Adultery Radiance of Vanitha

[adams_masala]

Chapter 26: Lines in the Sand

Scene 1

The morning after his resolution, Selvam rose even earlier than usual. The air was already heavy with moisture; sweat beaded on his forehead before he had left his bed. He kept his footsteps light on the stairs, aware that Vanitha sometimes slept late after their nights of excess, but as he crossed the landing he heard movement in the living room...a quick, rhythmic exhale, the swish of fabric, a low, feminine grunt.

Vanitha was in the center of the tiled floor, her mat rolled out, the edges lined with a towel as if anticipating the kind of sweat she planned to wring from her body. She wore a peach-hued sports bra and black leggings that clung to her curves with an intimacy that rivaled last night’s sheets. The leggings dipped so low on her hips that the chain she usually wore over her saree now bisected her bare midriff in a crescent of gold. Her hair was coiled into a high bun, but loose strands...damp already...clung to her jaw and throat. The room was painted with the early sunlight, every angle of her body picked out in gold.

She moved through the asanas with militant focus, almost as if she were trying to burn out some toxin that couldn’t be purged by ordinary means. Each transition was precise, beautiful, slightly aggressive...her arms extended like the wings of a dancer, her spine lengthening until Selvam thought it might snap. He watched from the hallway for a few seconds, hands clasped behind his back, trying to marshal the words he would need for this morning. They came with difficulty.

She saw him instantly, as if she had been waiting for his gaze, and her face broke into a slow, knowing smile.

“You’re up early,” she said, holding a Warrior II that displayed her thigh and the line of her hip perfectly.

“I am always up early,” he replied, voice as mild as he could manage. “But you… you’re working very hard this morning.”

She laughed, breathless, and shifted into a pose that required her to balance on one leg, the other extended behind her like a bow drawn to its full length. “I have to be ready for my next campaign shoot,” she said. “These days the photographers demand more from us than the judges ever did. If your saree does not sit right on the bones, they will say you have become old, fat, lazy.”

He nodded, watching her.

She held the pose for a few more seconds, then collapsed onto her mat in a slow, theatrical fall, as if boneless with exhaustion. She lay on her back, panting, the rise and fall of her chest mesmerizing.

“I suppose you are going for your run, next,” she said, without opening her eyes.

Selvam hesitated. “I thought to have coffee first. Would you join me?”

She sat up with a sudden, coiled energy, her eyes glittering in the morning light. “Of course, mama.” She drew the word out, making it both a challenge and a caress. “Or do you prefer ‘sir’ today?”

Selvam stiffened, then relaxed his face into its usual composure. “Mama is fine,” he said.

She rose, slowly, using the flex of her core muscles to sit upright. The movement was deliberate, calculated to remind him of last night, the way she had used those same muscles to ride him, to milk him, to make him forget who he was for entire minutes at a time. She crossed the room to him, not bothering to towel off, her sweat a badge of effort and honesty.

He made a show of turning away, walking to the kitchen, pouring hot water into the filter pot. She followed, standing close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating off her bare arms.

“I’ll shower and change,” she said, but she made no move to leave. She was waiting.

Selvam busied himself with the coffee, his hands steady even as his mind reeled. Every morning for years he had followed the same rituals, but today the simple act of preparing coffee felt dangerous, loaded. He was hyper-aware of Vanitha’s body behind him, of the way her breathing slowed as she watched him.

When the coffee was ready, he poured two tumblers and handed one to her. She took it, her fingers brushing his with a jolt of static electricity.

“Did you sleep well?” he asked, though he already knew she had not.

She sipped, then licked a brown line from the rim of her cup. “I had dreams,” she said. “Some good. Some… strange.”

He nodded, but did not ask. He could guess the content of her dreams. His own sleep had been haunted by images of her, Vanitha on her knees, Vanitha straddling him, Vanitha pinning him with that impossible gaze and saying, “I want you to breed me, mama.” The memory filled him with simultaneous pride and a deep, nauseating guilt.

She leaned against the counter, her body relaxed now. “What are your plans today?” she asked.

“Groceries,” he said, “and maybe a visit to the temple. There is a new flower stall at the market. The jasmine is said to be extraordinary.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Buying flowers for someone?”

He shrugged. “For the house. For the puja room.”

She came closer, the tips of her toes almost touching his, and reached for his arm. “Let me come with you,” she said. “I could use some fresh air.”

He hesitated, and she saw it.

“I promise to behave,” she said, her tone suddenly sober. “I know you are… upset. About last night.”

Selvam felt his jaw clench, a pulse of anger… at her, at himself, at the universe for putting him here. He forced himself to look at her, really look, and what he saw was not the predatory goddess from his fantasies, but a young woman worn thin by longing and fear.

