13-08-2025, 07:14 PM
-- Chapter 4 ---
The evening dbangd itself heavily over the small, cluttered living room, the air thick with the scent of stale curry and the faint hum of a distant street vendor’s call. Murugan sat hunched on the edge of the sofa, his fingers drumming an erratic rhythm against his knee, his jaw tight with a restless unease that gnawed at his bones. The old ceiling fan creaked above, stirring the humid air but doing little to cool the fire simmering in his chest. His son, barely two, slept fitfully in the next room, his soft snores a stark contrast to the storm raging in Murugan’s mind.
*She’s been gone too long,* he thought, his gaze fixed on the cracked paint of the opposite wall, as if it might hold answers. *Two days for some college friend’s wedding? In Hmph. Meena’s cousin, she said. Why does it feel like a lie?* His fingers stilled, curling into a fist. The image of Sakshi, her laughter bright and her saree swaying as she left with a small bag, burned behind his eyes. She’d been too eager, too quick to dismiss his questions, her eyes darting away when he pressed about this Mythili. *Who even is Mythili? Some vague college name, thrown out like it means something. She thinks I’m a fool.*
He stood abruptly, pacing the narrow room, his bare feet scuffing against the cool tile. His mind churned, replaying every moment of her departure—the way she’d fussed over their son’s clothes, packed snacks, promised to call, but her voice had carried an edge, a secret glee he couldn’t place. *She’s changed,* he thought, his chest tightening. *Ever since we moved here, she’s been… distant. Smiling too much. Dressing too carefully. That low-neck blouse yesterday, the one she wore to “clean” Ramu’s room. For an old man? Really?* The thought of Ramu, that quiet, watchful widower upstairs, sent a sharp pang through him. *He’s always around, isn’t he? Lingering. Watching her. And she… she doesn’t seem to mind.*
Jealousy coiled in his gut like a snake, its venom seeping into his thoughts. He stopped pacing, running a hand through his hair, his breath uneven. *I’m not imagining this. Something’s wrong. She’s slipping away, and I’m just sitting here, letting her drift.* He glanced toward the bedroom, where their son’s tiny form lay curled under a thin blanket. *She’s his mother. She should be here, not gallivanting at some wedding I wasn’t even invited to. What kind of wife leaves her husband and child for days?*
He sank back onto the sofa, his mind racing for a solution, a way to pull her back, to anchor her to this home, to him. *I could demand she return. Call her now, tell her I’m done with this nonsense. But she’ll fight back, accuse me of controlling her.* His lips twisted bitterly. *She’s been doing that lately—snapping, turning my words against me. No, I need something she can’t argue with. Something that’ll make her come running.*
His eyes darted around the room, landing on the small pile of their son’s toys in the corner—a plastic rattle, a stuffed elephant, a wooden block. *The boy.* His heart quickened as an idea sparked, fragile but growing. *If I say he’s sick—really sick—she’ll have to come back. No mother would stay away if her child needs her.* He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his mind spinning through the possibilities. *A fever. Yes, a high fever. Something urgent, but not so bad she’ll demand a doctor’s note or call the neighbors to check. Just enough to scare her home.*
He imagined her voice on the phone, sharp with worry, maybe even guilt. *She’ll ask questions, though. She’s not stupid. She’ll want to know when it started, how bad it is. I’ll say it came on suddenly, this afternoon. He was fussy, hot to the touch, crying for her.* His jaw clenched. *She’ll believe it. She has to. And if she hesitates, I’ll push harder—say he’s asking for his Amma, that I can’t manage alone.* The thought of her rushing back, her focus on their son and him, soothed the jealous ache for a moment, but it flared again as he pictured her now, somewhere far, maybe laughing with someone else. *Is she with Ramu? Is that why she was so eager to go?*
He shook his head, forcing the thought away. *No time for that now. I need her home.* He stood again, his decision solidifying. *A train ticket. She’ll need to come back tomorrow, no delays. I’ll book it tonight, tell her it’s already done, non-negotiable.* He grabbed his phone from the table, scrolling through his contacts until he found the number for Ravi, the local travel agent who always managed last-minute bookings for the factory workers. His fingers hovered over the call button, his pulse quickening with the weight of the lie he was about to spin.
*She’ll be suspicious,* he admitted to himself, his thumb pausing. *She’s too sharp. She’ll wonder why I didn’t call earlier, why I waited until evening. But she can’t refuse—not when it’s about our son.* He pictured her face, the way her eyes would narrow, searching his words for cracks. *Let her suspect. Let her ask her questions. She’ll come anyway, because she’s his mother, and I’m her husband.* The word felt hollow, tinged with the bitter edge of doubt, but he pressed the call button, his voice steady as Ravi picked up.
“Ravi, it’s Murugan,” he said, keeping his tone urgent but controlled. “I need a ticket booked for Sakshi. to here, tomorrow morning, earliest train you can get. It’s urgent—family matter.” He paused, listening to Ravi’s questions, his mind already crafting the story he’d tell Sakshi. *Our son’s fever. High, sudden, worrying. You need to come home now.* The lie felt heavy, but it was his only way to pull her back, to reclaim what he feared was slipping through his fingers.
Ravi confirmed a ticket on the 6:45 AM express, and Murugan ended the call, his heart pounding with a mix of triumph and unease. He leaned back, staring at the ceiling, the fan’s creak mirroring the restless churn of his thoughts. *She’ll come home. She has to.* But deep inside, a nagging voice whispered: *What if she doesn’t want to?*
The wedding hall buzzed with the fading echoes of celebration—clinking glasses, laughter, and the rhythmic thump of dhol drums now softened into memory. Sakshi stood in a quiet corner of the guest room, the air heavy with jasmine and sweat, slipping out of her heavy lehenga. The silk clung to her skin, reluctant to let go, much like the heat of the day. She sighed, reaching for a pair of fitted jeans and a loose cotton top, the fabric cool against her flushed body. Comfort settled over her like a long-awaited exhale. She glanced at Ramu, who leaned against the doorframe, his eyes tracing her every move with that familiar hunger, his lungi tied low, a faint smirk playing on his lips.
