01-12-2025, 09:47 PM
Part One: The First Crack
Chapter Three: Day 2 – Tuesday, 19 May 2020
The next afternoon the power died again at exactly 2:11 p.m. Radha had been waiting for it the way an addict waits for the dealer.
She walked into the study at 2:17 carrying two glasses of cold Roohafza, the rose syrup staining the liquid blood-red. Nikhil was already at the table, pretending to solve problems, but the page was blank except for a single shaky circle drawn over and over.
He stood the moment she entered, chair scbanging.
“Sit,” she said, softer than usual.
He sat.
She placed one glass in front of him, took the opposite chair without ceremony. Today she wore a pale pink cotton saree, almost weightless, the kind widows wear on quiet days. No jewellery except the thin mangalsutra and a tiny black thread on her wrist. Her hair was still in its severe bun, but two damp strands had escaped and clung to her neck.
Nikhil’s eyes flicked to those strands, then away, then back again, as if magnetised.
Radha pretended not to notice.
She took a slow sip of the Roohafza, let the glass rest against her lower lip a second longer than necessary.
“You beat me yesterday,” she said. “I don’t like losing.”
A nervous laugh escaped him before he could stop it. “S-sorry, Ma’am.”
“Don’t apologise. You earned it.”
Silence stretched, thick and humming.
She set the glass down.
“Five quick games today. Loser drinks an extra glass of this horrible sweet thing. Deal?”
He nodded so fast the Roohafza in his glass trembled.
They played.
First game: Radha won in six moves. She pushed the second glass toward him. “Drink.”
He gulped it down, made a face like a child forced to take medicine. A bead of the red syrup clung to his upper lip. He licked it away, tongue darting out, and Radha felt the movement low in her stomach.
Second game: she let him win, but barely. She drank the penalty glass herself, grimacing theatrically.
“Disgusting,” she declared, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
Nikhil laughed: a small, startled sound that seemed to surprise even him.
Third game.
Halfway through, the pallu slipped again.
This time it was not entirely accidental.
She had pinned it loosely that morning, knowing the cotton would win eventually. When she leaned forward to kill one of his tokens, the pleats gave way. The pallu slid off her left shoulder and pooled on the table like spilled milk.
The pink blouse beneath was sleeveless, thin, almost the same colour as her skin. The tops of her breasts rose and fell with each breath; a single bead of sweat slid from her collarbone and disappeared into the shadowed valley between them.
She let it stay there for eight full seconds.
Nikhil’s dice slipped from his fingers and rolled off the table.
He didn’t move to pick it up.
His eyes were fixed on that single bead of sweat as it travelled downward, helpless.
Radha counted silently, the same way she used to count seconds when she made students stand in murga position.
One… two… three… four… five… six… seven… eight…
On the ninth second she lifted her hand slowly, almost languidly, and repositioned the pallu.
Only then did Nikhil blink, jerk back to life, and scramble under the table for the fallen dice. His ears were scarlet; the back of his neck looked hot enough to fry an egg.
Radha picked up her glass, took a sip, and spoke as though nothing had happened.
“Your turn. And try not to drop the dice again. The floor is dirty.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” he whispered, voice hoarse.
He rolled a one. Useless.
She won the third game.
He drank the penalty glass without being told.
Fourth game.
She lost on purpose, badly, obviously. When the last of her red tokens was sent back to start, she leaned back in the chair and sighed.
“You’re improving fast.”
He ducked his head, but she caught the tiny, proud smile before he hid it.
Fifth and final game.
Lakshmi’s voice floated in from the kitchen: “Didi, chai bana doon?”
Radha answered without breaking eye contact with Nikhil. “No need, Lakshmi. We’re fine.”
The words felt heavier than they should have.
Nikhil rolled. Needed a six. Got a six on the first try.
His last token marched home.
He had beaten her three games to two.
Radha let the silence settle for a moment, then spoke very quietly.
“You win the day.”
She pushed the second unopened bottle of Roohafza toward him. “Victory prize. Finish it.”
He hesitated, then obeyed, drinking straight from the bottle because the glasses were empty. His throat worked as he swallowed; a thin red line trickled from the corner of his mouth.
Radha watched every movement.
When he lowered the bottle, breathing hard, she reached out, slow enough that he could have moved away.
He didn’t.
With the edge of her pallu she wiped the red stain from the corner of his lip.
Just once. Barely a touch.
His entire body went rigid.
She let the pallu fall back into place.
“Back to work,” she said, standing.
But as she turned, she added, almost as an afterthought, so softly he almost missed it:
“Tomorrow, same time. Bring your A-game.”
Nikhil sat frozen in the chair long after she left, the taste of rose syrup thick on his tongue and the ghost of her pallu brushing his mouth like a brand.
Day 2 was over.
No clothes had been removed. No direct words of desire spoken.
But Radha now had proof twice over, and the second time had lasted eight full seconds of open, shameless staring.
The crack in the wall was widening, millimetre by millimetre.
