Yesterday, 12:13 AM
(This post was last modified: Yesterday, 12:15 AM by Mintu08. Edited 1 time in total. Edited 1 time in total.)
Chapter 3
Sholapur District Prison
The havaldars straightened themselves up as a big broad tall figure walked towards them. The man twisted his rolex watch which shimmered due to the sun and then eyed one havaldar who was busy looking into his phone and browsing random sleazy shorts. A moment of silence stood out amongst his fellow colleagues as the irresponsible havaldar chuckled and patted his thigh until he looked up to see the man gazing down at him with eyes that felt as if belonging to the devil himself.
"Sorry....ss..sorry sahib".the havaldar got up and slowly began to salute with a horrific realisation as he looked down on his crotch area which had a small trail of clear pee dribbling down due to his feet almost which was a result of the tension he had around him under just the single glare from the senior officer who stood next to him.
"Ss.ssorry sahib...I will clean it up ummmm...oh no....no sahib....bbb"
The fear raised up slowly like a small movement lurking within a bush and would be ambushed any given moment but just then the big officer patted his shoulder firm and almost crushed the meat there until the havaldar squealed in pain and then tossed him off with such aggression that he almost lost balance and fell down the stairs, his own deflated dick stopped dribbling anymore pee and his hands rubbing on his shoulder, easing the pain from the firm grip just a moment ago.
The rest of the havaldars remained still as the apparently dominant officer walked in. Taking off his security officer cap the moment he reached in, he patted his shaved bald head which coated his firm thick skull and twisted his rough thick moustache as his eyes gazed around and then stopped at Probal sitting quietly with hands crossed on the elbows.
The officer fumbled with his watch and asked ...so he is the one? One of the junior cops said....yes!
That is when the officer walked towards the cell with deliberate slow footsteps. The sound of his heel tapping in the silence made Probal look up and he felt his heart thump as he felt almost as if he made met Yamraj himself....
Such was the presence of Senior officer Ganpat Gawande.
Broad shoulderd heavyweight pehelwan with the mix of a goon and a tyrant cop was the simple one liner description for the man. His dark brown tone made the rolex watch shine in its golden shimmering manner kn his thick hairy wrist and his stomach potruded out with the first two buttons open on his jersey and the golden chain around his neck told a lot about his dominance.
His physical presence dominated the corridor long before he spoke. Broad shoulders stretched the fabric of his uniform while a thick torso carried the weight of a man who had spent more years commanding others than chasing criminals on foot.
The first two buttons of his khaki shirt remained casually open, exposing a thick gold chain resting against sun-darkened skin. His complexion carried the deep brown tone of someone shaped by the relentless Maharashtra heat rather than air-conditioned offices. On his heavily built wrist sat an expensive Rolex watch whose polished gold and steel gleamed each time it caught the prison lights.
The contrast between the luxury of the watch and the roughness of the hand wearing it somehow made the accessory appear even more imposing.
His face possessed none of the polished refinement expected from senior administrators. Instead, it looked weathered by experience and hardened by years of dealing with politicians, criminals, informants, bureaucrats, and ambitious subordinates. A thick moustache framed a mouth that rarely revealed much emotion, while his shaved scalp only added to the severity of his appearance. There was something intimidating about the way he carried himself. Not because he appeared physically dangerous, although he certainly could be. It was the confidence.
Within the district security officer circles, Ganpat Gawande's reputation existed in a strange space between admiration and fear. Junior officers respected him because he achieved results. Senior officers tolerated him because he understood how power actually functioned. Criminals feared him because they never knew which version of him they would encounter. Sometimes he was relentless. Sometimes practical. Sometimes surprisingly reasonable. More often than not, he was unpredictable.
Yet nobody who truly knew Ganpat Gawande would have mistaken him for a saint.
His career had survived for so many years precisely because he understood the realities hidden beneath official reports and public speeches.
He knew which businessmen funded local campaigns. He knew which politicians expected favors. He knew which officers could be trusted and which merely pretended loyalty. More importantly, he understood the invisible economy that existed alongside the official one. Bribes, collections, favors, protection arrangements, political debts, and unofficial transactions formed a world that many publicly condemned while privately participating in. Ganpat navigated that world with the skill of a veteran sailor steering through dangerous waters.
The irony was that this reputation only made him more effective.
"So you are the one huh?"
