Adultery Radiance of Vanitha

[adams_masala]

Chapter 27: Fault Lines

# Scene 1

Vanitha could not sleep past dawn, not anymore. The city’s humidity pressed against her window, suffocating the air even before sunrise. She padded to the kitchen in her camisole and shorts, brewed herself strong coffee, and, with the first scalding sip, began mentally plotting out her day’s content...the angle, the backdrop, the precise moment when the sunlight would catch the iridescent beads of her saree, the illusion of effortlessness conjured by hours of obsessive planning.

The Instagram algorithm was a jealous, ravenous god, demanding new tributes daily. Vanitha had built her following on a precise equilibrium: the dignity of tradition, the provocation of exposure. Her fans expected both. The post from last week...her in a teal silk saree, the pallu in calculated disarray, a flash of navel and a band of delicate skin between the blouse and the waist chain...had gone viral, with comments in every language she could read and a few she couldn’t. There were offers for collaborations, DMs from ad agencies, the occasional proposal from an overeager NRI. And always, always, the echo of her own name, over and over, as if the world were reassuring itself that she was real.

She clung to this routine now, when the rest of her life felt adrift. Every small choice...lip color, bindi shape, which parting to use in her hair...felt weighted with consequence. In the first shoot of the day, she wore a peach organza saree, dbangd with a practiced art that left her right hip bare, the waist chain tight against her skin. She’d chosen a blouse with cap sleeves and a plunging neckline, the fabric so thin it was nearly translucent in the morning light. She set up the tripod at the corner of the living room, where the indirect sunlight pooled, and cued up the background track...a retro Ilaiyaraaja ballad, remixed with a pulsing house beat.

Her movements before the camera were a choreography of micro-calculations. A half-twist, shoulders rolled, the left hand feathering the pleats just so. She glanced over her own shoulder, a flick of hair, a deliberate hesitation as the pallu slipped off her breast and pooled at her elbow. Her eyes, lined in kohl, caught the lens, lingered. She knew exactly when the camera’s autofocus would pulse. In the next take, she leaned back on the sofa, one knee drawn up, the saree’s folds riding low enough to reveal the tattooed crescent just above her hipbone, a detail she rarely allowed the public.

Vanitha was not vain, but she was ruthless in her pursuit of perfection. Each reel was played back, dissected, the best moments clipped and spliced. A single imperfection...a roll at her waist, a pimple half-concealed by foundation, the way her smile faltered just before the song’s hook...meant a retake, a reset. She filmed again, sweat beading under her arms, the weight of the studio lights oppressive. It didn’t matter. Her followers would expect nothing less.

She did all of this alone, the only audience the cold eye of her phone and the silence of a house that still felt, at times, like a stranger’s. Lakshmi’s cleaning in the background, the clatter of vessels in the sink, only sharpened the sense of isolation. Each time Vanitha caught her own reflection in a pane of glass, she saw the ghost of last week’s woman...flushed with shame, lip bitten, legs tangled in white bedsheets, her body yielding to the one man she had sworn to keep at arm’s length.

She had told herself that night was a mistake. That morning had been a second mistake, and every pulse of memory was its own, smaller failure. She told herself that Selvam would keep his word, that he would not touch her again, that this new regime of distance was necessary and right.

But she missed the hunger in his eyes. She missed the feeling of being wanted, not just by a chorus of faceless strangers but by someone who saw every facet of her...the discipline, the pride, the secret longing...and ached for her anyway.

The day’s work passed in a blur of costume changes and takes. For the final shoot, she changed into a black georgette saree, the pallu pinned low, her midriff exposed in a way that felt, even to her, almost obscene. She painted her lips in dark plum, lined her eyes sharper than a blade, and chose a gold chain that lay across the hollow of her stomach like a mark of ownership.

She filmed the final reel in the hallway, the camera at hip height, so that the entire video was just her walking away, hips swaying, the thin strip of skin shimmering in the filtered light. She imagined, as she walked, that someone was watching her from behind, pulse quickening at the sight. She imagined the envy, the admiration, the envy again.

When she watched the reel back, she saw herself through the eyes of a stranger...unapproachable, untouchable, a weaponized version of everything the world wanted her to be. The comments would come in droves, she knew. Some would call her goddess. Some would call her a whore. A few would say both, and neither would sting as much as the knowledge that she had manufactured this effect on purpose.

