23-12-2025, 09:36 PM
Shweta drifted up from the depths of a coma-like sleep, pulled toward consciousness by a shiver that racked her naked frame. She blinked, her eyelids feeling heavy and swollen, staring up into a darkness that felt alien.
This wasn't her room. The ceiling was too low, devoid of the familiar wooden beams of the old roof. The mattress beneath her was impossibly soft, sinking under her weight like a cloud, a stark contrast to the hard, unyielding cotton mattress of the *palanka* she had slept on for a year. And the air—it was cold. Unnaturally, clinically cold.
She shifted, confusion fogging her brain, and her eyes caught the source of the faint illumination in the room: a small night lamp casting a spectral blue glow from the corner, and the digital display of an air conditioner humming a low, steady monotone.
Then, she saw him.
The blue light traced the silhouette of a man sleeping beside her. Broad shoulders, the rise and fall of a muscular chest, an arm thrown carelessly over his eyes.
*Sumu.*
The name hit her like a physical blow to the chest, shattering the fog of sleep.
*Borda.*
In an instant, the dam holding back the memories of the night burst. The images didn't trickle in; they crashed over her in a violent, suffocating wave.
She remembered the hallway. She remembered the water spilling down her chin, the heat of the night, and then the sudden, terrifying proximity of him. She remembered the way he had looked at her—not as a brother, not as a cousin, but as a predator. She remembered the collision of their lips, the taste of his tongue, the way he had lifted her effortlessly against the wall.
She squeezed her eyes shut, but the darkness behind her lids offered no sanctuary. Instead, it played back the reel of her transgression in high definition. She saw herself wrapping her legs around his waist, carried into this room like a spoil of war. She felt the phantom sensation of his warm, wet tongue lapping at her most private parts, the way she had cried out his name—*Dada*—while writhing in ecstasy. She remembered the searing stretch of him entering her, the fullness, the animalistic rhythm of their bodies slapping together.
A nausea, sharp and acidic, roiled in her stomach.
*What have I done?*
The question echoed in the silence of the room, terrified and accusing.
For the last few weeks, she had been living in a haze, a fever dream fueled by loneliness and a dangerous, simmering lust. The stolen glances, the accidental touches, the thrill of being watched on the terrace—it had all felt like a game. A way to feel alive in the suffocating boredom of her life.
But the game was over. The lust that had blinded her was gone, burned away by the friction of their bodies, leaving behind only the cold, hard ash of reality.
She looked down at herself. She was completely naked. Beside her, the man she had respected, the man she had called *Borda*, the man who had always maintained a dignified, professional distance, was also stark naked.
It felt as though a demon had possessed her. That was the only explanation. How else could she explain the way she had clawed at his back? The way she had begged him to take her?
She shifted her legs, and the physical reality of their sin made her flinch. The skin of her lower abdomen felt tight and sticky. She reached down, her trembling fingers brushing against her pubic hair. It was matted with the dried, crusty remnants of their mixed fluids—his seed and her own treacherous desire, glued to her skin like a brand of shame.
A whimper trapped in her throat. She felt dirty. Contaminated.
She scrambled off the bed as if the expensive grey sheets had suddenly turned into burning coals. Her feet hit the cold floor, and she nearly lost her balance, her legs shaking violently. She couldn't stay here. Not for another second. The sight of the bed—the rumpled pillows, the dark stain on the sheet where they had lain—shamed her to her very core.
She scanned the floor frantically in the dim blue light.
*Clothes. I need clothes.*
She spotted a scrap of white near the foot of the bed. Her panty. It lay tangled next to Sumu’s dark underwear, an intimate pairing that made her stomach turn. She snatched it up.
Her eyes darted to the corner of the room. Her blouse lay there, a crumpled heap of damp cotton. She remembered how she had arched her back, lifting herself to help him peel it off her skin. She had been so willing. So eager to be stripped.
She grabbed the blouse, clutching the garments to her chest as if they could shield her from the enormity of her guilt. She dared one last look at the bed. Sumu was still asleep, his breathing deep and rhythmic, completely at peace.
How could he sleep? How could he lie there so calmly after destroying everything?
She couldn't look at his face. The thought of him waking up, of his eyes meeting hers in the harsh light of morning, terrified her more than death. How would she ever face him again? How could she sit at the dining table, serve him rice, call him *Borda*, knowing that she had tasted him? Knowing that he had seen every inch of her, inside and out?
She turned and fled to the door, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She turned the knob with agonizing slowness, praying it wouldn't click.
She slipped through the crack and pulled the door shut behind her.
The transition was brutal. The heavy, humid air of the hallway crashed into her like a physical wall, instantly slicking her cold skin with condensation. The silence of the house was heavy, judgmental.
