Adultery Sakshi's Universe

[yodam69420]

A sleek, dark SUV waited just outside Agra Cantt station, its tinted windows gleaming under the haze of early morning. The air smelled of engine heat, diesel, and distant chai stalls. Ramu stepped onto the platform, his arm casually slung over the small overnight bag, while Sakshi walked just behind him, her plum silk saree rustling with slow confidence. Her blouse, sleeveless and scooped deep at the back, revealed faint red bite marks near the shoulder blade—a love letter written in teeth during last night’s journey.

A young man stood beside the car. Lean frame. Clean jawline. Eyes that didn’t quite know where to look. Ismail Bhai’s grandson. The one Noor left behind.

He straightened when he saw them, surprise flickering fast across his features. He had expected an old man. Not this. Not her. Not this pairing that looked like scandal dressed in silk.

Ramu smirked faintly. “Beta,” he said, voice steady, “this is Sakshi. My wife.”

The young man’s brows lifted—just a fraction too high. But he recovered quickly, stepping forward to open the back door with forced politeness.

“Namaste, aunty,” he said.

Sakshi met his gaze and smiled. Not with innocence. With awareness.

“Namaste, beta,” she replied, voice honey-sweet. Her bangles clinked as she adjusted her pallu, not to cover—but to shift his attention.

As she stepped into the backseat, her thigh brushed the edge of the doorframe. No petticoat. No modesty. Just silk over skin. The grandson saw it. Flinched. Looked away. Ramu noticed.

When the door shut, the AC humming low and cool, Sakshi leaned in close to Ramu.

“That’s him, isn’t it?” she whispered. “The boy Noor left behind.”

Ramu chuckled. “Mmm. And now he’s driving us to watch her marry his grandfather.”

She grinned wickedly. “Poetic.”

The car rolled forward. The city passed in slow frames beyond the glass. But inside that cabin, beneath the soft hum of AC and unspoken tension, a different heat began to bloom.

Ramu cleared his throat and leaned forward slightly. "All okay, beta? Must feel a bit odd, no? All this shaadi-shaadi tamasha."

The boy didn’t look back. "Haan, uncle. Sab theek. Just focusing on the road."

But he wasn’t fine. Not at all.

His thoughts churned like hot tea in a steel tumbler.

She called herself his wife. This woman in a plum saree, dbangd like temptation itself. And Ramu—like some smug guru—sat beside her, claiming her with one word: 'wife'.

He gripped the steering wheel tighter. Each time the rearview tilted, he caught her side-profile—the gentle swell of her hip, the pallu slipping, her bangles resting just above Ramu’s thigh.

Was Dada testing him? Playing one final prank? Or was this some karmic punishment?

He tried to breathe through it. Focus on the roads of Agra he’d known since childhood. But now, even familiar turns looked blurred by shame, heat, and rage.

Ramu’s voice broke the tension. "Good, good. And please thank Ismail Bhai. Such royal treatment, yaar. Car, room, everything. He’s a man of culture."

The young man nodded. "He asked me to take full care of you both."

Ramu chuckled. "That’s our Bhai. Always one step ahead. Samajhdar aadmi. He knows what people crave. Even if they never say it."

There was a pause. Then:

"He said you’re like his brother, more than a friend."

"Not wrong," Ramu said softly. "Some relationships need no explanations."

The boy’s jaw tensed. His foot pressed harder on the pedal.

Ramu settled back in the seat, fingers gently brushing Sakshi’s. She didn’t flinch.

"He’s built a strange kind of shaanti for himself," Ramu murmured. "And now we’re part of it."

Sakshi smiled faintly. "I’m curious though. What kind of dulhan did he choose this time, hmm? Fourth marriage, na? Must be someone experienced. Senior citizens ka pyaar story."

Ramu grinned. "Haan. I imagine she wears thick chashma, carries Vicks in her handbag, and nags him to take his BP meds on time."

Sakshi added, “I bet she lectures him on turmeric and fenugreek every night. Pure sanskaar."

The grandson coughed. Ramu leaned forward.

"Beta, her name’s Noor, right? Such a young name. I always thought Noor would be someone lively, mischief-filled."

The boy spoke stiffly. "She’s twenty-one."

And you both know it. Don’t pretend. Don’t act like you’re clueless.

"Wah," Ramu said, leaning back, victorious. "Toh chauthi shaadi mein full josh hai. Mazaa aa gaya."

Sakshi giggled. "So much for arthritis."

Ramu added, "I wonder what he’s saved her number as. Noor Beta? Noor Baby? Or Noor 4.0?"

Sakshi tapped the dashboard. "Beta, does she have a caller tune? Kuch spicy? ‘Sheila Ki Jawani’?"

The grandson’s knuckles whitened.

"And you? Still single, hmm? Or you have some hidden dulhan somewhere?"

“No, aunty,” he muttered.

“Hmmm,” Sakshi teased, “Never mind. Weddings are full of surprises. Maybe someone will notice you too."

Ramu leaned in and whispered into Sakshi’s ear, voice like ghee melting on hot paratha, “Not everyone’s as lucky as Ismail Bhai—stealing the same flower his own grandson once watered.”

The boy’s ears burned. His throat ached. But he said nothing.

Why did she look at him like that? Why did she smile like she knew every ache in his chest?

This was punishment. This was revenge in slow motion.

The rest of the ride was quiet.

Outside, Agra bustled like any wedding morning.

Inside, Ramu and Sakshi leaned back, glowing.

The grandson? He drove, jaw locked, heart breaking, pants tight.