Adultery Deepa - An innocent elder sister and Her beauty

[Suresh@123]

Chapter 4: Shadows of Tradition and Desire

The monsoon had finally relented in Mumbai, giving way to the crisp air of early autumn. The skies cleared to

a brilliant azure, dotted with fluffy clouds that drifted lazily over the bustling suburb of Andheri. The streets,

once slick with rainwater, now dried under the sun, though puddles lingered in the potholes like stubborn

memories. The Sharma household, too, seemed to breathe easier—the tulsi plant in the courtyard perked up

with fresh green leaves, and the faint scent of drying laundry mingled with the aroma of blooming marigolds

that Deepa had planted along the boundary wall. Diwali was approaching in a few weeks, and the

neighborhood buzzed with preparations: strings of fairy lights being tested on balconies, the rhythmic

pounding of pestles grinding spices for festive snacks, and children practicing firecracker bursts in the gullies.


Mr. Rajesh Sharma, ever the dutiful patriarch, had been quietly contemplating his daughter's future amid this

seasonal shift. At fifty-five, with graying temples and a slight stoop from years hunched over ledgers at the

textile firm, he felt the weight of time pressing upon him. Deepa's mother had passed too soon, leaving a

void that his daughter had filled with unwavering devotion. But society whispered incessantly—relatives at

family functions, neighbors during evening chai sessions, even colleagues at work—all echoing the same

refrain: "Rajesh ji, Deepa is of marriageable age. Find her a good boy before it's too late." He knew they were

right; in Indian families like theirs, a daughter's marriage was not just a milestone but a sacred duty, a way to

secure her happiness and the family's honor.

One evening, as the family gathered for dinner—steaming plates of bhindi masala, soft rotis, and a simple

raita garnished with fresh coriander—Mr. Sharma broached the subject. The ceiling fan whirred overhead,

stirring the warm air laced with cumin and hing. Rahul sat across from Deepa, stealing glances at her as she

served, her simple cotton salwar kameez hugging her form modestly.

"Beta Deepa," Mr. Sharma began, his voice steady but laced with emotion, "I've received a proposal for you.

From the Gupta family in Bandra. The boy, Amit, is a software engineer in an IT company—good salary, from a

respectable ***** family. They want to come see you this weekend."

Deepa froze mid-serve, the ladle hovering over Rahul's plate. Her heart thudded like the distant Diwali drums

practicing in the neighborhood. She glanced at Rahul, whose fork paused halfway to his mouth, his hazel

eyes widening in surprise and something darker—jealousy, perhaps? "Papa," she said softly, resuming her task

with forced composure, "do we have to decide so soon?"

Mr. Sharma sighed, folding his newspaper. "Time waits for no one, beti. You're twenty-five now. Amit's family

is eager; they've seen your photo from the matrimonial site I registered you on last month. It's just a meeting

—no commitments yet."

Rahul said nothing, but his appetite vanished. He pushed his plate away slightly, the clink of steel echoing in

the tense silence. That night, as the family retired to their rooms—the house creaking with the settling of the

day—Rahul lay awake on his bed, staring at the ceiling fan's shadows. The thought of Deepa in another man's

home, cooking for strangers, twisted something inside him. He recalled their monsoon moments—the

clasped hands, the foreheads touching—and felt a possessive ache.

Deepa, in her room, paced quietly. She sat at her small wooden desk, opening her journal under the soft glow

of a bedside lamp. In flowing Hindi script, she wrote: "How can I leave? Papa is aging, Rahul is still finding his

way. And... Rahul. What is this feeling? It's wrong, but it consumes me." She closed the book, her mind

swirling with images of a life without them.

The weekend arrived swiftly, like an unannounced guest. Saturday morning dawned bright, the sun filtering

through the lace curtains in golden shafts. Deepa rose early, performing her puja with extra fervor—lighting

incense sticks that filled the house with sandalwood smoke, chanting mantras for strength and clarity. Mr.

Sharma had taken the day off, busying himself with cleaning the living room: dusting the framed photos of

ancestors, arranging fresh cushions on the divan, and ensuring the silver tea set was polished to a shine.

