06-06-2026, 02:28 PM
Chapter 6: The Night Before the Fire
The clubhouse back room smelled of old newspapers and cheaper whiskey. Menaka had been sitting on the same sofa where Sharma had first fumbled with her blouse, watching the ceiling fan complete its lazy revolutions, for nearly ten minutes before he arrived.
He came in flustered, apologizing about a phone call from his wife, patting his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief that had seen better decades. Menaka didn't mind the wait. She had spent the time thinking, her fingers tracing the worn velvet of the sofa arm, her mind tracing something else entirely.
"You came," Sharma said, settling beside her. Closer than necessary. His hand found her knee with practiced ease.
"I said I would think about it." Menaka didn't move his hand away. "I've thought."
Sharma's fingers tightened slightly. "And?"
Menaka turned to look at him. Really look. The paan-stained teeth. The gold-rimmed glasses fogged slightly at the edges. The belly straining against his sky-blue polo shirt. He was not an attractive man. He was not a young man. He was not a man who had ever made a woman's breath catch simply by walking into a room.
But he was powerful here. In this colony, in this little kingdom of middle-class aspirations, Sharma was a king. And kings, she had learned, could be useful.
"I have conditions," she said.
Sharma's hand stopped moving. His eyes widened, hungry and hopeful. "Anything."
Menaka stood up, letting his hand fall away. She walked to the small window that faced the colony's central garden. Through the dusty glass, she could see the preparations for Holika Dahan already underway—a pile of wood and twigs being assembled in the center of the ground, men in vests directing traffic, children running between their legs.
"The generator shed," she said without turning around. "I want to see it first."
"Of course. Tonight, after—"
"No. Now."
Sharma scrambled to his feet. "But someone might see—"
Menaka turned, and something in her expression made him stop mid-sentence. She had practiced this look in the mirror that morning. The look that said she was not asking. The look that said she knew exactly what she was worth.
"Colonel Singh's car is at the gate," she said. "Which means he's home. Gupta's wife goes to the market at this time—I've watched her leave every day this week. Mehta is at his office in Noida until seven. And the young one—Karthik—he's at his gym. I've checked."
Sharma stared at her, his mouth slightly open.
"You've been watching us," he said. It wasn't a question.
"I've been watching everyone." Menaka walked to the door and opened it. "The shed. Now. Unless you'd rather I change my mind."
The clubhouse back room smelled of old newspapers and cheaper whiskey. Menaka had been sitting on the same sofa where Sharma had first fumbled with her blouse, watching the ceiling fan complete its lazy revolutions, for nearly ten minutes before he arrived.
He came in flustered, apologizing about a phone call from his wife, patting his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief that had seen better decades. Menaka didn't mind the wait. She had spent the time thinking, her fingers tracing the worn velvet of the sofa arm, her mind tracing something else entirely.
"You came," Sharma said, settling beside her. Closer than necessary. His hand found her knee with practiced ease.
"I said I would think about it." Menaka didn't move his hand away. "I've thought."
Sharma's fingers tightened slightly. "And?"
Menaka turned to look at him. Really look. The paan-stained teeth. The gold-rimmed glasses fogged slightly at the edges. The belly straining against his sky-blue polo shirt. He was not an attractive man. He was not a young man. He was not a man who had ever made a woman's breath catch simply by walking into a room.
But he was powerful here. In this colony, in this little kingdom of middle-class aspirations, Sharma was a king. And kings, she had learned, could be useful.
"I have conditions," she said.
Sharma's hand stopped moving. His eyes widened, hungry and hopeful. "Anything."
Menaka stood up, letting his hand fall away. She walked to the small window that faced the colony's central garden. Through the dusty glass, she could see the preparations for Holika Dahan already underway—a pile of wood and twigs being assembled in the center of the ground, men in vests directing traffic, children running between their legs.
"The generator shed," she said without turning around. "I want to see it first."
"Of course. Tonight, after—"
"No. Now."
Sharma scrambled to his feet. "But someone might see—"
Menaka turned, and something in her expression made him stop mid-sentence. She had practiced this look in the mirror that morning. The look that said she was not asking. The look that said she knew exactly what she was worth.
"Colonel Singh's car is at the gate," she said. "Which means he's home. Gupta's wife goes to the market at this time—I've watched her leave every day this week. Mehta is at his office in Noida until seven. And the young one—Karthik—he's at his gym. I've checked."
Sharma stared at her, his mouth slightly open.
"You've been watching us," he said. It wasn't a question.
"I've been watching everyone." Menaka walked to the door and opened it. "The shed. Now. Unless you'd rather I change my mind."
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