04-09-2025, 02:02 AM
CHAPTER – 64
A month after Danish first raised the thought of Hyderabad, the city had started to seep into their lives like a quiet undercurrent. What began as fleeting remarks became longer conversations, and one breezy Sunday afternoon, it finally turned into something solid.
The monsoon had left the streets glistening that morning, the air cool and scented with wet earth. Kavya was busy in the kitchen, grinding fresh chutney, when Danish, sitting on the sofa with his phone, called out:
“Kavya.”
She appeared at the doorway, wiping her hands on her dupatta. “Hmm?”
Danish hesitated, his voice thoughtful. “What do you think about visiting Hyderabad next month? Just for a week, maybe ten days?”
Her heart clenched, though she kept her face calm. “So soon?”
“It’s been a year since the wedding,” he said softly. “Abba’s been alone all this while. Every time I talk to him, I feel the loneliness in his voice. We should go. At least for a visit.”
Kavya sat beside him, fingers twisting together in her lap. “It feels like such a big step.”
He reached out, taking her hand firmly. “It’s not permanent. We’ll see how it feels. No decisions, no pressure. But Abba deserves this much.”
His sincerity touched her. She nodded slowly. “Alright. Let’s go.”
Relief broke across his face, and he kissed her forehead before reaching for his phone. “I’ll call him now.”
When Feroz answered, his deep voice was lined with surprise. “Danish? Everything alright, beta?”
“Everything’s fine, Abba,” Danish replied warmly. “Actually, I wanted to tell you something. Kavya and I are planning to visit Hyderabad. Maybe next month.”
There was silence for a heartbeat. Then Feroz’s voice, unsteady with emotion: “You’re… coming here? Truly?”
“Yes, Abba. It’s been too long. We want to spend some time with you.”
Feroz leaned back in his chair, his eyes stinging. The words sank into him like cool water after a long thirst. For months, his days had been filled with routine — meals alone, evenings spent in silence, memories pressing against the walls. But through it all, one thing had comforted him: Kavya.
He already knew her well — not just as his son’s wife, but as a woman he had quietly observed. Her gentleness when she spoke, the way her laughter softened Danish’s edges, the patience with which she managed their small Mumbai flat. He remembered the way she had stood at his side during difficult conversations, her presence steady. He had seen her spirit — graceful, stubborn, compassionate — and it reminded him so much of the strength his late wife once carried.
Now, the thought of having her under his roof again — this time as family, as someone he could openly cherish — filled him with a warmth he had not felt in years.
“Kavya beti…” he said softly, his voice carrying across the line. “You don’t know how much happiness you’ve given me with this news. This house is yours too. I know you, I know your heart. You’ll find it welcoming here.”
Kavya’s throat tightened. She managed a polite, “Ji, Abba,” though the words trembled as they left her lips.
Feroz chuckled softly, but there was a break in his tone. “May ,.' bless you both. Come soon. Don’t delay too much. I’ll be waiting.”
When the call ended, Danish’s face glowed with relief, his shoulders lighter than they had been in weeks. But Kavya sat still, the dupatta gathered tightly in her fingers.
Visiting Hyderabad was no longer an idea. It was a promise. And though Feroz’s voice had been filled with warmth, she couldn’t ignore the storm that stirred within her.
The flight touched down just as the evening sun was sinking into a haze of gold and rose. Kavya peered out of the small oval window, her chest tightening. Hyderabad stretched out below — a sprawl of old domes and new glass, stitched together by roads gleaming with headlights.
Beside her, Danish leaned back with a grin that hadn’t left his face since they’d boarded. “Home,” he whispered. The word was simple, but it carried a weight that pressed on Kavya. For him, it was reunion. For her, it was return.
At the arrival gate, Feroz stood waiting. Tall, broad-shouldered, and still remarkably fit, he looked more like a man in his forties than sixty. His crisp white kurta highlighted his strong frame. The moment he spotted them, his eyes softened — first at his son, then briefly, lingeringly, at Kavya.
“Abba!” Danish strode forward, wrapping his arms around him. Feroz’s large hands patted his son’s back firmly. “My Danish.”
When they parted, Kavya stepped forward, her palms pressed lightly together in the respectful Namaste she had been taught. She had been here before, walking these corridors, but now, as Danish’s wife, the gesture carried weight.