Rahul helped reluctantly, carrying trays of sweets from the local mithai shop—gulab jamuns dripping in syrup,

pedas dusted with pistachios. "Didi, you don't have to do this," he muttered as they prepared in the kitchen,

chopping fruits for a welcome platter.

Deepa smiled faintly, her hands trembling slightly as she arranged mango slices. "It's Papa's wish, Rahul. Let's

see what happens."

As the afternoon approached, Deepa retreated to her room to prepare. She chose a beautiful red saree from

her wardrobe—a gift from her late mother, rich crimson silk embroidered with golden zari threads along the

border. The fabric whispered against her skin as she dbangd it carefully, the pleats falling in perfect folds over

her caramel-hued midriff. The matching blouse was low-cut at the back, with short sleeves that accentuated

her graceful arms. She applied a touch of kohl to her almond eyes, a bindi on her forehead, and twisted her

raven hair into an elegant bun adorned with fresh jasmine. Around her neck, she wore the silver Ganesha

pendant Rahul had given her, its cool metal resting against her collarbone. Finally, she added gold bangles

that jingled softly with her movements, and a pair of jhumkas that swayed like pendulums.

When she emerged, Mr. Sharma beamed with pride. "You look like a bride already, beti. Goddess Lakshmi

herself." Rahul, standing in the hallway, felt his breath catch. The red saree hugged her curves modestly yet

alluringly, the color making her skin glow like polished amber. Her deep oval navel peeked subtly through the

dbang when she moved—a glimpse that stirred something primal in him, though he averted his eyes quickly.

The Gupta family arrived at 4 PM, their car pulling up with a honk that echoed through the lane. Amit Gupta,

the prospective groom, was a pleasant-looking man of twenty-eight—tall, with neatly combed hair, glasses

framing intelligent eyes, dressed in a crisp white shirt and trousers. His parents, Mr. and Mrs. Gupta, were

accompanied by his elder sister, all bearing trays of fruits, sweets, and a small gift box. Greetings were

exchanged in the living room amid the clink of teacups—masala chai brewed strong by Deepa, served with

biscuits and namkeen.

The conversation flowed traditionally: inquiries about education (Deepa's Master's in Literature impressed

them), family background (shared castes and values aligned), and hobbies (Deepa mentioned her love for

poetry, Amit spoke of coding and cricket). Amit's mother, a plump woman in a green salwar suit, smiled

warmly at Deepa. "Beta, you're so graceful. And such a good cook—we heard from Rajesh ji about your dal

makhani."

Deepa blushed modestly, serving seconds with poise. Rahul sat quietly in the corner, his fists clenched under

the table, watching Amit's gaze linger on Deepa with appreciation. The families discussed horoscopes briefly

— a match made by the panditji—and by the end of the hour, it was clear: they liked her. "We'd be honored to

have Deepa as our bahu," Mr. Gupta said, shaking hands with Mr. Sharma. Amit nodded shyly, his eyes

meeting Deepa's with a tentative smile.

As the guests departed, promises of further talks hanging in the air, the Sharma house fell into a heavy

silence. Mr. Sharma retired to his room for a nap, exhausted but hopeful. Rahul helped Deepa clear the table,

their movements synchronized yet charged with unspoken words.

In the kitchen, as she washed the cups under the tap, Deepa broke the silence. "Rahul... what do you think?"

He leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "He seems... fine. But Didi, do you want this?"

She turned off the water, drying her hands on her saree. Tears welled in her eyes. "No. I can't. I won't leave

you both in this condition. Papa's health isn't great—he forgets his medicines sometimes. And you... your

studies, the house. Who will take care of everything? I told Papa already, but he insists it's for my happiness.

But my happiness is here, with you two."

Rahul stepped closer, his voice a whisper. "Didi... I don't want you to go either. Ever." He reached out, wiping

a tear from her cheek with his thumb. The touch lingered, his hand cupping her face gently.

Deepa leaned into it for a moment, then pulled away, composing herself. "Let's talk to Papa together

tomorrow. For now, help me change—I need to hang this saree to air."

Rahul nodded, retreating to his room, but the image of her in red haunted him. Later that evening, as the sun

set in a blaze of orange over the rooftops, Deepa decided to unwind on the terrace. She had changed into a

lighter cotton nightie for comfort but kept the saree dbangd loosely over her shoulders while she folded

laundry up there—the breeze was perfect for drying.