Gawande lit his cigarette and no sooner was it lit fully, Probal got up and felt a nervousness seep inside him as he just gazed at the rough presence of the man. The combination of his shining brown bald head with the bushy moustache wasn't a comfortable sight to take in for the innocent man as he held the bars firm and pleaded....
"Sir.... please listen to me..... I wasn't responsible for the trading of the gold biscuits.....pl..please"
Probal pleading voice was that of a child who feared the imposing adult would scold and pull his ears anytime. Compared to officer Gawande. He had the average bengali man built in contrast to the maratha bulky man on the other side of the bars. His lighter tone with his thin moustache and chin beard and decent tuff of hair on top wasn't any defence against the fear of the officer alone. He shivered when he noticed the thick brown rugged palms of the bald man as he twisted his moustache and smiled the cigarette with his other hand, gazing down at him with an ambiguous expression apparently.
It was hard for Probal to figure out of it was sarcasm or strictness.
Gawande walked near the bars and puffed out some smoke straight into Probal's face as the sudden act disgusted him and he turned his face aside coughing. He didn't expect such an ill-mannered gesture at all from a senior cop, but then with an evil grin, he said... "Accept it...".
"Accept what?". Probal shoved aside the remaining smokey puff with his hand and asked with a potential terrified confusion.
"The crime! Accept it and I will spare some tough days!" Gawande takes another puff and looks at the helpless man and then very passively warned him...."48 hours left for the court! In the next 24 hours, you will admit the crime and accept all the trials!"
Probal said nothing.
Instinct told him that speaking too much around a man like Ganpat Gawande was rarely wise. The officer had asked a few questions, studied him for several uncomfortable moments, and then unexpectedly walked away without offering any indication of what he was thinking. That uncertainty proved far more unsettling than open hostility would have been.
From his position inside the cell, Probal watched Gawande move toward the far corner of the prison office where an old wooden desk stood beneath a slowly rotating fan. The officer lowered himself into the chair with the confidence of a man who considered the entire building an extension of his own authority. What followed only increased Probal's discomfort.
Gawande appeared to be speaking to someone on the telephone.
His voice remained low.
Almost conversational.
Every few moments a rough chuckle escaped him.
The sound carried easily through the corridor.
It wasn't cheerful laughter.
It wasn't even particularly loud.
There was simply something unpleasant about it.
The officer would listen for several seconds, then respond with another amused grunt before tapping his thick fingers against the tabletop. At one point he began absentmindedly twisting the metal stand of the table lamp while continuing the conversation. A few moments later he slapped the top of his bald head and released another burst of laughter as though somebody on the other end of the call had shared an excellent joke.
The entire performance seemed strangely casual and that exactly was what bothered Probal the most.
.....................
"Hiyan hurry up, we will be late!"
Komolini finished her last touches as she applied a simple pink gloss on her lips and smacked them to make sure they touched her rosey petals the right soothing way as always. This wasn't anything new as she has the habbit to groom up in any occasion and the next thing she did was somewhat shakey. The sindoor dibba as she picked it up slowly and assured herself one more time.....
"Yes I will be getting my husband back"
And then she applied a thick dose of the sindoor on her maang, checked her shakha pola and clanked it softly and made sure her mangalsutra was clearly visible. Simple green blouse with a baby blue saree is what she chose as warm colors derived a lot of attention and she wasn't interested in all that. Adjusting her pallu over her ample bosom, she carried her purse and in the meantime Hiyan had booked the Uber to Howrah station.
The journey to the station seemed to begin before the car had even left the apartment complex. Mother and son carried the same urgency, though they expressed it differently. Hiyan checked and rechecked the booking details while Komolini adjusted her handbag, mentally reviewing everything she might have forgotten. The moment felt strangely unreal. For weeks Sholapur had existed only as a distant name attached to lawyers, prison calls, and unanswered questions. Now it had become a destination.
The booking confirmation had barely arrived when Komolini's phone vibrated.
A message from Madhumita...
"Enjoy the trip and all the best in bringing Probal back. Don't do anything else!"
Komolini stared at the screen.
For a brief moment she could almost hear her friend's laughter through the words. The shameless teasing. The impossible suggestions. The endless jokes about sarees, hairstyles, Marathi food, and imagined adventures. A soft chuckle escaped her before she could stop it.
Unfortunately, Hiyan heard it.
He immediately turned his head.