He softened his voice. “It was not a mistake,” he said, careful to avoid the word regret. “But it is not something we can make a habit of.”

She nodded, and for the first time, he saw her flinch.

He set his coffee down, ran a hand over his face. “Let’s go to the market,” he said. “And we will invite Lakshmi to join us. She has been with this family longer than you or I, and she will need the walk as much as we do.”

Vanitha’s mouth twisted in amusement. “You think a chaperone will stop me, mama?”

“I think it will help me,” he said, not bothering to disguise the truth.

She gave a small, wry bow. “As you wish.”

She disappeared to shower and change, and he watched the empty space where she’d been. Even gone, she left a charge in the room… a kind of afterimage.

When Lakshmi arrived for her shift, Selvam explained that they would go to the market together, and that she should wear her good saree. The woman, stoic and heavy-footed, was pleased by the invitation but suspicious. “You are both looking thin,” she muttered. “I will cook proper food, not this gym diet.”

They walked through the hot, damp streets side by side, Vanitha in a conservative but figure-hugging saree, Lakshmi shuffling along with a string bag and a muttered litany of shopping complaints. At every fruit stall, Vanitha tasted a gbang or a bit of mango and held the piece out for Selvam to sample. He refused at first, then relented; the touch of her fingers to his lips was so brief it could have been nothing, but it felt like a promise.

He bought the jasmine, a thick, fragrant strand that filled the whole air around them. Lakshmi sniffed the air and said, “This is how a home should smell,” and Selvam found himself oddly comforted.

When they sat for breakfast at the outdoor café, Vanitha did not try to touch him under the table, nor did she flirt. She laughed at Lakshmi’s jokes, called the server “brother,” and wiped a bit of sambar from her chin with the back of her hand. For a while, she was just a woman, eating her dosa, surrounded by the noise of the city.

But later, walking home, she hung back while Lakshmi forged ahead. She leaned in, just close enough that only he could hear.

“I liked this,” she said. “I liked being out with you.”

He looked straight ahead. “We can do it again. But I need you to give me time.”

She nodded, the scent of jasmine suddenly overwhelming.

He wanted, more than anything, to turn and take her into his arms, to bury his face in her neck and lose himself again. But he thought of Ashok, of Latha, of the fragile network of promises that had kept this family together.

Instead, he walked on, the gold of the morning turning harsh and bright around them.

When they got home, Vanitha went straight to her room, closing the door with a soft finality. Selvam lingered in the kitchen, the weight of her absence like a new kind of gravity.

He poured himself a second cup of coffee, black and unsweetened, and drank it slowly, waiting for the world to settle.

But the tension… the wanting… only deepened. He knew it was only a matter of time before the next fault line opened.


# Scene 2

By early afternoon, the air in the house was thick with the scent of frying onions and toasted cumin. Vanitha, usually meticulous in her self-presentation, had allowed a film of turmeric and oil to stain her hands, yellowing the flesh at her cuticles. She wore a fresh saree for the occasion… a rich teal with a silver border that shimmered when she moved… and had braided her hair with a string of the new jasmine. In the kitchen, every motion was studied, deliberate: the rolling of dosa batter, the sprinkle of coriander, the careful arrangement of steel bowls on a bright banana leaf. It was, to any observer, an act of devotion.

She caught sight of Selvam through the archway, sitting at the small table with his reading glasses perched on his nose, absorbed in the newspaper. The sight of him, so domestic and peaceful, sent a complicated jolt through her body: part affection, part longing, and part a kind of animal defiance. She wanted to disrupt him. She wanted to remind him that the line they had drawn in the sand was, at best, a temporary barricade.

She arranged the table with a kind of sensual perfection: a clay diya candle, a small bowl of ghee for dipping, the silver cutlery she had polished herself. When everything was ready, she called to him.

“Lunch is served, mama,” she said, softening the word as if it were their own private joke.

Selvam set aside the newspaper and came to the table, pausing in the doorway. He took in the scene… the color of her saree, the flicker of the candle, the sharp, earthy smell of fenugreek… and for a brief second, he looked at her the way he had the night before. It was a flash, quickly masked, but she caught it and filed it away.

“This is too much,” he said, but his voice was gentle. “You must have been working all morning.”

She shrugged, lowering her eyes in a practiced demure. “I needed something to do with my hands. Too much time to think, otherwise.”

They sat across from each other. Vanitha spooned sambar onto his rice, dotting it with a perfect cube of melting ghee. “You used to like it this way,” she said, watching him for a reaction.