“You look good in anything,” he said, voice low, stepping closer as she zipped up her jeans. His fingers brushed her waist, sending a jolt through her. “But this… this is trouble.” He tugged playfully at the hem of her top, his touch lingering, teasing.
Sakshi swatted his hand, half-laughing, half-scolding. “Behave, old man. We’re not in your room now.” But her eyes betrayed her, sparkling with the thrill of his attention. She turned to face him, her hair falling loose over one shoulder, and he caught her wrist, pulling her gently against him. His lips found hers, soft at first, then insistent, tasting of cardamom and desire. She melted into the kiss, her hands sliding up his bare chest, fingers curling into the wiry hair there.
The taxi honked outside, impatient, breaking their rhythm. Sakshi pulled back, breathless, her cheeks warm. “We’ll miss the ride to the hotel if you keep this up,” she whispered, but her voice lacked conviction. Ramu’s hand slid to her breast, squeezing gently through her top, his thumb circling with deliberate slowness. She gasped, a soft moan escaping before she could catch it, her body arching instinctively into his touch.
“Let them wait,” he murmured, kissing her neck, his breath hot against her skin. “I’ve waited long enough for you.” His fingers pressed harder, kneading her breast, and she bit her lip, torn between pushing him away and pulling him closer. The taxi honked again, sharper this time, and she shoved him playfully, stepping back to grab her small bag.
“Come on, we’re not animals,” she teased, though her pulse raced, her body still humming from his touch. She adjusted her top, smoothing it over her jeans, and headed for the door, Ramu trailing close behind, his hand grazing her lower back as they stepped into the humid evening air.
The taxi was a cramped Maruti, its seats worn and sticky, the driver muttering about traffic as they slid into the back. The city blurred past—neon signs, honking scooters, and the distant wail of a temple bell. Sakshi settled against Ramu, her thigh pressed against his, the heat of his body grounding her. He leaned in, whispering, “You smell like sin,” and kissed her earlobe, his hand slipping to her thigh, squeezing with a boldness that made her breath hitch. She glanced at the driver, who seemed oblivious, lost in his radio’s static hum.
“Ramu, stop,” she hissed, but her voice was playful, her hand resting on his, not pushing it away. He chuckled, undeterred, his fingers sliding higher, brushing the seam of her jeans. She squirmed, a mix of annoyance and arousal flaring as he pressed his lips to her jaw, then her mouth, kissing her deeply. Her hand gripped his wrist, but she didn’t stop him when his other hand cupped her breast again, squeezing with a slow, deliberate rhythm that made her toes curl.
Her phone buzzed in her bag, sharp and insistent, cutting through the haze. She froze, pulling back, her breath ragged. Ramu’s hand stayed on her breast, his thumb still teasing, as she fumbled for the phone. The screen lit up with Murugan’s name, and her stomach twisted, a cold jolt of reality dousing the heat in her veins. She shot Ramu a glare, mouthing, “Stop it,” but he only grinned, his hand sliding to her waist, fingers dipping just under the waistband of her jeans.
She swiped to answer, her voice forced into a calm she didn’t feel. “Hello? Murugan?”
“Sakshi, where are you?” His voice was tight, edged with something sharp—anger, maybe, or fear. “You need to come home. Now.”
She frowned, shifting in the seat, Ramu’s fingers still teasing her skin, making her flinch. “What’s wrong? I told you, I’m at Meena’s cousin’s wedding. I’ll be back in a couple of days.” Ramu’s hand squeezed her thigh, and she stifled a gasp, swatting at him, her annoyance spiking. Not now, damn it.
“It’s our son,” Murugan said, his voice dropping, heavy with urgency. “He’s sick, Sakshi. High fever, came on this afternoon. He’s been crying for you, asking for his Amma. I can’t handle this alone.”
Her heart lurched, guilt and worry crashing over her like a wave. “A fever? How bad is it?” She pushed Ramu’s hand away firmly this time, her voice trembling. “Did you check his temperature? Is he eating?” Ramu leaned closer, kissing her neck, and she hissed under her breath, “Ramu, stop!” Her tone was sharp, her body tense as she tried to focus on Murugan’s words.
“It’s bad, Sakshi. He’s burning up, fussy, not eating much.” Murugan’s voice cracked, and she could hear the creak of the sofa in the background, picturing him pacing their small living room. “I’ve booked you a ticket for the 6:45 AM express tomorrow. You need to be on it. No arguments.”
Sakshi’s mind spun, her son’s small, flushed face flashing before her eyes. “Tomorrow morning? Murugan, I—why didn’t you call earlier?” Ramu’s fingers brushed her breast again, and she slapped his hand hard, her whisper furious. “I said stop!” Her voice was low, but the irritation bled through, and Murugan caught it.
“What’s that? Who’re you talking to?” His tone sharpened, suspicion creeping in. “Sakshi, where are you really?”
“I’m in a taxi, heading to the hotel,” she snapped, her voice louder than intended, her worry for her son tangling with her frustration at Ramu’s relentless advances. “I met my another childhood friend, she’s with me, okay? We’re just… talking.” Ramu chuckled softly, his lips grazing her ear, and she elbowed him, her patience fraying. “Murugan, tell me about the fever. Did you give him anything? Crocin? Water?”
“I gave him Crocin, but he’s still hot,” Murugan said, his voice softer now, almost pleading. “He needs you, Sakshi. I need you here. Just… come home. The ticket’s booked, Ravi’s sending the details. Be at the station by 6.”
She closed her eyes, her son’s soft snores from memory now replaced by imagined whimpers, his tiny hands reaching for her. “Okay,” she said finally, her voice heavy. “I’ll be there. Just… take care of him, Murugan. Keep him cool, sponge him down if you have to. I’ll call you when I’m at the station.” Ramu’s hand slid to her inner thigh, and she grabbed his wrist, twisting it sharply, her glare promising retribution. He pulled back, raising his hands in mock surrender, but his smirk didn’t fade.
