10-12-2025, 12:13 PM
(This post was last modified: 10-12-2025, 12:15 PM by Sherlocked. Edited 1 time in total. Edited 1 time in total.)
The ancestral home, a three-story structure of red brick and memories commissioned by their grandfather, stood as a testament to a bygone era. It was a vessel of shared bloodlines, partitioned by the subtle, invisible walls of daily routine. The layout of the house reflected the fractured yet intertwined lives of its inhabitants.
The first floor was the domain of the elders and the engine room of Sumu’s career. It housed three spacious rooms with high ceilings and heavy wooden shutters. In one, Sumu’s parents resided, their lives moving at the comfortable, rhythmic pace of retirement. Across the hallway lay the room belonging to Ani’s mother. Since the passing of Ani’s father, that space had taken on the permanent scent of sandalwood incense and silence. Grief had steered her toward the divine; she spent her days immersed in scriptures and rituals, seeking solace in a spirituality that the material world no longer offered her.
The third room on this floor served a starkly different purpose. It was Sumu’s sanctuary—his home office. While the rest of the floor breathed with the slow exhalations of age and prayer, this room hummed with the quiet whir of cooling fans and the cold, steady glow of multiple monitors. Sumu spent the majority of his waking hours here, insulated from the domestic drift outside his door, building a digital empire while the physical world decayed gently around him.
Life’s sustenance was prepared on the ground floor, where the cavernous kitchen and the adjoining dining hall were located. Despite the shared roof, the hearths were metaphorically separate. The two families maintained their own stoves, a tradition born of preference rather than animosity. Ani’s mother, in her widowhood and devotion, adhered to a strict vegetarian diet, her meals simple, unspiced, and austere.
In contrast, the air around Sumu’s mother—Shweta’s *Jethima*—was often thick with the rich aromas of mustard oil, fish, and spices. There was a warmth in the older woman that bridged the gap between the stoves. She never failed to set aside a bowl of something rich and savory for Ani when he was home, knowing his mother’s pot held only boiled vegetables. Since Shweta’s arrival into the family, that generosity had extended to her as well. A portion of *kasha mangsho* or a crisp piece of fried fish was always reserved for the young bride. This kindness had endeared Jethima to Shweta, providing a maternal comfort in a house that often felt too large and too quiet.
However, that warmth did not extend to a relationship with Sumu. Shweta and her husband’s cousin existed in the same orbit but rarely collided. Sumu was an introvert by nature, wrapping himself in an air of aloofness that Shweta initially found intimidating. He was the successful "Borda," the figure who lived in the glowing blue light of the first floor. Their interactions were minimal—brief, polite smiles exchanged when passing on the stairs, or an awkward, silent nod if they happened to enter the dining hall at the same time. He kept to himself and his work, a silent specter in the house, leaving Shweta to navigate her loneliness without his interference.
—-
The week leading up to their first wedding anniversary had been a fragile vessel of hope for Shweta, carrying her through the lonely silence of the large house. She had spent days meticulously planning the celebration, a small rebellion against the distance that defined their marriage. She wanted to celebrate the man who eroded his body daily just to keep a roof over hers.
They couldn't afford opulence, but Shweta had woven a tapestry of simple luxuries in her mind. She had planned to cook a feast for him—*chingri malai curry* and spicy mutton—dishes that were forbidden in his mother’s austere kitchen but which she knew he craved with a desperate hunger. She would cook a separate, pure vegetarian meal for her mother-in-law to keep the peace, but the night was meant to belong to Ani.
Earlier that week, their late-night phone calls had been filled with hushed excitement. They had agreed that Ani would take the day off. Shweta had imagined them escaping the suffocating humidity of the house for a few hours to visit the local single-screen cinema. It wasn’t one of those gleaming, air-conditioned multiplexes with reclining seats and overpriced popcorn that Sumu likely frequented. It was an older hall, smelling faintly of dust and phenol, but the darkness there was intimate, and the tickets were cheap. It was enough.
But the machinery of fate, much like the steel plant in Durgapur, had no regard for human sentiment.
The call came the night before the anniversary. Shweta had been sitting on the edge of their bed, wrapping a modest wristwatch she had saved months to buy, when the phone buzzed.
Ani’s voice was a ragged whisper, barely audible over the industrial hum in the background. He wasn't coming.
"It’s an emergency shutdown, Shona," he rasped, the exhaustion bleeding through the speaker. "The foreman said if I don't stay for the double shift and the maintenance work tomorrow, they might cut my contract next renewal."