And neither of them wanted it to stop.
Chapter Three: Day 2 – Tuesday, 19 May 2020
The next afternoon the power died again at exactly 2:11 p.m. Radha had been waiting for it the way an addict waits for the dealer.
She walked into the study at 2:17 carrying two glasses of cold Roohafza, the rose syrup staining the liquid blood-red. Nikhil was already at the table, pretending to solve problems, but the page was blank except for a single shaky circle drawn over and over.
He stood the moment she entered, chair scbanging.
“Sit,” she said, softer than usual.
He sat.
She placed one glass in front of him, took the opposite chair without ceremony. Today she wore a pale pink cotton saree, almost weightless, the kind widows wear on quiet days. No jewellery except the thin mangalsutra and a tiny black thread on her wrist. Her hair was still in its severe bun, but two damp strands had escaped and clung to her neck.
Nikhil’s eyes flicked to those strands, then away, then back again, as if magnetised.
Radha pretended not to notice.
She took a slow sip of the Roohafza, let the glass rest against her lower lip a second longer than necessary.
“You beat me yesterday,” she said. “I don’t like losing.”
A nervous laugh escaped him before he could stop it. “S-sorry, Ma’am.”
“Don’t apologise. You earned it.”
Silence stretched, thick and humming.
She set the glass down.
“Five quick games today. Loser drinks an extra glass of this horrible sweet thing. Deal?”
He nodded so fast the Roohafza in his glass trembled.
They played.
First game: Radha won in six moves. She pushed the second glass toward him. “Drink.”
He gulped it down, made a face like a child forced to take medicine. A bead of the red syrup clung to his upper lip. He licked it away, tongue darting out, and Radha felt the movement low in her stomach.
Second game: she let him win, but barely. She drank the penalty glass herself, grimacing theatrically.
“Disgusting,” she declared, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
Nikhil laughed: a small, startled sound that seemed to surprise even him.
Third game.
Halfway through, the pallu slipped again.
This time it was not entirely accidental.
She had pinned it loosely that morning, knowing the cotton would win eventually. When she leaned forward to kill one of his tokens, the pleats gave way. The pallu slid off her left shoulder and pooled on the table like spilled milk.
The pink blouse beneath was sleeveless, thin, almost the same colour as her skin. The tops of her breasts rose and fell with each breath; a single bead of sweat slid from her collarbone and disappeared into the shadowed valley between them.
She let it stay there for eight full seconds.
Nikhil’s dice slipped from his fingers and rolled off the table.
He didn’t move to pick it up.
His eyes were fixed on that single bead of sweat as it travelled downward, helpless.
Radha counted silently, the same way she used to count seconds when she made students stand in murga position.
One… two… three… four… five… six… seven… eight…
On the ninth second she lifted her hand slowly, almost languidly, and repositioned the pallu.
Only then did Nikhil blink, jerk back to life, and scramble under the table for the fallen dice. His ears were scarlet; the back of his neck looked hot enough to fry an egg.
Radha picked up her glass, took a sip, and spoke as though nothing had happened.
“Your turn. And try not to drop the dice again. The floor is dirty.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” he whispered, voice hoarse.
He rolled a one. Useless.
She won the third game.
He drank the penalty glass without being told.
Fourth game.
She lost on purpose, badly, obviously. When the last of her red tokens was sent back to start, she leaned back in the chair and sighed.
“You’re improving fast.”
He ducked his head, but she caught the tiny, proud smile before he hid it.
Fifth and final game.
Lakshmi’s voice floated in from the kitchen: “Didi, chai bana doon?”
Radha answered without breaking eye contact with Nikhil. “No need, Lakshmi. We’re fine.”
The words felt heavier than they should have.
Nikhil rolled. Needed a six. Got a six on the first try.
His last token marched home.
He had beaten her three games to two.
Radha let the silence settle for a moment, then spoke very quietly.
“You win the day.”
She pushed the second unopened bottle of Roohafza toward him. “Victory prize. Finish it.”
He hesitated, then obeyed, drinking straight from the bottle because the glasses were empty. His throat worked as he swallowed; a thin red line trickled from the corner of his mouth.
Radha watched every movement.
When he lowered the bottle, breathing hard, she reached out, slow enough that he could have moved away.
He didn’t.
With the edge of her pallu she wiped the red stain from the corner of his lip.
Just once. Barely a touch.
His entire body went rigid.
She let the pallu fall back into place.
“Back to work,” she said, standing.
But as she turned, she added, almost as an afterthought, so softly he almost missed it:
“Tomorrow, same time. Bring your A-game.”
Nikhil sat frozen in the chair long after she left, the taste of rose syrup thick on his tongue and the ghost of her pallu brushing his mouth like a brand.
Day 2 was over.
No clothes had been removed. No direct words of desire spoken.
But Radha now had proof twice over, and the second time had lasted eight full seconds of open, shameless staring.
The crack in the wall was widening, millimetre by millimetre.
And neither of them wanted it to stop.
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