Rahul, restless, followed her upstairs under the pretext of checking the water tank. The terrace was bathed in

twilight, the city lights beginning to twinkle below like distant stars. Deepa stood near the railing, pinning

clothes to the line, her back to him. A sudden gust of wind caught the edge of her saree pallu, whipping it

aside dramatically.

In that accidental moment, Rahul's eyes widened. The fabric slipped just enough to reveal her midriff fully—

her deep oval navel, a perfect, shadowed indentation in her smooth, caramel skin, framed by the subtle curve

of her waist. It was exposed innocently, yet the sight hit him like a thunderbolt. The oval shape, deep and

inviting, seemed to draw him in, a secret hollow that spoke of her femininity, untouched and intimate. The

fading light cast a soft glow on it, highlighting the faint sheen of sweat from the day's humidity, making it

glisten subtly. Rahul froze, his breath shallow, a rush of heat flooding through him. He had seen glimpses

before—in passing, during chores—but never like this, so openly, so vulnerably displayed by the wind's whim.

Deepa gasped, feeling the breeze, and quickly adjusted the pallu, tucking it back into place. But she caught

Rahul's gaze—intense, unwavering—and her cheeks flushed deeper than the saree's red. "Rahul... what are

you doing here?" she asked, her voice a mix of surprise and something softer, almost breathless.


He stammered, stepping back. "I... I came to help. The wind..." His eyes darted away, but the image burned in

his mind—the perfect oval, a forbidden allure that deepened the pull between them.












The terrace breeze died down as suddenly as it had risen, leaving the air thick and still once more. Deepa

clutched the edge of her saree pallu tighter against her chest, the silk now bunched awkwardly in her fist. Her

heart hammered so loudly she was sure Rahul could hear it over the distant hum of evening traffic below. She

turned slowly to face him, cheeks burning beneath the fading twilight. The accidental exposure had lasted

only seconds—perhaps three or four heartbeats—but it felt eternal, frozen in the moment the wind betrayed

her.

Rahul stood rooted a few steps away, his throat dry, eyes still wide with the afterimage. That deep oval navel

—perfectly oval, softly shadowed at its center, framed by the gentle inward curve of her waist—had imprinted

itself on his mind like a brand. It wasn’t just skin; it was vulnerability made visible, a secret hollow he had

never been meant to see so openly. The caramel tone of her abdomen caught the last amber light, making

the small depression appear almost luminous, a tiny, intimate valley that rose and fell with her quickened

breathing. He felt heat crawl up his neck, shame crashing against a darker, hungrier current that made his

stomach twist.


“I—I’m sorry,” he stammered, taking a half-step backward. “The wind… I didn’t mean to…”


Deepa swallowed, forcing her voice to steady. “It’s alright. It was just… an accident.” But her words sounded

thin, unconvincing even to herself. She could still feel the exact spot where the cool air had kissed her bare

midriff, where his gaze had lingered. Her free hand unconsciously drifted to cover the place through the

fabric, fingers pressing lightly over the navel as though she could erase the memory of being seen.

They stood in awkward silence for several long seconds. The city continued its indifferent rhythm—someone’s

pressure cooker whistle from a neighboring flat, a child’s laughter echoing up from the lane, the faint crackle

of pre-Diwali firecrackers testing in the distance. But between them, the air felt charged, heavy with what

neither could name aloud.


Rahul finally spoke again, voice low and rough. “Didi… I should go downstairs.”


He turned to leave, but Deepa’s soft call stopped him.

“Rahul. Wait.”

He paused at the doorway leading back into the house, shoulders rigid.

She took a hesitant step closer, still holding the saree pallu like a shield. “You… you looked shocked. I didn’t

mean to… embarrass you.”

He laughed once—a short, strained sound. “Embarrass me?” He shook his head, running a hand through his

unruly hair. “Didi, it’s not embarrassment. It’s…” He trailed off, searching for words that wouldn’t shatter the

fragile boundary they still pretended to maintain.

Deepa waited, eyes fixed on the concrete floor between them.

