02-06-2025, 04:00 PM
The Third Tryst: Two weeks later, Arjun engineered a “client follow-up” at the bungalow, insisting Priya wear a fitted kurta that hugged her curves. He dropped her off, Sanjay’s nod polite as he ushered her inside. Arjun parked a kilometer away, then doubled back on foot, the monsoon mud clinging to his shoes. He tried a new approach, scaling a boundary wall to reach a second-story balcony, his breath ragged. The bedroom window was frosted, offering only shadows—two figures entwined, indistinct but unmistakable. Priya’s screams, sharp and unrestrained, filtered through the glass, Sanjay’s murmurs a low counterpoint. Arjun strained to see, his fingers gripping the railing, but the opacity defeated him. He slid down, crouching in the dark, the sounds amplifying his torment. Her passion was a blade, cutting deeper because he couldn’t witness it. At home, Priya’s silence was thicker, her eyes avoiding his as he pressed for details, her “It happened” a wall he couldn’t breach.
The Fourth Tryst: A month later, Arjun arranged a “budget review” at the bungalow, dressing Priya in a sheer lehenga that teased her midriff. He handed her condoms, his voice insistent, and drove her to the gates, Sanjay’s smile brief but warm. Arjun parked in a nearby lane, then crept to the bungalow’s perimeter, his flashlight dimmed to avoid detection. He tried the garden again, crawling through wet grass, but the windows were sealed, the curtains heavy. He climbed a mango tree, its branches creaking under his weight, hoping for a skylight view. The angle was wrong, the glass too high, offering only faint reflections. Priya’s cries, wild and pleading, echoed through the night, Sanjay’s groans softer but commanding. Arjun clung to the branch, his body trembling, the sounds a cruel substitute for the visuals he craved. When he picked her up, Priya’s face was serene, her voice flat: “Don’t ask.” His failure to watch, coupled with her growing detachment, pushed him to the edge, his obsession spiraling.
The Fourth Tryst: A month later, Arjun arranged a “budget review” at the bungalow, dressing Priya in a sheer lehenga that teased her midriff. He handed her condoms, his voice insistent, and drove her to the gates, Sanjay’s smile brief but warm. Arjun parked in a nearby lane, then crept to the bungalow’s perimeter, his flashlight dimmed to avoid detection. He tried the garden again, crawling through wet grass, but the windows were sealed, the curtains heavy. He climbed a mango tree, its branches creaking under his weight, hoping for a skylight view. The angle was wrong, the glass too high, offering only faint reflections. Priya’s cries, wild and pleading, echoed through the night, Sanjay’s groans softer but commanding. Arjun clung to the branch, his body trembling, the sounds a cruel substitute for the visuals he craved. When he picked her up, Priya’s face was serene, her voice flat: “Don’t ask.” His failure to watch, coupled with her growing detachment, pushed him to the edge, his obsession spiraling.
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