Adultery Weekday Wife

[Sherlocked]

The morning sun filtered through the louvers of the old house, casting striped shadows across the hallway, but the air inside remained heavy with the residue of the previous night’s storm. Ani moved quietly, his body aching not just from the grueling shifts at the steel plant, but from the emotional bruising of Shweta’s tears. He needed to fix this. He couldn't buy a television—not yet—but he could perhaps borrow a solution.


He climbed the stairs to the first floor, pausing outside the door of the home office. Inside, the click-clack of a keyboard was a rhythmic, confident sound. He knocked gently and pushed the door open.


Sumu was seated behind a sleek, wide monitor, the glow of the screen illuminating his face. The room was cool, conditioned against the humid Bengal heat, a stark contrast to the stifling air of the worker's dormitory Ani was used to.


"Ani? Come in," Sumu said, swiveling his chair around. He looked fresh, well-rested, wearing a casual t-shirt that dbangd over his broad shoulders. "I didn't think you'd be up this early. How’s the plant?"


"It's... it's going," Ani managed a tight smile, stepping into the cool room. "Double shifts mostly. The furnace heat is something else this time of year."


"I can imagine," Sumu nodded, leaning back. " glad you’re back for a few days, though. Mom was happy to see you eating properly last night."


They exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes—the cost of raw materials, the local politics of the union—but Ani’s eyes kept darting to the floor. Finally, he cleared his throat.


"Borda, actually... I wanted to ask you something."


Sumu stopped tapping his pen against the desk. "Go on."


"It’s about Shweta," Ani began, his voice lowering. He carefully navigated around the humiliation of the bikini and the screaming match. "We... we had a bit of a disagreement yesterday. She’s struggling, Borda. Being alone in that room all day while I’m gone, and you know she doesn't like to intrude on Jethima constantly. She’s bored out of her mind."


Sumu listened, his expression unreadable but attentive.


"I can't afford a TV for our room right now," Ani admitted, the shame burning his ears. "I was wondering... would you mind if she watched the TV in your room during the day? Just to pass the time?"


Sumu raised an eyebrow, surprised. "Ani, I told you this months ago. My room sits empty from nine in the morning until I log off at night. The TV, the AC—it’s all just sitting there."


"I know," Ani said quickly. "I just didn't want to disturb your privacy before. But... she’s really unhappy. I think it would help."


Sumu looked at his cousin. He saw the fatigue etched around Ani's eyes, the desperation to please a wife he could barely afford to keep happy. He realized the fight must have been severe for Ani to swallow his pride like this.


"Of course," Sumu said, his voice softening. "She doesn't need to ask. Tell her she can use the room whenever she wants. It’s family, Ani. Stop acting like a stranger."


"Thank you, Borda," Ani exhaled, a weight lifting off his chest.


***


The afternoon light had turned golden and syrupy by the time Ani returned to their bedroom on the top floor. The silence between them had softened from icy tension to a fragile, melancholy quiet. Shweta was lying on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, her eyes red-rimmed.


She was already regretting the venom in her words from the night before. Seeing him standing there, looking so worn out, guilt washed over her. He was killing himself for that contract, and she had thrown his gift in his face.


Ani climbed onto the bed beside her. It was the old *palanka* bed, a massive heirloom that dominated the room. Four thick, square pillars rose nearly to the ceiling, culminating in a simple, open canopy frame that looked ready to dbang the silk or linen of a bygone era. Capping the footboard and headboard posts were large, smooth, dark wooden spheres—finials that resembled highly polished obsidian, cool to the touch.


The headboard and footboard were the most elaborate features. They were tall and intricate, composed of geometric latticework and angular curves. The dominant decorative motif was a series of fanned or sunburst carvings, cut directly into the dark wood, making the corners look like they were perpetually blooming.


Shweta shifted, resting her head on Ani’s chest. Through his thin cotton vest, she could feel the ridges of his ribs.


"You’ve gotten so thin," she whispered, her fingers tracing the hollow of his collarbone. "You need to eat more, Ani. The cafeteria food is poison."


"I eat," he lied softly, stroking her hair. "Don't worry about me."


