Adultery Vinod- A Financial Cuckold.

[V4poison]

Kishore had chosen the corner table for a reason: it was just far enough from the kitchen that you could hear each other over the hiss of the coffee machine, but close enough to smell the fresh batter on the dosa pan. He checked his watch again. 1:19 p.m. Two minutes late. He stirred the sambar with the back of his spoon and watched the entrance, a soft frown pinching the bridge of his nose.



Vinod entered five minutes later, shoulders hunched, hands clutching his backpack straps so hard his knuckles were white. His glasses were smudged, and his hair was still damp at the edges, like he’d showered in a hurry but not dried off. The shadows under his eyes were new—deep half-moons that made his whole face look older, or maybe just beaten down.



“Sorry,” Vinod said, sliding into the plastic chair. He put his bag on his lap instead of the floor, and when the waiter came, he shook his head without even glancing at the menu. “Just water, please.”



Kishore gestured at the masala dosa already waiting for him. “Order something,” he said, voice gentle. “It’s my treat. Come on, man.”



Vinod shook his head. “Not hungry. Had lunch at home.”



Kishore didn’t argue. He just waited, using the edge of his dosa to scoop up potato filling, then swallowing it without tasting. He’d known Vinod since college—knew how he could talk for hours about Linux kernels but would clam up at the smallest personal question. Kishore prided himself on being the “fixer” in their friend group, the one who’d sit with you outside the exam hall or loan you ten thousand rupees when your internship fell through.



But the last few weeks, Vinod had been a different animal. He came late, left early, and never replied to group messages. Kishore had started inviting him to lunch just to get a read.



They ate in silence for a bit. Vinod tapped at his phone under the table, thumb flicking over the screen in frantic, tiny movements. Once, he slipped the phone out, checked a notification, then set it face-down on the table as if ashamed.



Kishore watched all of it, saying nothing until Vinod started fishing in his bag. Vinod pulled out a small envelope and a crumple of cash, counting the bills with both hands hidden beneath the surface of the table.



Kishore put down his spoon and leaned in. “You’ve been skipping meals for weeks now. What’s going on?”



Vinod looked up, startled. The envelope disappeared into his bag. “Nothing,” he said, voice thin. “Just—saving up. For a new computer. Prices are crazy these days.”



Kishore didn’t buy it. “You’re not eating, you look like you haven’t slept in a month, and you’re counting money like you’re about to pay off a kidnapper.” He smiled a little, trying to make it a joke. “Tell me. What’s really going on?”



Vinod shrugged. “Work is busy. My team’s launching a new feature—lots of overtime.”



Kishore nodded, but kept his eyes on Vinod’s hands, which were now locked together and shaking a little. “I talked to Ramya from HR,” Kishore said, voice lower. “She says you’ve been taking unpaid leave. Said you’re working some night jobs, too. And—” He paused, choosing the next words carefully. “I know you borrowed money from Aravind, but you never told me why.”



Vinod went still, only his eyes darting left and right. “It’s nothing,” he whispered. “Just a rough patch.”



Kishore set his spoon down, wiped his hands on a napkin, and leaned across the table so close that Vinod had to look at him. “Is this about that neighbor woman? Sharmi?”



For a second, it looked like Vinod might bolt. His whole body tensed, lips pressed tight, and his right hand closed so hard on the edge of the table that his fingers went white.



Then he relaxed, but only a little. “No,” he lied, voice shaky. “She’s fine. I mean, we talk sometimes, but that’s it.”



Kishore didn’t buy it. “Aravind said you asked for money with no explanation, just ‘please, it’s urgent, I’ll pay you back.’ You started doing odd jobs, walking dogs, even. You’re sending cash transfers to someone every Sunday. And the last time I checked, you don’t even like dogs.”



Vinod’s eyes flicked to the clock, then the door, then back to his hands. “You wouldn’t understand,” he said, so quietly Kishore had to lean in further.



“Try me,” Kishore said. “We’ve been friends since college. Whatever this is, I can help.”