“Fine,” Murugan said, his tone clipped. “Just don’t miss that train.” The call ended abruptly, the silence in the taxi deafening. Sakshi stared at the phone, her chest tight with conflicting emotions—worry for her son, anger at Ramu’s reckless teasing, and a gnawing unease about Murugan’s urgency. Is he really sick? Or is this… something else? Her mind flickered to Murugan’s recent distance, his sharp glances, the way he’d watched her with Ramu. He’s jealous. But my son…
She turned to Ramu, her eyes blazing. “You couldn’t stop for one damn minute?” she hissed, keeping her voice low so the driver wouldn’t hear. “My son’s sick, and you’re groping me like some teenager!”
Ramu’s smirk faded, his eyes softening, but only slightly. “You liked it,” he said, voice low, unapologetic. “And your son—he’ll be fine. Murugan’s just pulling you back, keeping you on his leash.”
“Shut up,” she snapped, her worry flaring into anger. “You don’t get to talk about my son. ” But even as she said it, her heart twisted, torn between the pull of her maternal instincts and the fire Ramu had ignited in her. She leaned back, staring out the window at the passing city lights, her mind a storm of guilt, desire, and fear.
The taxi rattled along the city’s uneven roads, the hum of its engine a dull counterpoint to the storm raging in Sakshi’s chest. The neon glow of streetlights flickered through the window, casting fleeting shadows across her face, each one mirroring the turmoil within her. She clutched her phone, its screen now dark, but Murugan’s voice still echoed in her ears—urgent, accusing, tugging at her heart with the weight of her son’s supposed fever. Her fingers trembled, her breath uneven, as guilt and anger wrestled for dominance. Ramu sat beside her, his presence a heavy, unspoken challenge, his hand resting lightly on the seat between them, no longer teasing but still too close, too warm. The air in the taxi felt thick, suffocating, as if it carried the weight of every choice she’d made since stepping into Ramu’s orbit.
Sakshi turned to him, her eyes glistening with unshed tears, her voice raw and jagged. “This is my fault,” she whispered, barely audible over the taxi’s rumble. “I shouldn’t have come. I shouldn’t have left him.” Her hands twisted in her lap, nails digging into her palms as if pain could anchor her spiraling thoughts. “He’s just a baby, Ramu. My baby. And I’m here, playing these… these games with you, while he’s burning up, crying for me.” Her voice broke, a sob catching in her throat. “What kind of mother does that? What kind of woman am I?”
Ramu’s gaze softened, but there was a steel beneath it, a quiet conviction that made her pause. He leaned closer, his voice low, steady, cutting through her self-recrimination like a blade. “Sakshi, listen to me. You’re not a bad mother. You’re a woman, alive, burning with need, same as me. You didn’t abandon your son. You took a moment for yourself—something your husband’s never given you.” He reached for her hand, his fingers warm and rough, grounding her. “And I don’t buy this fever story. Murugan’s pulling at your strings, trying to drag you back. He’s scared, Sakshi. Scared he’s losing you.”
She yanked her hand away, her eyes flashing with a mix of anger and desperation. “You don’t know that! You don’t know him! He wouldn’t lie about our son!” But even as she said it, doubt crept in, a cold tendril wrapping around her heart. Murugan’s voice had been too sharp, too rehearsed, the urgency laced with something else—jealousy, maybe, or control. She shook her head, tears spilling now, hot against her cheeks. “I have to go, Ramu. I have to. If he’s sick, I can’t just… stay here, kissing you, pretending it’s fine.”
Ramu’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he pulled out his phone, his movements deliberate, his eyes never leaving hers. “Fine. But let’s be sure. I’m not letting you run back to him on a lie.” He scrolled through his contacts, finding Arun’s number, and pressed call, his voice low and commanding when his son answered. “Arun, it’s me. I need you to do something, quietly. Go to Murugan’s place. Don’t go upstairs, don’t let him know you’re there. Just… watch. Check on the boy. See if he’s sick, if he’s crying, or if he’s fine. Call me back. Now.”
Sakshi stared at him, her breath hitching, torn between hope and dread. “What are you doing?” she whispered, her voice trembling. “You can’t just… spy on him.”
“I’m protecting you,” Ramu said, his tone unyielding, his eyes locked on hers. “If your son’s sick, I’ll drive you to the station myself. But if Murugan’s lying, you deserve to know. You’re not his puppet, Sakshi.” He reached out, brushing a tear from her cheek, his touch gentle but firm. “You’re mine.”
Her heart stuttered at his words, a dangerous thrill cutting through her guilt. She wanted to argue, to push back, but the weight of his gaze held her, anchoring her in the storm. The taxi slowed, caught in traffic, the driver cursing softly under his breath. Sakshi leaned back, her hands clenched, her mind a battlefield of love for her son and fury at the possibility of Murugan’s deception. *Please, let him be okay,* she prayed silently, picturing her son’s chubby cheeks, his trusting eyes. *Please.*
Minutes dragged like hours, the silence between them heavy, charged with unspoken words. Ramu’s phone buzzed, and he answered it quickly, his voice clipped. “Arun, what do you see?” He listened, his expression unreadable, then nodded. “Good. Thanks. Don’t say anything.” He hung up, turning to Sakshi, his eyes gleaming with a quiet triumph. “Your son’s fine. Arun saw him through the window, playing on an iPad, laughing. No fever, no crying. Just a boy with his toys.”
Relief flooded Sakshi, so sharp it stole her breath. She pressed a hand to her chest, tears spilling anew, but these were different—lighter, tinged with gratitude. “He’s okay,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Oh, thank God, he’s okay.” But the relief quickly soured, curdling into a white-hot anger that burned through her veins. She turned to Ramu, her eyes blazing, her voice low and venomous. “That bastard. That lying, manipulative bastard. He knew I’d come running. He knew I’d drop everything for our son, and he used it. Used *him*.”
