Adultery Who Watches The Watchmen (continued)

[samgreenvalley]

The Holika Dahan bonfire was lit at exactly 8 PM, as it had been for as long as anyone in the colony could remember.
 
The flames rose high, casting dancing shadows on the faces of the gathered residents. Children ran in circles, their laughter mixing with the crackle of the fire. Women chatted in clusters, their sarees bright against the darkness. Men stood in groups, drinking chai and discussing politics, cricket, the usual things.
 
Menaka arrived at 8:30, alone.
 
She had timed it perfectly—late enough that the initial rush of greetings was over, early enough that the crowd was still thick. She walked slowly, her hips swaying, the red saree catching the firelight and turning it into something molten.
 
Heads turned. Whispers followed. She was the watchman's wife, the one everyone talked about, the one who had somehow captured the attention of the RWA's inner circle.
 
She ignored them all. Her eyes scanned the crowd, searching.
 
There. Sharma stood near the fire, a kulhad of chai in his hand, his gold-rimmed glasses glinting. Beside him, Mehta was pretending to listen to Gupta, but his eyes kept drifting to the path where Menaka walked. Singh stood apart, his arms crossed, his gaze steady and assessing. Karthik leaned against a tree, his phone in his hand, his smile knowing.
 
And Joshi—pale, sweating Joshi—hovered at the edge of the group, his hands clasped in front of him like a man praying.
 
Menaka walked to the fire and stood before it, letting the heat wash over her face. She could feel their eyes on her—all of them, not just the inner circle, but the others too, the ones who only watched and whispered and wished.
 
She turned slowly, her gaze finding each man in turn.
 
Sharma. She smiled at him, a small, private smile, and he almost dropped his chai.
 
Mehta. She met his eyes and held them, and he swallowed hard.
 
Gupta. She inclined her head slightly, and he nodded back, his face flushed.
 
Karthik. She raised an eyebrow, and he grinned.
 
Singh. She held his gaze the longest, acknowledging him as the leader, the alpha, the one who had planned this night.
 
And Joshi. She gave him a look that was almost pitying, almost kind, and he straightened his shoulders as if he had just been given a reprieve.
 
Then she turned back to the fire, raised her hands to its warmth, and waited.
 
The night was young. The fire was burning. And somewhere behind the community hall, in a generator shed that had been transformed into something else entirely, a mattress waited, covered in rose petals, surrounded by dimmable lights.
 
Menaka closed her eyes and let the flames dance on her skin.
 
Tonight, she would be worshipped.
 
Tonight, she would be consumed.
 
Tonight, she would become the fire.