eyes playfully, a smile tugging at her lips. “So you’re rich *and* stubborn.”
“I’ve got to be good at something.” He winked with that slow, practiced ease that made her heart flutter just a little more than she would admit.
The shopkeeper returned with the delivery confirmation. “It will all be delivered to the sir’s address within two working days. Saree, blouse—everything.”
Sakshi raised an eyebrow. “Your place? Why not mine?”
Ramu gave her a sly look. “Because I want to be the first one to see you in it. If that blouse fits the way I imagined, I might need a few minutes to recover before you walk out in public.”
She gave him a playful smack on the arm and laughed. “Incorrigible.”
They exited the shop into the heat of the afternoon, the energy of the bazaar swirling around them in waves of color and sound.
“Now what?” Sakshi asked, brushing a strand of hair off her forehead.
“Now it’s my turn,” Ramu said, turning down a side lane. “Can’t have my blouse-muse outshining me on the big day.”
They entered a high-end men’s boutique, where cool air and the scent of new fabric embraced them. Shelves brimmed with folded kurtas, sherwanis in rich brocade, and embroidered waistcoats. In moments, a short, overly enthusiastic salesman appeared, practically bouncing on his toes.
“Sir! Welcome, sir! Shopping for wedding, sir?”
Before Ramu could reply, Sakshi stepped forward, tossing her hair back. “He’s my wedding partner. He needs to look royal. Regal. Something people will remember even after the reception snacks are gone.”
The salesman blinked at her, then at Ramu—clearly computing the age gap but too polite to comment. He nodded vigorously. “Absolutely, madam! Sir, shall I show classic sherwanis? Indo-western fusion? Velvet bandhgalas?”
Ramu smiled indulgently. “I leave my fate in her hands today.”
Sakshi sauntered over to a display, scanning rows of fabrics like a hawk. Her fingers paused on a navy blue sherwani with antique gold embroidery and a high collar. “This one,” she declared. “Paired with beige churidar pants. Elegant. Intimidating. You’ll look like a king.”
The salesman nodded like his life depended on it. “Excellent, madam. I’ll fetch size forty-two. Sir will look like film star. Please wait, one moment.”
Ramu groaned softly. “You’re turning me into a groom again. Next thing, you’ll be throwing a garland around my neck.”
Sakshi leaned in, voice low, sultry. “You already caught the bride, remember?”
The salesman returned, arms full of fabric. “Sir, trial room this way!”
Ramu disappeared behind the curtain. Sakshi sat back in a plush chair and accepted the complimentary coffee from a boy who appeared out of nowhere. She sipped slowly, lips curving as she imagined him inside, fumbling with the heavy buttons.
When he stepped out, the salesman gasped dramatically. “Sir! Wah! Sir looks younger by ten years! Like Tamil superstar!”
Ramu stood awkwardly, arms spread a little. The sherwani fit like it had been tailored for him—emphasizing his shoulders, slimming his waist. His eyes scanned Sakshi’s face, waiting.
She lowered her coffee, stood, and walked around him slowly, eyes dragging across every embroidered inch.
“Not bad, Ramu. Not bad at all. You might even outshine me.”
He grinned. “Only if you let me walk beside you.”
She stopped in front of him, raised her coffee in mock toast again. “We’ll walk in together. Let every whisper begin and end with us.”
The salesman clapped once, excited. “Shall I pack, sir? I will send both outfits to your address, sir. Wedding look complete!”
Ramu nodded. “Yes, send everything together. Hers and mine. Same day delivery.”
The salesman scribbled rapidly. “Yes, sir. Very lucky man.”
Ramu glanced sideways at Sakshi, eyes crinkling with warmth. “That’s one way to put it.”
Sakshi smiled, then leaned in close and whispered, “You haven’t seen lucky yet.”
The sun had begun its slow descent by the time Ramu and Sakshi made their way back through the narrow lanes of the neighborhood. The bazaar's hum still echoed faintly behind them—bells chiming, distant auto horns, the occasional street hawker yelling prices—but the residential street was calmer, bathed in a golden hush. Sakshi walked a step ahead, the soft glow of satisfaction still painted on her face, her fingers idly brushing the folds of her saree. Ramu trailed beside her, a small, warm parcel of sweets in hand—Mysore pak from that one old stall she liked—chosen not just for flavor but to serve as a symbolic, half-serious offering of goodwill.
As they rounded the final turn toward their street, Sakshi’s eyes immediately spotted the silhouette seated on the familiar wooden bench just outside their home. Murugan. He sat leaning forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped, his eyes fixed ahead. The moment he noticed them approaching, he straightened with visible stiffness, rising to his feet like someone preparing to be cordial but not yet sure how.
“There you are,” he said, his voice level but tinged with something else. His eyes scanned them both—lingering on her face, her saree, the extra glow in her cheeks, the parcel in Ramu’s hand.
“Tired?” he asked, though his tone made it sound more like a probe than concern. His eyes flicked to Ramu for a fraction of a second.
“Productively tired,” Sakshi replied breezily, brushing her fingers across her shoulder as if wiping off the dust of indulgence. “We got everything—my saree, blouse, even Ramu’s sherwani. All taken care of.”
Ramu held up the parcel with a grin. “Brought you some hot Mysore pak on the way back. Thought you’d need something sweet to go with the shock.”
Murugan accepted the packet with a forced nod. “Thanks. You didn’t have to bribe me with sugar just because she listens to you more than me these days.”
A heavy silence followed, not angry but dense. Sakshi turned her back to both men, reaching for the key and unlocking the door with exaggerated calm.
Ramu lingered, clearly unfazed. “The delivery will come in a couple of days,” he said lightly. “I asked them to send everything to my place first. Just to make sure the fit’s right before she wears it.”