Ramu’s lips curved, a dark satisfaction in his gaze. “Told you. He’s scared, Sakshi. Scared you’re slipping out of his grip. And he should be.” He leaned closer, his voice a low growl. “You’re not his anymore. You feel it, don’t you? The way your body sings for me, the way you come alive when I touch you.”
She glared at him, her anger spilling over, undirected now. “Don’t. Not now. I’m so pissed off, I could scream. He ruined this—ruined my night, my mood, everything. Making me think my son was suffering, just to control me.” She cursed under her breath, her words sharp and cutting. “Fuck him. Fuck his lies, his jealousy, his pathetic little games. He doesn’t deserve me. He never did.”
The taxi lurched forward, the city lights blurring past, but Sakshi barely noticed. Her heart pounded, a mix of relief for her son and rage at Murugan’s betrayal. She felt untethered, wild, the weight of her guilt lifting only to be replaced by a fierce, reckless energy. Ramu watched her, his silence heavy with intent, his hand resting on the seat, close but not touching, as if giving her space to burn. She turned to him, her eyes fierce, her voice low. “He’s not going to win this. I’m not going back tomorrow. Not for him.”
Ramu’s smile was slow, predatory. “That’s my girl,” he murmured, his voice thick with pride. The taxi rolled on, carrying them toward the hotel, toward whatever came next, the air between them crackling with the promise of rebellion.
----
The taxi jolted forward through the tangled veins of the city, its engine a low growl beneath the storm brewing in Sakshi’s heart. Her chest heaved with a volatile mix of relief for her son’s safety and a scalding rage at Murugan’s deceit, the emotions churning like a tempest trapped beneath her skin. The blurred city lights outside painted fleeting streaks of color across her face, but her eyes—dark, fierce, and glistening with unshed tears—were fixed on Ramu. His presence beside her was a steady flame, warming her anger into something wilder, something reckless. Her hands trembled in her lap, the weight of her earlier guilt lifting only to be replaced by a fierce determination to defy the cage Murugan had tried to lock her in. She was alive, burning, and Ramu’s gaze fueled that fire.
Ramu shifted closer, his shoulder brushing hers, his voice a low rumble that cut through the taxi’s hum. “Let’s go back tomorrow, Sakshi,” he said, his tone firm, laced with a cunning edge that made her pause. “You said you’re not going today, and I agree—don’t let that bastard drag you back now. He’s lying, playing you, and you know it. Your son’s fine—Arun saw him. This is Murugan’s game, and we’re not playing it on his terms.”
She turned to him, her breath sharp, her eyes narrowing with a mix of defiance and uncertainty. “Tomorrow? But he’s expecting me on that train. If I don’t go, he’ll suspect something—maybe even come looking. I can’t risk that, not with everything…” Her voice faltered, the image of her son’s innocent face flickering in her mind, warring with the heat of Ramu’s proximity.
He grinned, a slow, predatory curve of his lips that sent a shiver down her spine. “I’ve got it figured out, my fire. We’ll stay, spend the night, and head back tomorrow on our terms. I’m booking us a plane ticket—first flight out tomorrow evening. We’ll have the whole day together, just you and me, no interruptions. Then we’ll fly back, land by evening, and slip in separately. You come from the station like you took that train, and I’ll sneak back home. No one’s the wiser.”
Sakshi’s breath caught, her heart pounding with a wild, exhilarating thrill. She stared at him, her anger morphing into admiration, a spark of genius igniting in her chest. “You’re a devil, Ramu,” she whispered, her voice trembling with awe. “A bloody genius. All day with you… and he’ll never know.” Her lips curved into a reluctant smile, the weight of Murugan’s lie dissolving under the promise of freedom. “How do you even think of this?”
Ramu chuckled, his eyes glinting with triumph as he confirmed the booking, the faint chime of the transaction sealing their plan. “Because I know what I want, Sakshi. And I know you want it too. We’ll have our day—our night—and he can rot with his jealousy.” He pocketed the phone, his hand sliding to her knee, a possessive warmth spreading through her. “We’ll be back . You’ll walk in, tired from your ‘train ride,’ and he’ll be none the wiser. Trust me.”
She leaned into him, her body softening, her mind racing with the audacity of it all. “Trust you,” she murmured, her voice thick with emotion. “I do. God help me, I do.” The relief, the rebellion, the raw desire—it all swirled together, pulling her closer to him. She tilted her head, her lips brushing his, a tentative spark that ignited instantly. Ramu responded with hunger, his mouth claiming hers, deep and demanding, tasting of cardamom and forbidden promise.
The taxi’s motion faded into the background as they kissed, her hands sliding up his chest, fingers curling into his shirt. His hands roamed, one cupping her face, the other pulling her closer, pressing her breast through the thin fabric of her top. She moaned softly into his mouth, the sound muffled by the intensity of their connection, her anger fueling her passion. He kneaded her breast, his thumb circling with a slow, deliberate pressure that made her arch against him, her breath hitching with every touch.
“Ramu,” she gasped between kisses, her voice a mix of protest and plea as his hand slid lower, teasing the waistband of her jeans. “The driver…” But her words dissolved as he kissed her neck, his teeth grazing her skin, sending shivers down her spine. She clung to him, her fingers digging into his shoulders, lost in the heat of the moment. The city lights blurred past, the honks and shouts of the street a distant roar, as their lips met again and again, each kiss deeper, more desperate.
The taxi slowed, pulling up to the hotel’s dim entrance, its neon sign casting a pink glow over them. Ramu pulled back, his breath ragged, his eyes dark with desire. “We’re here,” he murmured, his voice rough, his hand lingering on her thigh. Sakshi nodded, her chest heaving, her lips swollen from his kisses. She adjusted her top, her heart pounding with a mix of exhilaration and anticipation, the day ahead stretching before her like a forbidden paradise. They stepped out, hands brushing, the promise of tomorrow electric between them as they disappeared into the hotel’s shadowed lobby.