The movement alone was enough.
Komolini felt caught.
"Your Madhu aunty," she said quickly, holding up the phone defensively. "Always sending stupid jokes on WhatsApp."
Hiyan glanced at the screen but said nothing.
The silence somehow felt more revealing than any question could have.
As the car merged into the flow of Kolkata traffic, Komolini studied her son from the corner of her eye. The past few days had left their mark on him. He looked composed, but she knew better. Beneath the calm exterior existed exhaustion, worry, and determination. He had postponed important college work to accompany her. A major assignment remained unfinished. Friends had advised him against leaving.
Professors had expressed concern. Yet none of it mattered to him once the possibility of helping his father emerged.
The realization tightened something inside her chest.
Without thinking, she reached over and touched his forehead gently, smoothing back a few strands of hair.
"He'll come back, shona."
The words emerged softly.
Almost as much for herself as for him.
Hiyan immediately covered her hand with his own. His fingers rubbed her palm gently, as though reassuring her in return.
"Maa..."
"Yes?"
"Rupu aunty will help us, right?"
"Ofcoarse dear, Rupu is not just my cousin, she is a good lawyer as well and we have to meet her first once we reach Pune!"
The car passes by the bengali hoardings and the street shops and the old and new Kolkata buildings as Komolini only had thoughts about the place she had no idea about. She remembered Madhumita jokes on the new ambience and blushed for some reason. She then looked down on her nails and wondered if she had made them more red instead of light pink, how would that feel.
Surely you are not doing for a kitty party Komo! It's your husband's crisis for god sake!"
Within these thoughts the car reached station atlast and as Hiyan made the payment, Rupu noticed the driver's lingering eyes on her one more time and she blamed herself for even the light pink gloss she applied, but she knew the reason was bigger as she had quite the ample curves around her and strangely she lets out a small purr as she blinks at the driver once more before turning away and slamming the door.
She blamed Probal for such attention craving. It has been a long since they had gone intimate and everything was reduced to just hand touches and cheek nuzzles which didn't seem to feed the yearnings of her robust body and it shamed her to think so but the craving was quite real. Such was was her own deprivation that she senses a small droplet on the brim of her puffy fattened labia deep within her normal saree from just the short glimpse of the cab driver alone.
"Komo you are too much!"
She scolds herself as Hiyan tells her to walk faster or else they might miss the train.
....................
Pimpri - Pune
With an aching body and an empty void to be filled deep within Rupushi got up from the bed and drank an entire jug of water. Her naked body was still taking deep breaths as she wasn't just in the mood to study the case of her cousin client. She blamed her husband for divorcing her for her ambitious nature and even take the custody of their only daughter who was still with her teddy bear and toys. She gazed at her bed and eyes the source, the only source of her pleasure ...a big brown dildo!
At 38, her body still ached for a big rigorous fucking at its best and although the dildo although poked the inner flesh in the right way, it still wasn't an actual cock that would plunder her inner depth and make her moan and her curvy body wobble like a rattling train. She was just playing with her labia folds and toying with the small orgasmic dribbles she just emitted when the phone buzzed....
Rupu looked around but couldn't find it and it buzzed again and then she found it next to the Vaseline jar and she blushed. The same jar which helped her cream her pussy to welcome the dildo in and out again and again till she orgasmed somehow, if not out of full satisfaction. Picking her phone she realised it was her elder cousin Komolini WhatsApp message -
"Rupu, the train is slightly delayed. Reach the station tomorrow by 7 pm sharp!"
Rupu felt frustrated as she thumped the phone. One one end she was yearning for orgasms and sex almost each day and the other hand, she had an important case to handle. In her naked half quenched state she looked at her table and saw the papers regarding Probal's case and before she could get up, her clit throbbed as if mewing like a cunning kitten to her ...."hey it wasn't enough!"
What Rupu feared was her inner self having Paraphilic Disorders in terms of sexual preferences and sometimes even Sadomasochism triggered her groin to the point that she would itch it even during war documentaries on tv.
She got up with a wiggle of her naked ass and stood infront of the mirror to curse herself freely...
"I hate you!
I absolutely fucking hate you!!"
Urfhhh fuck it!"
Rupu got on her bed and opened her laptop. Turning on some war documentry and the horrific results of some amputed and thrashed and bashed soldiers, she touched and tapped her labia like a machine getting ready to be fueled again. With a disturbed look on her face she rubbed and scrubbed herself to small small orgasmic dribbles from her leaking faucet to the sounds of the groans and gunshots from her laptop.
