Adultery Radiance of Vanitha

[adams_masala]

Chapter 30: The Distance Between Us

# Scene 1

Back in Chennai, Selvam sat at the head of the dinning table, his posture rigid, his knuckles white where they gripped the newspaper. The newsprint trembled ever so slightly with each page he turned, though the fan was set to its lowest speed. He wore a pristine white shirt, sleeves rolled just enough to show the sinew at his forearm, and the faintest wetness still glistened at his temples from his run.

Vanitha entered the kitchen barefoot, her movements as measured as the tick of a metronome. She had dressed down, forgoing the drama of her social media looks for a simple lavender cotton saree. The pleats were knife-sharp, the blouse modest, but the pallu clung to her torso in a way that made the covering seem more intimate than the exposure. Her hair, still damp from her shower, was caught up in a loose twist, and a single string of jasmine drooped over her ear, drooping as if exhausted by its own beauty.

She poured herself coffee, milk, one sugar, no chicory, and set the tumbler on the table with the kind of precision usually reserved for bomb disposal. She slid into the seat at the opposite end from Selvam. They faced each other across the length of the table, a geography of deference and decision.

She reached for the plate of idli, but her hand stopped a centimeter short. Selvam noticed. His eyes, above the rim of the paper, tracked the movement. He set the paper down, folded it into a square, and nudged the plate a fraction closer to her. Their hands nearly touched. The moment stretched, then snapped; Vanitha withdrew and focused on slicing the idli with a spoon, each motion deliberate, as if she feared any casual movement might shatter the fragile peace.

The only sound was the tap of metal on ceramic, the sigh of the ceiling fan, and the muted chaos of the street filtering in from a half-shut window.

Selvam cleared his throat. The noise startled Vanitha enough that her spoon scbangd against the plate. A muscle twitched in her jaw.

“It’s going to be very hot today,” he said. His voice, usually the centerpiece of any room, landed with a soft, flat thud.

She nodded without looking up. “Yes, I saw the weather app.” The response was correct, but lacked any of the playfulness or challenge that had once animated their exchanges.

Selvam set his coffee aside. “I have an appointment with the bank after breakfast. It should not take long.”

Again, the ritual response: “Should I prepare lunch, or will you be late?”

He shook his head, a small, efficient gesture. “I will be home. There’s no need to wait.”

They ate in parallel, never quite making eye contact. But every so often, one would look up, just as the other looked down, a choreography of glances that never converged.

Vanitha finished first. She stood, smoothing the pleats of her saree with both hands, and moved to the sink, rinsing her plate with unnecessary vigor. Water droplets splashed her forearms, darkening the fabric. She stood at the window above the sink for a long minute, the back of her neck to Selvam, spine straight as an accusation.

He watched her, watched the way her shoulder blades shifted beneath the thin cotton. There was so much he wanted to say, to ask, but the language of yesterday seemed to have abandoned them both.

Vanitha turned. “Will you need the car, mama?” Her tone was carefully neutral, almost bored.

“I’ll take the scooter, ma.” Selvam said. “You can use the car for your errands.”

“I need to prepare for the investors meeting, mama.”

“Ok, I’ll take you there in the afternoon, it’s at 4:00pm, right?”

“Yes, mama” She started walking towards her studio to continue her work.

Selvam waited until her footsteps faded before letting out a slow, silent breath. The sunlight now illuminated the empty length of the table, falling across two abandoned tumblers, two spoons, two places set as if for a peace summit.

He gathered the newspaper, folded it again, and put it in the recycling.

They had eaten together, but nothing had been shared.


# Scene 2

Vanitha's studio room in Selvam’s house is partly repurposed as her workspace for her boutique business idea. Sari silks, kanjeevaram, banarasi, synthetics, dbangd her desk alongside journals, moodboards, and a grid of yellow sticky notes mapping her quarterly strategy.

Cross-legged in her chair, ankle chains chiming with each movement, she multitasked, scrolling her phone with one hand, scribbling notes with the other.

