22-11-2025, 08:48 PM
CHAPTER – 73
Danish landed at Rajiv Gandhi International at 7:12 AM. The moment the aircraft doors opened, the dry Hyderabad heat wrapped around him like an old shawl.
His phone buzzed alive in the cab.
Thirty-seven missed calls from Kavya. A hundred and twelve messages. Voice notes that began soft and ended in breathless, filthy promises.
He smiled, thumb hovering, then the memory slammed into him again:
Trisha’s trembling body crushed to his in the dark kitchen, the way her pulse had leapt under his open mouth, the soft, shocked moan when his tongue tasted her throat, the perfect weight of her ass filling his palm when he squeezed.
His cock thickened against his thigh.
He shifted in the seat and called Kavya instead.
She answered on the first ring, voice sleepy and needy.
“Danish… I hate this bed without you.”
“Two more weeks, baby. Then you’re back in my arms.”
A pause.
“Mummy’s been… off since you left.”
His stomach clenched.
“Off how?”
“Quiet. Disappears into the kitchen for hours. Keeps touching her neck when she thinks I’m not looking. Yesterday I found her staring at the family photo from your last day here… for ages.”
Danish swallowed.
He remembered the faint red mark his stubble had left just below her ear. Remembered her fingers flying up to hide it.
“She probably just misses her favourite dishwasher,” he said, forcing lightness.
Kavya laughed, but it sounded thin.
Delhi – same afternoon
Trisha stood at the stove, stirring aloo-methi on autopilot.
The house felt too big, too silent without Danish’s quiet footsteps and Kavya’s laughter.
She had worn high-neck kurtas for five straight days after he left. The faint mark had faded, but every night she lay beside Rajesh and felt phantom lips on her throat, phantom hands sliding beneath cotton, phantom hardness pressed against her belly.
She had started waking at 4:30 AM again, unrolling the yoga mat in the dark, moving through poses with eyes closed, feeling the ghost of his grip on her hips, the burn of his stubble, the slow squeeze of his hand on her ass.
Two nights ago, alone in the bathroom, she had finally let her fingers slip between her legs for the first time in fifty years, biting down on a towel as his name tore silently through her when she came.
Danish sat on the wide stone ledge of the courtyard fountain at 2 AM, the house finally quiet after Feroz had gone to bed. The night was hot; his kurta clung to his back. He told himself he had come out for fresh air.
He lied.
He had come out because the moment he closed his eyes in bed he was back in that Delhi kitchen: Trisha’s soft body crushed to his, the frantic flutter of her pulse under his open mouth, the way her ass had filled his palm when he squeezed, the tiny, shocked moan she made when his tongue tasted her throat.
The memory hit so hard his cock stiffened instantly.
He pressed the heel of his hand against it, jaw clenched.
She is your mother-in-law. Kavya’s mother. Fifty years old. She thanked you for helping her family and you put your mouth on her like an animal.
Guilt slammed into him, cold and nauseating.
He pictured Kavya’s trusting smile, her arms flung around his neck the day he left for the airport, whispering, “Come back soon, jaan.”
He pictured Rajesh uncle in the hospital bed, weak hand squeezing his in gratitude.
He pictured Trisha’s trembling fingers touching the faint red mark on her neck the next morning, eyes wide with shame.
The shame should have killed the arousal.
It didn’t.
It only made the ache sharper.
He stood abruptly, walked to the far end of the courtyard, and stood under the cold water from the outdoor tap until his teeth chattered and the erection finally subsided.
Then he went back to bed, lay rigid on his back, and stared at the ceiling fan until dawn.
Delhi – same night, 2:00 AM
Trisha woke gasping from a dream she refused to remember.
She woke gasping from a dream she refused to remember.
She sat up in the dark, heart racing, nightie twisted around her waist, thighs slick.
The dream had been the kitchen again: Danish’s stubble burning her throat, his hand sliding beneath cotton to cup her bare skin, his low growl against her ear, the thick press of him between her legs.
She pressed both palms to her face, rocking slightly.
He is your daughter’s husband. He calls you “Mummy ji” with respect. You are old enough to be his mother.
Guilt tasted metallic on her tongue.
She thought of Kavya sleeping in the next room, trusting, happy, counting days until she could go back to the man whose mouth had been on her mother’s throat.