The night crossed very very slowly as nobody around her flat could guess what the well established criminal lawyer was vetting off to.
................
Aapte Mansion
The corrupt politician Vitthal Aapte's residence occupied an entirely different world from the one currently imprisoning Probal Chatterjee. Warm lighting reflected from polished marble floors. Expensive paintings decorated carefully maintained walls. The air carried the faint fragrance of imported perfume and fresh flowers arranged by staff who seemed to appear and disappear without notice. It was a home built not merely for comfort, but for display.
Inside the master bedroom, his wife Smita Aapte stood before a large dressing mirror making final adjustments to a silk saree chosen for the evening. The fabric flowed elegantly around her while gold jewelry rested comfortably against her skin. Years of wealth had afforded her every luxury she had once dreamed of. The spacious house, the expensive vacations, the private parties, the social influence—everything had arrived alongside her husband's political success.
A pair of familiar hands settled lightly upon her shoulders.
She didn't need to turn around.
Vitthal Aapte's reflection appeared behind her in the mirror.
The minister smiled as he stepped closer, studying both their reflections with quiet amusement.
"Still taking forever to get ready."
Smita rolled her eyes.
"And you're still complaining after all these years."
The answer only widened his smile.
For a brief moment the atmosphere remained light and familiar. They had shared this routine countless times throughout their marriage. Political dinners. Business gatherings. Fundraisers. Celebrations. Every event began with some version of the same conversation.
Smita finally turned toward him.
"You should be getting ready yourself."
"I already look perfect."
The confidence in his voice made her laugh.
"Such an old man."
"Old?"
"Very old."
Vitthal placed a hand dramatically over his heart.
"That is a cruel thing to say."
"It is also true."
The minister shook his head in mock disappointment.
Despite herself, Smita smiled.
The expression seemed to satisfy him.
For several moments he simply watched her before speaking again.
"Be ready for another party."
The statement immediately caught her attention.
"A party?"
"Yes."
"For what?"
Something about his expression changed.
The smile remained.
Yet a certain satisfaction appeared beneath it.
The satisfaction of a man who believed a problem had been successfully avoided.
Vitthal adjusted the cuff of his sleeve and glanced toward their reflection once more.
"Let's just say your husband is not going to be troubled by that gold biscuit nonsense."
The words lingered in the room.
Smita's smile disappeared almost immediately.
She stepped away from him, and the change in atmosphere was immediate. Only moments earlier the room had been filled with playful teasing and the comfortable familiarity of a couple who had spent decades together. Now a thoughtful silence settled between them. Smita folded her arms and looked toward the mirror instead of at her husband. Vitthal noticed the shift instantly. He always did. Years of marriage had made him surprisingly sensitive to her moods, even if he often chose not to acknowledge the reasons behind them.
"What now?" he asked with a sigh.
Smita's eyes remained fixed on their reflection.
"Whose life did you ruin this time?"
The question hung in the room.
Vitthal's smile faded slightly.
"You always assume the worst."
"Because the worst usually turns out to be true."
The answer came without hesitation.
For several moments he simply looked at her. It wasn't the first time she had confronted him like this. Smita had long ago stopped pretending she believed every convenient explanation that accompanied political success. She enjoyed the comfortable life, the large house, the luxury, the influence, but that didn't mean she was blind.
Vitthal walked closer and gently placed his hands on her shoulders.
"Nothing happened."
"Vitthal."
"Nothing happened."
The certainty in his voice failed to convince her.
She slowly turned around to face him.
"Then why are you smiling like a man who escaped something?"
Vitthal chuckled softly.
"You're imagining things."
"No."
Smita shook her head.
"I've been married to you for twenty-eight years. I know that smile."
The minister's expression tightened briefly.
That was the problem with old marriages.
Somebody always knew too much.
Eventually he looked away and walked toward the window.
"The authorities arrested someone connected to the matter."
"Connected?"
"Apparently."
Smita stared at him as both of them remained silent for several seconds, until she spoke again...
"So somebody else is paying the price."
Vitthal turned back toward her with raised eyes ....
"Nobody on earth can dare lay a finger on your husband and I am sure you wouldn't want that as well!"
