Adultery Who Watches The Watchmen (continued)

[samgreenvalley]

That evening, Menaka decided to celebrate.
 
She had been planning this for days—ever since Sharma had whispered the news at the clubhouse between clumsy kisses. A promotion meant power. Power meant security. And security meant she could relax into this strange new life without constantly looking over her shoulder.
 
The quarter's tiny kitchen was ill-equipped for what she had in mind, but Menaka had never been one to let logistics stand in the way of a statement. She had taken an auto-rickshaw to the Tibetan market in Majnu-ka-Tilla, navigating the narrow lanes until she found what she was looking for: a small shop that sold authentic Nepali spices and dried meats.
 
"Dalle khursani?" the shopkeeper had asked, holding up a basket of fiery red chilies.
 
"Dherai," Menaka had replied, surprising herself with the Nepali word. Many.
 
She had bought everything—timur pepper, fermented soybeans, buffalo jerky, buckwheat flour. The shopkeeper had looked at her oddly, this fair-skinned woman in a simple salwar kameez who spoke broken Nepali and paid with crisp five-hundred rupee notes. But he hadn't asked questions. In Delhi, no one asked questions.
 
Now, standing over the single-burner stove, Menaka felt a thrill she hadn't experienced since the early days with Dara in Mumbai. The thrill of preparation. The thrill of anticipation. She was cooking him dhindo—the buckwheat porridge that was a Gurkha staple—and a wild mushroom curry with dried meat, the way his mother used to make it. She had learned the recipe from a YouTube video, practicing three times over the past week, wasting ingredients and burning her fingers on the damned pressure cooker.
 
But tonight, it would be perfect.
 
The quarters had been transformed. She had strung marigold garlands across the doorway—a touch of ***** wedding tradition that made her smile at her own audacity. She had lit a small diya in the corner, its flame casting dancing shadows on the walls. The sagging mattress had been covered with fresh white sheets, and she had scattered rose petals across them, purchased from the temple flower-seller for twenty rupees.
 
And then there was the dress.
 
Menaka had bought it from the same Tibetan market, a traditional Nepali hakku patasi—a black velvet gown with red piping, worn by Newar women during festivals. But she had made modifications. The neckline, originally modest, had been cut lower, much lower, so that the tops of her breasts swelled against the velvet like rising dough. The back had been replaced with thin strings that crisscrossed down her spine, leaving most of her skin bare. And the hem had been shortened to mid-thigh, though when she walked, the velvet rode up to reveal the curve of her buttocks.
 
Underneath, she wore nothing.
 
No bra. No panties. Just the dress, her mangalsutra, and the gold earrings you had given her on your fifth anniversary.
 
She checked her reflection in the small mirror nailed to the wall. Her hair was loose, cascading down her shoulders in waves. Her lips were painted a deep crimson. Her eyes, lined with kohl, looked back at her with a mixture of excitement and something else—something darker, more dangerous.
 
This is who I am now, she thought. This is who I've always been.