Selvam watched from the doorway, arms folded across his dark blue linen shirt. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing forearms hardened by years of exercise. In one hand, he held steaming coffee, its chicory scent mingling with the room's perfumes.

Vanitha barely acknowledged his presence, but she was acutely aware of it. Every time she shifted in her chair or reached for a swatch, she felt the tracking of his gaze, precise as a laser and just as dangerous. She did not let herself look at him, not directly. Instead, she focused on the monitor, where the pitch deck for her next investor meeting glowed with digital promise.

“Is this too aggressive?” she asked, not turning. She highlighted a slide that featured herself in a bold red saree, flanked by testimonials from minor celebrities and data points that glittered with upward trends.

Selvam took his time before answering. “Not if you want to win,” he said. His voice was neutral, measured, but the undertone was there, something just this side of pride, or envy, or both. “But slide four is unnecessary. Cut it.”

She tapped her pen against her lips, considering. “The brand story?”

“No one cares about the old story,” he said. “Only the next one.”

She felt that in her ribs, a jolt of something not quite pain, not quite thrill. “Noted,” she said, her tone as crisp as the pleats she had learned to set with military precision.

She deleted the slide. “And the sequence? You always said…”

“Lead with numbers. Personal story at the end, not the start,” he said. Then, softer, “But your face is enough, dear!”

That made her glance up. Their eyes met, only for a heartbeat, but it was as if a live wire had been drawn across the room.

He stepped closer, placed the coffee on her desk. The movement displaced a pile of sample blouses; two toppled onto the floor, a bright tangle of pink and silver. She bent to pick them up, but Selvam was faster. He crouched, hands brushing the fabric, and passed them to her. Their fingers touched, so briefly it was plausible to deny it had ever happened. Both held the moment a beat too long.

Vanitha cleared her throat, set the samples aside. “Thank you, mama.” The honorific was a dagger, precise and glinting, reminding them both who they were supposed to be.

Selvam straightened. “Are you ready for the dbang test?” He said it like a challenge, though his face was pure professionalism.

She stood, smoothing her saree as if donning armor. “Always.” There was a formality to it, an echo of the beauty pageant stages where she had first learned to weaponize grace.

They went through the sequence, Vanitha positioned herself in front of the tall mirror, while Selvam watched, arms crossed, judging not just the look but the way it moved, the way it would read on camera. She did three takes of the classic dbang, then two of the “modern” one, each time checking her reflection, adjusting the pallu to flirt with her waist at just the right angle.

On the fourth take, Selvam stepped forward and, with a wordless efficiency, corrected the pleat at her shoulder. His hands were deft, almost paternal, but the warmth of his fingers through the thin silk made Vanitha’s skin prickle.

“That will photograph better,” he said, stepping back. There was a flush high on his cheekbones.

Vanitha met his gaze in the mirror. “Thank you. I almost had it.”

“Almost,” he agreed, but the word was a compliment, not a rebuke.

She turned, facing him square. “You have an eye for this, mama.”

He shrugged, feigning indifference. But the look he gave her was layered, pride, longing, a recognition that even now, she sought his approval as fiercely as she had sought it in her teens.

For a minute, neither spoke. The only sound was the fan, the click of the mouse, the faraway drone of a delivery van reversing down the lane.

Selvam broke the silence. “What time is your meeting with the investors?”

“4:00pm, it’s close by” she said, gesturing at the stack of printouts. She picked up the coffee, took a careful sip, and set it down again. “They always want more than I can give,” she said, and realized too late that she meant more than just the backers.

He nodded, understanding more than she wanted him to. “You can give more than they know.”

It was almost tender, the way he said it. For a moment she hated him for that, for knowing her so well, for making every victory feel like a joint possession.

She sat, tucking her feet under her, and returned to the deck. He hovered, as if unsure whether to stay or go.

She sensed it, and said, without looking up, “You can leave it, mama. I’m used to working alone.”