Vinod’s reply was a faint, hopeless laugh. “Nobody can help.”



Kishore reached out, his fingers resting on the back of Vinod’s hand. “Listen, if she’s blackmailing you, or—”



Vinod jerked his hand away so fast he knocked over the water glass. It rolled, splashing cold water all over the table and soaking both their sleeves. The waiter rushed over with napkins, but Vinod waved him away, face red, eyes locked on the wet plastic tabletop.



“I have to go,” Vinod said. He stood up so quickly his chair squeaked. “There’s a deployment at two. I’ll call you later.”



Kishore tried to catch his arm, but Vinod was already backing away, grabbing his backpack and fumbling the envelope into it. “Vinod—” Kishore said, but the word died in his throat.



Vinod turned and hurried out of the café, pushing past the glass door into the bright, punishing sunlight. Kishore watched him go, the trail of water on the floor marking each hasty step.



He sat back down and stared at the empty chair. For a long time, he didn’t touch his food. He just watched the sunlit air above the table, as if hoping the answers would float up from the puddle still glistening on the plastic.



Kishore picked up his phone and scrolled to Vinod’s number, but didn’t dial. He wanted to text, to reach out, but the words felt hollow. He set the phone aside, finished his dosa in silence, and paid for both meals.



As he left the café, he glanced back at the water stain on the table. It was already drying, but the outline was still there—a faint, desperate mark, refusing to fade.
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Sharmi vacuumed the living room twice before her mother arrived, not because the carpet needed it, but because the hum of the machine drowned out the words replaying in her head. She dusted the TV, wiped the coffee table, arranged the stack of magazines just so—Vogue, The Atlantic, an old Economist from before the pandemic. No “Women’s Era,” no devotional calendar. She checked her reflection in the stainless-steel fridge, straightened her hair, and practiced smiling without showing her teeth.



The doorbell rang at 4:02 p.m., which meant her mother had waited two full minutes in the street to avoid seeming eager. Sharmi opened the door and let Nalini in, taking the inevitable once-over with a practiced blankness. Nalini wore a pale blue cotton sari and pearl earrings, hair tied tight at the base of her neck. The faint scent of Pond’s powder drifted in as she stepped over the threshold.



“Nice,” Nalini said, lips pursed as she surveyed the entryway. “Very modern.”



“Thank you, Amma,” Sharmi said, stepping aside. She closed the door and led the way to the living room, where the table was already set with two plain white mugs and a plate of Britannia Marie biscuits. Nalini’s eyes flicked from the mugs to the magazines to the clean, unadorned walls.



“No rangoli?” she asked, glancing at the porch through the window.



“I haven’t learned,” Sharmi lied.



Nalini clucked her tongue. “You should. Even Priya knows how to draw them now.”



Sharmi poured tea from the metal pot, careful not to spill. The mugs were from IKEA—no saucers, no gold rim, just plain, solid white. She handed a mug to her mother, who took it with two fingers and set it down immediately.



“So. How is the work-from-home life?” Nalini asked, sitting on the edge of the couch like a visiting inspector.



Sharmi sat across from her, crossing one leg over the other. “Fine. Quiet. I get a lot done.”



Nalini picked up her mug, frowned at its lack of weight, then set it back down. “I heard from your father that you’re not accepting the TCS offer.”



Sharmi nodded. “I told him already. I’m consulting for two US startups. More pay, less politics.”



Nalini’s jaw tightened. “It’s not permanent. No benefits. Who will give you leave when you have a baby? Or when your child is sick?”



Sharmi sipped her tea. “I don’t have a child.”



“Not yet,” Nalini said. She snapped open her purse and pulled out a stack of glossy color photographs, bound with a thin pink ribbon. She untied it with a practiced motion, as if she’d done this a hundred times.



“Your cousin Priya just got engaged,” Nalini began, thumbing through the top photo. “Doctor, settled in Hyderabad. Her parents are so proud.”



Sharmi smiled. “I know. She posts every meal on Instagram.”



Nalini paused, lips tight. “Sharmi, please don’t talk back. Your father is worried. He thinks you don’t respect the family.”