The evening dbangd itself heavily over the small, cluttered living room, the air thick with the scent of stale curry and the faint hum of a distant street vendor’s call. Murugan sat hunched on the edge of the sofa, his fingers drumming an erratic rhythm against his knee, his jaw tight with a restless unease that gnawed at his bones. The old ceiling fan creaked above, stirring the humid air but doing little to cool the fire simmering in his chest. His son, barely two, slept fitfully in the next room, his soft snores a stark contrast to the storm raging in Murugan’s mind.
*She’s been gone too long,* he thought, his gaze fixed on the cracked paint of the opposite wall, as if it might hold answers. *Two days for some college friend’s wedding? In Hmph. Meena’s cousin, she said. Why does it feel like a lie?* His fingers stilled, curling into a fist. The image of Sakshi, her laughter bright and her saree swaying as she left with a small bag, burned behind his eyes. She’d been too eager, too quick to dismiss his questions, her eyes darting away when he pressed about this Mythili. *Who even is Mythili? Some vague college name, thrown out like it means something. She thinks I’m a fool.*
He stood abruptly, pacing the narrow room, his bare feet scuffing against the cool tile. His mind churned, replaying every moment of her departure—the way she’d fussed over their son’s clothes, packed snacks, promised to call, but her voice had carried an edge, a secret glee he couldn’t place. *She’s changed,* he thought, his chest tightening. *Ever since we moved here, she’s been… distant. Smiling too much. Dressing too carefully. That low-neck blouse yesterday, the one she wore to “clean” Ramu’s room. For an old man? Really?* The thought of Ramu, that quiet, watchful widower upstairs, sent a sharp pang through him. *He’s always around, isn’t he? Lingering. Watching her. And she… she doesn’t seem to mind.*
Jealousy coiled in his gut like a snake, its venom seeping into his thoughts. He stopped pacing, running a hand through his hair, his breath uneven. *I’m not imagining this. Something’s wrong. She’s slipping away, and I’m just sitting here, letting her drift.* He glanced toward the bedroom, where their son’s tiny form lay curled under a thin blanket. *She’s his mother. She should be here, not gallivanting at some wedding I wasn’t even invited to. What kind of wife leaves her husband and child for days?*
He sank back onto the sofa, his mind racing for a solution, a way to pull her back, to anchor her to this home, to him. *I could demand she return. Call her now, tell her I’m done with this nonsense. But she’ll fight back, accuse me of controlling her.* His lips twisted bitterly. *She’s been doing that lately—snapping, turning my words against me. No, I need something she can’t argue with. Something that’ll make her come running.*
His eyes darted around the room, landing on the small pile of their son’s toys in the corner—a plastic rattle, a stuffed elephant, a wooden block. *The boy.* His heart quickened as an idea sparked, fragile but growing. *If I say he’s sick—really sick—she’ll have to come back. No mother would stay away if her child needs her.* He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his mind spinning through the possibilities. *A fever. Yes, a high fever. Something urgent, but not so bad she’ll demand a doctor’s note or call the neighbors to check. Just enough to scare her home.*
He imagined her voice on the phone, sharp with worry, maybe even guilt. *She’ll ask questions, though. She’s not stupid. She’ll want to know when it started, how bad it is. I’ll say it came on suddenly, this afternoon. He was fussy, hot to the touch, crying for her.* His jaw clenched. *She’ll believe it. She has to. And if she hesitates, I’ll push harder—say he’s asking for his Amma, that I can’t manage alone.* The thought of her rushing back, her focus on their son and him, soothed the jealous ache for a moment, but it flared again as he pictured her now, somewhere far, maybe laughing with someone else. *Is she with Ramu? Is that why she was so eager to go?*
He shook his head, forcing the thought away. *No time for that now. I need her home.* He stood again, his decision solidifying. *A train ticket. She’ll need to come back tomorrow, no delays. I’ll book it tonight, tell her it’s already done, non-negotiable.* He grabbed his phone from the table, scrolling through his contacts until he found the number for Ravi, the local travel agent who always managed last-minute bookings for the factory workers. His fingers hovered over the call button, his pulse quickening with the weight of the lie he was about to spin.
*She’ll be suspicious,* he admitted to himself, his thumb pausing. *She’s too sharp. She’ll wonder why I didn’t call earlier, why I waited until evening. But she can’t refuse—not when it’s about our son.* He pictured her face, the way her eyes would narrow, searching his words for cracks. *Let her suspect. Let her ask her questions. She’ll come anyway, because she’s his mother, and I’m her husband.* The word felt hollow, tinged with the bitter edge of doubt, but he pressed the call button, his voice steady as Ravi picked up.
“Ravi, it’s Murugan,” he said, keeping his tone urgent but controlled. “I need a ticket booked for Sakshi. to here, tomorrow morning, earliest train you can get. It’s urgent—family matter.” He paused, listening to Ravi’s questions, his mind already crafting the story he’d tell Sakshi. *Our son’s fever. High, sudden, worrying. You need to come home now.* The lie felt heavy, but it was his only way to pull her back, to reclaim what he feared was slipping through his fingers.
Ravi confirmed a ticket on the 6:45 AM express, and Murugan ended the call, his heart pounding with a mix of triumph and unease. He leaned back, staring at the ceiling, the fan’s creak mirroring the restless churn of his thoughts. *She’ll come home. She has to.* But deep inside, a nagging voice whispered: *What if she doesn’t want to?*
The wedding hall buzzed with the fading echoes of celebration—clinking glasses, laughter, and the rhythmic thump of dhol drums now softened into memory. Sakshi stood in a quiet corner of the guest room, the air heavy with jasmine and sweat, slipping out of her heavy lehenga. The silk clung to her skin, reluctant to let go, much like the heat of the day. She sighed, reaching for a pair of fitted jeans and a loose cotton top, the fabric cool against her flushed body. Comfort settled over her like a long-awaited exhale. She glanced at Ramu, who leaned against the doorframe, his eyes tracing her every move with that familiar hunger, his lungi tied low, a faint smirk playing on his lips.
