Adultery Who Watches The Watchmen (continued)

[samgreenvalley]

Chapter 5: The Fire Before Holi
 
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Dearest Prakash,
 
I'm sitting in our quarter in Mayur Vihar, the fan wobbling above me like it might take flight at any moment, and I'm trying to find the words to tell you what's been happening. But every time I start typing, I end up staring at the blinking cursor, wondering where to begin.
 
First, the good news. Dara got promoted. Head watchman. Can you believe it? Our watchman—my watchman—is now in charge of the entire security staff. The RWA passed the resolution unanimously. There's a forty percent salary increase, and we're supposed to move to a proper two-bedroom quarter in Tower B by the end of the month. Attached bathroom, Prakash. I almost cried when I heard about the attached bathroom.
 
Dara tried to act stoic when he got the news, but I saw his hands trembling when he held the letter. He's been walking around with this quiet pride in his chest, standing a little straighter at the gate, saluting a little crisper. It suits him, this new dignity. But I'll be honest with you—and this is the part I've been struggling to say—
 
I miss the old Dara.
 
The one who grabbed me by the hair and bent me over the water tank. The one who shoved that hundred-rupee note into my cunt and called it choot-dikhayi. The one who didn't ask permission, who just took. This new Dara—the promoted head watchman, the respectful husband, the man who says "please" and "thank you" and asks me how my day was—I don't recognize him sometimes.
 
Last night, he asked me if I wanted him to go down on me. Asked. Like it was a favor he was offering, not a command he was giving. I almost laughed. Almost cried. Instead, I just said yes and let him do it, and it was fine, technically fine, his tongue knew exactly where to go, but something was missing. The hunger. The desperation. The sense that he was taking something from me, not receiving something I was giving.
 
I know that sounds strange coming from me. After everything that's happened—Banke, Muthu, Senthil, the security guard—you'd think I'd appreciate a little gentleness. But gentleness isn't what I want from Dara. Gentleness is what I have with you. With Dara, I want the edge. The danger. The feeling that I'm playing with fire and might get burned.
 
Maybe that makes me a bad person. Maybe that makes me a bad wife. I don't know anymore.
 
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I miss Ayan terribly. I know he's with you on the ship, and I know you're taking good care of him, but there's this ache in my chest that doesn't go away. Last night I dreamed about him—he was still small, still a baby, and I was trying to breastfeed him but nothing was coming out, and he was crying, and I couldn't fix it. I woke up with tears on my face.
 
Tell him I love him. Tell him Mamma will be home soon. Tell him—tell him whatever you need to tell him to make sure he doesn't forget me. I know two months isn't that long, but for a child, two months can feel like forever.
 
I miss you too. More than I expected to, if I'm being honest. I thought that being here, with Dara, in this new life, would make me miss you less. But it's the opposite. Every time Dara does something that reminds me of you—the way he drinks his chai in the morning, the way he hums off-key when he's shaving—I feel this sharp pang of longing.
 
When is your next break? Could you come to Delhi? I know it's not on your usual route, but maybe you could fly in for a few days. I want to see you. I want to feel you. I want to remember what it's like to be Prakash's wife, not just Dara's experiment.
 
The quarter is small, but we could manage. Dara knows about you—not everything, but enough. He knows you exist. He knows I'm married. He's never asked for details, and I've never offered. But if you came, I think... I think I'd want you both. At the same time. Is that crazy?
 
Everything about my life feels crazy these days.
 
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The truth is, Prakash, I'm not happy here.
 
I thought I would be. I thought playing house with Dara, being his "wife" for two months, would feel like an adventure. Like a romance novel come to life. But it doesn't feel like that at all. It feels like... I don't know... like I'm pretending. Like I'm wearing a costume that doesn't quite fit.
 
Dara wants me to be his memsaab and his wife and his partner, all rolled into one. But that's not who I am with him. With him, I'm his slut. His whore. His bitch. Those words sound ugly when I type them, but they're true. That's the role I fit in his world. And now that he's trying to make me something else, we're both fumbling in the dark, trying to find positions that work but only ending up bruised.
 
Yesterday, he called me "Menaka" instead of "memsaab." Just casually, like it was the most natural thing in the world. "Menaka, pass the salt." I almost dropped the bowl. He's never called me by my name before. It's always been memsaab, even in bed, even when he was coming inside me. And I realized in that moment that I didn't want him to know my name. I wanted to stay memsaab—untouchable, unattainable, even when he was balls-deep in my cunt.
 
Does that make sense to you? Probably not. You've always seen me as Menaka. Wife. Mother. Lover. Equal. But with Dara, I don't want to be equal. I want to be less. I want to be the woman he conquered, not the woman he married.
 
I wish he would go back to being the cocky, demanding, arrogant watchman who pushed me against the kitchen counter and fucked me while I was making parathas. I wish he would stop asking for my opinion and just tell me what to do. I wish he would stop treating me like a partner and start treating me like his personal slut again.
 
But I can't tell him that. How do you tell someone, "I liked it better when you treated me like garbage"? How do you say, "Your respect makes me feel invisible"?
 
So I stay silent. I play the role of the good watchman's wife. I cook his meals. I fold his clothes. I let him make love to me gently, tenderly, the way he thinks I want. And every night, after he falls asleep, I lie awake and touch myself, thinking about the roof in Mumbai, about the water tank, about the way he used to grab my hair and call me his dhanno.
 
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I'm going to find an internet cafe tomorrow. The wifi here is useless, and I need to see your face. Even if it's just through a screen. Even if the connection is choppy and the quality is terrible. I need to look at you and remember who I am.
 
I'll send you another email when I know more.
 
I love you. I miss you. I'm sorry I'm not the wife you deserve.
 
Yours always,
Menaka