She thought of Rajesh snoring beside her, the man who had given her everything except this wild, terrifying hunger.
She slipped out of bed, padded barefoot to the puja room, and sat in front of the small Ganesh idol.
She tried to pray.
The words wouldn’t come.
Instead she saw Danish’s dark eyes in the half-lit kitchen, felt his thumb tracing the waistband of her nightie, heard the soft, wet sound his lips made when they left her skin.
A sob caught in her throat.
She pressed her forehead to the cool marble floor and whispered the only honest prayer she could manage:
“Please make it stop. Please make me forget. Please don’t let me want this.”
But even as she begged, her body remembered every second of those ninety-eight forbidden heartbeats, and deep inside she knew the truth:
She didn’t want to forget.
She wanted to feel it again.
And that knowledge was the worst sin of all.
Hyderabad – 3:03 AM
Danish finally gave up on sleep.
He opened his phone gallery, scrolled past hundreds of photos of Kavya (smiling, laughing, naked in their bed) until his thumb hovered over a short video he had never meant to keep.
It was only eight seconds long: Trisha doing yoga on the balcony that first morning, shot from behind without her knowledge. The camera shook slightly because his hand had been shaking. The fabric of her kurti stretched tight across her breasts when she raised her arms. The soft curve of her waist, the swell of her hips in those thin yoga pants.
He had meant to delete it the same day.
He never did.
Now he watched it on mute, volume low, heart hammering.
Guilt and desire twisted so tightly he couldn’t tell them apart.
He locked the phone, pressed it face-down on the bedside table, and rolled onto his stomach, burying his face in the pillow that still smelled faintly of Kavya’s perfume.
He stayed like that until morning, fighting a battle he was terrified he had already lost.
Delhi – dawn
Trisha performed the morning aarti with steady hands and an unsteady heart.
When she bent to touch Rajesh’s feet for blessings, he smiled sleepily and patted her head.
She performed the morning aarti with steady hands and an unsteady heart.
When she bent to touch Rajesh’s feet for blessings, he smiled sleepily and patted her head.
She felt like the worst kind of hypocrite.
Later, while making chai, she caught her reflection in the steel dabba: eyes too bright, cheeks flushed, lips swollen from biting them all night.
She looked like a woman in love.
Or in heat.
The thought made her want to vomit.
She turned the flame higher than necessary, letting the chai boil over, welcoming the small pain of hot milk splashing her wrist (punishment for thoughts she could not control).
Two weeks until Kavya returned to her husband.
Two weeks of separate cities, separate beds, separate lives.
Two weeks of trying (and failing) to forget ninety-eight seconds that had rewritten everything.
Neither Danish nor Trisha prayed for the memory to fade anymore. They only prayed for the strength to survive it.
Danish lay on his back in the dark guest-wing bedroom of Feroz Manzil, ceiling fan creaking overhead, phone glowing in his hand.
He had tried everything: cold shower, 100 push-ups, counting backwards from 1000. Nothing worked.
The memory of Trisha’s throat under his mouth was a living thing tonight.
He opened WhatsApp before he could talk himself out of it.
Danish 1:47 AM
Mummy ji, hope I’m not disturbing. Just wanted to check on Rajesh uncle’s health. Everything okay?
He stared at the screen, heart thudding.
Typing… Typing… Typing stopped.
Then:
Trisha 1:49 AM
No disturbance at all, beta. I was awake. Rajesh is much better, slept without painkillers tonight for the first time. Thank you for asking ❤️
Danish exhaled shakily.
Danish 1:50 AM
That’s really good news. Give him my salaam when he wakes up.
Trisha 1:51 AM
I will. You should be sleeping, it’s late even in Hyderabad ?
Danish 1:52 AM
Couldn’t sleep. Jet lag still messing with me, I guess.
A lie. They both knew it.
Trisha 1:53 AM
Same here. Old people and sleep don’t get along these days.
He smiled despite himself.
Danish 1:54 AM
You’re not old, Trisha ji. You do yoga better than people half your age.
His thumb hovered, then hit send before cowardice could stop him.
Three dots appeared instantly.
Trisha 1:55 AM
Flatterer ? Kavya says I creak like the old gate now.