“Abba beti,” Feroz greeted, his voice warm yet commanding.
Kavya lowered her eyes, her fingers brushing the folds of her saree-turned-lehenga dupatta. “Namaste, Abba,” she said softly.
“Safe journey?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied quickly, mindful of her posture and tone, subtle signs of her ***** upbringing — respectful, reserved, observant.
As they walked to the car, Kavya’s eyes scanned the familiar yet changed home. She noticed the high ceilings, the carved doors, the faint scent of sandalwood, and the quiet order of the courtyard. She had been here before, but now, stepping in as Danish’s wife, she felt the delicate dance of adapting to another culture while maintaining her own dignity and upbringing.
In the car, Danish chatted easily with Feroz, oblivious to the tension Kavya felt. She, however, noticed everything: the neat arrangement of cushions, the subtle aroma of incense, the precision of the household — all things she respected, all things that reminded her of how careful she needed to be.
Feroz’s eyes met hers briefly in the rearview mirror. He knew her — not as a visitor, but as someone graceful, disciplined, mindful, and perceptive. He had watched her, understood her ways, admired her quiet composure and the inner strength of her ***** upbringing. That awareness, combined with the faint memory of closeness she carried, made her pulse quicken.
The house welcomed them, and Kavya’s steps were measured, polite, respectful. She made small gestures: touching the threshold before entering, folding her hands when greeting, adjusting her dupatta carefully — each action marking her ***** roots while negotiating the warmth and openness of Feroz’s home.
Danish laughed and settled comfortably in the drawing room. Kavya’s attention, however, remained partially on Feroz — tall, fit, commanding, yet gentle in his movements. He moved with a quiet grace that contrasted with the imposing structure of his home. The tension between what she knew, what she felt, and the decorum she maintained hummed quietly beneath the surface.
That night, as she lay beside Danish in the guest bedroom, she stared at the carved ceiling, listening to the faint sounds of the house settling into silence. Danish slept soundly, his arm dbangd over her waist.
Kavya slowly moved his hand and slowly went upstairs to the guest room.
The door creaked open, and Kavya stepped inside, the room unchanged, a time capsule of memories. The bed was neatly made, the curtains drawn against the afternoon sun, casting the space in a soft, diffused light. She closed the door behind her, leaning against it, her breath catching as the memories flooded back, vivid and intensely erotic. The air seemed to thicken, carrying the ghost of that night—the power cut, her scream, Feroz’s footsteps racing up the stairs. She could almost feel the panic rising again, the darkness swallowing her, until his arms had encircled her, pulling her into his chest, his strength a shield against the terror.
Kavya moved to the bed, her fingers trailing over the sheets, the fabric cool beneath her touch. She sat on the edge, her heart racing, her mind replaying the moments in searing, sensual detail. She remembered the way Feroz had held her tightly, his arms wrapping around her waist like steel bands, pulling her flush against him, her body molding to his. The heat of his chest against her breasts, the thin nightgown doing little to separate them, the rapid rise and fall of her chest syncing with his. His hands had been firm, possessive, splaying across her lower back, fingers digging into her hips as if to anchor her to him, his touch sending waves of electricity through her.
Her breath quickened as she recalled his nose touching her neck, grazing the sensitive skin with a slow, deliberate slide. The roughness of his stubble had scbangd lightly, a contrast to the warmth of his breath, hot and teasing against her pulse. Each graze had ignited goosebumps, her body trembling not just from fear but from the intimate pull of his closeness. She remembered how, in the flow of the moment, his face had dipped lower, his nose brushing the soft, exposed skin of her cleavage, the contact deeper, more intentional. He had sniffed her there, inhaling the warm, fragrant scent of her skin, the musky mix of jasmine and sweat, his breath fanning across the tender swell of her breast. The sensation had been overwhelming, a jolt that made her arch into him, her fingers tightening in his hair, her nails scbanging his scalp.
And then, the memory that sent a flush of heat through her now—the way she had pulled him closer, her hands gripping the back of his neck with a desperate, almost primal force. Her fingers had dug into the taut muscles, her nails biting into his skin, leaving faint crescent marks as she tugged him toward her, urging him deeper into the forbidden intimacy of the moment. The act had been instinctive, her body responding to the fire between them, her breasts pressing harder against his chest, the thin nightgown slipping further to bare more of her skin. She had pulled him so close that their breaths mingled, her lips grazing his collarbone, her heart pounding as she surrendered to the heat, the roughness of his stubble against her cleavage sending shivers through her.