Saying so Vitthal left like a rushed hurricane leaving Smita alone near the dressing table and all she could utter was a sigh of self defeat.
Sholapur District Prison
The havaldars straightened themselves up as a big broad tall figure walked towards them. The man twisted his rolex watch which shimmered due to the sun and then eyed one havaldar who was busy looking into his phone and browsing random sleazy shorts. A moment of silence stood out amongst his fellow colleagues as the irresponsible havaldar chuckled and patted his thigh until he looked up to see the man gazing down at him with eyes that felt as if belonging to the devil himself.
"Sorry....ss..sorry sahib".the havaldar got up and slowly began to salute with a horrific realisation as he looked down on his crotch area which had a small trail of clear pee dribbling down due to his feet almost which was a result of the tension he had around him under just the single glare from the senior officer who stood next to him.
"Ss.ssorry sahib...I will clean it up ummmm...oh no....no sahib....bbb"
The fear raised up slowly like a small movement lurking within a bush and would be ambushed any given moment but just then the big officer patted his shoulder firm and almost crushed the meat there until the havaldar squealed in pain and then tossed him off with such aggression that he almost lost balance and fell down the stairs, his own deflated dick stopped dribbling anymore pee and his hands rubbing on his shoulder, easing the pain from the firm grip just a moment ago.
The rest of the havaldars remained still as the apparently dominant officer walked in. Taking off his security officer cap the moment he reached in, he patted his shaved bald head which coated his firm thick skull and twisted his rough thick moustache as his eyes gazed around and then stopped at Probal sitting quietly with hands crossed on the elbows.
The officer fumbled with his watch and asked ...so he is the one? One of the junior cops said....yes!
That is when the officer walked towards the cell with deliberate slow footsteps. The sound of his heel tapping in the silence made Probal look up and he felt his heart thump as he felt almost as if he made met Yamraj himself....
Such was the presence of Senior officer Ganpat Gawande.
Broad shoulderd heavyweight pehelwan with the mix of a goon and a tyrant cop was the simple one liner description for the man. His dark brown tone made the rolex watch shine in its golden shimmering manner kn his thick hairy wrist and his stomach potruded out with the first two buttons open on his jersey and the golden chain around his neck told a lot about his dominance.
His physical presence dominated the corridor long before he spoke. Broad shoulders stretched the fabric of his uniform while a thick torso carried the weight of a man who had spent more years commanding others than chasing criminals on foot.
The first two buttons of his khaki shirt remained casually open, exposing a thick gold chain resting against sun-darkened skin. His complexion carried the deep brown tone of someone shaped by the relentless Maharashtra heat rather than air-conditioned offices. On his heavily built wrist sat an expensive Rolex watch whose polished gold and steel gleamed each time it caught the prison lights.
The contrast between the luxury of the watch and the roughness of the hand wearing it somehow made the accessory appear even more imposing.
His face possessed none of the polished refinement expected from senior administrators. Instead, it looked weathered by experience and hardened by years of dealing with politicians, criminals, informants, bureaucrats, and ambitious subordinates. A thick moustache framed a mouth that rarely revealed much emotion, while his shaved scalp only added to the severity of his appearance. There was something intimidating about the way he carried himself. Not because he appeared physically dangerous, although he certainly could be. It was the confidence.
Within the district security officer circles, Ganpat Gawande's reputation existed in a strange space between admiration and fear. Junior officers respected him because he achieved results. Senior officers tolerated him because he understood how power actually functioned. Criminals feared him because they never knew which version of him they would encounter. Sometimes he was relentless. Sometimes practical. Sometimes surprisingly reasonable. More often than not, he was unpredictable.
Yet nobody who truly knew Ganpat Gawande would have mistaken him for a saint.
His career had survived for so many years precisely because he understood the realities hidden beneath official reports and public speeches.
He knew which businessmen funded local campaigns. He knew which politicians expected favors. He knew which officers could be trusted and which merely pretended loyalty. More importantly, he understood the invisible economy that existed alongside the official one. Bribes, collections, favors, protection arrangements, political debts, and unofficial transactions formed a world that many publicly condemned while privately participating in. Ganpat navigated that world with the skill of a veteran sailor steering through dangerous waters.
The irony was that this reputation only made him more effective.
"So you are the one huh?"