Murugan’s jaw tensed. “You didn’t have to go that far. Makes it harder for a simple husband like me to keep up. She’s never asked me for a saree recommendation—not once in fifteen years.”
“I wanted to,” Ramu replied evenly. “She deserves to look her best. Besides, I owed her something beautiful.”
Sakshi turned around, tossing her hair back. “Stop sulking, Murugan. Ramu saved me hours of boring bargaining and dragged me to the one shop with decent taste. That alone deserves a thank you.”
Murugan looked between them, the corners of his mouth pulling tight. He gave a short huff of breath and leaned back against the bench again, arms crossed. “Hope it’s worth it. She hasn’t come back from shopping looking that pleased in... well, I honestly can’t remember when.”
Ramu chuckled, eyes not leaving Murugan’s. “You’ll see, brother. It’s going to be worth every stitch.”
Sakshi slipped inside the door, pausing in the frame. “I’m going to freshen up. You two don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.”
The door clicked shut behind her, leaving both men outside.
Murugan exhaled slowly, hands clenched lightly in his lap. “You know, she never called me handsome when I wore something new. Not once.”
Ramu didn’t answer right away. His smile was calm, but his gaze held a knowing gleam. “Maybe you never asked her what she wanted to see.”
Murugan offered a dry chuckle, shaking his head. “I used to think being dependable was enough.”
Ramu leaned back, stretching his legs out. “It is. But being seen—that’s something else entirely.”
Silence again. Not hostile, but full of undercurrents. The late sun stretched shadows over the porch, as Murugan sat with unspoken jealousy curling in his gut—bitter, reluctant, but still yielding.
He said nothing more. Just stared ahead while beside him, Ramu sat calm, collected, quietly triumphant.
The room was dim, the only light leaking in through the slatted window, casting long shadows across the walls like ghostly bars. The ceiling fan creaked on its lowest setting, lazily pushing warm air in uneven circles. Outside, a dog barked into the night before falling silent, and from a distant street came the faint honk of a passing auto. Inside the bedroom, a quiet hum settled over everything—uneasy, unfinished.
Sakshi lay on her side, facing the wall, the cool cotton sheet pulled loosely over her hip. Her saree blouse had been exchanged for a soft, slightly oversized cotton top, and her hair was tied in a lazy knot that rested near the nape of her neck. Her body was sore in a satisfying way—from hours of walking, twirling in front of mirrors, lifting fabrics, laughing too much, and maybe from something deeper, something that lingered from the way Ramu had looked at her when she asked about blouse designs.
Murugan lay beside her, pretending to scroll through his phone. He'd barely spoken a word since she walked through the door earlier that evening, arms full of shopping bags and cheeks tinged with color. He'd watched her from the corner of his eye as she hung her saree, as she told him—casually, like it didn’t mean anything—that Ramu had picked a sherwani too, and they’d had some snacks, and oh, did she mention that Ramu insisted on paying for everything?
The words hadn’t left his mind.
Now, in bed, he shifted slightly. The glow of his screen cast a dull light over his face before he locked it and set it aside. His eyes adjusted to the dark, and then to her.
The line of her spine.
The faint rise and fall of her breath.
The hem of her top, slightly lifted, exposing the curve of her lower back.
He cleared his throat softly, testing the silence. “Sakshi.”
She didn’t respond, but he noticed the way her breath paused for half a second before resuming.
He moved closer. His fingers, hesitant, slid across the bed toward her. When he reached her hip, he let his hand rest lightly.
She didn’t jump or recoil, but her voice came flat, edged with something that wasn’t quite anger—but wasn’t warmth either.
“Murugan,” she said, exhaling through her nose. “You’re not suddenly a romantic just because someone else noticed me today.”
He blinked. “That’s not why. I just... I saw you laughing. Looking... happy. It reminded me of when—”
She turned to face him slowly, propped on one elbow, her expression unreadable in the dark. “When what?” she asked softly. “When you used to look at me like I was interesting? Desired?”
He swallowed. “I didn’t stop caring.”
“No,” she said, voice gentle but firm, “you just stopped *showing* it. And now that someone else did, you’re noticing the gap.”
“I know I’ve been distracted,” he muttered. “Work, the house, the baby—”
“Murugan,” she interrupted, “I’m not mad. I’m tired. My feet hurt, my back hurts, and I just want to sleep without suddenly becoming the object of a late-night guilt trip.”
He looked down, then chuckled awkwardly. “It’s just... I saw you today, glowing. I felt like I didn’t know you for a second.”
She smiled faintly, laying her head back on the pillow. “Maybe that’s not such a bad thing. Maybe you should get to know me again. Properly. Without waiting for someone else to make me glow.”
He reached out again but stopped himself. “Okay,” he said softly.
She leaned over and kissed his forehead gently—affectionate, not passionate. “You’re not in trouble,” she murmured. “But tonight? Let’s not make this awkward. Let’s just sleep. Tomorrow you can try again—with better timing.”
Murugan sighed, smiling despite himself. “Alright. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Murugan.”
As his breathing slowed beside her, she turned slowly to face the wall again. But her thoughts didn’t stay beside him.
They wandered.
To the way Ramu’s eyes had trailed her body when she asked how low the blouse should dip.
To the firm, teasing way he’d suggested a deep V in front, no lining, and strings that hung just above the waistline.
To the little things: the way he stood too close when dbanging the saree over her shoulder, the way he murmured compliments that felt like confessions.
Her lips parted slightly.
Her hand slipped under the sheet, fingers brushing over her thigh, then up, stopping at her stomach.
She smiled into the quiet.
She fell asleep not thinking of bedsheets or routine. She dreamed of dbangd silk, low necklines, firm hands.
And of a man who saw her—not because he had to, but because he *wanted* to.
She believed him.