Kavya’s breath came in shallow gasps now, her body warm with the memory, a flush creeping across her skin. She lay back on the bed, her eyes closing, reliving the way his weight had pressed her into the mattress, his leg between hers, their bodies intertwined. She remembered the moment he had pinned her wrists above her head, stretching her body, exposing the smooth, freshly shaven curve of her armpits, the musky scent of her sweat mingling with her jasmine perfume. Her fingers had gripped the back of his neck again, pulling him closer, her nails digging deeper, urging him to linger in the heat of her cleavage, where his nose had traced the tender swell, his stubble scbanging with a delicious, rough friction. The memory of her own actions—the way she had pulled him closer, her body arching to meet his, her nails leaving marks as she clung to him—sent a fresh wave of heat through her, her skin tingling with the intensity of the recollection.
She recalled the way he had pulled her nighty strap down, his fingers hooking under the thin fabric, tugging it lower to bare the smooth curve of her shoulder and the upper swell of her breast. The cool air had kissed her skin, a contrast to the searing heat of his breath as his nose grazed the newly exposed flesh, his stubble scbanging lightly, igniting a shiver that cascaded through her. Her hands had tightened on the back of his neck, her fingers threading deeper into his hair, her nails digging into his scalp as she pulled him closer, urging him to linger, to explore. The sensation had been electric, her body trembling beneath him, her breath coming in soft, involuntary moans as she surrendered to the forbidden pull, her grip on his neck a silent plea for more.
Kavya’s heart pounded now, her body flushed with the erotic intensity of the memory, the way their closeness had been both a comfort and a fire, the boundaries of their roles blurring in the darkness. She remembered the weight of his body, the strength in his hands, the way her fingers had clutched the back of his neck, pulling him closer, her nails leaving faint marks as she urged him deeper into the moment.
As she was lost in those moments she forgot that she left Danish alone so she went back to the room and laid beside him but she is still breathing heavy with all those thoughts.
A month after Danish first raised the thought of Hyderabad, the city had started to seep into their lives like a quiet undercurrent. What began as fleeting remarks became longer conversations, and one breezy Sunday afternoon, it finally turned into something solid.
The monsoon had left the streets glistening that morning, the air cool and scented with wet earth. Kavya was busy in the kitchen, grinding fresh chutney, when Danish, sitting on the sofa with his phone, called out:
“Kavya.”
She appeared at the doorway, wiping her hands on her dupatta. “Hmm?”
Danish hesitated, his voice thoughtful. “What do you think about visiting Hyderabad next month? Just for a week, maybe ten days?”
Her heart clenched, though she kept her face calm. “So soon?”
“It’s been a year since the wedding,” he said softly. “Abba’s been alone all this while. Every time I talk to him, I feel the loneliness in his voice. We should go. At least for a visit.”
Kavya sat beside him, fingers twisting together in her lap. “It feels like such a big step.”
He reached out, taking her hand firmly. “It’s not permanent. We’ll see how it feels. No decisions, no pressure. But Abba deserves this much.”
His sincerity touched her. She nodded slowly. “Alright. Let’s go.”
Relief broke across his face, and he kissed her forehead before reaching for his phone. “I’ll call him now.”
When Feroz answered, his deep voice was lined with surprise. “Danish? Everything alright, beta?”
“Everything’s fine, Abba,” Danish replied warmly. “Actually, I wanted to tell you something. Kavya and I are planning to visit Hyderabad. Maybe next month.”
There was silence for a heartbeat. Then Feroz’s voice, unsteady with emotion: “You’re… coming here? Truly?”
“Yes, Abba. It’s been too long. We want to spend some time with you.”
Feroz leaned back in his chair, his eyes stinging. The words sank into him like cool water after a long thirst. For months, his days had been filled with routine — meals alone, evenings spent in silence, memories pressing against the walls. But through it all, one thing had comforted him: Kavya.