Gawande lit his cigarette and no sooner was it lit fully, Probal got up and felt a nervousness seep inside him as he just gazed at the rough presence of the man. The combination of his shining brown bald head with the bushy moustache wasn't a comfortable sight to take in for the innocent man as he held the bars firm and pleaded....
"Sir.... please listen to me..... I wasn't responsible for the trading of the gold biscuits.....pl..please"
Probal pleading voice was that of a child who feared the imposing adult would scold and pull his ears anytime. Compared to officer Gawande. He had the average bengali man built in contrast to the maratha bulky man on the other side of the bars. His lighter tone with his thin moustache and chin beard and decent tuff of hair on top wasn't any defence against the fear of the officer alone. He shivered when he noticed the thick brown rugged palms of the bald man as he twisted his moustache and smiled the cigarette with his other hand, gazing down at him with an ambiguous expression apparently.
It was hard for Probal to figure out of it was sarcasm or strictness.
Gawande walked near the bars and puffed out some smoke straight into Probal's face as the sudden act disgusted him and he turned his face aside coughing. He didn't expect such an ill-mannered gesture at all from a senior cop, but then with an evil grin, he said... "Accept it...".
"Accept what?". Probal shoved aside the remaining smokey puff with his hand and asked with a potential terrified confusion.
"The crime! Accept it and I will spare some tough days!" Gawande takes another puff and looks at the helpless man and then very passively warned him...."48 hours left for the court! In the next 24 hours, you will admit the crime and accept all the trials!"
Probal said nothing.
Instinct told him that speaking too much around a man like Ganpat Gawande was rarely wise. The officer had asked a few questions, studied him for several uncomfortable moments, and then unexpectedly walked away without offering any indication of what he was thinking. That uncertainty proved far more unsettling than open hostility would have been.
From his position inside the cell, Probal watched Gawande move toward the far corner of the prison office where an old wooden desk stood beneath a slowly rotating fan. The officer lowered himself into the chair with the confidence of a man who considered the entire building an extension of his own authority. What followed only increased Probal's discomfort.
Gawande appeared to be speaking to someone on the telephone.
His voice remained low.
Almost conversational.
Every few moments a rough chuckle escaped him.
The sound carried easily through the corridor.
It wasn't cheerful laughter.
It wasn't even particularly loud.
There was simply something unpleasant about it.
The officer would listen for several seconds, then respond with another amused grunt before tapping his thick fingers against the tabletop. At one point he began absentmindedly twisting the metal stand of the table lamp while continuing the conversation. A few moments later he slapped the top of his bald head and released another burst of laughter as though somebody on the other end of the call had shared an excellent joke.
The entire performance seemed strangely casual and that exactly was what bothered Probal the most.
.....................
"Hiyan hurry up, we will be late!"
Komolini finished her last touches as she applied a simple pink gloss on her lips and smacked them to make sure they touched her rosey petals the right soothing way as always. This wasn't anything new as she has the habbit to groom up in any occasion and the next thing she did was somewhat shakey. The sindoor dibba as she picked it up slowly and assured herself one more time.....
"Yes I will be getting my husband back"
And then she applied a thick dose of the sindoor on her maang, checked her shakha pola and clanked it softly and made sure her mangalsutra was clearly visible. Simple green blouse with a baby blue saree is what she chose as warm colors derived a lot of attention and she wasn't interested in all that. Adjusting her pallu over her ample bosom, she carried her purse and in the meantime Hiyan had booked the Uber to Howrah station.
The journey to the station seemed to begin before the car had even left the apartment complex. Mother and son carried the same urgency, though they expressed it differently. Hiyan checked and rechecked the booking details while Komolini adjusted her handbag, mentally reviewing everything she might have forgotten. The moment felt strangely unreal. For weeks Sholapur had existed only as a distant name attached to lawyers, prison calls, and unanswered questions. Now it had become a destination.
The booking confirmation had barely arrived when Komolini's phone vibrated.
A message from Madhumita...
"Enjoy the trip and all the best in bringing Probal back. Don't do anything else!"
Komolini stared at the screen.
For a brief moment she could almost hear her friend's laughter through the words. The shameless teasing. The impossible suggestions. The endless jokes about sarees, hairstyles, Marathi food, and imagined adventures. A soft chuckle escaped her before she could stop it.
Unfortunately, Hiyan heard it.
He immediately turned his head.
The movement alone was enough.
Komolini felt caught.