He hesitated, then touched her shoulder lightly, a gesture so brief it might have been an accident. “Call me if you need anything,” he said, and retreated from the room.

She waited until his footsteps faded, then let her head fall into her hands. Her pulse thudded at the base of her throat.

She pulled herself together, straightened, and resumed typing. The work was her refuge, the discipline her only weapon.

But the ghost of his touch lingered on her skin, and the memory of their almost-closeness hovered over the room, as palpable as the sunlight pooling on the polished floor.


# Scene 3

Around noon, Vanitha prepared for another reel. She stood in front of the portable backdrop, pale blue, so as to set off the blush tones of the saree she was modeling for an Ad for a new South Asian startup. The blouse was a confection of raw silk, cut in a modern, minimalist silhouette, but the saree itself was nearly see-through, a gossamer web threaded with iridescent sequins. It was bold even by her standards, the kind of risk that might double her follower count, or bury her under a landslide of outrage. She had not yet decided which outcome she wanted more. They specifically asked for some skin.

She reached for the edge of the fabric, trying to pleat it just so, but the material slipped and pooled around her hips, refusing discipline. She muttered a curse, then caught sight of Selvam’s reflection in the hall mirror. He had paused just outside, leaning into the frame as if debating whether or not to enter.

She did not invite him in, but neither did she tell him to go.

He watched for a few seconds, his expression unreadable. Finally, he said, “It is not dbanging the way you want?”

She shook her head, lips pressed tight. “It’s too slippery. I can’t get the pleats to hold.”

Selvam hesitated, then stepped inside. “May I?” he asked, his tone so formal it bordered on parody.

She nodded, grateful and wary in equal measure.

He circled behind her, surveying the fabric’s disobedience. His hands hovered at her waist, never quite touching, as he examined the line of the dbang. He moved with clinical detachment, but Vanitha felt every micro-shift in the air, every brush of his knuckles against her spine, every accidental graze of fingertip against bare skin.

He gathered the fabric at her hip, pulled it taut, and tried a reverse fold. Still it slipped, refusing to stay where he placed it. He adjusted his grip, this time steadying the pleat with one hand and pinning the edge to her waist with the other.

“Like this, ma,” he said quietly.

The pressure of his palm at her hip sent a small, electric current through her body. She tried to focus on the technical problem, but her own breath caught in her chest.

Selvam cleared his throat, but did not step back. “Do you want a safety pin?”

She shook her head. “No pins. The brand wants it ‘organic.’”

He nodded. “Then you must hold it with your hand. Like this.” He wrapped her left hand around the base of the pleat, guiding her fingers with his. The touch was gentle, precise, and it lingered just a fraction too long.

Their hands stayed joined, motionless, as if the problem of the saree had become irrelevant. The world seemed to narrow to the span of two palms, the press of pulse and skin.

Vanitha did not break the moment. Instead, she looked up at him, eyes half-challenging, half-inviting.

“Is it too much?” she asked, voice low. “Too transparent for your taste, mama?”

He met her gaze, and for the first time all day, there was no filter between them. “It is bold,” he said. “But you have always liked a challenge.”

She smiled, the smallest curve at the corner of her mouth. “Do you think I should be more modest?”

He hesitated, and in that space, their fingers shifted, her thumb brushing his, his hand flexing around hers. It would have been easy to let the moment tip over into something else.

But then Selvam stepped back, breaking contact. His face closed, the mask of propriety snapping into place. “You are a grown woman. You know what you are doing.”

Vanitha blinked at the sudden chill in the room. She released the fabric and it slipped, sliding off her shoulder in a silvery cascade. She made no move to recover it.

He turned, walking to the far side of the room, putting the length of the studio between them. “You have a shoot to finish,” he said. “I will leave you to it.”

She watched him go, the imprint of his hand still warm on her skin.

As the door closed, Vanitha stood for a moment, holding the edge of the saree against her bare shoulder, wondering whether the exposure, of body or of heart, was more dangerous.