He already knew her well — not just as his son’s wife, but as a woman he had quietly observed. Her gentleness when she spoke, the way her laughter softened Danish’s edges, the patience with which she managed their small Mumbai flat. He remembered the way she had stood at his side during difficult conversations, her presence steady. He had seen her spirit — graceful, stubborn, compassionate — and it reminded him so much of the strength his late wife once carried.
Now, the thought of having her under his roof again — this time as family, as someone he could openly cherish — filled him with a warmth he had not felt in years.
“Kavya beti…” he said softly, his voice carrying across the line. “You don’t know how much happiness you’ve given me with this news. This house is yours too. I know you, I know your heart. You’ll find it welcoming here.”
Kavya’s throat tightened. She managed a polite, “Ji, Abba,” though the words trembled as they left her lips.
Feroz chuckled softly, but there was a break in his tone. “May ,.' bless you both. Come soon. Don’t delay too much. I’ll be waiting.”
When the call ended, Danish’s face glowed with relief, his shoulders lighter than they had been in weeks. But Kavya sat still, the dupatta gathered tightly in her fingers.
Visiting Hyderabad was no longer an idea. It was a promise. And though Feroz’s voice had been filled with warmth, she couldn’t ignore the storm that stirred within her.
The flight touched down just as the evening sun was sinking into a haze of gold and rose. Kavya peered out of the small oval window, her chest tightening. Hyderabad stretched out below — a sprawl of old domes and new glass, stitched together by roads gleaming with headlights.
Beside her, Danish leaned back with a grin that hadn’t left his face since they’d boarded. “Home,” he whispered. The word was simple, but it carried a weight that pressed on Kavya. For him, it was reunion. For her, it was return.
At the arrival gate, Feroz stood waiting. Tall, broad-shouldered, and still remarkably fit, he looked more like a man in his forties than sixty. His crisp white kurta highlighted his strong frame. The moment he spotted them, his eyes softened — first at his son, then briefly, lingeringly, at Kavya.
“Abba!” Danish strode forward, wrapping his arms around him. Feroz’s large hands patted his son’s back firmly. “My Danish.”
When they parted, Kavya stepped forward, her palms pressed lightly together in the respectful Namaste she had been taught. She had been here before, walking these corridors, but now, as Danish’s wife, the gesture carried weight.
“Abba beti,” Feroz greeted, his voice warm yet commanding.
Kavya lowered her eyes, her fingers brushing the folds of her saree-turned-lehenga dupatta. “Namaste, Abba,” she said softly.
“Safe journey?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied quickly, mindful of her posture and tone, subtle signs of her ***** upbringing — respectful, reserved, observant.
As they walked to the car, Kavya’s eyes scanned the familiar yet changed home. She noticed the high ceilings, the carved doors, the faint scent of sandalwood, and the quiet order of the courtyard. She had been here before, but now, stepping in as Danish’s wife, she felt the delicate dance of adapting to another culture while maintaining her own dignity and upbringing.
In the car, Danish chatted easily with Feroz, oblivious to the tension Kavya felt. She, however, noticed everything: the neat arrangement of cushions, the subtle aroma of incense, the precision of the household — all things she respected, all things that reminded her of how careful she needed to be.
Feroz’s eyes met hers briefly in the rearview mirror. He knew her — not as a visitor, but as someone graceful, disciplined, mindful, and perceptive. He had watched her, understood her ways, admired her quiet composure and the inner strength of her ***** upbringing. That awareness, combined with the faint memory of closeness she carried, made her pulse quicken.
The house welcomed them, and Kavya’s steps were measured, polite, respectful. She made small gestures: touching the threshold before entering, folding her hands when greeting, adjusting her dupatta carefully — each action marking her ***** roots while negotiating the warmth and openness of Feroz’s home.
Danish laughed and settled comfortably in the drawing room. Kavya’s attention, however, remained partially on Feroz — tall, fit, commanding, yet gentle in his movements. He moved with a quiet grace that contrasted with the imposing structure of his home. The tension between what she knew, what she felt, and the decorum she maintained hummed quietly beneath the surface.
That night, as she lay beside Danish in the guest bedroom, she stared at the carved ceiling, listening to the faint sounds of the house settling into silence. Danish slept soundly, his arm dbangd over her waist.
Kavya slowly moved his hand and slowly went upstairs to the guest room.