Danish 1:56 AM
Kavya lies. I’ve seen the gate. You’re definitely quieter.
She sent a laughing emoji. Then another. Then a voice note (2 seconds long, just her soft laugh).
His stomach flipped.
Trisha 1:58 AM
You always know how to make people smile. Even cranky mothers-in-law at 2 AM.
He stared at the words mothers-in-law. They should have cooled everything.
They didn’t.
Danish 1:59 AM
Only the special ones.
Delete. Rewrite. Delete again.
He sent instead:
Danish 2:00 AM
You’re not cranky. You make the best aloo parathas in north India. That automatically puts you in the “national treasure” category.
Trisha 2:01 AM
Now I know you’re lying ? Though I did pack an extra one in your tiffin that morning… did you find it?
His breath caught.
That morning.
They were skating on the thinnest ice now.
Danish 2:02 AM
Found it at 30,000 feet. Almost proposed to the air hostess by mistake.
She sent three crying-laughing emojis.
Trisha 2:03 AM
Poor girl. Next time I’ll write “Property of Danish” on the foil so there’s no confusion.
His heart slammed against his ribs.
He typed, deleted, typed again.
Danish 2:04 AM Might not help. Some things can’t be labelled properly.
The three dots appeared… disappeared… appeared again.
Trisha 2:06 AM …true.
One word. But it hung between them like smoke.
Silence for thirty seconds.
Then:
Trisha 2:07 AM
You should try to sleep, beta. Long day tomorrow, isn’t it?
The word beta again. Safety rope. Warning bell.
Danish 2:08 AM Yeah. You too, Trisha ji. Good night.
Trisha 2:08 AM
Good night ❤️
He stared at the red heart for a long time.
Neither of them mentioned the kitchen. Neither dared.
But both lay awake long after the chat ended, phones clutched to their chests, rereading every line, feeling the same electric current running under every harmless word.
They laughed at safe jokes. They typed and deleted dangerous truths.
And in the quiet of two separate cities, two separate beds, they each touched the same spot on their own necks (his fingers remembering her pulse, hers remembering his mouth) and felt the exact same guilty, helpless, burning ache.
The messages stopped at 2:09 AM.
The wanting didn’t.
Danish landed at Rajiv Gandhi International at 7:12 AM. The moment the aircraft doors opened, the dry Hyderabad heat wrapped around him like an old shawl.
His phone buzzed alive in the cab.
Thirty-seven missed calls from Kavya. A hundred and twelve messages. Voice notes that began soft and ended in breathless, filthy promises.
He smiled, thumb hovering, then the memory slammed into him again:
Trisha’s trembling body crushed to his in the dark kitchen, the way her pulse had leapt under his open mouth, the soft, shocked moan when his tongue tasted her throat, the perfect weight of her ass filling his palm when he squeezed.
His cock thickened against his thigh.
He shifted in the seat and called Kavya instead.
She answered on the first ring, voice sleepy and needy.
“Danish… I hate this bed without you.”
“Two more weeks, baby. Then you’re back in my arms.”
A pause.
“Mummy’s been… off since you left.”
His stomach clenched.
“Off how?”
“Quiet. Disappears into the kitchen for hours. Keeps touching her neck when she thinks I’m not looking. Yesterday I found her staring at the family photo from your last day here… for ages.”
Danish swallowed.
He remembered the faint red mark his stubble had left just below her ear. Remembered her fingers flying up to hide it.
“She probably just misses her favourite dishwasher,” he said, forcing lightness.
Kavya laughed, but it sounded thin.
Delhi – same afternoon
Trisha stood at the stove, stirring aloo-methi on autopilot.
The house felt too big, too silent without Danish’s quiet footsteps and Kavya’s laughter.
She had worn high-neck kurtas for five straight days after he left. The faint mark had faded, but every night she lay beside Rajesh and felt phantom lips on her throat, phantom hands sliding beneath cotton, phantom hardness pressed against her belly.
She had started waking at 4:30 AM again, unrolling the yoga mat in the dark, moving through poses with eyes closed, feeling the ghost of his grip on her hips, the burn of his stubble, the slow squeeze of his hand on her ass.
Two nights ago, alone in the bathroom, she had finally let her fingers slip between her legs for the first time in fifty years, biting down on a towel as his name tore silently through her when she came.
