Adultery Who Watches The Watchmen (continued)

[samgreenvalley]

Chapter Three: The Holika Conspiracy
 
The RWA meetings at Gupta's flat always followed the same rhythm. First, the agenda—water bills, security rosters, parking disputes. Then, the whiskey—Royal Stag for most, something pricier from Singh's personal stash for the inner circle. Finally, the gossip—who was sleeping with whom, which flat was behind on maintenance, what the new watchman's wife was wearing.
 
Tonight, the gossip had teeth.
 
Sharma had already had three pegs by the time the official meeting ended. Mehta had four. Karthik, the young MBA who'd recently moved into Tower C with his banker wife, nursed a single beer, watching the older men with the patience of a predator.
 
"She'll come," Sharma was saying, his tongue loosened by alcohol. "I know her type. Give her a little attention, a little power, and she'll spread like jam on toast."
 
"Jam on toast?" Singh raised an eyebrow. "That's your metaphor, Sharma? You're a disgrace to the literate class."
 
"I'm a disgrace to nothing, Colonel sahib. I'm a realist. That woman—Menaka—she's not here to be a watchman's wife. She's here to play. And players know the game."
 
Gupta, the host, wiped his glasses nervously. His wife had retired to the bedroom an hour ago, but he still glanced at the door every few minutes. "Sharma ji, we shouldn't be discussing this. She's a married woman. The watchman is—"
 
"The watchman is a cuckold," Karthik said flatly. Everyone turned to look at him. "What? It's obvious. You saw how he acted when Sharma ji walked past the gate this morning. All smiles. All namastes. The man knows. He probably encourages it."
 
"Encourages it?" Mehta's voice cracked with excitement. "You mean he—"
 
"I mean," Karthik leaned forward, "that in certain arrangements, the husband derives pleasure from watching his wife with other men. It's not common, but it exists. And this Dara fellow has that look. The look of a man who's already shared his woman and liked it."
 
The room fell silent. The ceiling fan clicked. Somewhere outside, a dog barked.
 
Singh cleared his throat. He was the oldest among them, pushing sixty-five, but his army years had left him with a ramrod posture and a voice that carried. "Let's say, for the sake of argument, that what you're implying is true. What then?"
 
"What then?" Sharma laughed. "Then we stop pretending to be saints and start acting like men."
 
"And what does that mean, exactly?"
 
Sharma looked around the room, making eye contact with each man in turn. Mehta. Gupta. Karthik. Singh. The unspoken question hung in the air: who could be trusted?
 
"I've already been with her," Sharma said, lowering his voice. "In the clubhouse back room. She came to me. Willingly. Eagerly, even."
 
"You're lying," Mehta said, but his eyes were wide.
 
"Ask her yourself. No, better yet—watch her tonight. When she goes to the community kitchen to fetch water. She wears those thin cotton sarees, no petticoat underneath. The lamp by the hand pump lights her up like a Diwali diya. You can see everything. Everything."
 
Gupta made a choking sound. "Sharma ji, this is—"
 
"This is what we've been missing, Gupta ji." Sharma refilled his glass. "This is why we sit in these meetings every month, pretending to care about drainage pipes and elevator maintenance, when what we really want—what we really need—is something else. Something that makes us feel alive."
 
Singh steepled his fingers. He'd been watching Sharma's performance with the detachment of a man who'd seen too many young officers boast about conquests they hadn't made. But there was something different about this. The woman—Menaka—she had a quality. A restlessness. He'd noticed it the first time she walked past his balcony, her hips swaying just a little too much, her eyes scanning just a little too long.
 
"I propose a test," Singh said.
 
All heads turned.
 
"The festival of Holi is in two weeks. The night before, Holika Dahan. The whole colony gathers around the bonfire, sings bhajans, throws offerings into the flames. Afterward, everyone goes home early. Too early, if you ask me. The night is young. The fire is still burning. And there's a storage shed behind the community hall—no windows, one door, soundproof walls. I had it built for the generator."
 
"You want to use the generator shed?" Karthik's lips curled into a smile. "Colonel sahib, you're full of surprises."
 
"I want to use the generator shed," Singh confirmed, "if the lady agrees. And if certain... arrangements can be made."
 
"Arrangements?" Mehta leaned forward like a man watching a tennis match.
 
"Arrangements. Dara is on night duty during Holika Dahan. He'll be at the main gate from eight in the evening until six the next morning. No relief. I'll see to it personally—I know the head of security. The other watchmen will be occupied with the bonfire crowd. The colony will be empty by ten. And the generator shed... the generator shed will be ours."
 
"Ours?" Gupta squeaked. "How many of us are we talking about?"
 
Singh looked around the room again, this time counting. "Five. Six, if Joshi decides to grow a spine. But five is enough. Five is manageable. Any more, and it becomes a circus. Any fewer, and it becomes something else."
 
"Something else?" Karthik asked.
 
"Something personal. We don't want personal. We want... communal. A shared experience. No names, no faces, no expectations beyond the night. She comes, she plays, she leaves. And in the morning, we're all just neighbors again."
 
Sharma was nodding vigorously. "Yes. Yes, this is exactly what I was thinking. A Holika Dahan special. A burning of the old and the birth of the new. Symbolic, you see."
 
"Don't get poetic, Sharma. It doesn't suit you." Singh turned to Gupta. "You're the host tonight. Your flat, your rules. Do you consent?"
 
Gupta looked at the closed bedroom door where his wife was probably pretending to sleep. He thought about his marriage—fifteen years of missionary sex on the first Saturday of every month, her eyes closed, her lips pressed together, her body a favor rather than a gift. He thought about Menaka's hips. Her eyes. The way she'd smiled at him yesterday when he'd asked her to sweep the common stairs.
 
"I consent," he said, and the words tasted like freedom.
 
"Then it's settled." Singh raised his glass. "To Holika Dahan."
 
"To Holika Dahan," the others echoed, and they drank.