Adultery Office executive Se Randi Tak: Chaitali Ka Safar

[Mohit.Kumar]

The headlights of Armaan’s sleek, dark sedan sliced through the dusty twilight of her modest Gurgaon lane like twin blades, illuminating stray dogs and the startled eyes of neighbours leaning out from balconies. It was precisely eight. Chaitali stood frozen just inside her building’s grimy entrance, the heavy silk of the maroon saree a cool, alien weight against her skin. She had dbangd it meticulously, the pallu pulled securely across her chest and shoulders, covering her collarbones entirely, the fabric cascading in thick, concealing folds.

Taking a shuddering breath that did nothing to calm the frantic drumming in her chest, she stepped out. The humid night air, thick with the scent of frying oil and sewage, clung to her instantly. She felt the silk cling too, dampening against the small of her back where perspiration had already begun to bead despite the evening cool. Her feet, encased in unfamiliar low heels, felt unsteady on the cracked pavement. She kept her gaze fixed on the car’s tinted windshield, avoiding the curious stares, her fingers unconsciously tightening the pallu’s grip as she approached the passenger door.

The car’s interior exhaled a wave of chilled, leather-scented air as the door swung open. Armaan leaned across the centre console, his smile a white slash in the dashboard’s soft glow. "Chaitali," he purred, his gaze sweeping over her covered form with an intensity that felt like a physical touch. "You look... traditional." The slight pause before the word, the faint arch of his eyebrow, transformed it from observation into a subtle, knowing critique. She murmured a greeting, sliding onto the cool leather seat, the movement making the silk whisper loudly in the sudden quiet. She arranged the pallu carefully, ensuring the deep maroon folds completely obscured her shoulders and the swell of her breasts, the fabric a heavy, reassuring shield against his appraisal.

As the car glided into the chaotic Gurgaon traffic, the silence thickened. Chaitali stared out at the blur of neon signs and headlights, acutely aware of Armaan’s presence beside her – the expensive scent of his aftershave, the faint rustle of his linen jacket, the low hum of the powerful engine vibrating through the seat and up her spine. Her own scent – coconut oil, nervous sweat, and the faint, dusty aroma of the silk – felt embarrassingly primal in contrast.

Armaan’s hand rested casually on the gear shift, his thumb tapping a slow rhythm. His gaze slid sideways, lingering not on her face, but on the heavy dbang of the maroon pallu covering her shoulder. "The silk suits you," he murmured, his voice a low thrum that resonated in the confined space. "Deep colours... they complement your skin tone." His fingers flexed slightly on the gear knob. "Though," he added, a hint of playful challenge in his tone, "I was hoping for a glimpse of that famous Bengali back. Silk against skin... it’s quite a sight." He didn’t look at her as he said it, focusing on the road, but the words landed like a physical touch, making the fine hairs on her nape prickle.

Chaitali stiffened, her knuckles whitening where they clutched the pallu’s edge. The cool silk suddenly felt suffocating against her collarbone. "Sir," she began, her voice tight, the Bengali lilt thickening her Hinglish, "aapko pata hai, humare yahan... it’s not... not usual." She swallowed, the movement visible in the tense line of her throat. "Blouse pehenti hain. Proper." The word "proper" came out sharper than intended, a shield against his probing gaze.

Armaan chuckled, a low, smooth sound that vibrated through the leather seat. He navigated a sharp turn, the centrifugal force pressing Chaitali momentarily against the door, the silk whispering urgently. "Proper?" he echoed, his eyes flicking to her reflection in the rearview mirror. "But Chaitali, proper can be boring. Dekho na, that silk..." He gestured vaguely towards her shoulder with his free hand. "...it’s begging to show a little skin. Kuchh toh dikhao, yaar. What’s underneath?" His tone was light, teasing, but his gaze remained sharp, dissecting her covered form. "Or," he leaned infinitesimally closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur laced with Hindi, "kya tumne kuchh... interesting pehna hai? Koi lace? Koi design?" The intimate question hung in the chilled air, charged with an expectation that made her skin prickle beneath the heavy silk.

Chaitali felt a flush ignite across her chest and climb her neck, hot and undeniable. The cool air conditioning suddenly felt like needles against her heated skin. She clutched the pallu tighter, the intricate zari border digging into her palm. Her mouth went dry. "Sir," she stammered, the Bengali lilt heavy, "it’s... it’s just a blouse. Simple." She forced herself to look straight ahead, focusing on the blur of neon-lit shops. "Cotton. High neck." The lie tasted metallic.  He knows, a frantic voice whispered inside her. He knows it’s not a blouse. Sweat beaded along her hairline, threatening to escape.

Armaan’s chuckle was low, predatory. He shifted gears smoothly, his knuckles brushing her knee for a fleeting, electric instant. "Cotton? High neck? Arre yaar, Chaitali," he teased, his Hindi laced with playful disbelief. "With this silk? Seems... mismatched, no?"  He paused, letting the implication hang. "Tell me, sach batao... is it lace? Silk? Or maybe..." he lowered his voice, leaning closer, "...maybe kuchh bhi nahi?" His breath, warm and smelling faintly of mint, ghosted over her temple. The car’s engine hummed, vibrating through the seat, syncing with the frantic pulse pounding in her wrists.

"Nahi, sir!" she blurted, the Bengali sharp, panicked. "Blouse hai. Proper blouse!" Her fingers twisted the pallu’s edge, the zari border biting into her damp palm. The lie felt thick and clumsy on her tongue. "It is... decent," she whispered, her voice trembling, the English word sounding hollow.

Armaan’s smirk deepened in the dashboard glow. He smoothly guided the car into the Cyber Hub parking, the sudden silence amplifying the frantic thud of Chaitali’s heart against her ribs. "Decent?" he murmured, shifting into park. His gaze slid down, lingering on the heavy folds of silk concealing her chest. "Par Chaitali, decent toh boring hota hai." He leaned closer, the scent of sandalwood and mint suddenly overwhelming. "Let me guess," he whispered, his breath hot against her ear, "sada safed cotton? Ekdum college teacher ki tarah?" His hand hovered near her shoulder, not touching, but radiating an intrusive heat. "Ya phir... kuchh aur?"

Chaitali flinched, shrinking back against the cool leather. Sweat bloomed anew beneath the silk, a cold, clammy layer on her lower back where the saree dipped slightly. "Nahi, sir... please..." she stammered, the Bengali laced with raw panic. Her fingers fumbled with the car door handle, desperate for escape. "Bas... ek normal blouse hai. Kuchh khaas nahi."

Armaan’s laugh was a low rumble as he exited the car, circling to open her door before she could manage it herself. The humid night air rushed in, thick and cloying. "Normal?" he echoed, his gaze sweeping over her dbangd form as she awkwardly unfolded herself onto the pavement. "Chaitali, tumhari normal toh bahut interesting lagti hai." His hand settled possessively on the small of her back, right where the silk met bare skin above her petticoat waistband. The sudden, intimate heat of his palm through the thin fabric sent a jolt through her.