“You look good in anything,” he said, voice low, stepping closer as she zipped up her jeans. His fingers brushed her waist, sending a jolt through her. “But this… this is trouble.” He tugged playfully at the hem of her top, his touch lingering, teasing.
Sakshi swatted his hand, half-laughing, half-scolding. “Behave, old man. We’re not in your room now.” But her eyes betrayed her, sparkling with the thrill of his attention. She turned to face him, her hair falling loose over one shoulder, and he caught her wrist, pulling her gently against him. His lips found hers, soft at first, then insistent, tasting of cardamom and desire. She melted into the kiss, her hands sliding up his bare chest, fingers curling into the wiry hair there.
The taxi honked outside, impatient, breaking their rhythm. Sakshi pulled back, breathless, her cheeks warm. “We’ll miss the ride to the hotel if you keep this up,” she whispered, but her voice lacked conviction. Ramu’s hand slid to her breast, squeezing gently through her top, his thumb circling with deliberate slowness. She gasped, a soft moan escaping before she could catch it, her body arching instinctively into his touch.
“Let them wait,” he murmured, kissing her neck, his breath hot against her skin. “I’ve waited long enough for you.” His fingers pressed harder, kneading her breast, and she bit her lip, torn between pushing him away and pulling him closer. The taxi honked again, sharper this time, and she shoved him playfully, stepping back to grab her small bag.
“Come on, we’re not animals,” she teased, though her pulse raced, her body still humming from his touch. She adjusted her top, smoothing it over her jeans, and headed for the door, Ramu trailing close behind, his hand grazing her lower back as they stepped into the humid evening air.
The taxi was a cramped Maruti, its seats worn and sticky, the driver muttering about traffic as they slid into the back. The city blurred past—neon signs, honking scooters, and the distant wail of a temple bell. Sakshi settled against Ramu, her thigh pressed against his, the heat of his body grounding her. He leaned in, whispering, “You smell like sin,” and kissed her earlobe, his hand slipping to her thigh, squeezing with a boldness that made her breath hitch. She glanced at the driver, who seemed oblivious, lost in his radio’s static hum.
“Ramu, stop,” she hissed, but her voice was playful, her hand resting on his, not pushing it away. He chuckled, undeterred, his fingers sliding higher, brushing the seam of her jeans. She squirmed, a mix of annoyance and arousal flaring as he pressed his lips to her jaw, then her mouth, kissing her deeply. Her hand gripped his wrist, but she didn’t stop him when his other hand cupped her breast again, squeezing with a slow, deliberate rhythm that made her toes curl.
Her phone buzzed in her bag, sharp and insistent, cutting through the haze. She froze, pulling back, her breath ragged. Ramu’s hand stayed on her breast, his thumb still teasing, as she fumbled for the phone. The screen lit up with Murugan’s name, and her stomach twisted, a cold jolt of reality dousing the heat in her veins. She shot Ramu a glare, mouthing, “Stop it,” but he only grinned, his hand sliding to her waist, fingers dipping just under the waistband of her jeans.
She swiped to answer, her voice forced into a calm she didn’t feel. “Hello? Murugan?”
“Sakshi, where are you?” His voice was tight, edged with something sharp—anger, maybe, or fear. “You need to come home. Now.”
She frowned, shifting in the seat, Ramu’s fingers still teasing her skin, making her flinch. “What’s wrong? I told you, I’m at Meena’s cousin’s wedding. I’ll be back in a couple of days.” Ramu’s hand squeezed her thigh, and she stifled a gasp, swatting at him, her annoyance spiking. Not now, damn it.
“It’s our son,” Murugan said, his voice dropping, heavy with urgency. “He’s sick, Sakshi. High fever, came on this afternoon. He’s been crying for you, asking for his Amma. I can’t handle this alone.”
Her heart lurched, guilt and worry crashing over her like a wave. “A fever? How bad is it?” She pushed Ramu’s hand away firmly this time, her voice trembling. “Did you check his temperature? Is he eating?” Ramu leaned closer, kissing her neck, and she hissed under her breath, “Ramu, stop!” Her tone was sharp, her body tense as she tried to focus on Murugan’s words.
“It’s bad, Sakshi. He’s burning up, fussy, not eating much.” Murugan’s voice cracked, and she could hear the creak of the sofa in the background, picturing him pacing their small living room. “I’ve booked you a ticket for the 6:45 AM express tomorrow. You need to be on it. No arguments.”
Sakshi’s mind spun, her son’s small, flushed face flashing before her eyes. “Tomorrow morning? Murugan, I—why didn’t you call earlier?” Ramu’s fingers brushed her breast again, and she slapped his hand hard, her whisper furious. “I said stop!” Her voice was low, but the irritation bled through, and Murugan caught it.
“What’s that? Who’re you talking to?” His tone sharpened, suspicion creeping in. “Sakshi, where are you really?”
“I’m in a taxi, heading to the hotel,” she snapped, her voice louder than intended, her worry for her son tangling with her frustration at Ramu’s relentless advances. “I met my another childhood friend, she’s with me, okay? We’re just… talking.” Ramu chuckled softly, his lips grazing her ear, and she elbowed him, her patience fraying. “Murugan, tell me about the fever. Did you give him anything? Crocin? Water?”
“I gave him Crocin, but he’s still hot,” Murugan said, his voice softer now, almost pleading. “He needs you, Sakshi. I need you here. Just… come home. The ticket’s booked, Ravi’s sending the details. Be at the station by 6.”
She closed her eyes, her son’s soft snores from memory now replaced by imagined whimpers, his tiny hands reaching for her. “Okay,” she said finally, her voice heavy. “I’ll be there. Just… take care of him, Murugan. Keep him cool, sponge him down if you have to. I’ll call you when I’m at the station.” Ramu’s hand slid to her inner thigh, and she grabbed his wrist, twisting it sharply, her glare promising retribution. He pulled back, raising his hands in mock surrender, but his smirk didn’t fade.