She heard his footsteps retreat down the hall, steady and unhurried. He did not look back.

She straightened, squared her shoulders, and faced the ring light, letting its glare blind her to everything except the task at hand.

But when she started the next take, her hands trembled, ever so slightly, and the air in the room was heavy with everything that could not, must not, be spoken.


# Scene 4

In the way back from the meeting with the investor they stopped to get some fresh air. Marina Beach was a blur of the ordinary, hawkers with plastic buckets of sundal, clusters of students in uniform, couples angling for privacy behind battered windbreaks, but in the dimming light, the crowd dissolved into silhouettes, each person free to be a cipher.

They walked the long, impossible stretch of sand without touching, without even closing the distance between them. At first the silence was companionable, the kind bred from years of coexistence, but as the sun dissolved into a violet haze and the city lights flickered on behind them, the hush grew dense and final.

It was Vanitha who finally spoke, her words nearly carried off by the wind. “You said once that the only thing more powerful than hunger was the ability to go without.”

Selvam smiled, the lines at the corners of his mouth deepening. “Did I?”

“You did.” She looked out at the flat, endless dark of the ocean. “I think you were wrong.”

He said nothing. The waves were gentle tonight, more suggestion than force, the foam crawling up the sand and retreating before it could claim anything substantial.

Vanitha stooped to pick up a shell, rolling it between her fingers. “I’ve been thinking about Ashok. How he waited for me at the airport, that first time we went to the US. He didn’t even let me carry my own bag, remember?”

Selvam nodded. “He always wanted to take care of you.”

She glanced at him, a quick flick of the eyes, then back to the horizon. “He still does. Even now, when I give him nothing but silence on the calls. He says he misses me every day.” She tossed the shell, watched it skip twice before the tide swallowed it. “He deserves better than a wife who can’t let go of the past.”

He bent to draw a line in the wet sand with his toe, a habit from his own childhood. “We all want things we shouldn’t,” he said. “It doesn’t make us villains.”

The breeze snapped the hem of her dress against her thigh. “It’s not about being a villain. It’s about choosing who you want to be, every day. And I want to be the person who honors her promises, even if I don’t feel like it every minute.”

A beat passed. “I understand, ma.”

She shivered, just once, a flicker, and looked down at her feet, toes painted a riotous pink, half-worn away. “It’s not that I regret what happened. I don’t. It’s that I don’t want to spend my whole life needing something I can’t have. You told me once that discipline is a muscle. Maybe I need to start working on mine.”

Selvam looked at her, really looked, the way he had in the old days, with all the heat and none of the shame. “You are already the strongest person I know.”

She smiled, a tired but honest thing. “You’re not so bad yourself, mama.”

They stood together at the water’s edge, letting the small, soft waves lap around their ankles. The city was a smudge of light to the north; ahead was only darkness, broken by the occasional pulse of a trawler’s beacon. In the distance, someone launched a handful of fireworks, the sparks briefly reflected in the wet sand before fading.

Vanitha’s phone vibrated in her bag, a tiny, insistent whine. She ignored it.

He said, “Will you go back to California, after the next round with Latha?”

She shrugged, wrapping her arms around herself. “I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe I’ll stay here, work on my dream to start my boutique, just as—”

He finished the sentence for her. “Just as Vanitha.”

She nodded, biting her lip. “What about you, mama?”

He considered, then said, “I’ll keep doing what I’ve always done. I’ll get up early, run the perimeter, keep the house in one piece.” A half-smile. “Maybe I’ll buy better coffee.”

For a long time, they stood in silence, the wind and the surf erasing any trace of their footprints.

Finally, Vanitha said, “Let’s promise each other something.” She turned to face him, eyes shining in the dusk. “Let’s promise that this is enough. That we don’t spend another year haunted by what we can’t have.”

“I want to stay true to… Ashok” they both finished their sentence.

The drive back home was quite with the rude awakening of the fact that they may never ever have sex again.