Adultery Undercover Desires

[John446]

CHAPTER – 57


Preparing for the Step – A Quiet Journey
The mornings in the house began with a sense of calm. Danish and Kavya took long walks around the Banjara Hills neighborhood, talking about what lay ahead. Kavya asked many questions — not just about rituals, but about faith, meaning, and how this change would impact her identity.
Danish, patient and reassuring, answered all he could.
One evening, over tea, Feroz Khan called Danish aside.
Feroz Khan (firmly but calmly):
"Kal hum Maulana Sahib se milne jaayenge. Unse achhi tarah samjha dena Kavya ko sab kuch. Samajhna zaroori hai, sirf kehna kaafi nahi."
(Tomorrow, we’ll meet the Maulana. It’s important Kavya understands everything — it’s not just about saying it, but understanding it.)
Danish nodded.
The Meeting with the Maulana
The next afternoon, they visited the local mosque. A soft-spoken, wise Maulana sat with them in a quiet room at the back of the masjid. The scent of attar hung faintly in the air.
Kavya sat with folded hands, her eyes clear but nervous. The Maulana began with kindness.
Maulana Sahib:
"I s l a m mein jab koi khud se aata hai, hum uska khair-muqadam karte hain. Lekin pehle yeh zaroori hai ki aap samjhein — yeh sirf ek rivaayat nahi, ek zimmedari hai."
(When someone comes to ., by their own will, we welcome them. But it is vital that you understand — this isn’t just a ritual, it’s a responsibility.)
For the next hour, he gently explained the Shahada, the pillars of .,, the concept of Tauheed (oneness of God), and what it meant to walk this path with honesty.
Kavya listened intently. Her heart was calm — not because the words were simple, but because the conviction was real.
 
 
Kavya’s Reflection the Night Before
That night, Kavya sat on the terrace under the stars. Danish joined her quietly.
Kavya:
"Mujhe darr lagta tha ke main apne astitva ko kho dungi. Par ab lagta hai maine use aur gehraai se samjha hai."
(I used to fear that I would lose my identity. But now I feel like I’ve understood it even more deeply.)
Danish:
"Tum wohi ho, Kavya. Bas ab tumhara raasta thoda aur roshan ho gaya hai."
(You’re still the same Kavya. Only now your path is a bit more illuminated.)
They sat in silence after that, not needing to say more.
 
The Day of Embracing Faith
The next morning, a small group gathered at the mosque. Feroz Khan, Danish, a few elders, and the Maulana.
Kavya, in a simple but graceful light-colored salwar suit with her dupatta loosely dbangd over her head, stood with composure. Her eyes didn’t waver.
The Maulana guided her through the Shahada:
"Ashhadu an la ilaha illa ,.', wa ashhadu anna Muhammadur Rasul ,.'."
(I bear witness that there is no god but ,.', and I bear witness that Muhammad is the Messenger of ,.'.)
Her voice didn’t tremble. When she finished, there was a soft pause — and then quiet nods of acknowledgment. Some women in the mosque hugged her warmly.
Feroz Khan stood nearby, hands behind his back. When their eyes met, he nodded — just once, but deeply.
Feroz Khan:
"Mubarak ho, Kavya."
(Congratulations, Kavya.)
 
Scene: After the Shahada – Silent Conversations Through Eyes
The air in the small prayer hall had just quieted after Kavya softly completed the Shahada. A few murmurs of “Subhan,.'” and “Mubarak ho” echoed among the gathered elders.
As Kavya stood, adjusting her dupatta over her head, her eyes instinctively searched for one person — Feroz Khan.
He hadn’t moved. Standing tall, arms crossed lightly, his face was unreadable — composed, regal, but not cold.
Their eyes met.
And for a fleeting moment… time slowed.
There was no smile on his lips, but his eyes—dark, deep-set, and sharp—held something. Something that pierced through Kavya’s chest like a slow, burning wind.
She had never been looked at like that by a man of his age. It wasn’t lust. It wasn’t judgment. It was power.
Graceful, composed power.
"Unki aankhon mein kuch tha..."
(There was something in his eyes...)
She held his gaze, only to realize… he wasn’t just watching her. He was listening to her, silently, with the gravity of a man who had known love, loss, and sacrifice.
She didn't need to say anything.
And neither did he.
In that moment, their eyes exchanged more than pleasantries. They shared understanding. Skepticism. And perhaps, beneath it all — curiosity.
 
