Adultery The Forbidden Relief – My Wife's Secret

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

Bhola 

Three months had passed since the accident that stole their unborn child. The flat had settled into a fragile new normal—Ravi back at the office but always checking in, Simran slowly returning to her routines, the grief still there but no longer a constant storm. Bhola, however, had never stopped watching.
 
Bhola Singh was not from Chandigarh. He came from a small, dusty village called Dholakpur, tucked deep in the Malwa region of Punjab, about four hours’ drive from the city. It was one of those places that barely showed on Google Maps—narrow lanes of baked mud and brick houses, a single gurudwara at the centre, fields of wheat and mustard stretching out like a green sea in winter. The village had no mall, no cinema, no ATM. What it did have was something far older and far stranger: a quiet, generations-old reputation as a place where barrenness ended and wombs came alive.
 
People whispered about Dholakpur the way they whispered about secret pilgrimages. Women who had tried everything—doctors, temples, mantras—would arrive quietly with their mothers-in-law, sometimes even husbands trailing behind like guilty shadows. They came from nearby villages, from Bathinda, Moga, even as far as Ludhiana. They stayed in the homes of the few families known for “the knowledge,” ate simple food, listened to old women speak in low voices, and left with small cloth pouches of powders, roots, seeds, and handwritten slips of instructions. No one advertised it. No one charged money openly. It was all given as “blessing,” with the understanding that you would return one day with sweets and a newborn in your arms to show gratitude.
 
The secret wasn’t magic, or at least not the kind people imagined. It was a mix of ancient herbal knowledge passed down through certain families—things like ashwagandha, shatavari, safed musli, kaunch beej, and other roots and barks that modern science was only beginning to study. But more than the ingredients, it was the belief: the village elders said that grief and despair were the biggest poisons to a woman’s body. A sad womb stayed closed; a happy one opened like a flower. So, the powders weren’t just medicine—they were meant to lift the spirit first, to awaken hunger, desire, energy, the will to live and love again. Only then, the elders claimed, would the body remember how to create life.
 
Bhola belonged to one of those families. His mother had been the last of the women who prepared the mixtures; now his elder sister-in-law carried the knowledge. When Bhola had gone back to the village two weeks after the accident—telling Ravi and Simran he needed to see his ailing father—he hadn’t gone for rest. He had gone for answers.
 
He sat with his sister-in-law late at night in the small courtyard, the kerosene lamp flickering, while she listened to the story of the accident, the miscarriage, Simran’s silence and tears. She didn’t interrupt. When he finished, she simply nodded, went inside, and returned with a small steel dabba.
 
“Give her this,” she said. “One small spoon in warm milk every night for seven days. Then stop for two weeks. Then again for seven days. Nothing else—no doctor talk, no questions. Just milk and this.”
 
Bhola looked at the fine, light-brown powder inside—smelling faintly of earth and something sweet, like dried jaggery.
 
“What is it?” he asked quietly.
 
His sister-in-law smiled, small and knowing. “It wakes up what grief has put to sleep. It brings back the want to live. The want to be touched. The want to be a woman again. If her heart opens, the body follows.”
 
He asked, “Will it do what they want? Will it help her get happy? Explain me please.”
 
“Bhola don’t worry, it will be just fine. It will make her more, how do I explain…you will see. She will be fine. There is only one issue that sometimes happen but if that does happen you can tell me, I will explain you what to do. Btw no need to get ahead of ourselves. Just chill”
 
He took it without another word, tucked it into his shirt pocket, and returned to Chandigarh the next day.
 
Back in the flat, Bhola resumed his silent routines—cooking, cleaning, folding laundry. But now there was one extra task he performed alone, every evening.
 
Simran liked a glass of warm milk before bed—turmeric sometimes, just plain other nights. Bhola prepared it himself, stirring in a tiny spoon of the powder when no one was looking. It dissolved instantly, no taste, no colour change. He thought a lot if he should tell them what powder he is mixing, but he thought if he informs them then they won’t take it as it’s not exactly urban practice to follow rural practices such as this. So, he handed her the glass with his usual respectful “Ji, Bhabhi, doodh garam hai,” and watched from the corner of his eye as she drank it slowly, sometimes while reading on the couch, sometimes while staring out the window.
 
After the first seven days, the change was subtle at first, then undeniable.
 
Simran’s skin began to glow again—not the forced brightness of makeup, but the deep, inner luminosity she used to have. She started humming in the kitchen while making tea. She laughed—really laughed—at one of Ravi’s silly jokes over dinner. She put on her treadmill again, not for long, but enough to feel her body moving. She answered work emails, joined video calls, even wore the soft, fitted kurtis she had avoided for months because they reminded her too much of the bump that never came.
 
She didn’t sulk anymore. The tears came less often, then not at all. She touched her stomach sometimes, but not with despair—with a quiet, almost curious gentleness, as though checking if the space was still hers.
 
Bhola noticed everything. He said nothing. He felt very happy that his contribution helped. Little did he know what dangerous effect it was having on her.
 
After the two-week break, he repeated the ritual. Another seven nights of milk laced with the powder. The results deepened. Simran started planning small things again rearranging the guest room, buying fresh flowers for the dining table, talking about weekend drives with Ravi. Her eyes sparkled when she spoke to Preeti on the phone, no longer avoiding the topic of babies but listening with something like hope.
 