"I shouldn't have shouted," she murmured, her eyes moistening again. "I know you try. I’m just... I feel like I’m going crazy in this room sometimes."


"I know," Ani kissed the top of her head. "I fixed it. I spoke to Borda."


Shweta stiffened slightly. "You told him?"


"Not everything," Ani assured her. "Just that you’re bored. He said you can use the TV in his room whenever you want. He was actually surprised we hadn't done it sooner."


Shweta remained silent. Sumu’s room was on the floor below. It was a space she rarely entered—large, modern, smelling faintly of expensive cologne and air conditioning. It felt like a different world compared to their dusty, antique-filled quarters.


"He said his room is empty all day," Ani continued, mistaking her silence for hesitation. "He wants you to use it. It’s better than staring at these walls, isn't it?"


"I suppose," Shweta said slowly. "If he really doesn't mind."


"He doesn't. Borda hasn't changed, you know," Ani said, a note of admiration creeping into his voice. "Despite all that money and the big job, he’s still humble. He still cares about us."


They lay there until the sun dipped below the horizon, the room darkening around them. They talked in hushed tones, trying to bridge the gap the argument had created. Yet, strangely, the conversation kept circling back to Sumu—his generosity, his success, and now, the access to his private sanctuary. Without realizing it, Ani was painting a picture of a savior, slowly pushing the door open to a life Shweta had only observed from a distance.


—---


The first time Shweta turned the handle of Sumu’s door, her hand trembled. It was a Tuesday afternoon, the house silent save for the distant cawing of crows and the rhythmic thrum of the ceiling fan in the hallway. Ani had already left for Durgapur, leaving behind the heavy silence that usually suffocated her.


She pushed the door open tentatively, half-expecting Sumu to be there despite what Ani had said, or perhaps expecting the room itself to reject her presence. The air smelled distinctly of him—a crisp blend of citrusy aftershave and the clean, static scent of electronics.


She didn't stay long that first day. She sat on the edge of the plush, grey sofa, clutching the remote like a foreign object, watching twenty minutes of a news channel with the volume turned low before guilt chased her back to the heat and the *palanka* of her own room.


But the seed of comfort had been sown.


By Thursday, the hesitation had evaporated, replaced by a craving for the escape the room offered. The moment her household chores were done, Shweta would retreat into Sumu's room. These afternoons, her own room seldom held her. She knew Sumu remained engrossed in his first-floor office, unlikely to venture upstairs at this hour. She learned to navigate the complex interface of the smart TV, exploring worlds she had only heard about. She binged on web series where people lived fast, glamorous lives in Mumbai and Delhi, and watched high-definition movies where the colors were so vivid they made her own life seem grey in comparison.


The room became her sanctuary. She would curl up on the sofa, pulling one of Sumu’s throw cushions into her lap, burying her face in it during the suspenseful moments. The surround sound system was a revelation; the bass thumped in her chest, drowning out the loneliness that usually echoed in her ears.


Yet, in the quiet moments between episodes, a pang of longing would strike her. She wished Ani were there. She imagined him sitting beside her, his arm around her shoulder, laughing at the comedy scenes. But the fantasy always crumbled quickly. She knew her husband. Ani was a man carved from pride as much as flesh. He would never relax here. He would sit stiffly, conscious of every rupee that bought this comfort, feeling like a charity case in his own cousin's home. He would rather sweat in dignity upstairs than cool off in borrowed luxury.


Down the hall, in his home office, Sumu would often pause his typing. Through the heavy teak door, he could hear the muffled sounds of dialogue or the swelling score of a film.


A small, satisfied smile would play on his lips. He liked knowing the house wasn't entirely dead during the day. He liked the idea that he was providing for them, filling the gaps that Ani, for all his hard work, could not. It made him feel benevolent, a responsible elder brother figure ensuring the happiness of the clan.


He would lean back in his ergonomic chair, stretching his arms, listening to the faint laughter of his sister-in-law drifting from his bedroom. He felt good about himself, glad that such a small gesture could bring so much relief. He had no idea that by opening his door, he had done far more than offer a distraction. He remained blissfully unaware of the dangerous intimacy growing in the dark, cool air of his room, or that his "helping out" was merely the prelude to a debt that would be paid in ways neither of them could yet imagine.