Sharmi kept her smile in place, but her left hand gripped the mug tighter.



“I brought some good proposals,” Nalini went on. She slid the stack of photos across the table. “All respectable families. We can arrange a video call, if you like.”



Sharmi glanced at the stack but didn’t touch it. The men in the photos looked like variations on a theme: white shirt, serious face, a faint hint of desperation behind the smiles. She wondered what their mothers had told them.



Nalini took a Marie biscuit, breaking it with a sharp snap. “It’s time, Sharmi. You’re not getting any younger. I can’t defend your choices forever.”



Sharmi’s knuckles turned white around the mug. “I’m not asking you to.”



Nalini shook her head. “You don’t understand. People talk. They see you living alone, no steady job, no husband. They ask questions. It’s not safe.”



Sharmi wanted to say, “Let them ask,” but instead she looked at the mug and nodded.



“Your cousin Priya is two years younger, and already—”



“Engaged to a doctor in Hyderabad,” Sharmi finished, too quickly.



Nalini sighed, a long, theatrical exhale. She leaned forward, voice softer now. “Sharmi, beta, you are clever. But the world is cruel to clever girls. They will only hurt you. Let us help. Please consider these matches.”



Sharmi’s eyes stung, but she smiled anyway. “Okay, Amma. I’ll look at them.”



Nalini relaxed, her shoulders dropping a fraction. “Good. Your father will be happy to hear that.”



They drank their tea in silence. Nalini nibbled another biscuit, dusted crumbs off her sari, and scanned the room again.



“Why don’t you have any family pictures?” she asked.



Sharmi shrugged. “Didn’t want to put holes in the walls.”



Nalini shook her head, half in pity, half in judgment. “Your grandfather would faint if he saw this. A home with no God photos, no family history—just these magazines and books.”



Sharmi looked at the magazines, wondering if she should hide them next time.



“I have to go,” Nalini said, rising suddenly. “There’s a temple event at five.”



Sharmi stood. “Do you want to take some tea for Appa?”



Nalini hesitated, then nodded. “Yes. He likes it strong.”



Sharmi poured the tea into a travel mug, wrapped the handle with a napkin, and handed it to her mother. Their fingers touched for half a second—Nalini’s skin cool, dry, steady.



“Call me,” Nalini said at the door. “Let me know if you choose anyone.”



“I will,” Sharmi promised.



She watched her mother walk down the driveway, sari swishing, head held high. Only when the car pulled away did Sharmi let her smile drop.



She walked back to the living room, sat down, and exhaled through her nose. She closed her eyes, letting the leftover heat from her mother’s presence settle into the cushions. She waited for her heart to slow, then reached for her phone.



She opened her notebook—an old college diary, the kind with plastic tabs and ruled pages. The cover read “Rules,” written in blue ballpoint. The first page was filled with bullet points: “No calls after 9 p.m.,” “Always knock before entering,” “Payments every Sunday.” She flipped to the next blank space and wrote: “50% increase in weekly tribute. Effective immediately.”



She pressed her pen so hard the tip nearly broke through the paper.



Then she called Vinod.



He answered on the second ring. His voice was thinner than she remembered, like it was coming from far away.



“Yes, Sharmi?”



She spoke quickly, before she could lose her nerve. “Starting this week, I need more. Fifty percent extra. Non-negotiable.”



Vinod didn’t speak right away. She heard a tremor in the line, maybe a breath or a sob, but it was gone before she could be sure.



“I—I can try,” he said. “But I don’t know—”



She cut him off. “You only get to talk when you pay extra now. That’s the new rule.”



A long, heavy silence. Then a soft: “Yes. I understand.”



She hung up and set the phone on the table. Her pulse was steady now, her jaw relaxed.



Sharmi looked at the white mug in her hand. The rim was chipped. She liked it that way.



She closed the notebook, set it on the pile of magazines, and let herself smile. Not for her mother, not for anyone else. Just for herself, and the way the world kept spinning, even as the rules changed underneath it.