Her saree and petticoat were still where they had fallen, abandoned in the heat of their initial frenzy. The crimson fabric lay in a dark pool on the mosaic floor, a testament to her lack of control.
Shweta dropped to her knees, gathering the fabric with shaking hands. A sob welled up in her chest, a hot, expanding pressure that threatened to spill out into a scream. She bunched the cotton saree into a ball and shoved it into her mouth, biting down hard on the fabric to stifle the sound.
*Don't cry. Not here. Not yet.*
Clutching her bundle of clothes to her naked chest, she rose to her feet. She tiptoed down the corridor.
She reached her own room. Her sanctuary. Her prison.
She slipped inside and locked the door, sliding the heavy bolt home with a trembling hand. Only then did she let the clothes drop from her grasp. They fell to the floor in a heap, forgotten.
She didn't bother to dress. She stumbled toward the large, antique *palanka* bed—the bed she shared with her husband.
She threw herself onto the mattress, burying her face into the pillow on the right side.
*Ani's pillow.*
The scent hit her instantly. It wasn't the expensive cologne that lingered in Sumu's room. It was the smell of cheap coconut hair oil, stale sweat, and the faint, metallic tang of the steel plant.
It was the smell of Ani.
It felt like a knife twisting in her gut.
*Ani.* Her high college sweetheart. The boy who had ridden his bicycle in the rain just to see her. The man who worked double shifts in a furnace to buy her a saree. The man who was currently sleeping on a lumpy mattress miles away, trusting her, loving her.
She had betrayed him. She hadn't just made a mistake; she had shattered the foundation of their life. She had taken the one thing that belonged only to him—her intimacy, her loyalty—and given it to his own brother.
The sob she had been holding back finally broke free. It ripped through her throat, a jagged, ugly sound. She pressed her face harder into his pillow, inhaling his scent, punishing herself with it.
"I'm sorry," she choked out into the cotton, her voice thick with tears. "I'm so sorry, Ani. I'm so sorry."
She wept uncontrollably, her body shaking with the force of her grief. She cried for the innocence she had lost, for the demon that had taken over her, and for the husband she had wronged so deeply. The guilt was a physical weight, crushing her lungs, making it impossible to breathe.
She lay there for hours, naked and shivering in the heat, her tears soaking into the fabric of Ani’s pillow, washing over the smell of his hair oil until exhaustion finally dragged her back into a fitful, haunted sleep.
This wasn't her room. The ceiling was too low, devoid of the familiar wooden beams of the old roof. The mattress beneath her was impossibly soft, sinking under her weight like a cloud, a stark contrast to the hard, unyielding cotton mattress of the *palanka* she had slept on for a year. And the air—it was cold. Unnaturally, clinically cold.
She shifted, confusion fogging her brain, and her eyes caught the source of the faint illumination in the room: a small night lamp casting a spectral blue glow from the corner, and the digital display of an air conditioner humming a low, steady monotone.
Then, she saw him.
The blue light traced the silhouette of a man sleeping beside her. Broad shoulders, the rise and fall of a muscular chest, an arm thrown carelessly over his eyes.
*Sumu.*
The name hit her like a physical blow to the chest, shattering the fog of sleep.
*Borda.*
In an instant, the dam holding back the memories of the night burst. The images didn't trickle in; they crashed over her in a violent, suffocating wave.
She remembered the hallway. She remembered the water spilling down her chin, the heat of the night, and then the sudden, terrifying proximity of him. She remembered the way he had looked at her—not as a brother, not as a cousin, but as a predator. She remembered the collision of their lips, the taste of his tongue, the way he had lifted her effortlessly against the wall.
She squeezed her eyes shut, but the darkness behind her lids offered no sanctuary. Instead, it played back the reel of her transgression in high definition. She saw herself wrapping her legs around his waist, carried into this room like a spoil of war. She felt the phantom sensation of his warm, wet tongue lapping at her most private parts, the way she had cried out his name—*Dada*—while writhing in ecstasy. She remembered the searing stretch of him entering her, the fullness, the animalistic rhythm of their bodies slapping together.
A nausea, sharp and acidic, roiled in her stomach.
*What have I done?*
The question echoed in the silence of the room, terrified and accusing.
For the last few weeks, she had been living in a haze, a fever dream fueled by loneliness and a dangerous, simmering lust. The stolen glances, the accidental touches, the thrill of being watched on the terrace—it had all felt like a game. A way to feel alive in the suffocating boredom of her life.
But the game was over. The lust that had blinded her was gone, burned away by the friction of their bodies, leaving behind only the cold, hard ash of reality.