The disappointment hit Shweta like a physical blow to the chest. She gripped the phone tighter, her eyes stinging. "But Ani... we planned this. It’s our first year."
"I know. I know," he pleaded, his voice cracking with helplessness. As a contract worker, he was disposable; he didn't have the luxury of saying no, nor the protection of a union that the permanent staff enjoyed. He had to accept the ad-hoc cruelty of the roster. "Listen, the good news is, because I’m doing this double shift, the supervisor said I can take an extra day off next week. I’ll come home Tuesday. We’ll have three whole days together. Please don’t be mad."
Shweta had nothing else to do other than accept it. To argue would only add to the burden on his shoulders, shoulders already stooped under the weight of duty. She hung up the phone, the silence of the room rushing back in to drown her. The wrapped gift on the bed suddenly looked foolish, a childish artifact of a dream that couldn't survive the harsh reality of their class.
She lay back on the pillows that still smelled faintly of him, though the scent was fading, staring at the ceiling fan cutting through the stagnant air. Her mind, seeking a target for her frustration, drifted downstairs to the first floor.
She thought of *Borda*.
Just yesterday, she had heard Sumu on the phone in the hallway, his voice casual and commanding. He had told his manager he was taking a "mental health day" simply because he hadn't slept well. He didn't ask; he informed. And he was still paid more in a month than Ani made in six.
A bitter, cold resentment pooled in her stomach—not at Ani, but at the unfairness of it all. Why was her husband enslaved to a furnace while his cousin could command his time with a few keystrokes? Why couldn't Ani take a single day for the woman who waited for him?
Downstairs, the house was quiet, but the wheels of change had begun to turn. Shweta felt a crack form in her resolve, a fissure born of loneliness and envy, unaware that it was the perfect opening for forbidden things to enter.
—-
Ani knew the trip home on Tuesday would be a walk across a tightrope. The delayed celebration hung over him like the heavy, soot-filled clouds above the steel plant. He had missed the actual date—the first milestone of their married life—and no amount of overtime pay could buy back that lost moment.
He arrived with the dust of Durgapur still clinging to his boots, clutching two bags. The first day back, surprisingly, had gone smoother than he feared. He had presented the red silk saree immediately. It wasn’t the heavy gold necklace he had dreamed of giving her when they were dating in high college—gold prices had soared beyond the reach of a contract laborer—but the silk was soft, the crimson deep and rich. Shweta had smiled, a genuine, albeit tired, smile, and dbangd it over her shoulder, asking how she looked.
"Like a queen," he had said, and he meant it.
They spent the day fulfilling the ghost of their anniversary plans. They went to the cinema, ate street food that made them both nostalgic for their college days, and for a few hours, the crushing weight of his absence seemed to lift.
But the night held a different weight.
After a dinner of spicy mutton curry—the meal she had promised him—they retreated to their room on the top floor. The air was heavy, the ceiling fan cutting through the humidity with a rhythmic *thwack-thwack*. Ani felt a stir of desire mixed with anxiety. He wanted to reclaim the intimacy the steel plant had stolen from him.
He reached into his bag and pulled out the second gift, wrapped in discreet brown paper. He had spent a significant portion of his saved allowance on it. It was a black bikini bra and panty set—lacy, minimal, and provocative. He had always loved how black contrasted against Shweta’s fair skin, though she usually wore simple, sensible cotton. This was his attempt to ignite something passionate, to make her feel desirable, to bridge the gap.
"I got you something else," Ani whispered, handing her the package. His heart hammered against his ribs. "Something for us."
Shweta sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under her weight. She unwrapped the paper slowly. When the scrap of black lace and silk fell into her hands, she didn't smile. She held it up, the tiny garment looking almost ridiculous against the backdrop of their modest, peeling walls.
She looked at the price tag he had forgotten to remove. Her eyes widened.
"Ani," she said, her voice dangerously quiet. "How much was this?"
"It doesn't matter," he said, moving to sit beside her, reaching for her waist. "I just wanted to see you in it. You look so beautiful in black, and I thought—"
"Two thousand rupees?" Shweta’s voice cracked, sharp enough to halt his hand. She dropped the underwear onto the bed as if it were burning coal. "You spent two thousand rupees on... on *this*?"
Ani blinked, confused by the sudden shift in her demeanor. "It’s a gift, Shona. To make up for missing the day. I wanted to make tonight special."
"Special?" Shweta stood up, the frustration that had been simmering all week—all year—finally boiling over. "You think this makes it special? Ani, do you know what I could have done with two thousand rupees?"