"Your Madhu aunty," she said quickly, holding up the phone defensively. "Always sending stupid jokes on WhatsApp."
Hiyan glanced at the screen but said nothing.
The silence somehow felt more revealing than any question could have.
As the car merged into the flow of Kolkata traffic, Komolini studied her son from the corner of her eye. The past few days had left their mark on him. He looked composed, but she knew better. Beneath the calm exterior existed exhaustion, worry, and determination. He had postponed important college work to accompany her. A major assignment remained unfinished. Friends had advised him against leaving.
Professors had expressed concern. Yet none of it mattered to him once the possibility of helping his father emerged.
The realization tightened something inside her chest.
Without thinking, she reached over and touched his forehead gently, smoothing back a few strands of hair.
"He'll come back, shona."
The words emerged softly.
Almost as much for herself as for him.
Hiyan immediately covered her hand with his own. His fingers rubbed her palm gently, as though reassuring her in return.
"Maa..."
"Yes?"
"Rupu aunty will help us, right?"
"Ofcoarse dear, Rupu is not just my cousin, she is a good lawyer as well and we have to meet her first once we reach Pune!"
The car passes by the bengali hoardings and the street shops and the old and new Kolkata buildings as Komolini only had thoughts about the place she had no idea about. She remembered Madhumita jokes on the new ambience and blushed for some reason. She then looked down on her nails and wondered if she had made them more red instead of light pink, how would that feel.
Surely you are not doing for a kitty party Komo! It's your husband's crisis for god sake!"
Within these thoughts the car reached station atlast and as Hiyan made the payment, Rupu noticed the driver's lingering eyes on her one more time and she blamed herself for even the light pink gloss she applied, but she knew the reason was bigger as she had quite the ample curves around her and strangely she lets out a small purr as she blinks at the driver once more before turning away and slamming the door.
She blamed Probal for such attention craving. It has been a long since they had gone intimate and everything was reduced to just hand touches and cheek nuzzles which didn't seem to feed the yearnings of her robust body and it shamed her to think so but the craving was quite real. Such was was her own deprivation that she senses a small droplet on the brim of her puffy fattened labia deep within her normal saree from just the short glimpse of the cab driver alone.
"Komo you are too much!"
She scolds herself as Hiyan tells her to walk faster or else they might miss the train.
....................
Pimpri - Pune
With an aching body and an empty void to be filled deep within Rupushi got up from the bed and drank an entire jug of water. Her naked body was still taking deep breaths as she wasn't just in the mood to study the case of her cousin client. She blamed her husband for divorcing her for her ambitious nature and even take the custody of their only daughter who was still with her teddy bear and toys. She gazed at her bed and eyes the source, the only source of her pleasure ...a big brown dildo!
At 38, her body still ached for a big rigorous fucking at its best and although the dildo although poked the inner flesh in the right way, it still wasn't an actual cock that would plunder her inner depth and make her moan and her curvy body wobble like a rattling train. She was just playing with her labia folds and toying with the small orgasmic dribbles she just emitted when the phone buzzed....
Rupu looked around but couldn't find it and it buzzed again and then she found it next to the Vaseline jar and she blushed. The same jar which helped her cream her pussy to welcome the dildo in and out again and again till she orgasmed somehow, if not out of full satisfaction. Picking her phone she realised it was her elder cousin Komolini WhatsApp message -
"Rupu, the train is slightly delayed. Reach the station tomorrow by 7 pm sharp!"
Rupu felt frustrated as she thumped the phone. One one end she was yearning for orgasms and sex almost each day and the other hand, she had an important case to handle. In her naked half quenched state she looked at her table and saw the papers regarding Probal's case and before she could get up, her clit throbbed as if mewing like a cunning kitten to her ...."hey it wasn't enough!"
What Rupu feared was her inner self having Paraphilic Disorders in terms of sexual preferences and sometimes even Sadomasochism triggered her groin to the point that she would itch it even during war documentaries on tv.
She got up with a wiggle of her naked ass and stood infront of the mirror to curse herself freely...
"I hate you!
I absolutely fucking hate you!!"
Urfhhh fuck it!"
Rupu got on her bed and opened her laptop. Turning on some war documentry and the horrific results of some amputed and thrashed and bashed soldiers, she touched and tapped her labia like a machine getting ready to be fueled again. With a disturbed look on her face she rubbed and scrubbed herself to small small orgasmic dribbles from her leaking faucet to the sounds of the groans and gunshots from her laptop.