She looked down at herself. She was completely naked. Beside her, the man she had respected, the man she had called *Borda*, the man who had always maintained a dignified, professional distance, was also stark naked.
It felt as though a demon had possessed her. That was the only explanation. How else could she explain the way she had clawed at his back? The way she had begged him to take her?
She shifted her legs, and the physical reality of their sin made her flinch. The skin of her lower abdomen felt tight and sticky. She reached down, her trembling fingers brushing against her pubic hair. It was matted with the dried, crusty remnants of their mixed fluids—his seed and her own treacherous desire, glued to her skin like a brand of shame.
A whimper trapped in her throat. She felt dirty. Contaminated.
She scrambled off the bed as if the expensive grey sheets had suddenly turned into burning coals. Her feet hit the cold floor, and she nearly lost her balance, her legs shaking violently. She couldn't stay here. Not for another second. The sight of the bed—the rumpled pillows, the dark stain on the sheet where they had lain—shamed her to her very core.
She scanned the floor frantically in the dim blue light.
*Clothes. I need clothes.*
She spotted a scrap of white near the foot of the bed. Her panty. It lay tangled next to Sumu’s dark underwear, an intimate pairing that made her stomach turn. She snatched it up.
Her eyes darted to the corner of the room. Her blouse lay there, a crumpled heap of damp cotton. She remembered how she had arched her back, lifting herself to help him peel it off her skin. She had been so willing. So eager to be stripped.
She grabbed the blouse, clutching the garments to her chest as if they could shield her from the enormity of her guilt. She dared one last look at the bed. Sumu was still asleep, his breathing deep and rhythmic, completely at peace.
How could he sleep? How could he lie there so calmly after destroying everything?
She couldn't look at his face. The thought of him waking up, of his eyes meeting hers in the harsh light of morning, terrified her more than death. How would she ever face him again? How could she sit at the dining table, serve him rice, call him *Borda*, knowing that she had tasted him? Knowing that he had seen every inch of her, inside and out?
She turned and fled to the door, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She turned the knob with agonizing slowness, praying it wouldn't click.
She slipped through the crack and pulled the door shut behind her.
The transition was brutal. The heavy, humid air of the hallway crashed into her like a physical wall, instantly slicking her cold skin with condensation. The silence of the house was heavy, judgmental.
Her saree and petticoat were still where they had fallen, abandoned in the heat of their initial frenzy. The crimson fabric lay in a dark pool on the mosaic floor, a testament to her lack of control.
Shweta dropped to her knees, gathering the fabric with shaking hands. A sob welled up in her chest, a hot, expanding pressure that threatened to spill out into a scream. She bunched the cotton saree into a ball and shoved it into her mouth, biting down hard on the fabric to stifle the sound.
*Don't cry. Not here. Not yet.*
Clutching her bundle of clothes to her naked chest, she rose to her feet. She tiptoed down the corridor.
She reached her own room. Her sanctuary. Her prison.
She slipped inside and locked the door, sliding the heavy bolt home with a trembling hand. Only then did she let the clothes drop from her grasp. They fell to the floor in a heap, forgotten.
She didn't bother to dress. She stumbled toward the large, antique *palanka* bed—the bed she shared with her husband.
She threw herself onto the mattress, burying her face into the pillow on the right side.
*Ani's pillow.*
The scent hit her instantly. It wasn't the expensive cologne that lingered in Sumu's room. It was the smell of cheap coconut hair oil, stale sweat, and the faint, metallic tang of the steel plant.
It was the smell of Ani.
It felt like a knife twisting in her gut.
*Ani.* Her high college sweetheart. The boy who had ridden his bicycle in the rain just to see her. The man who worked double shifts in a furnace to buy her a saree. The man who was currently sleeping on a lumpy mattress miles away, trusting her, loving her.
She had betrayed him. She hadn't just made a mistake; she had shattered the foundation of their life. She had taken the one thing that belonged only to him—her intimacy, her loyalty—and given it to his own brother.
The sob she had been holding back finally broke free. It ripped through her throat, a jagged, ugly sound. She pressed her face harder into his pillow, inhaling his scent, punishing herself with it.
"I'm sorry," she choked out into the cotton, her voice thick with tears. "I'm so sorry, Ani. I'm so sorry."
She wept uncontrollably, her body shaking with the force of her grief. She cried for the innocence she had lost, for the demon that had taken over her, and for the husband she had wronged so deeply. The guilt was a physical weight, crushing her lungs, making it impossible to breathe.
She lay there for hours, naked and shivering in the heat, her tears soaking into the fabric of Ani’s pillow, washing over the smell of his hair oil until exhaustion finally dragged her back into a fitful, haunted sleep.
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