"It's just money, I earned it—"
"We don't have a TV in this room!" she shouted, then clamped a hand over her mouth, glancing fearfully at the door, lowering her voice to a harsh hiss. "I stare at these four walls all day. All day, Ani! I finish cooking, I help Jethima, and then I come here and stare at the wall. I asked you for a small TV months ago. You said we had to save. But you have money for this... this useless piece of string?"
"It's not useless," Ani said, his own temper flaring defensively. He stood up to face her. "I bought it because I desire my wife. Is that a crime? I wanted us to have some romance. I’m killing myself in that heat for twelve hours a day to put money in your hand, can’t I spend a little on something I like?"
"But you aren't here!" Shweta’s eyes filled with tears, her face flushing red. "That’s the point! You buy me sexy underwear, but where are you? You’re in Durgapur! Who am I supposed to wear this for? The mirror?"
"I'm here now," Ani pleaded, stepping closer, but she backed away.
"You're here now because your supervisor *let* you come," she spat out. "You missed our anniversary. Our first one. Do you know how humiliating it was? Jethima made payesh, Ma did a puja, and I sat there alone like a widow while everyone looked at me with pity."
"I didn't have a choice!" Ani said, his voice straining. "If I don't do the shifts, they’ll cut the contract. Then what will we eat? Air?"
"Why do you never have any choice? Look at Borda, why couldn't you do something like him, we would have so much time together"
Ani's voice now barely a whisper, "I don't have the same education like him Shweta. You know me from college life, you should know"
"I don't want to know anything" She picked up the black lace bra and threw it at his chest. It fluttered harmlessly to the floor between them.
"I don't want your expensive underwear," she sobbed, collapsing back onto the bed, burying her face in her hands. "I just wanted my husband. I just wanted you to be here when you were supposed to be."
Ani stood there, the silence of the room rushing back in, heavy and suffocating. The red saree lay neatly folded on the chair, and the black lace lay crumpled on the floor—two symbols of his failure. He looked at his wife, her shoulders heaving with sobs, and felt a profound, paralyzing helplessness. He couldn't change his job. He couldn't change his education. He couldn't be Sumu.
He bent down and quietly picked up the underwear, stuffing it back into his bag. He turned off the light, plunging the room into darkness.
He lay down on the bed, leaving a wide gap between them. Shweta was still crying softly into her pillow. Ani wanted to reach out, to touch her back, to apologize for being a failure, but his hand felt too heavy to lift. He turned his back to her, staring into the dark, listening to the whir of the fan and the sound of his wife weeping for a life he couldn't give her.
The first floor was the domain of the elders and the engine room of Sumu’s career. It housed three spacious rooms with high ceilings and heavy wooden shutters. In one, Sumu’s parents resided, their lives moving at the comfortable, rhythmic pace of retirement. Across the hallway lay the room belonging to Ani’s mother. Since the passing of Ani’s father, that space had taken on the permanent scent of sandalwood incense and silence. Grief had steered her toward the divine; she spent her days immersed in scriptures and rituals, seeking solace in a spirituality that the material world no longer offered her.
The third room on this floor served a starkly different purpose. It was Sumu’s sanctuary—his home office. While the rest of the floor breathed with the slow exhalations of age and prayer, this room hummed with the quiet whir of cooling fans and the cold, steady glow of multiple monitors. Sumu spent the majority of his waking hours here, insulated from the domestic drift outside his door, building a digital empire while the physical world decayed gently around him.
Life’s sustenance was prepared on the ground floor, where the cavernous kitchen and the adjoining dining hall were located. Despite the shared roof, the hearths were metaphorically separate. The two families maintained their own stoves, a tradition born of preference rather than animosity. Ani’s mother, in her widowhood and devotion, adhered to a strict vegetarian diet, her meals simple, unspiced, and austere.
In contrast, the air around Sumu’s mother—Shweta’s *Jethima*—was often thick with the rich aromas of mustard oil, fish, and spices. There was a warmth in the older woman that bridged the gap between the stoves. She never failed to set aside a bowl of something rich and savory for Ani when he was home, knowing his mother’s pot held only boiled vegetables. Since Shweta’s arrival into the family, that generosity had extended to her as well. A portion of *kasha mangsho* or a crisp piece of fried fish was always reserved for the young bride. This kindness had endeared Jethima to Shweta, providing a maternal comfort in a house that often felt too large and too quiet.