She uploaded the reel, added a caption in English and Tamil, and set her phone to vibrate on the coffee table. The first comment landed within seconds. The dopamine hit was instant, hot as a blush, then gone.

The restlessness did not abate. She changed out of the black saree, hung it up with deliberate care, and stood before the mirror in her slip, examining her stomach from every angle. She arched her back, ran her palm along the ridge of muscle, pinched the flesh at her waist. She looked for signs that her body might betray her...any flaw, any evidence that she was less than what the world expected.

She heard Selvam’s footsteps on the stairs, his slow, deliberate tread as he came down for his evening tea. Vanitha did not move to greet him. She watched herself in the mirror, imagined what he would see if he entered the room at that moment. The bra strap sliding off her shoulder, the faint latticework of saree pleats impressed on her skin, the red mark at her hip where she had pressed too hard with a safety pin.

She wondered if he thought of her, even now, or if he was really as resolute as he claimed. She wondered if he wanted her to break first.

The hunger in her belly was not for food. She closed her eyes and pressed her forehead to the cool surface of the mirror. She let the ache roll through her, then straightened her shoulders and set her face in the expression of unbothered grace she had practiced for years.

When the next notification pinged on her phone, she turned from the mirror and picked it up, thumbs flying. The world would see what she wanted it to see...a woman radiant and self-contained, every inch of her engineered for admiration. The hollow inside her would remain her own secret, at least for now.


# Scene 2

Later that afternoon, Vanitha meticulously set up the iPad on the kitchen counter, the camera propped at a flattering downward angle. She wore a pale green saree that complemented her skin and offset the shadows under her eyes. The pallu was dbangd off-shoulder, as if by accident, but the border sparkled with tiny mirrors and drew the gaze up toward her face. She rechecked the position three times before calling Selvam in for the “family update” video call.

He arrived from the study in a fresh white shirt and the scent of sandalwood, his hair combed with military neatness. He hesitated at the threshold, glancing at the tripod and then at her. “You look very nice,” he said, with an odd note of apology.

“It’s just a regular call,” Vanitha replied, fussing with a bangle. “They’re expecting both of us.”

Selvam sat at the edge of the frame, folding his hands in his lap. He let her control the space, the lighting, the pacing...she was, after all, the one with something to prove.

She tapped the screen and waited for the call to connect. Ashok’s face filled the window, California sunlight bleaching his features. He looked tired, but the smile was genuine. Behind him, the walls were painted a warm, aspirational beige.

“Hi, Ma!” he said, and then, more formally: “Hi, Appa.”

Selvam nodded. “Ashok. You’re well?”

“I’m okay. Latha is here...just a sec.” Ashok’s hand disappeared from frame and returned, tugging a second face into view.

Latha’s presence on camera was somehow both dazzling and self-effacing. She wore a lavender salwar kameez, modest and pressed, her hair neatly parted and braided over one shoulder. The only ornament was a bindi, a soft, petal-pink dot. She looked at the camera, then away, then back, her smile bright but unsure.

“Hello, Akka, Mama,” she said.

Vanitha smiled, but it was the smile of a hostess whose meal had just gone slightly off. “Latha! You look so well. Ashok, is she eating enough? I don’t want her losing any weight before the next cycle.”

Ashok nodded. “She’s eating fine, Ma. She likes my pasta.”

“Pasta is not enough,” Vanitha said, the words too quick. “She needs lentils, greens, healthy fats.”

Latha said, “Ashok is a good cook,” as if to defend him, but the effect was only to make Vanitha feel more like a bystander in her own life.

Selvam saw the shift, the tightness in Vanitha’s jaw. He interjected, “Latha, are you keeping up with the supplements? The folic acid, the vitamin D?”

“Yes, Mama,” she said, eager. “I’m following the chart you sent. Every day.”

“Good girl,” said Selvam, and Vanitha heard the old paternal pride, the gentle, coaching tone he had never once used with her.

“Have you been for walks?” Vanitha asked, trying to sound concerned instead of competitive. “You should be doing at least thirty minutes, slow pace, nothing too strenuous. Ask Ashok to get you good shoes.”

Latha nodded. “He bought me a pair yesterday. They are very comfortable.”

Ashok reached over and squeezed her hand, an unconscious gesture. “She even wears them around the house,” he said.