Danish sat on the wide stone ledge of the courtyard fountain at 2 AM, the house finally quiet after Feroz had gone to bed. The night was hot; his kurta clung to his back. He told himself he had come out for fresh air.
He lied.
He had come out because the moment he closed his eyes in bed he was back in that Delhi kitchen: Trisha’s soft body crushed to his, the frantic flutter of her pulse under his open mouth, the way her ass had filled his palm when he squeezed, the tiny, shocked moan she made when his tongue tasted her throat.
The memory hit so hard his cock stiffened instantly.
He pressed the heel of his hand against it, jaw clenched.
She is your mother-in-law. Kavya’s mother. Fifty years old. She thanked you for helping her family and you put your mouth on her like an animal.
Guilt slammed into him, cold and nauseating.
He pictured Kavya’s trusting smile, her arms flung around his neck the day he left for the airport, whispering, “Come back soon, jaan.”
He pictured Rajesh uncle in the hospital bed, weak hand squeezing his in gratitude.
He pictured Trisha’s trembling fingers touching the faint red mark on her neck the next morning, eyes wide with shame.
The shame should have killed the arousal.
It didn’t.
It only made the ache sharper.
He stood abruptly, walked to the far end of the courtyard, and stood under the cold water from the outdoor tap until his teeth chattered and the erection finally subsided.
Then he went back to bed, lay rigid on his back, and stared at the ceiling fan until dawn.
Delhi – same night, 2:00 AM
Trisha woke gasping from a dream she refused to remember.
She woke gasping from a dream she refused to remember.
She sat up in the dark, heart racing, nightie twisted around her waist, thighs slick.
The dream had been the kitchen again: Danish’s stubble burning her throat, his hand sliding beneath cotton to cup her bare skin, his low growl against her ear, the thick press of him between her legs.
She pressed both palms to her face, rocking slightly.
He is your daughter’s husband. He calls you “Mummy ji” with respect. You are old enough to be his mother.
Guilt tasted metallic on her tongue.
She thought of Kavya sleeping in the next room, trusting, happy, counting days until she could go back to the man whose mouth had been on her mother’s throat.
She thought of Rajesh snoring beside her, the man who had given her everything except this wild, terrifying hunger.
She slipped out of bed, padded barefoot to the puja room, and sat in front of the small Ganesh idol.
She tried to pray.
The words wouldn’t come.
Instead she saw Danish’s dark eyes in the half-lit kitchen, felt his thumb tracing the waistband of her nightie, heard the soft, wet sound his lips made when they left her skin.
A sob caught in her throat.
She pressed her forehead to the cool marble floor and whispered the only honest prayer she could manage:
“Please make it stop. Please make me forget. Please don’t let me want this.”
But even as she begged, her body remembered every second of those ninety-eight forbidden heartbeats, and deep inside she knew the truth:
She didn’t want to forget.
She wanted to feel it again.
And that knowledge was the worst sin of all.
Hyderabad – 3:03 AM
Danish finally gave up on sleep.
He opened his phone gallery, scrolled past hundreds of photos of Kavya (smiling, laughing, naked in their bed) until his thumb hovered over a short video he had never meant to keep.
It was only eight seconds long: Trisha doing yoga on the balcony that first morning, shot from behind without her knowledge. The camera shook slightly because his hand had been shaking. The fabric of her kurti stretched tight across her breasts when she raised her arms. The soft curve of her waist, the swell of her hips in those thin yoga pants.
He had meant to delete it the same day.
He never did.
Now he watched it on mute, volume low, heart hammering.
Guilt and desire twisted so tightly he couldn’t tell them apart.
He locked the phone, pressed it face-down on the bedside table, and rolled onto his stomach, burying his face in the pillow that still smelled faintly of Kavya’s perfume.
He stayed like that until morning, fighting a battle he was terrified he had already lost.
Delhi – dawn
Trisha performed the morning aarti with steady hands and an unsteady heart.
When she bent to touch Rajesh’s feet for blessings, he smiled sleepily and patted her head.
She performed the morning aarti with steady hands and an unsteady heart.
When she bent to touch Rajesh’s feet for blessings, he smiled sleepily and patted her head.
She felt like the worst kind of hypocrite.