He smiled, but it did not quite reach his eyes. “You remember my preferences better than my own son,” he said.

She let that linger, then reached across the table to brush a fleck of coriander from his cheek. Her hand lingered a moment longer than necessary, the skin-on-skin contact electric. He did not flinch, but he did not reciprocate, either.

They ate in silence for a while, the only sounds the scbang of cutlery and the hiss of pressure cookers from neighboring flats drifting through the window.

Finally, Selvam broke the quiet. “I spoke to Ashok this morning,” he said, folding a piece of dosa into a perfect triangle. “I told him you and Ashok should try another IVF through Latha. The doctors say it is possible, after a short rest. You have two more embryos.”

Vanitha paused, her own bite suspended in air. “So soon?” she asked, unable to hide the incredulity in her voice.

He nodded. “You and Ashok must do everything properly. I know you are very… diligent.”

Vanitha scoffed, not kindly. “Diligent,” she repeated, the word twisting into something brittle. “She looks at Ashok as if he hung the moon, even when he forgets she is just our surrogate.”

She stopped herself.

Selvam’s eyes were sad, but steady. “It’s not a competition, Vanitha.”

She stabbed at her rice with unnecessary force. “I never said it was.”

He let that pass. “You could have your own baby, you know. Through Latha.”

Vanitha looked away, jaw clenched. “Maybe after a while.”

He set down his fork. “It would help Ashok, too. He feels very alone there, in that city. So far from everything he knew.”

“I know what that feels like,” Vanitha said, her tone sharp enough to cut.

He reached for a new topic. “The garden needs attention,” he said. “Lakshmi says the curry leaf plant is dying. I was going to trim it this afternoon. Would you join me?”

She laughed, a little too bright. “So, what, we are partners in horticulture now? You and me, the model couple?”

“It is better than being enemies,” he said, with quiet conviction.

She looked at him then, really looked. “Do you even want me, anymore?” she said, so softly he almost missed it.

Selvam blinked, and for a moment, all the steel in his resolve melted. He wanted to reach for her across the table, to pull her into his arms and tell her yes, he wanted her, he wanted her so much it terrified him. But he did not move.

He chose his words with care. “I want you to be happy,” he said. “I want to do what is right, for both of us. But for now, we need to be strong. For Ashok. For your future baby through Latha.”

Vanitha inhaled, then exhaled slowly. The jasmine in her braid trembled as if it, too, had heard his verdict. “You sound like my therapist,” she said, but she was smiling now, the edge gone from her voice. “Fine. We will be strong.”

They finished the meal, and as she cleared the dishes, she let her fingers linger on his forearm as she took his plate. “I forgive you,” she whispered, her voice almost playful.

“For what?” he asked, genuinely perplexed.

“For pretending not to want me,” she said, and before he could reply, she swept out of the room, the tail of her saree flashing behind her like a banner of defiance.

Selvam sat in the aftermath of her departure, staring at the empty space across from him. He felt both lighter and infinitely more burdened.

He stood, wiped the table with mechanical precision, and went to the garden, where the sun had scorched the earth to a fine white powder. He bent to the dying curry leaf plant, hands steady, heart in riot.

The house was quiet now, but Selvam felt every molecule of Vanitha’s presence, like heat trapped in the walls.


# Scene 3

That evening, Vanitha transformed the studio room for her next reel. The curtains were drawn, filtering the sunset into a diffuse honey, and the antique lamp in the corner cast a soft golden glow over everything it touched. She wore a saree of arresting crimson, the pleats so sharp they looked knife-cut, the pallu dbangd in a way that managed to be both artful and just a little off-kilter, so that any shift in movement, any twirl, any intentional stumble would send it fluttering, exposing the fine lines of her waist and the deep-v of the blouse.

She had rigged her phone on a tripod, propped at exactly the right angle, and tested the focus with a few trial frames: a half smile here, a turn of the neck there. She deleted them all, dissatisfied, waiting for the real performance to begin.

When she heard Selvam’s step on the stairs, she cleared her throat and called to him, voice bright. “Mama! I need your help for something.”

He appeared in the archway, garden dirt still on his hands, a towel slung over his shoulder. He paused, taking in the transformed room, the camera, and most of all her. For a moment, he was silent.

She beckoned him forward. “I need a cameraman,” she said. “You can just press the red button, no acting required.”

He wiped his hands and came over, the scent of damp earth and sweat riding just ahead of him. She showed him the phone...how to tilt it, how to hold steady, the sequence of buttons. “Don’t worry,” she said, “it’s easier than you think.”

He grunted, skeptical, but when she started the playback, his face softened with fascination. “You do this for hours?” he asked.