However, that warmth did not extend to a relationship with Sumu. Shweta and her husband’s cousin existed in the same orbit but rarely collided. Sumu was an introvert by nature, wrapping himself in an air of aloofness that Shweta initially found intimidating. He was the successful "Borda," the figure who lived in the glowing blue light of the first floor. Their interactions were minimal—brief, polite smiles exchanged when passing on the stairs, or an awkward, silent nod if they happened to enter the dining hall at the same time. He kept to himself and his work, a silent specter in the house, leaving Shweta to navigate her loneliness without his interference.
—-
The week leading up to their first wedding anniversary had been a fragile vessel of hope for Shweta, carrying her through the lonely silence of the large house. She had spent days meticulously planning the celebration, a small rebellion against the distance that defined their marriage. She wanted to celebrate the man who eroded his body daily just to keep a roof over hers.
They couldn't afford opulence, but Shweta had woven a tapestry of simple luxuries in her mind. She had planned to cook a feast for him—*chingri malai curry* and spicy mutton—dishes that were forbidden in his mother’s austere kitchen but which she knew he craved with a desperate hunger. She would cook a separate, pure vegetarian meal for her mother-in-law to keep the peace, but the night was meant to belong to Ani.
Earlier that week, their late-night phone calls had been filled with hushed excitement. They had agreed that Ani would take the day off. Shweta had imagined them escaping the suffocating humidity of the house for a few hours to visit the local single-screen cinema. It wasn’t one of those gleaming, air-conditioned multiplexes with reclining seats and overpriced popcorn that Sumu likely frequented. It was an older hall, smelling faintly of dust and phenol, but the darkness there was intimate, and the tickets were cheap. It was enough.
But the machinery of fate, much like the steel plant in Durgapur, had no regard for human sentiment.
The call came the night before the anniversary. Shweta had been sitting on the edge of their bed, wrapping a modest wristwatch she had saved months to buy, when the phone buzzed.
Ani’s voice was a ragged whisper, barely audible over the industrial hum in the background. He wasn't coming.
"It’s an emergency shutdown, Shona," he rasped, the exhaustion bleeding through the speaker. "The foreman said if I don't stay for the double shift and the maintenance work tomorrow, they might cut my contract next renewal."
The disappointment hit Shweta like a physical blow to the chest. She gripped the phone tighter, her eyes stinging. "But Ani... we planned this. It’s our first year."
"I know. I know," he pleaded, his voice cracking with helplessness. As a contract worker, he was disposable; he didn't have the luxury of saying no, nor the protection of a union that the permanent staff enjoyed. He had to accept the ad-hoc cruelty of the roster. "Listen, the good news is, because I’m doing this double shift, the supervisor said I can take an extra day off next week. I’ll come home Tuesday. We’ll have three whole days together. Please don’t be mad."
Shweta had nothing else to do other than accept it. To argue would only add to the burden on his shoulders, shoulders already stooped under the weight of duty. She hung up the phone, the silence of the room rushing back in to drown her. The wrapped gift on the bed suddenly looked foolish, a childish artifact of a dream that couldn't survive the harsh reality of their class.
She lay back on the pillows that still smelled faintly of him, though the scent was fading, staring at the ceiling fan cutting through the stagnant air. Her mind, seeking a target for her frustration, drifted downstairs to the first floor.
She thought of *Borda*.
Just yesterday, she had heard Sumu on the phone in the hallway, his voice casual and commanding. He had told his manager he was taking a "mental health day" simply because he hadn't slept well. He didn't ask; he informed. And he was still paid more in a month than Ani made in six.
A bitter, cold resentment pooled in her stomach—not at Ani, but at the unfairness of it all. Why was her husband enslaved to a furnace while his cousin could command his time with a few keystrokes? Why couldn't Ani take a single day for the woman who waited for him?
Downstairs, the house was quiet, but the wheels of change had begun to turn. Shweta felt a crack form in her resolve, a fissure born of loneliness and envy, unaware that it was the perfect opening for forbidden things to enter.
—-
Ani knew the trip home on Tuesday would be a walk across a tightrope. The delayed celebration hung over him like the heavy, soot-filled clouds above the steel plant. He had missed the actual date—the first milestone of their married life—and no amount of overtime pay could buy back that lost moment.
He arrived with the dust of Durgapur still clinging to his boots, clutching two bags. The first day back, surprisingly, had gone smoother than he feared. He had presented the red silk saree immediately. It wasn’t the heavy gold necklace he had dreamed of giving her when they were dating in high college—gold prices had soared beyond the reach of a contract laborer—but the silk was soft, the crimson deep and rich. Shweta had smiled, a genuine, albeit tired, smile, and dbangd it over her shoulder, asking how she looked.
"Like a queen," he had said, and he meant it.