Finally he exhaled, the confession slipping out like a held breath. “It’s guilt. And shame. Because the moment

I saw… I couldn’t look away. Not right away. And that makes me feel… dirty. Like I’ve crossed a line I can never

uncross.”

His honesty hit her like a physical blow. She felt her own guilt rise in response—sharp, familiar, laced with the

same conflicting heat. Because she had noticed his gaze. She had felt it settle on her skin like a touch. And

instead of instant outrage or sisterly reprimand, a different sensation had bloomed low in her belly: a warm,

fluttering awareness that terrified her.


“I felt it too,” she whispered, barely audible. “The shame. When I realized you were looking… part of me

wanted to cover up immediately. To scold you, to pretend it never happened. But another part…” She pressed

her lips together, fighting the tremor in her voice. “Another part felt… seen. Not just looked at. Seen. And that

part liked it. That part is wrong, Rahul. So wrong.”


He turned fully to face her now, eyes dark and searching in the dimming light. “Then we’re both wrong.

Because I keep seeing it again—every time I blink. That little oval shape, the way it moved when you

breathed. And I hate myself for replaying it. For wanting to see it again. For imagining…” He stopped himself,

jaw clenching.


Deepa’s breath hitched. She took another small step toward him—close enough now that she could smell the

faint trace of his soap mixed with the day’s sweat. “Imagining what?” she asked, voice trembling.

He met her gaze, unflinching despite the shame still burning in his cheeks. “Imagining touching it. Just once.

With my fingertip. Feeling how soft it is. How warm. How it would dip under the slightest pressure.”

The words hung between them, raw and forbidden. Deepa felt heat flood her face, her chest, lower still. Her

fingers, still pressed over her navel through the saree, tightened involuntarily. She could almost feel the ghost

of his imagined touch—light, tentative, reverent.

“I shouldn’t want that,” she said, almost to herself. “I’m your Didi. I’m supposed to protect you, guide you,

not… not make you feel these things.”

“And I’m supposed to respect you,” Rahul replied quietly. “Not stare. Not fantasize. Not feel this… pull. Every

time you move, every time your pallu shifts even a little, I have to force myself to look away. And tonight the

wind took that choice from me. From both of us.”

They stood inches apart now, neither moving closer, neither retreating. The guilt was a living thing between

them—coiling, tightening, yet strangely intimate. It bound them as tightly as any touch could.

Deepa spoke first, voice barely above a whisper. “We can’t let this happen again. We have to be more careful.

The saree… I’ll wear something else on the terrace from now on. And we… we need distance. Just for a while.”

Rahul nodded slowly, though the agreement felt like surrender. “Yes. Distance.”

But even as he said it, neither of them moved away.

After a long moment, Deepa finally turned toward the stairs. “Come. Papa will wonder where we are.”

Rahul followed her down, the wooden steps creaking under their feet. In the hallway below, the house lights

glowed warm and ordinary—Mr. Sharma’s soft snores drifting from his room, the faint clatter of a neighbor

washing dishes. Everything was the same.

Yet nothing was.

That night, in their separate beds, the guilt and shame wrestled with newer, more dangerous feelings.

Deepa lay on her side, one hand curled protectively over her navel even through the thin cotton of her

nightie. She replayed Rahul’s words—imagining touching it… feeling how soft… how warm—and felt a

shameful ache bloom between her thighs. She pressed her legs together, horrified at her body’s response,

yet unable to stop the slow, secret circling of her fingertip over the exact spot he had described. Tears

slipped silently down her cheeks. What kind of sister am I?

Across the wall, Rahul stared at the ceiling, one arm thrown over his eyes. The image refused to fade: that

perfect oval, the subtle rise and fall, the way her skin had glowed in the twilight. His hand drifted downward

almost of its own accord, stopping just short of crossing the final line. He clenched his fist instead, nails

digging into his palm. She’s my Didi. My everything. And I’m ruining her with my thoughts. The shame

burned hotter than desire, yet desire refused to die.

Both of them drifted into uneasy sleep with the same unspoken realization: the accidental glimpse had not

been the beginning of something new. It had only peeled back the thin veil they had both been clinging to.

The guilt was real, the shame was crushing—but beneath it all, something else was growing. Patient.

Insistent. Unstoppable.


And neither knew how long they could keep pretending it wasn’t there.