Vanitha noticed how Latha’s skin glowed, how her arms looked fuller, as if she had absorbed all the nurturing energy that should have been Vanitha’s. She felt a twinge...a hot, sour jealousy she tried to reframe as maternal concern.

“I have a list of meal plans,” Vanitha said, scrolling on her phone. “I can send them. Just… ignore the cheese-heavy ones. I know how sensitive your digestion is.”

Latha smiled with genuine gratitude. “Thank you, Akka. That will help a lot.”

They talked for a few minutes more, the conversation looping through practicalities...insurance paperwork, appointment times, the names of the different drugs and their side effects. Selvam listened, only occasionally inserting a reminder or a word of praise for Latha’s diligence.

Vanitha could not help but notice that, when Latha addressed Selvam, she always used “Mama,” with a softness that made the syllables sound less like an honorific and more like a small, private devotion.

She wondered if Ashok noticed. She wondered if he cared.

At one point, Selvam asked about the next appointment, and Ashok explained, “It’s scheduled for Thursday. They’ll check the lining, see if it’s ready for transfer.”

“Are you both going together?” Vanitha asked, a challenge masked as a question.

“Of course,” Ashok replied. “She doesn’t like the hospital alone.”

Latha blushed. “It’s too big. And the nurses are sometimes rude.”

Ashok squeezed her hand again. “I’ll take care of it, Ma. Don’t worry.”

The words were for Vanitha, but the look was for Latha. It was a look of partnership, of shared mission, of two people united against the world.

Vanitha said, “You should wear loose clothes for the appointment. And no makeup, just in case you react to the tape.” She could feel herself babbling, layering advice over advice, trying to wall out the ache.

“Thank you, Akka,” Latha said again. “I will.”

Selvam watched all of this with a clinical detachment, his own calculations running quietly under the surface. The biology was simple. The emotional calculus less so.

He said, “Latha, if you have any discomfort, or even just anxiety, you must tell me immediately. I will call the doctor myself if needed.”

Latha nodded, her eyes wide with gratitude. “Thank you, Mama. You are so kind.”

Vanitha felt a tiny rupture...a fissure in her composure, a betrayal she had not prepared for.

Ashok glanced at the clock, said, “We should let you go, Ma. Latha needs to rest before dinner.”

Vanitha said, “Of course. Good luck, darling. Take care of her.” The words sounded hollow, even to her.

After the call, she watched the blank screen, her own reflection superimposed over the last frozen image of Ashok and Latha, their heads bowed together, foreheads nearly touching.

Selvam cleared his throat. “You are being too hard on yourself.”

She looked up, startled.

He said, “You are not in a competition with her. She is just the vessel. The baby will be yours.”

Vanitha’s hands clenched under the table. “Then why does it feel like I am losing?”

He shook his head. “You are not losing. You are protecting your family. That is what matters.”

She looked away, wiping an imaginary spot on the countertop.

Selvam did not move to comfort her. He simply said, “You should be proud of your strength.”

She said nothing, just sat there in her pale green saree, alone with the afterglow of a conversation that had left her feeling both irrelevant and raw.

Selvam returned to his study, but Vanitha stayed at the table, scrolling through the Latha’s WhatsApp status...pictures of home-cooked meals, a new hair clip, a selfie in the sunlight. She compared each one to the images in her own gallery. She saw, suddenly, how similar they were, and how little that similarity mattered.

Vanitha thought of Latha, half a world away, sleeping in the bedroom next to theirs, and wondered what it would be like to wake up with someone’s dreams inside your body, not knowing if they were truly yours.

She scrolled up to the video call preview, paused it on the frame where Latha had smiled so radiantly at Selvam. The envy was a knife, but she pressed into it anyway, savoring the honesty of the pain.

She closed the app, then re-opened it, unable to resist. She watched the frame again and again, until the only thing left was the sound of her own shallow breath and the echo of the one word she could never say aloud: replaceable.


# Scene 3

The garden was a riot of untended green, the monsoon having transformed every spare inch into a contest between creeper, weed, and stubborn curry-leaf sapling. Vanitha crouched at the far end, hands sunk deep in potting soil, her nails ringed with black and a thin line of snot threatening to escape her nose. The afternoon light was flat, colorless, a screen for old shadows and tears that refused to dry.