The night crossed very very slowly as nobody around her flat could guess what the well established criminal lawyer was vetting off to.
................
Aapte Mansion
The corrupt politician Vitthal Aapte's residence occupied an entirely different world from the one currently imprisoning Probal Chatterjee. Warm lighting reflected from polished marble floors. Expensive paintings decorated carefully maintained walls. The air carried the faint fragrance of imported perfume and fresh flowers arranged by staff who seemed to appear and disappear without notice. It was a home built not merely for comfort, but for display.
Inside the master bedroom, his wife Smita Aapte stood before a large dressing mirror making final adjustments to a silk saree chosen for the evening. The fabric flowed elegantly around her while gold jewelry rested comfortably against her skin. Years of wealth had afforded her every luxury she had once dreamed of. The spacious house, the expensive vacations, the private parties, the social influence—everything had arrived alongside her husband's political success.
A pair of familiar hands settled lightly upon her shoulders.
She didn't need to turn around.
Vitthal Aapte's reflection appeared behind her in the mirror.
The minister smiled as he stepped closer, studying both their reflections with quiet amusement.
"Still taking forever to get ready."
Smita rolled her eyes.
"And you're still complaining after all these years."
The answer only widened his smile.
For a brief moment the atmosphere remained light and familiar. They had shared this routine countless times throughout their marriage. Political dinners. Business gatherings. Fundraisers. Celebrations. Every event began with some version of the same conversation.
Smita finally turned toward him.
"You should be getting ready yourself."
"I already look perfect."
The confidence in his voice made her laugh.
"Such an old man."
"Old?"
"Very old."
Vitthal placed a hand dramatically over his heart.
"That is a cruel thing to say."
"It is also true."
The minister shook his head in mock disappointment.
Despite herself, Smita smiled.
The expression seemed to satisfy him.
For several moments he simply watched her before speaking again.
"Be ready for another party."
The statement immediately caught her attention.
"A party?"
"Yes."
"For what?"
Something about his expression changed.
The smile remained.
Yet a certain satisfaction appeared beneath it.
The satisfaction of a man who believed a problem had been successfully avoided.
Vitthal adjusted the cuff of his sleeve and glanced toward their reflection once more.
"Let's just say your husband is not going to be troubled by that gold biscuit nonsense."
The words lingered in the room.
Smita's smile disappeared almost immediately.
She stepped away from him, and the change in atmosphere was immediate. Only moments earlier the room had been filled with playful teasing and the comfortable familiarity of a couple who had spent decades together. Now a thoughtful silence settled between them. Smita folded her arms and looked toward the mirror instead of at her husband. Vitthal noticed the shift instantly. He always did. Years of marriage had made him surprisingly sensitive to her moods, even if he often chose not to acknowledge the reasons behind them.
"What now?" he asked with a sigh.
Smita's eyes remained fixed on their reflection.
"Whose life did you ruin this time?"
The question hung in the room.
Vitthal's smile faded slightly.
"You always assume the worst."
"Because the worst usually turns out to be true."
The answer came without hesitation.
For several moments he simply looked at her. It wasn't the first time she had confronted him like this. Smita had long ago stopped pretending she believed every convenient explanation that accompanied political success. She enjoyed the comfortable life, the large house, the luxury, the influence, but that didn't mean she was blind.
Vitthal walked closer and gently placed his hands on her shoulders.
"Nothing happened."
"Vitthal."
"Nothing happened."
The certainty in his voice failed to convince her.
She slowly turned around to face him.
"Then why are you smiling like a man who escaped something?"
Vitthal chuckled softly.
"You're imagining things."
"No."
Smita shook her head.
"I've been married to you for twenty-eight years. I know that smile."
The minister's expression tightened briefly.
That was the problem with old marriages.
Somebody always knew too much.
Eventually he looked away and walked toward the window.
"The authorities arrested someone connected to the matter."
"Connected?"
"Apparently."
Smita stared at him as both of them remained silent for several seconds, until she spoke again...
"So somebody else is paying the price."
Vitthal turned back toward her with raised eyes ....
"Nobody on earth can dare lay a finger on your husband and I am sure you wouldn't want that as well!"
Saying so Vitthal left like a rushed hurricane leaving Smita alone near the dressing table and all she could utter was a sigh of self defeat.
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