“Fine,” Murugan said, his tone clipped. “Just don’t miss that train.” The call ended abruptly, the silence in the taxi deafening. Sakshi stared at the phone, her chest tight with conflicting emotions—worry for her son, anger at Ramu’s reckless teasing, and a gnawing unease about Murugan’s urgency. Is he really sick? Or is this… something else? Her mind flickered to Murugan’s recent distance, his sharp glances, the way he’d watched her with Ramu. He’s jealous. But my son…
She turned to Ramu, her eyes blazing. “You couldn’t stop for one damn minute?” she hissed, keeping her voice low so the driver wouldn’t hear. “My son’s sick, and you’re groping me like some teenager!”
Ramu’s smirk faded, his eyes softening, but only slightly. “You liked it,” he said, voice low, unapologetic. “And your son—he’ll be fine. Murugan’s just pulling you back, keeping you on his leash.”
“Shut up,” she snapped, her worry flaring into anger. “You don’t get to talk about my son. ” But even as she said it, her heart twisted, torn between the pull of her maternal instincts and the fire Ramu had ignited in her. She leaned back, staring out the window at the passing city lights, her mind a storm of guilt, desire, and fear.
The taxi rattled along the city’s uneven roads, the hum of its engine a dull counterpoint to the storm raging in Sakshi’s chest. The neon glow of streetlights flickered through the window, casting fleeting shadows across her face, each one mirroring the turmoil within her. She clutched her phone, its screen now dark, but Murugan’s voice still echoed in her ears—urgent, accusing, tugging at her heart with the weight of her son’s supposed fever. Her fingers trembled, her breath uneven, as guilt and anger wrestled for dominance. Ramu sat beside her, his presence a heavy, unspoken challenge, his hand resting lightly on the seat between them, no longer teasing but still too close, too warm. The air in the taxi felt thick, suffocating, as if it carried the weight of every choice she’d made since stepping into Ramu’s orbit.
Sakshi turned to him, her eyes glistening with unshed tears, her voice raw and jagged. “This is my fault,” she whispered, barely audible over the taxi’s rumble. “I shouldn’t have come. I shouldn’t have left him.” Her hands twisted in her lap, nails digging into her palms as if pain could anchor her spiraling thoughts. “He’s just a baby, Ramu. My baby. And I’m here, playing these… these games with you, while he’s burning up, crying for me.” Her voice broke, a sob catching in her throat. “What kind of mother does that? What kind of woman am I?”
Ramu’s gaze softened, but there was a steel beneath it, a quiet conviction that made her pause. He leaned closer, his voice low, steady, cutting through her self-recrimination like a blade. “Sakshi, listen to me. You’re not a bad mother. You’re a woman, alive, burning with need, same as me. You didn’t abandon your son. You took a moment for yourself—something your husband’s never given you.” He reached for her hand, his fingers warm and rough, grounding her. “And I don’t buy this fever story. Murugan’s pulling at your strings, trying to drag you back. He’s scared, Sakshi. Scared he’s losing you.”
She yanked her hand away, her eyes flashing with a mix of anger and desperation. “You don’t know that! You don’t know him! He wouldn’t lie about our son!” But even as she said it, doubt crept in, a cold tendril wrapping around her heart. Murugan’s voice had been too sharp, too rehearsed, the urgency laced with something else—jealousy, maybe, or control. She shook her head, tears spilling now, hot against her cheeks. “I have to go, Ramu. I have to. If he’s sick, I can’t just… stay here, kissing you, pretending it’s fine.”
Ramu’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he pulled out his phone, his movements deliberate, his eyes never leaving hers. “Fine. But let’s be sure. I’m not letting you run back to him on a lie.” He scrolled through his contacts, finding Arun’s number, and pressed call, his voice low and commanding when his son answered. “Arun, it’s me. I need you to do something, quietly. Go to Murugan’s place. Don’t go upstairs, don’t let him know you’re there. Just… watch. Check on the boy. See if he’s sick, if he’s crying, or if he’s fine. Call me back. Now.”
Sakshi stared at him, her breath hitching, torn between hope and dread. “What are you doing?” she whispered, her voice trembling. “You can’t just… spy on him.”
“I’m protecting you,” Ramu said, his tone unyielding, his eyes locked on hers. “If your son’s sick, I’ll drive you to the station myself. But if Murugan’s lying, you deserve to know. You’re not his puppet, Sakshi.” He reached out, brushing a tear from her cheek, his touch gentle but firm. “You’re mine.”
Her heart stuttered at his words, a dangerous thrill cutting through her guilt. She wanted to argue, to push back, but the weight of his gaze held her, anchoring her in the storm. The taxi slowed, caught in traffic, the driver cursing softly under his breath. Sakshi leaned back, her hands clenched, her mind a battlefield of love for her son and fury at the possibility of Murugan’s deception. *Please, let him be okay,* she prayed silently, picturing her son’s chubby cheeks, his trusting eyes. *Please.*
Minutes dragged like hours, the silence between them heavy, charged with unspoken words. Ramu’s phone buzzed, and he answered it quickly, his voice clipped. “Arun, what do you see?” He listened, his expression unreadable, then nodded. “Good. Thanks. Don’t say anything.” He hung up, turning to Sakshi, his eyes gleaming with a quiet triumph. “Your son’s fine. Arun saw him through the window, playing on an iPad, laughing. No fever, no crying. Just a boy with his toys.”
Relief flooded Sakshi, so sharp it stole her breath. She pressed a hand to her chest, tears spilling anew, but these were different—lighter, tinged with gratitude. “He’s okay,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Oh, thank God, he’s okay.” But the relief quickly soured, curdling into a white-hot anger that burned through her veins. She turned to Ramu, her eyes blazing, her voice low and venomous. “That bastard. That lying, manipulative bastard. He knew I’d come running. He knew I’d drop everything for our son, and he used it. Used *him*.”