The door creaked open, and Kavya stepped inside, the room unchanged, a time capsule of memories. The bed was neatly made, the curtains drawn against the afternoon sun, casting the space in a soft, diffused light. She closed the door behind her, leaning against it, her breath catching as the memories flooded back, vivid and intensely erotic. The air seemed to thicken, carrying the ghost of that night—the power cut, her scream, Feroz’s footsteps racing up the stairs. She could almost feel the panic rising again, the darkness swallowing her, until his arms had encircled her, pulling her into his chest, his strength a shield against the terror.
Kavya moved to the bed, her fingers trailing over the sheets, the fabric cool beneath her touch. She sat on the edge, her heart racing, her mind replaying the moments in searing, sensual detail. She remembered the way Feroz had held her tightly, his arms wrapping around her waist like steel bands, pulling her flush against him, her body molding to his. The heat of his chest against her breasts, the thin nightgown doing little to separate them, the rapid rise and fall of her chest syncing with his. His hands had been firm, possessive, splaying across her lower back, fingers digging into her hips as if to anchor her to him, his touch sending waves of electricity through her.
Her breath quickened as she recalled his nose touching her neck, grazing the sensitive skin with a slow, deliberate slide. The roughness of his stubble had scbangd lightly, a contrast to the warmth of his breath, hot and teasing against her pulse. Each graze had ignited goosebumps, her body trembling not just from fear but from the intimate pull of his closeness. She remembered how, in the flow of the moment, his face had dipped lower, his nose brushing the soft, exposed skin of her cleavage, the contact deeper, more intentional. He had sniffed her there, inhaling the warm, fragrant scent of her skin, the musky mix of jasmine and sweat, his breath fanning across the tender swell of her breast. The sensation had been overwhelming, a jolt that made her arch into him, her fingers tightening in his hair, her nails scbanging his scalp.
And then, the memory that sent a flush of heat through her now—the way she had pulled him closer, her hands gripping the back of his neck with a desperate, almost primal force. Her fingers had dug into the taut muscles, her nails biting into his skin, leaving faint crescent marks as she tugged him toward her, urging him deeper into the forbidden intimacy of the moment. The act had been instinctive, her body responding to the fire between them, her breasts pressing harder against his chest, the thin nightgown slipping further to bare more of her skin. She had pulled him so close that their breaths mingled, her lips grazing his collarbone, her heart pounding as she surrendered to the heat, the roughness of his stubble against her cleavage sending shivers through her.
Kavya’s breath came in shallow gasps now, her body warm with the memory, a flush creeping across her skin. She lay back on the bed, her eyes closing, reliving the way his weight had pressed her into the mattress, his leg between hers, their bodies intertwined. She remembered the moment he had pinned her wrists above her head, stretching her body, exposing the smooth, freshly shaven curve of her armpits, the musky scent of her sweat mingling with her jasmine perfume. Her fingers had gripped the back of his neck again, pulling him closer, her nails digging deeper, urging him to linger in the heat of her cleavage, where his nose had traced the tender swell, his stubble scbanging with a delicious, rough friction. The memory of her own actions—the way she had pulled him closer, her body arching to meet his, her nails leaving marks as she clung to him—sent a fresh wave of heat through her, her skin tingling with the intensity of the recollection.
She recalled the way he had pulled her nighty strap down, his fingers hooking under the thin fabric, tugging it lower to bare the smooth curve of her shoulder and the upper swell of her breast. The cool air had kissed her skin, a contrast to the searing heat of his breath as his nose grazed the newly exposed flesh, his stubble scbanging lightly, igniting a shiver that cascaded through her. Her hands had tightened on the back of his neck, her fingers threading deeper into his hair, her nails digging into his scalp as she pulled him closer, urging him to linger, to explore. The sensation had been electric, her body trembling beneath him, her breath coming in soft, involuntary moans as she surrendered to the forbidden pull, her grip on his neck a silent plea for more.
Kavya’s heart pounded now, her body flushed with the erotic intensity of the memory, the way their closeness had been both a comfort and a fire, the boundaries of their roles blurring in the darkness. She remembered the weight of his body, the strength in his hands, the way her fingers had clutched the back of his neck, pulling him closer, her nails leaving faint marks as she urged him deeper into the moment.
As she was lost in those moments she forgot that she left Danish alone so she went back to the room and laid beside him but she is still breathing heavy with all those thoughts.
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