“Sometimes more,” she replied. “It has to be perfect. One wrong step, and all anyone remembers is the mistake.”

She adjusted the phone, turned on the music...a lilting remix of an old Tamil love song...and took her mark. The first part was simple: a slow turn, a hand on her hip, a flirtatious glance over the shoulder. She nailed it on the first try. But the second step required her to twirl, catch the edge of the sofa with her toe, and spin into Selvam’s arms, as if caught by surprise.

On the first take, she spun too fast and missed him entirely, careening into the sofa. Selvam’s eyes widened. “Are you alright?”

She laughed it off. “Next time, catch me, okay? It’s for the shot.”

He nodded, a flush rising on his cheeks.

The second take, she slowed down, but at the moment of the catch, she let her body go limp, tipping forward into his embrace. For a brief, heated second, his arms went around her, palms pressing against the small of her back, her chest soft against his. She could feel the tension snap into place, could feel the thud of his heart and the involuntary flex of his fingers.

Then, just as quickly, he let her go. She stumbled back, the pallu sliding off her shoulder, and she caught herself on the arm of a chair.

Selvam stepped back, the flush now a full bloom. “You should be careful,” he said, voice too formal. “You could hurt yourself.”

She righted her saree, drawing the fabric tight around her. “You were supposed to catch me,” she said, her tone half-teasing, half-scold.

He did not meet her eyes. “I’m not an actor,” he said, and fiddled with the phone, hands trembling. “Maybe Lakshmi can help you, tomorrow.”

She walked to him, placed a hand on his forearm. “I only want your help, mama,” she said. The words hung in the space between them, heavier than they should have been.

He jerked his arm away, almost as if burned, and set the phone down on the sideboard. “I have to shower,” he said, and left the room.

She stood for a long minute in the after-silence, the only sound the faint trill of the playback loop, the old love song cycling over and over. She watched herself in the phone screen, saw the moment her body collided with his, saw the flicker of heat and then panic in both their faces.

She wanted to delete the video, but instead, she saved it, uploading it to her private folder. She would watch it again, later, when she needed proof that the pull between them was not a figment of her imagination.

Vanitha sat on the edge of the sofa, hands folded in her lap, her heart stuttering like a trapped bird. She thought of the careful distance Selvam kept, the way he looked at her only when he thought she wouldn’t notice.

She was determined to break him. She was determined to win.

In the bathroom upstairs, Selvam stood under the cold spray, eyes squeezed shut, willing his body to forget the memory of her in his arms, the scent of jasmine and sweat, the shape of her pressed against him. He gripped the edge of the sink and breathed, slow and deep.

He would not be broken, he told himself. He would not be the cause of more ruin in this house.

But even as he said it, he knew: this was a battle already lost.

The music looped on, filling the empty house with longing.


# Scene 4

That night, the house felt hollowed out by tension. The walls, stripped of daytime noise, seemed to close in, amplifying every footstep, every muted sound from the garden. Vanitha found herself restless, unable to settle to a book or her phone. She finally took her coffee out to the veranda, where the city’s humidity pressed against her skin and the air smelled faintly of wilted jasmine and rain.

Selvam appeared at the threshold, framed by the rectangle of lamplight from the hallway. He did not approach at first, but stood with his hands clasped behind his back, watching her. She pretended not to notice, swirling her coffee, but her body betrayed her...shoulders stiff, back a little too straight.

He cleared his throat. “May I join you?”

She shrugged, not looking up. “It’s your house.”

He came and sat across from her, folding his large hands neatly on the tabletop. For a while, neither spoke. She sipped her coffee, letting the silence stretch, but she could feel his gaze on her, weighing, measuring.

Finally, he spoke. “We need to talk.”

She raised an eyebrow, still not meeting his eyes. “About what? The weather? Lakshmi’s complaints about the neighbors? Or would you like to review my latest reel?”

He didn’t smile. “About us,” he said.

She put the coffee down. “There is no us,” she said flatly. “You made that very clear this afternoon.”

He winced. “You know it’s not that simple.”

She finally looked at him, and the force of her anger surprised even herself. “Then make it simple, mama. Tell me what you want from me.”

He inhaled deeply, steeling himself. “I want us to stop. Not forever, maybe. But for now. We have to give Ashok and you to have your baby through, give Latha a chance to heal. We need to focus on the family. On the baby.”

She barked a short, humorless laugh. “There is no baby. You saw to that.”

He did not rise to the bait. “That was not anyone’s fault,” he said. “Sometimes it happens. You know that.”

She turned away, staring into the night. “You say you want to help Ashok and me. But you’re the one who took everything from him. You took me.”