Ramu’s lips curved, a dark satisfaction in his gaze. “Told you. He’s scared, Sakshi. Scared you’re slipping out of his grip. And he should be.” He leaned closer, his voice a low growl. “You’re not his anymore. You feel it, don’t you? The way your body sings for me, the way you come alive when I touch you.”
She glared at him, her anger spilling over, undirected now. “Don’t. Not now. I’m so pissed off, I could scream. He ruined this—ruined my night, my mood, everything. Making me think my son was suffering, just to control me.” She cursed under her breath, her words sharp and cutting. “Fuck him. Fuck his lies, his jealousy, his pathetic little games. He doesn’t deserve me. He never did.”
The taxi lurched forward, the city lights blurring past, but Sakshi barely noticed. Her heart pounded, a mix of relief for her son and rage at Murugan’s betrayal. She felt untethered, wild, the weight of her guilt lifting only to be replaced by a fierce, reckless energy. Ramu watched her, his silence heavy with intent, his hand resting on the seat, close but not touching, as if giving her space to burn. She turned to him, her eyes fierce, her voice low. “He’s not going to win this. I’m not going back tomorrow. Not for him.”
Ramu’s smile was slow, predatory. “That’s my girl,” he murmured, his voice thick with pride. The taxi rolled on, carrying them toward the hotel, toward whatever came next, the air between them crackling with the promise of rebellion.
----
The taxi jolted forward through the tangled veins of the city, its engine a low growl beneath the storm brewing in Sakshi’s heart. Her chest heaved with a volatile mix of relief for her son’s safety and a scalding rage at Murugan’s deceit, the emotions churning like a tempest trapped beneath her skin. The blurred city lights outside painted fleeting streaks of color across her face, but her eyes—dark, fierce, and glistening with unshed tears—were fixed on Ramu. His presence beside her was a steady flame, warming her anger into something wilder, something reckless. Her hands trembled in her lap, the weight of her earlier guilt lifting only to be replaced by a fierce determination to defy the cage Murugan had tried to lock her in. She was alive, burning, and Ramu’s gaze fueled that fire.
Ramu shifted closer, his shoulder brushing hers, his voice a low rumble that cut through the taxi’s hum. “Let’s go back tomorrow, Sakshi,” he said, his tone firm, laced with a cunning edge that made her pause. “You said you’re not going today, and I agree—don’t let that bastard drag you back now. He’s lying, playing you, and you know it. Your son’s fine—Arun saw him. This is Murugan’s game, and we’re not playing it on his terms.”
She turned to him, her breath sharp, her eyes narrowing with a mix of defiance and uncertainty. “Tomorrow? But he’s expecting me on that train. If I don’t go, he’ll suspect something—maybe even come looking. I can’t risk that, not with everything…” Her voice faltered, the image of her son’s innocent face flickering in her mind, warring with the heat of Ramu’s proximity.
He grinned, a slow, predatory curve of his lips that sent a shiver down her spine. “I’ve got it figured out, my fire. We’ll stay, spend the night, and head back tomorrow on our terms. I’m booking us a plane ticket—first flight out tomorrow evening. We’ll have the whole day together, just you and me, no interruptions. Then we’ll fly back, land by evening, and slip in separately. You come from the station like you took that train, and I’ll sneak back home. No one’s the wiser.”
Sakshi’s breath caught, her heart pounding with a wild, exhilarating thrill. She stared at him, her anger morphing into admiration, a spark of genius igniting in her chest. “You’re a devil, Ramu,” she whispered, her voice trembling with awe. “A bloody genius. All day with you… and he’ll never know.” Her lips curved into a reluctant smile, the weight of Murugan’s lie dissolving under the promise of freedom. “How do you even think of this?”
Ramu chuckled, his eyes glinting with triumph as he confirmed the booking, the faint chime of the transaction sealing their plan. “Because I know what I want, Sakshi. And I know you want it too. We’ll have our day—our night—and he can rot with his jealousy.” He pocketed the phone, his hand sliding to her knee, a possessive warmth spreading through her. “We’ll be back . You’ll walk in, tired from your ‘train ride,’ and he’ll be none the wiser. Trust me.”
She leaned into him, her body softening, her mind racing with the audacity of it all. “Trust you,” she murmured, her voice thick with emotion. “I do. God help me, I do.” The relief, the rebellion, the raw desire—it all swirled together, pulling her closer to him. She tilted her head, her lips brushing his, a tentative spark that ignited instantly. Ramu responded with hunger, his mouth claiming hers, deep and demanding, tasting of cardamom and forbidden promise.
The taxi’s motion faded into the background as they kissed, her hands sliding up his chest, fingers curling into his shirt. His hands roamed, one cupping her face, the other pulling her closer, pressing her breast through the thin fabric of her top. She moaned softly into his mouth, the sound muffled by the intensity of their connection, her anger fueling her passion. He kneaded her breast, his thumb circling with a slow, deliberate pressure that made her arch against him, her breath hitching with every touch.
“Ramu,” she gasped between kisses, her voice a mix of protest and plea as his hand slid lower, teasing the waistband of her jeans. “The driver…” But her words dissolved as he kissed her neck, his teeth grazing her skin, sending shivers down her spine. She clung to him, her fingers digging into his shoulders, lost in the heat of the moment. The city lights blurred past, the honks and shouts of the street a distant roar, as their lips met again and again, each kiss deeper, more desperate.
The taxi slowed, pulling up to the hotel’s dim entrance, its neon sign casting a pink glow over them. Ramu pulled back, his breath ragged, his eyes dark with desire. “We’re here,” he murmured, his voice rough, his hand lingering on her thigh. Sakshi nodded, her chest heaving, her lips swollen from his kisses. She adjusted her top, her heart pounding with a mix of exhilaration and anticipation, the day ahead stretching before her like a forbidden paradise. They stepped out, hands brushing, the promise of tomorrow electric between them as they disappeared into the hotel’s shadowed lobby.
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