Adultery A Gift or a Curse?

[Hornytamilan23]

Year 1999

Chapter 3 part 1— The Number Written in Blue Ink
The afternoon heat outside was unbearable.
Even the ceiling fan in Haseena’s room sounded tired as it rotated lazily above her head. Sunlight slipped through the half-closed curtains, falling across the friendship book resting on her lap.
She had already read every page twice.
Still, her fingers stopped at the same name again.
Salman M.
First Year — ECE
Below it, written neatly in blue ink, was a landline number.
No fancy quote.
No dramatic message.
Just:
“Nice meeting you akka… thank you for helping me that day.”
Haseena frowned immediately.
“Akka va?”
She threw the book onto the bed in irritation.
After a few seconds, she picked it up again.
There was something annoyingly sincere about him.
No overconfidence. No flirting. No trying to impress girls like most boys in college. Salman spoke carefully, smiled rarely, and behaved as though he was constantly afraid of disturbing others.
And somehow… that itself made him noticeable.
The housemaid knocked on the door.
“Amma asked whether you want juice.”
“Later,” Haseena replied absentmindedly.
Her eyes stayed on the number.
For nearly five minutes, she argued with herself.
Why should I call him?
What will I even say?
And why am I thinking about this fellow so much?
Finally, out of pure boredom more than courage, she reached for the landline phone beside the bed and dialed the number.
Each ring strangely increased her heartbeat.
One ring.
Two rings.
Three—
“Hello?”
An older woman’s voice.
Haseena immediately panicked.
“Aunty… Salman irukka?”
“One minute.”
She heard muffled sounds in the background.
Then silence.
A few seconds later:
“Hello?”
Salman’s voice.
Soft. Careful. Slightly confused.
For some reason, Haseena smiled instantly.
“Busy ah?”
A pause.
“Haseena?”
“Oh wow. You recognized my voice?”
Another pause.
“A little.”
“A little ah?” she teased. “I expected emotional reaction.”
Salman laughed quietly.
That was probably the first time she had heard him laugh properly.
And she realized she liked the sound.
The conversation began awkwardly.
College. Holidays. Exam difficulty. Hostel food. Random classmates.
Simple topics.
Yet neither wanted to cut the call.
Outside, afternoon slowly turned into evening. Somewhere downstairs, pressure cooker whistles echoed from nearby houses. Television serial sounds drifted through open windows.
Still they kept talking.
At one point Salman asked hesitantly,
“You called everyone from the friendship book?”
“No.”
“Then why me?”
The question caught her off guard.
For a second, she had no answer.
Because she herself didn’t fully know.
Finally she leaned back against the wall and replied casually,
“Maybe because you sounded less irritating than others.”
Salman laughed again.
That small laugh stayed in her mind long after the call ended.
Over the next few days, the calls became frequent.
Not daily.
But regular enough to become expected.
Sometimes Salman called in the evening from a nearby STD booth because he felt shy speaking for long in front of his family.
Sometimes Haseena called when boredom swallowed the afternoon.
Slowly, conversations became easier.
She learned he loved old Tamil songs.
He learned she hated mathematics.
She mocked his serious nature.
He listened patiently to her endless stories.
Without realizing it, both had started waiting for each other’s calls.
And somewhere between those harmless conversations, curiosity quietly transformed into attachment.
Neither of them called it love.
Not yet.
But both had already started carrying each other into their thoughts before sleep.