He shook his head. “I am not proud of what we did. But we cannot take it back. The only thing we can do now is move forward, the right way.”

She made a face. “The right way. Always the good son, the perfect father. What about what you want, mama? What about what I want?”

He looked at her, and for a moment, the mask slipped. She saw the longing there, raw and undiminished, and her breath caught.

“I want you,” he said, voice low. “But I can’t have you, not like this. Not while people we love are hurting because of us.”

She stared at him, the muscles of her jaw working. “And if they weren’t?” she asked. “If I was never married to Ashok, would you want me then?”

He nodded, the truth plain in his face.

She looked down at her hands. The silver rings gleamed on her fingers, reflecting the faint light.

“I feel like a villain in someone else’s story,” she whispered. “I never wanted to be the bad guy, mama. I only wanted…” She trailed off, unwilling to say it.

He reached for her hand, and after a moment, she let him take it. His palm was rough, the grip gentle.

“We can’t change the past,” he said. “But we can try to do better now.”

She was silent for a long time. The sounds of the city, far-off and indistinct, filled the space between them.

Finally, she said, “You think if we pretend long enough, it will all go away?”

He shook his head. “No. But we might find something worth saving.”

She looked at him, really looked, and saw that he meant it. The anger leaked out of her, replaced by a hollow ache.

“Fine,” she said. “We’ll try it your way. But don’t expect me to smile and play house. I don’t forgive easily.”

He smiled, a sad, grateful thing. “You never have,” he said, and the old affection glimmered for a second between them.

He squeezed her hand once, then let go.

Vanitha watched as he stood, as he squared his shoulders and went back into the house. She stayed on the veranda, listening to the city, to the faint, regretful echo of her own choices.

She wondered if he would come to her room that night. She wondered if she would open the door.

When at last she went inside, the hallway was dark. She touched the wall for balance, feeling her way through the unfamiliar contours of this new, enforced distance.

In his bedroom, Selvam stood at the window, staring out at the night. He did not sleep for a long time, his mind turning over the conversation, every word, every possibility.

He believed in self-denial, in the discipline of the will. He believed in second chances.

But as he closed his eyes, he saw her face, and the longing in his body burned so fierce and bright, it was all he could do to keep from going to her.

They were two forces in perfect opposition, balanced for now on the knife-edge of longing.

The city went on, indifferent, humming in the dark.


# Scene 5

In the pink haze before sunrise, Selvam walked the old perimeter of his neighborhood. The city was mostly still, the air touched with dew and woodsmoke, the roads bearing only the ghosts of yesterday’s traffic. The world, emptied of its audience, let him drop his performance.

He moved with purpose, head down, ignoring the stray dogs and the call of the first vendors. He stopped only at the shrine on the corner, the one with a blue-painted Ganesha, half-buried in marigold petals. He pressed his hands together and bowed, but the prayers that rose in his mind were not of forgiveness, or even guidance.

They were simple: Let me be strong. Let me not go to her tonight.

He lingered, breathing in the charred sweetness of burnt camphor, before resuming his circuit. The path would always bring him back to the house, to the one problem that had no good solution.

Vanitha woke alone in her bed, the sheets twisted and damp from her restless sleep. She stared at the ceiling, one hand curled around her phone, the other pressed to her stomach as if to ward off some old, dull pain.

She scrolled through her gallery: the old photos, the reels, the filtered perfection of her own smile. She watched, with a sense of unreality, the video from the night before… the moment she crashed into Selvam’s arms, the look of panic and hunger on his face.

She should have been angry. She should have resented him for his cold resolve, for making her feel small and childish in her own house. Instead, she found herself respecting it. Wanting it. Wanting him.

She set the phone aside and lay back, eyes burning. She wished she could hate him. She wished she could hate herself. But the truth was, she felt more alive than she had in years.

In the garden, Selvam bent to uproot a weed from beneath the curry leaf tree, his fingers sinking into the damp earth. He thought of all the roots that grew unseen, the secret networks that held everything together.

He would not touch her today. He would not allow himself that luxury. But the memory of her… the scent, the laughter, the ache, ran in his veins like a fever.

Vanitha showered, dressed, and came to the kitchen to make coffee. She found Selvam at the table, reading, the day’s calm a mask on his face. She poured herself a cup, added cardamom, sat across from him.

They did not speak. They did not need to.

The city woke around them, the ring of bells, the drone of horns, the slow, unstoppable march of ordinary life.

A breath, a pause. A new day.

And somewhere in the shared silence, the knowledge that nothing was resolved. That the wanting would only grow, until one of them broke again.

But not today.