They spent the day fulfilling the ghost of their anniversary plans. They went to the cinema, ate street food that made them both nostalgic for their college days, and for a few hours, the crushing weight of his absence seemed to lift.
But the night held a different weight.
After a dinner of spicy mutton curry—the meal she had promised him—they retreated to their room on the top floor. The air was heavy, the ceiling fan cutting through the humidity with a rhythmic *thwack-thwack*. Ani felt a stir of desire mixed with anxiety. He wanted to reclaim the intimacy the steel plant had stolen from him.
He reached into his bag and pulled out the second gift, wrapped in discreet brown paper. He had spent a significant portion of his saved allowance on it. It was a black bikini bra and panty set—lacy, minimal, and provocative. He had always loved how black contrasted against Shweta’s fair skin, though she usually wore simple, sensible cotton. This was his attempt to ignite something passionate, to make her feel desirable, to bridge the gap.
"I got you something else," Ani whispered, handing her the package. His heart hammered against his ribs. "Something for us."
Shweta sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under her weight. She unwrapped the paper slowly. When the scrap of black lace and silk fell into her hands, she didn't smile. She held it up, the tiny garment looking almost ridiculous against the backdrop of their modest, peeling walls.
She looked at the price tag he had forgotten to remove. Her eyes widened.
"Ani," she said, her voice dangerously quiet. "How much was this?"
"It doesn't matter," he said, moving to sit beside her, reaching for her waist. "I just wanted to see you in it. You look so beautiful in black, and I thought—"
"Two thousand rupees?" Shweta’s voice cracked, sharp enough to halt his hand. She dropped the underwear onto the bed as if it were burning coal. "You spent two thousand rupees on... on *this*?"
Ani blinked, confused by the sudden shift in her demeanor. "It’s a gift, Shona. To make up for missing the day. I wanted to make tonight special."
"Special?" Shweta stood up, the frustration that had been simmering all week—all year—finally boiling over. "You think this makes it special? Ani, do you know what I could have done with two thousand rupees?"
"It's just money, I earned it—"
"We don't have a TV in this room!" she shouted, then clamped a hand over her mouth, glancing fearfully at the door, lowering her voice to a harsh hiss. "I stare at these four walls all day. All day, Ani! I finish cooking, I help Jethima, and then I come here and stare at the wall. I asked you for a small TV months ago. You said we had to save. But you have money for this... this useless piece of string?"
"It's not useless," Ani said, his own temper flaring defensively. He stood up to face her. "I bought it because I desire my wife. Is that a crime? I wanted us to have some romance. I’m killing myself in that heat for twelve hours a day to put money in your hand, can’t I spend a little on something I like?"
"But you aren't here!" Shweta’s eyes filled with tears, her face flushing red. "That’s the point! You buy me sexy underwear, but where are you? You’re in Durgapur! Who am I supposed to wear this for? The mirror?"
"I'm here now," Ani pleaded, stepping closer, but she backed away.
"You're here now because your supervisor *let* you come," she spat out. "You missed our anniversary. Our first one. Do you know how humiliating it was? Jethima made payesh, Ma did a puja, and I sat there alone like a widow while everyone looked at me with pity."
"I didn't have a choice!" Ani said, his voice straining. "If I don't do the shifts, they’ll cut the contract. Then what will we eat? Air?"
"Why do you never have any choice? Look at Borda, why couldn't you do something like him, we would have so much time together"
Ani's voice now barely a whisper, "I don't have the same education like him Shweta. You know me from college life, you should know"
"I don't want to know anything" She picked up the black lace bra and threw it at his chest. It fluttered harmlessly to the floor between them.
"I don't want your expensive underwear," she sobbed, collapsing back onto the bed, burying her face in her hands. "I just wanted my husband. I just wanted you to be here when you were supposed to be."
Ani stood there, the silence of the room rushing back in, heavy and suffocating. The red saree lay neatly folded on the chair, and the black lace lay crumpled on the floor—two symbols of his failure. He looked at his wife, her shoulders heaving with sobs, and felt a profound, paralyzing helplessness. He couldn't change his job. He couldn't change his education. He couldn't be Sumu.
He bent down and quietly picked up the underwear, stuffing it back into his bag. He turned off the light, plunging the room into darkness.
He lay down on the bed, leaving a wide gap between them. Shweta was still crying softly into her pillow. Ani wanted to reach out, to touch her back, to apologize for being a failure, but his hand felt too heavy to lift. He turned his back to her, staring into the dark, listening to the whir of the fan and the sound of his wife weeping for a life he couldn't give her.
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