She had not intended to cry here, but the fury of it had overtaken her after the call. She dug and dug, rearranging tiny flowerpots as if their fate would redeem her own. She thought about the way Ashok looked at Latha...was that ever how he’d looked at her? Was she really so easy to replace? Was her beauty, her discipline, her every careful sacrifice so invisible to the world that a single, wide-eyed surrogate could step in and erase her?

The sound of slippers scbanging on concrete startled her. Selvam appeared at the edge of the patio, carrying a mug of tea and, improbably, a small towel. He watched her for a few seconds, then set the mug on the stoop and approached, moving with the cautious grace of someone entering a storm.

“Vanitha,” he said, very quietly.

She made a show of ignoring him, but could not help glancing up. The look on his face...equal parts concern and bafflement...nearly undid her again.

He said, “You will ruin your nails.”

She scoffed. “Who is here to care?”

He offered the towel, which she accepted and immediately buried her face in. It smelled of detergent and, faintly, of him.

“Why are you here?” she asked, voice muffled.

Selvam knelt beside her, careful not to let their knees touch. “I came to see if you were alright.”

She wiped at her eyes, then her nose. “You win. I’m not alright. I am… what is the word? Unravelling.”

He waited.

She let the silence grow, then: “You saw how he looks at her. Like she is some… miracle. He used to look at me like that, maybe. Now I am just a taskmaster, a checklist, a nagging voice on a phone.”

Selvam considered, then said, “Latha is not a threat to you. She is… only an instrument.”

Vanitha’s laugh was wet and ugly. “Yes, well, instruments can be replaced too. Ask any man who has upgraded his phone.”

He smiled at that, but not unkindly. “You are not a phone, Vanitha.”

She shook her head. “Don’t. I do not need comfort. I need honesty.”

He hesitated, then said, “Alright. You are jealous. That is natural. You spent your whole life perfecting yourself...body, mind, public image. Now you see a girl with none of your training, none of your discipline, and she is doing the one thing you said you did not want to do: carry a baby.”

Vanitha nodded, tears springing anew. “She makes it look easy. As if she was born for it.”

Selvam placed a hand on her shoulder, heavy and warm. “Some women are. But you were born for other things.”

“Like what?” The word was a challenge, but there was a quaver in it.

He looked at her, his expression more open than she had ever seen it. “Like beauty. Like strength. Like making every room you enter a better place. Like bringing a man to his knees with a look.”

She turned away, embarrassed. “You always say the right thing.”

He said, “Not always.”

They were silent for a while, the distant drone of a scooter blending with the chatter of crows in the mango tree.

She said, “Sometimes I think… maybe I made a mistake. Maybe I should have just had the baby myself. Then Ashok would never have looked away. He would never have needed Latha.”

Selvam’s hand slid, almost accidentally, from her shoulder to her side. His thumb pressed into the soft flesh just above her waist, where the green saree left a narrow strip of skin exposed. She stiffened, but did not move away.

He said, “Your body is perfect, just as it is. There is nothing you lack.”

She looked at him, wary. “Even now, you say this.”

He nodded. “I have never lied to you.”

She shivered, though the air was still and muggy. She was aware of every point of contact, the heat radiating from his palm, the way his fingers tensed and relaxed in slow, involuntary pulses.

“Why do you do this?” she whispered. “Why do you make it so hard to hate you?”

He laughed, low in his throat. “If you hated me, I would not be sitting here.”

His hand, now emboldened by her lack of resistance, moved with exquisite slowness over the curve of her waist, tracing the line of the gold chain that glinted against her skin. She felt a rush of warmth, a tightness coiling at the base of her spine.

She said, “We agreed, no more mistakes.”

He nodded, but the hunger in his eyes belied the promise. She saw, with something like triumph, the unmistakable swelling beneath his cotton veshti, the evidence of his desire as obvious as the sun. He saw her notice, and for the first time, he blushed...a deep, honest red that crept from his collarbone to his cheekbones.

He withdrew his hand, abruptly, and stood. “You should finish your tea,” he said, voice rough. “It will get cold.”

He walked away without looking back, the towel still clutched in her lap.

She wiped her face and, after a minute, sipped the tea. It was already lukewarm, but she drank every drop, feeling the heat settle in her stomach. She stared at the place where he had knelt, and smiled.

She was not ready to let herself be replaced. Not yet.