Scene: Back Home – The Ceremony Meal
Back at the house, a simple meal was laid out. Dates, sheer khurma, and saffron chai.
Feroz sat at the head of the low dining table, his white kurta pristine, his watch glinting faintly in the warm yellow light. His sleeves were rolled up just enough to reveal strong forearms — he looked less like a 60-year-old man, and more like a dignified poet out of another era.
Kavya sat diagonally across, feeling his gaze even when he wasn’t looking at her. When their eyes did meet — across conversation, across the table — it was like reading an unspoken poem. One written in glances.
At one point, when Danish was helping her with the tea, Feroz spoke, not loudly, but with intention.
Feroz (without breaking eye contact with Kavya):
"Zindagi ke kuch faisle... khud ko pehle samajhne ke baad hi liye jaate hain."
(Some decisions in life… should only be made after truly understanding oneself.)
Kavya didn’t reply. She just nodded slowly, absorbing it.
His voice was like silk brushing stone — deep, aged, and yet effortlessly refined.
 
Scene: A Pause Between Steps
Later that evening, while Danish had stepped out for a call, Kavya found herself alone in the living room. She stood near the bookshelf, her fingers trailing over the spines of Urdu poetry books.
"Faiz Ahmed Faiz," she whispered, seeing a faded spine. A soft smile formed.
“Aap ko Faiz pasand hai?”
The voice came from behind — unmistakable.
She turned. Feroz stood near the doorway, hands behind his back.
Kavya (composed):
"Bahut... unki kavitaayein samajhne mein waqt lagta hai, par mehsoos turant ho jaati hain."
(A lot… His poems take time to understand, but you can feel them instantly.)
He gave the faintest nod, his eyes once again locking into hers.
Feroz (after a pause):
"Aap bhi waise hi hain."
(So are you.)
 
