Adultery Deepa - An innocent elder sister and Her beauty

[Suresh@123]

. Chapter 2: Whispers of Devotion and Duty



The monsoon had retreated, leaving Mumbai washed clean and glistening under the post-rain sun. The air

carried the fresh scent of wet earth mixed with the ever-present aroma of frying vada pav from street

corners. In the Sharma home, life resumed its familiar, comforting cadence, but with a subtle undercurrent of

tenderness that Deepa and Rahul both felt yet dared not name. Deepa, ever the embodiment of conservative

grace and innocence, poured her entire being into her role as the elder sister—the Didi who was the quiet

guardian of the household flame.

Mornings began before dawn. Deepa rose at 5:30 AM, slipping into a simple white cotton kurti and palazzo

pants, her dupatta dbangd modestly over her shoulders. She lit the diya in the small mandir corner, offering

prayers to Lord Ganesha and Goddess Lakshmi for the family's prosperity and protection. Her voice, soft and

melodic, recited the Gayatri Mantra as the first rays of sunlight filtered through the barred windows. Rahul,

still half-asleep in his room, would stir at the faint tinkling of her bangles and the scent of agarbatti wafting

under his door. He knew that by the time he emerged, fresh chai would be steaming on the table, alongside a

plate of poha tempered with mustard seeds, curry leaves, and a squeeze of lemon—his favorite.


"Didi, you spoil me too much," he would mumble, rubbing his eyes as he sat down.


Deepa would smile gently, placing a hand on his head in blessing. "It's my duty, Rahul. A sister must take care

of her brother. Who else will if not me?" Her words were always laced with that unwavering innocence, rooted

in the cultural teachings she had absorbed since childhood: the elder sister as the nurturer, the protector in

spirit, the one who sacrificed quietly so the younger sibling could flourish.

After breakfast, as Mr. Sharma left for work with his tiffin packed meticulously—two rotis, sabzi, curd, and a

small box of pickle—Deepa turned her attention to Rahul's college preparations. She checked his bag,

ensured his notes were organized, and slipped in an extra bottle of water. "Don't skip lunch again," she

warned, her tone firm but affectionate. "Last time you came home with a headache because of the heat."

Rahul nodded, touched by her concern. In the crowded local train, amid the press of bodies and the rhythmic

clatter of tracks, he often thought of her waiting at home, perhaps ironing his shirts or planning dinner.

Unlike his college friends who spoke freely of crushes and dates, Rahul kept his world small and centered

around family. Deepa was his anchor.

One afternoon, during a rare half-day at college, Rahul returned early to find Deepa in the courtyard tending

to the tulsi plant. She was watering it with a small brass lota, murmuring a soft prayer. Her salwar kameez, a

soft lavender shade, clung lightly from the humidity, and a few strands of hair had escaped her braid, framing

her face. Rahul watched from the doorway, a quiet ache in his chest.


"Didi, let me help," he said, stepping forward to take the lota.

She looked up, surprised but pleased. "Arre, you just came back. Go rest. I've got this."

But he insisted, and they worked side by side in companionable silence. As their hands brushed while

passing the lota, Deepa felt a flutter—innocent, fleeting—like the brush of jasmine petals. She quickly averted

her eyes, chastising herself inwardly. He is my little brother. My responsibility. She busied herself with

plucking a few tulsi leaves for evening tea, her conservative upbringing reminding her that such thoughts

were improper, even if born of pure affection.


Evenings brought more shared moments. After dinner—perhaps a comforting kadhi chawal or bhindi masala

with phulka—Deepa and Rahul often sat with their father watching the news or an old serial. But when Mr.

Sharma retired early, the siblings lingered. Deepa would pick up her knitting—small things like a muffler for

Rahul's winter trip to college—or read aloud from her favorite poetry book. Rahul listened, mesmerized by her

voice, the way she pronounced each line with feeling.

One such evening, as Diwali approached, Deepa began the preparations with her usual zeal. She cleaned

every corner of the house, drawing intricate rangoli patterns at the entrance with rice flour dyed in vibrant

colors—swirling lotuses and peacocks symbolizing prosperity. Rahul helped by stringing fairy lights across the

balcony and helping her arrange diyas. "Didi, you make everything so beautiful," he said, watching her kneel

to place the last diya.


"It's for the family, Rahul. For Lakshmi Mata to bless us," she replied modestly, her cheeks pink from the

compliment. She never sought praise; her joy came from seeing the home lit up, from Rahul's smile when he

bit into her homemade besan laddoos.


As the festival drew near, relatives visited. Aunties cooed over Deepa, praising her homemaking skills while

subtly probing about marriage prospects. "Beta, such a good girl. Any nice boy in mind?" one chachi asked.

Deepa smiled demurely, shaking her head. "Abhi nahi, Chachi. Papa and Rahul need me here." Her voice was

steady, her innocence shining through—no hint of rebellion, only quiet devotion.

Rahul overheard and felt a surge of protectiveness. He hated how relatives pressured her, how they

overlooked her sacrifices. That night, after everyone left, he found Deepa in the kitchen washing vessels.

"Didi, don't listen to them. You don't have to marry anyone unless you want to. I'm here to take care of you

too."

She turned, drying her hands on her dupatta. "Silly boy. It's the brother's duty to protect the sister, not the

other way around." But her eyes softened, grateful for his words.

During Raksha Bandhan that year, the ritual was intimate and heartfelt. Deepa tied a simple red rakhi on

Rahul's wrist in the morning, after the puja. She applied tilak on his forehead with kumkum, fed him sweets,

and prayed for his long life and success. "Promise me you'll always study hard and be a good man," she said,

her voice trembling slightly with emotion.

Rahul touched her feet instinctively—a gesture of respect—then pulled her into a gentle hug. "I promise, Didi.

And I'll always protect you, no matter what." The embrace was brief, familial, yet it lingered in both their

hearts. Deepa's conservative nature made her pull away first, busying herself with distributing prasad, but the

warmth remained.


Karva Chauth followed a few weeks later. Though unmarried, Deepa observed the fast from sunrise to

moonrise, not for a husband, but as a prayer for the family's well-being—especially for Rahul's bright future.

She wore a simple yellow saree, her only adornment a small bindi and bangles. Rahul, aware of her sacrifice,

stayed home that evening instead of going out with friends. He prepared a light meal for after the fast—fruits,

milk, and her favorite mathri.

As the moon rose, Deepa broke her fast by sipping water from Rahul's hand. "For you, little brother," she

whispered. "May you always be happy and strong."

He held her hand a moment longer than necessary, his hazel eyes reflecting the moonlight. "Didi, one day I'll

make you proud. And I'll make sure you never have to sacrifice so much."

She laughed softly, innocent and pure. "I'm already proud, Rahul.