Later, while making chai, she caught her reflection in the steel dabba: eyes too bright, cheeks flushed, lips swollen from biting them all night.
She looked like a woman in love.
Or in heat.
The thought made her want to vomit.
She turned the flame higher than necessary, letting the chai boil over, welcoming the small pain of hot milk splashing her wrist (punishment for thoughts she could not control).
Two weeks until Kavya returned to her husband.
Two weeks of separate cities, separate beds, separate lives.
Two weeks of trying (and failing) to forget ninety-eight seconds that had rewritten everything.
Neither Danish nor Trisha prayed for the memory to fade anymore. They only prayed for the strength to survive it.
Danish lay on his back in the dark guest-wing bedroom of Feroz Manzil, ceiling fan creaking overhead, phone glowing in his hand.
He had tried everything: cold shower, 100 push-ups, counting backwards from 1000. Nothing worked.
The memory of Trisha’s throat under his mouth was a living thing tonight.
He opened WhatsApp before he could talk himself out of it.
Danish 1:47 AM
Mummy ji, hope I’m not disturbing. Just wanted to check on Rajesh uncle’s health. Everything okay?
He stared at the screen, heart thudding.
Typing… Typing… Typing stopped.
Then:
Trisha 1:49 AM
No disturbance at all, beta. I was awake. Rajesh is much better, slept without painkillers tonight for the first time. Thank you for asking ❤️
Danish exhaled shakily.
Danish 1:50 AM
That’s really good news. Give him my salaam when he wakes up.
Trisha 1:51 AM
I will. You should be sleeping, it’s late even in Hyderabad ?
Danish 1:52 AM
Couldn’t sleep. Jet lag still messing with me, I guess.
A lie. They both knew it.
Trisha 1:53 AM
Same here. Old people and sleep don’t get along these days.
He smiled despite himself.
Danish 1:54 AM
You’re not old, Trisha ji. You do yoga better than people half your age.
His thumb hovered, then hit send before cowardice could stop him.
Three dots appeared instantly.
Trisha 1:55 AM
Flatterer ? Kavya says I creak like the old gate now.
Danish 1:56 AM
Kavya lies. I’ve seen the gate. You’re definitely quieter.
She sent a laughing emoji. Then another. Then a voice note (2 seconds long, just her soft laugh).
His stomach flipped.
Trisha 1:58 AM
You always know how to make people smile. Even cranky mothers-in-law at 2 AM.
He stared at the words mothers-in-law. They should have cooled everything.
They didn’t.
Danish 1:59 AM
Only the special ones.
Delete. Rewrite. Delete again.
He sent instead:
Danish 2:00 AM
You’re not cranky. You make the best aloo parathas in north India. That automatically puts you in the “national treasure” category.
Trisha 2:01 AM
Now I know you’re lying ? Though I did pack an extra one in your tiffin that morning… did you find it?
His breath caught.
That morning.
They were skating on the thinnest ice now.
Danish 2:02 AM
Found it at 30,000 feet. Almost proposed to the air hostess by mistake.
She sent three crying-laughing emojis.
Trisha 2:03 AM
Poor girl. Next time I’ll write “Property of Danish” on the foil so there’s no confusion.
His heart slammed against his ribs.
He typed, deleted, typed again.
Danish 2:04 AM Might not help. Some things can’t be labelled properly.
The three dots appeared… disappeared… appeared again.
Trisha 2:06 AM …true.
One word. But it hung between them like smoke.
Silence for thirty seconds.
Then:
Trisha 2:07 AM
You should try to sleep, beta. Long day tomorrow, isn’t it?
The word beta again. Safety rope. Warning bell.
Danish 2:08 AM Yeah. You too, Trisha ji. Good night.
Trisha 2:08 AM
Good night ❤️
He stared at the red heart for a long time.
Neither of them mentioned the kitchen. Neither dared.
But both lay awake long after the chat ended, phones clutched to their chests, rereading every line, feeling the same electric current running under every harmless word.
They laughed at safe jokes. They typed and deleted dangerous truths.
And in the quiet of two separate cities, two separate beds, they each touched the same spot on their own necks (his fingers remembering her pulse, hers remembering his mouth) and felt the exact same guilty, helpless, burning ache.
The messages stopped at 2:09 AM.
The wanting didn’t.
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