Hyderabad – Feroz Khan’s Ancestral Home
It had been over a week since Kavya and Danish arrived in Hyderabad. The initial tension had slowly given way to quiet familiarity. The warmth of the house—blended with the fragrance of agarbatti in the morning and the distant echo of azaan in the evenings—had started to feel like a second home to Kavya.
After her formal conversion, which was a significant and deeply emotional event, Kavya found herself carrying a strange calm inside. Not because she had given up something, but because Feroz Khan, a man she had feared might never accept her, turned out to be far more understanding than she imagined.
One afternoon, as they sat under the neem tree in the courtyard, sipping chai in silence, Feroz looked at Kavya and said, his voice gentle yet deeply rooted:
"Kavya, tumne I s l a m qubool kiya, isse main khush hoon. Lekin iska matlab yeh nahi ke tum apni purani pehchaan bhool jao."
("Kavya, I’m happy you’ve accepted .,. But that doesn’t mean you must forget who you used to be.")
She looked up, surprised. Her eyes searched his face, unsure if he truly meant it.
He continued, “Tumhare H i n d u sanskaar, tumhari rasmein – yeh sab tumhara hissa hain. Main chahata hoon ke tum woh sab na chhodo. Tum jaise ho waise hi raho. I s l a m sirf ek rasta hai, ek zariya – insaaniyat sabse badi cheez hoti hai.”
("Your H i n d u values, your rituals – they are part of who you are. I don’t want you to let them go. Stay true to yourself. I s l a m is a path, a way – but humanity is above all.")
Kavya felt a knot inside her chest loosen. She hadn’t realized how much pressure she’d been carrying – not from Danish, but from the expectations she imagined Feroz would place on her. But here he was, a man in his 60s, with the wisdom of age and the grace of acceptance, giving her the gift of being herself.
She smiled warmly, her voice slightly trembling as she replied, "Aapko yeh sab kehna bahut zaruri tha. Main andar hi andar thoda ghabra rahi thi."
("It was important to hear this from you. I was quietly anxious.")
Feroz smiled too. “Zindagi mein jo cheezein dil se ki jaayein, woh kabhi galat nahi hoti.”
("Things done from the heart are never wrong.")
From that day, Kavya began to feel more at home. She helped around in the kitchen, asked questions about traditions, and even taught Feroz how to make aloo parathas her mother used to make back in Mumbai. Their bond deepened—not just through long talks but through shared silences and mutual respect.
The next day Feroz, Danish and kavya went to a family friends wedding. he wedding venue thrummed with vibrant energy, the air heavy with the scent of jasmine garlands and the pulsating rhythm of dhol music. Golden fairy lights twinkled above, casting a warm, magical glow over the guests. Kavya stood radiant in her emerald-green sleeveless kurta and salwar, the intricate embroidery catching the light with every movement, accentuating her graceful form. The flowing salwar swayed gently, adding elegance to her presence. Feroz Khan, at sixty, cut a striking figure in his cream sherwani with subtle gold accents, his silver-flecked hair and easy charm lending him an air of timeless charisma. Danish, Feroz’s son, had wandered off to the dance floor, his laughter blending with the chatter of friends, leaving Feroz and Kavya to navigate the lively crowd together.
Feroz guided Kavya toward a group of family friends gathered near a table adorned with vibrant marigold centerpieces, his hand resting lightly on her elbow, a steadying gesture amidst the festive chaos. The group greeted him warmly, their voices overlapping with jovial exclamations. “Feroz bhai, you haven’t aged a day!” one uncle teased, clapping him on the shoulder. Kavya stood slightly to the side, her lips curved in a polite smile, her dupatta dbangd elegantly over one shoulder. Feroz, with his natural flair for storytelling, launched into a humorous anecdote about the groom’s childhood, drawing laughter from the group. Then, with a proud glint in his eyes, he turned to Kavya, placing a hand on her shoulder.
“Everyone, this is Kavya,” he said, his voice warm and deliberate. “Danish’s fiancée.”
The word “fiancée” sent a flutter through Kavya’s chest, her cheeks flushing a soft pink. She hadn’t expected such a formal introduction, and the weight of it, delivered by Feroz’s commanding yet gentle voice, felt both thrilling and overwhelming. The family friends erupted into smiles, offering congratulations and playful remarks. “Danish is a lucky man!” an auntie exclaimed, her bangles jingling as she squeezed Kavya’s hand. Kavya responded with warmth, her nerves easing as she thanked them, though she felt Feroz’s gaze linger on her, his charm almost palpable, stirring a mix of admiration and self-consciousness. At nearly twice her age, his presence carried a gravitas that made her feel both seen and slightly unsteady.
As the conversation flowed, a stray strand of Kavya’s hair slipped loose from her carefully pinned updo, brushing against her cheek. Instinctively, she raised her right arm, her fingers gliding through the soft waves to tuck the strand behind her ear. The movement caused her sleeveless kurta to shift, the fabric sliding just enough to reveal the smooth, bare curve of her underarm. The soft lighting cast a gentle sheen on her skin, highlighting its delicate texture—a fleeting, unintentional exposure that seemed to still the world around her. Feroz, mid-sentence about the groom’s infamous dance moves, caught the glimpse from the corner of his eye. His words faltered, his voice trailing off as his gaze instinctively flicked toward her.
Kavya’s arm lingered for a moment, her fingers still entwined in her hair, unaware of the effect of her gesture. Then, sensing a shift, she lowered her arm slowly, her eyes meeting Feroz’s. Time seemed to stretch, the wedding’s vibrant hum fading into a distant murmur. Their gazes locked, and Kavya’s breath caught, her heart racing as she registered the intensity in his dark eyes. Feroz, with his seasoned charm and worldly confidence, held her gaze with a look that was both surprised and admiring, a flicker of something deeper—perhaps appreciation—crossing his features. At sixty, his presence was magnetic, his silver hair and warm smile only amplifying the allure of his seasoned charisma. Kavya felt a rush of conflicting emotions: a flush of embarrassment at the unintended exposure, a spark of flattery at being the focus of his attention, and a quiet awe at the way his gaze made her feel both vulnerable and significant. The age gap between them, nearly double her years, heightened the moment’s intensity, his charm wrapping around her like a warm, disarming embrace.
Her cheeks burned, and she felt a flutter of self-consciousness, aware of how his eyes, wise with experience, seemed to see her in a way that was both respectful and piercing. The moment felt intimate, almost too personal for the crowded setting, and she wondered if he, too, felt the weight of it. Feroz’s lips parted slightly, as if to speak, but instead, a slow, deliberate smile spread across his face, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that felt both reassuring and playfully knowing. It was a smile crafted to ease the tension, to ground them both, yet it carried a warmth that made her pulse quicken further.
Kavya’s own lips curved into a shy, hesitant smile, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her dupatta as she tried to steady herself. The moment had caught her off guard, and Feroz’s charm—his effortless ability to make her feel seen without judgment—left her both flustered and intrigued. “What were you saying about the groom’s dancing?” she asked, her voice soft but laced with a playful lilt, an attempt to steer them back to safer ground. Feroz chuckled, the sound low and rich, and seamlessly resumed his story, his voice regaining its confident rhythm. The group laughed, oblivious to the quiet exchange that had unfolded.
But the moment lingered. As they continued mingling, Kavya stayed close to Feroz, their conversation flowing with an ease that felt both familiar and charged with new awareness. The family friends peppered her with questions about her work, her family, and the wedding plans, their enthusiasm infectious. Feroz joined in, teasing about Danish’s knack for keeping everyone waiting, earning a bright laugh from Kavya. Yet, beneath the light-hearted banter, there was an unspoken connection—a fleeting vulnerability sparked by that unguarded moment, amplified by Feroz’s commanding yet gentle presence, a secret they carried through the evening, subtle but undeniable.