Adultery Who Watches The Watchmen (continued)

[samgreenvalley]

The news spread through the RWA like monsoon floodwaters—slowly at first, then all at once.
 
It started with Sharma, who was constitutionally incapable of keeping his mouth shut. Three drinks into the monthly RWA meeting at Gupta's flat, he was already boasting.
 
"I'm telling you, that new watchman's wife—the young one, Menaka—she's something else. Something else." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.
 
"What are you implying, Sharma ji?" asked Mehta, the society treasurer, a widower in his late fifties with hungry eyes.
 
"I'm not implying anything. I'm saying. She and I... we had a moment."
 
"A moment?" Singh, a retired army colonel, leaned forward with interest.
 
Sharma leaned back, enjoying the attention. "Let's just say the watchman was on duty, and I was off duty, and her door was open, and one thing led to another, and—"
 
"And you paid her?" Gupta called out from the kitchen, his voice dripping with judgment.
 
"Some things can't be bought, Gupta ji." Sharma winked. "Some things are... mutually enjoyable."
 
The room buzzed. Over the next week, the story mutated and grew. Menaka wasn't just available—she was eager. She wasn't just accommodating—she was insatiable. The watchman knew and approved. The watchman watched. The watchman served tea afterward.
 
Dara noticed the change immediately. The men who passed his gate smiled differently now—knowing smiles, conspiratorial smiles. They called him "Dara ji" with exaggerated respect, asked about his health, his family, his needs. One of them, a young MBA type named Karthik, actually patted him on the back and said, "You're a lucky man, Dara ji. A very lucky man."
 
Lucky. That's what they called a cuckold in Delhi. Lucky.