Simran

A few days after the second course of the mysterious milk powder had ended, Simran felt ready enough to step back into the world of routine check-ups. She booked a simple follow-up with Preeti—not for any crisis, just the quiet need to hear that her body was still hers, still working, still healing. Ravi offered to come along, but she shook her head gently. “Just me this time, jaan. I’ll be fine.”
 
Preeti’s clinic felt familiar again: the soft hum of the AC, the faint antiseptic smell mixed with the rose incense Preeti always burned in the corner, the same examination table with its crinkly paper sheet. Simran changed into the gown, lay back, and let Preeti run through the basics—blood pressure, weight, a quick listen to her heart and lungs.
 
Preeti glanced at the chart, then at Simran, her expression softening into that familiar mix of doctor and best friend.
 
“Everything looks good, Simmi. BP is perfect, no anemia, thyroid steady. Your body’s doing exactly what it should after… what happened.” She paused, setting the stethoscope aside and pulling up a stool so they were eye-level. “But listen, because this came on so suddenly—the miscarriage, the trauma—your hormones are still catching up. The body doesn’t always get the memo right away that the pregnancy is over.”
 
Simran nodded slowly, fingers twisting the edge of the gown.
 
“So, you might still get those mood swings for a little while longer—random tears, feeling extra emotional, maybe even some cravings or aversions that feel like old pregnancy ghosts. And yeah…” Preeti gave a small, knowing smile, patting Simran’s thigh lightly. “Your body might hold on to a bit of extra weight for some time. Water retention, hormonal padding, all that jazz. Nothing to worry about, my healthy, breedable cow. It’ll sort itself out when your system realises it’s safe to let go.”
 
Simran stared for a second, then burst into laughter—real, surprised, bubbling-up-from-the-chest laughter that made her eyes water in a different way. “You’re impossible, you know that?”
 
Preeti grinned wide, mischievous as ever. “What? I’m just stating medical facts. You’re still a gorgeous, fertile goddess. A few extra kilos and some rogue hormones don’t change that. Your cow status remains premium grade.”
 
Simran laughed harder, reaching out to swat Preeti’s arm playfully. “Stop calling me a cow!”
 
“Never,” Preeti shot back, winking. “Now go home, tell that husband of yours you’re officially cleared for normal life, and keep doing exactly what you are doing, because something is clearly keeping your energy high and its very good. It’s clearly working wonders.”
 
Simran’s laughter faded into a soft, grateful smile. She slid off the table, hugged Preeti tightly, and whispered, “Thank you.”
 
Preeti hugged back, fierce and warm. “Anytime, babes. Now get out of here before I start measuring your hips again.”
 
As Simran buttoned her kurti and reached for her dupatta, the conversation drifted back to lighter, more personal territory. She glanced at Preeti, who was updating her chart, and asked casually, “By the way… how are things with you and Shikha? Any progress on the family planning front?”
 
Preeti paused, pen hovering over the paper. She set it down, leaned back against the counter, and gave Simran a long, thoughtful look—as though weighing whether this was the right moment to share something heavy. Then she smiled, a little wickedly, deciding the news might be the perfect raunchy distraction after everything Simran had been through.
 
“Do you remember Arjun?” Preeti asked.
 
Simran’s brows lifted. “The tall guy from the club that night? Shikha’s old colleague?”
 
“Exactly.” Preeti crossed her arms, voice dropping to that conspiratorial tone she saved for the juiciest bits. “After a lot of thinking, we decided to go with donor sperm. Shikha wants to carry the child herself—she’s been clear about that from the start.”
 
Simran blinked, surprised. “But… usually donor info is kept completely anonymous, right? Like, no names, no faces.”
 
Preeti nodded, then shrugged with a small, knowing grin. “Yes, usually. But we thought… why not know the person? It feels safer. We know his health history, his genetics, his habits. No surprises later. And honestly?” She leaned in closer, eyes sparkling. “Arjun is a fine specimen.”
 
The word “specimen” hung in the air like a spark—clinical yet filthy, teasing yet deliberate. Simran felt it lodge somewhere low in her belly, warm and unexpected. Her mouth opened to ask more—how long had they been planning this? Was Arjun actually involved, or just the donor? Did Shikha… know him that way?—but before she could form the question, a sharp knock interrupted.
 
The nurse poked her head in. “Preeti ma’am, Mrs. Aggarwal is here. She’s in pain—looks urgent.”
 
Preeti sighed, straightening up. “Duty calls.” She turned back to Simran, squeezing her shoulder. “We’ll talk more this weekend. We’re hitting the Club again—same group, same vibe. I’ll fill you in more then. Promise.”
 
Simran managed a small, intrigued laugh despite the interruption. “You better.”
 
Preeti winked as she headed for the door. “Wouldn’t dream of leaving my favorite cow hanging.”
 
Simran watched her go, the word “specimen” still echoing quietly in her mind, stirring something she hadn’t felt in months—curiosity, heat, a faint, forbidden flicker of want.
 
Simran left the clinic lighter than when she’d arrived, the words still echoing gently in her mind—no permanent damage, just time. Her body was confused, but it was trying. And somehow, that felt like enough.