Adultery Office executive Se Randi Tak: Chaitali Ka Safar

[Mohit.Kumar]

Inside the dimly lit Bengali restaurant, the air vibrated with the clatter of plates, the nasal twang of Rabindra Sangeet, and the rich, unmistakable scent of shorshe ilish. Chaitali’s stomach clenched with both hunger and dread. Armaan guided her towards a secluded corner booth, his hand still a brand on her back. As she slid onto the plush velvet bench, the silk of her saree caught momentarily on the upholstery. She felt the delicate fabric shift, threatening to pull away from the high dbang over her shoulder. Her breath hitched, fingers flying to secure the pallu. "Dekhiye na, sir!" she whispered urgently, the Bengali sharp with panic. "Yeh silk phisal raha hai..."

Armaan settled opposite her, his smile a lazy curve in the candlelight. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the tablecloth, his gaze fixed on the vulnerable curve of her shoulder where the pallu had momentarily slipped. "Phisalne do, Chaitali," he murmured, his voice low and intimate, blending Hindi with a deliberate slowness. "Tabhi toh pata chalega tumne andar kya pehna hai. Silk aur skin... ek achha combination hai." The waiter arrived, breaking the tension momentarily. Armaan ordered without consulting her, his eyes never leaving hers. "Do ilish bhaja, doi begun, aur ek bottle Sauvignon Blanc. Cold." He dismissed the waiter with a nod, then refocused on Chaitali. "Wine pasand hai? Ya phir... kuchh aur?"

"Sir, main... wine nahi peeti ." she stammered, her Bengali accent thickening her Hinglish. "Ek glass paani hi theek rahega." Her fingers nervously traced the rim of her water glass, the condensation slick against her skin. The scent of mustard oil and fish, usually comforting, now churned her stomach.

Armaan waved a dismissive hand, his smile sharpening. "Arre yaar, Chaitali! Dinner without drinks?" He snapped his fingers towards the retreating waiter. "Change that wine. Whisky. Single malt. Neat. Do glasses." His gaze locked onto hers, challenging. "Tum bhi piyogi. Try karo. Gurgaon mein adapt karna padta hai."

Chaitali blinked, confusion knitting her brows. "Whisky?" The foreign word felt heavy on her tongue. "Sir, main toh... kabhi..." Her voice trailed off, the Bengali lilt thick with bewilderment. She pictured the amber liquid she’d seen in movies – harsh, burning. Her stomach, already unsettled, clenched tighter. "Paani hi..."

Armaan leaned back, a lazy smirk playing on his lips. "Arre, don't be such a desi, Chaitali." The Hindi word landed like a slap, sharp and condescending in the intimate candlelight. "It's smooth. Classy. Like this place." He gestured vaguely at the dimly lit restaurant. "Tumhe pata hai, tumhari simplicity... achhi hai, par thodi boring bhi." His gaze drifted pointedly to the high dbang of her pallu. "Whiskey peene se tumhari aankhon mein chamak aa jayegi. Confidence badhega."

Chaitali stared at the polished tabletop, the reflection of the flickering candle flame warping in the dark wood. Her fingers, slick with nervous sweat, fumbled with the edge of her pallu. "Confidence, sir?" she echoed, the Bengali lilt thick with confusion. "Lekin... main toh..." The words tangled on her tongue. How could burning liquid in her throat make her less boring? Make her back... worthy? She felt the heavy silk shift against her skin, the phantom pressure of Anita’s imagined lace bra beneath it. "Mujhe nahi lagta..." she began, her voice barely a whisper, "ki whisky se... kuchh change hoga."

Armaan chuckled. The waiter arrived with two heavy crystal tumblers and a bottle, the amber liquid catching the candlelight. He poured a generous measure into each glass, the sharp, peaty aroma instantly cutting through the comforting scent of mustard fish. "Sab kuchh try karna chahiye, Chaitali," he insisted, sliding one glass forcefully towards her. His knuckles brushed her wrist – a deliberate, lingering touch that sent a jolt of heat up her arm. "Pehle ek sip lo. Bas." His gaze, intense and unwavering, pinned her in place. "Dekho, main bhi pee raha hoon." He raised his glass, took a slow, deliberate sip, his eyes never leaving hers over the rim. "Tumhari turn."

"Sir... main..." she stammered, the Bengali thick with hesitation. "Peene ka... experience nahi hai." The weight of the glass felt immense, the expectation heavier. She lifted it hesitantly, the sharp, medicinal smell stinging her nostrils. Closing her eyes, she took a small, desperate sip. The liquid hit her tongue – an immediate, shocking assault. Fire exploded in her mouth, racing down her throat, searing a path to her stomach. She gasped, choking, tears springing to her eyes as a violent cough wracked her body. The silk pallu slipped further, revealing a sliver of bare shoulder above the high neckline she didn't have. Her free hand flew to her burning throat.

Armaan watched, his expression a mask of amused detachment. "Arre yaar," he chuckled, the Hindi word sharp and condescending. "Itna bhi kharab nahi hai. Thoda sa hi piya tune. Like medicine, no? Ek aur sip lo, taste aa jayega." He nudged the glass closer with his finger. Her eyes, wide and watering, met his – pure, unvarnished confusion swimming in their dark depths. Why inflict this burning? How did this connect to confidence, to being less boring? The comforting aroma of mustard fish seemed a cruel joke now, drowned by the harsh peat smoke clinging to her palate. Her tongue felt numb.

"Nahi, sir... please," she rasped, the Bengali lilt thick with distress, her hand still pressed against her throat where the fire still smouldered. "Mujse nahi hoga." She pushed the glass away. Armaan leaned forward, his gaze fixed on the involuntary tremor in her fingers. "Tum tension lete ho bahut, Chaitali," he murmured, his voice dropping to a velvet-soft purr that vibrated unnervingly in the intimate booth. "Relax karo. Isse hi tension kam hoti hai. Thoda aur... just a little. For me?" He lifted his own glass, swirling the amber liquid, the ice clinking like a taunt. "Dekho, main bhi pee raha hoon." He took another smooth sip, his eyes never leaving hers, a silent dare hanging in the air thick with spice and unease.

"Lekin... kyu, sir?" she whispered, her voice raw. "Mujhe toh... bura lag raha hai."  The confusion was etched deep in her wide, dark eyes – a genuine bewilderment at why this burning liquid, this insistence, was necessary. Her tongue still felt thick and numb, the ghost of the whisky's fire lingering in her sinuses. She clutched the edge of the table, knuckles white, grounding herself against the unsettling warmth spreading from her stomach and the dizzying intimacy of his unwavering gaze.