[SuitAndSyahi]

Chapter 3: Bruises Beneath the Surface
The daylight had begun to mellow by the time the conversation finally lost its momentum.
The tea had long since gone cold.
Outside the balcony, the harsh brightness of the afternoon softened into a warm golden glow that stretched across the neighboring towers. Somewhere below, children had begun gathering in the society park, their laughter rising and falling like waves carried by the breeze.
Inside the apartment, an unfamiliar comfort had settled over the living room.
The television was still on.
Neither woman had watched it for over an hour.
Sarla placed the empty teacups on the center table and rose slowly from the sofa.
"Now I should leave, Memsaab."
Ritu smiled.
"If you stay any longer, I'll have to start paying you overtime."
Sarla laughed.
"No need for that."
She reached for her cloth bag resting beside the chair.
As she bent to lift it, her movements became noticeably slower. One hand instinctively pressed against her thigh before she pushed herself upright.
The effort showed.
Years of standing over sinks, carrying buckets, climbing staircases in buildings without lifts, and scrubbing marble floors had quietly collected in her joints.
Ritu noticed.
"Are you all right?"
"I'm fine."
"You don't look fine."
"It's only age."
She tried to straighten completely.
For a brief second, her knees seemed reluctant to cooperate.
Without thinking, Ritu stepped closer.
"Here..."
She reached out and placed a gentle hand on Sarla's shoulder to steady her.
The moment her fingers settled there, Sarla drew in a sharp breath.
A quiet, involuntary hiss escaped her lips.
"Ah..."
Ritu withdrew her hand immediately.
"I'm so sorry!"
Sarla forced a smile.
"It's nothing."
"No."
Ritu frowned.
"That hurt."
Sarla shook her head.
"These small aches come with life."
She attempted another smile.
"As I told you..."
"Love changes its clothes."
The words sounded oddly different this time.
Not warm.
Not nostalgic.
Almost rehearsed.
As Sarla adjusted the end of her sari over her shoulder, the loose neckline of her faded kurta slipped just enough for a patch of darkened skin to catch the afternoon light.
A bruise.
Deep purple around the edges.
Yellowing in the center.
Not fresh.
Not old enough to have disappeared.
Ritu's eyes fixed on it.
For a heartbeat, neither woman moved.
Then Sarla quickly pulled the fabric back into place.
Too late.
Ritu had already seen it.
She looked up slowly.
"Sarla..."
There was no accusation in her voice.
Only concern.
"What happened to your shoulder?"
Sarla avoided her eyes.
"Oh..."
She adjusted her dupatta again.
"I bumped into the bathroom door."
Ritu said nothing.
The explanation floated between them, fragile enough to collapse under its own weight.
After a long pause, she spoke quietly.
"Sit."
"No, Memsaab."
"Sit."
This time it wasn't a request.
There was a firmness in Ritu's voice that surprised even herself.
Sarla hesitated.
Then, without another word, lowered herself back onto the sofa.
The room felt different now.
The easy laughter from moments ago had vanished.
Outside, a child's bicycle bell rang somewhere in the distance.
Inside, silence settled heavily between them.
Ritu remained standing for a moment before taking the chair opposite.
She folded her injured hand carefully in her lap.
"When did it happen?"
Sarla gave the same small smile.
"It's nothing."
"You flinched when I touched you."
"I bruise easily."
"Sarla."
Another silence.
Ritu leaned forward slightly.
"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."
She paused.
"But please..."
"...don't feel you have to lie."
The older woman stared at her own hands.
Her fingers were rough from years of detergent and hard water.
She rubbed her thumb slowly across her palm.
"My husband has a temper."
The sentence emerged so quietly that it almost disappeared beneath the hum of the ceiling fan.
Ritu waited.
"When work is bad..."
Sarla continued.
"...he becomes angry."
She attempted another smile.
"It happens."
Ritu's expression tightened.
"It shouldn't."
Sarla looked up for the first time.
There was no self-pity in her face.
Only the weary acceptance of someone who had repeated the same explanation to herself for many years.
"He works very hard."
"I know."
"He worries about money."
"I know."
"Sometimes..."
She searched for words.
"...people carry too much inside."
Ritu felt a knot form in her chest.
She remembered everything Sarla had said earlier.
He asks whether I've eaten.
He reminds me to take my medicine.
He worries about my knees.
Those things could all be true.
And this bruise could be true as well.
Human beings were rarely simple enough to fit into one sentence.
"You said," Ritu began gently, "that your husband still calls every day to check on you."
"He does."
"You said he cares whether you've eaten."
"He does."
Ritu's voice softened even further.
"Then who did this?"
For the first time since she had sat down, Sarla's composure wavered.
She lowered her eyes.
Neither woman spoke.
The silence itself became the answer.
Ritu felt something inside her shift.
Until this afternoon, Sarla had been someone who cleaned her house.
Then she had become someone who understood her loneliness.
Now, sitting only a few feet away, she seemed like a woman carrying an invisible weight that no one else had stopped to notice.
Ritu reached across the small gap between them.
Not for the bruise.
Not to examine it.
Simply to rest her uninjured hand gently over Sarla's weathered one.
This time, Sarla didn't pull away.
For several long moments, they remained exactly like that.
One woman's hand resting quietly over another's.
No advice.
No easy comfort.
Only the silent acknowledgment that some wounds remained hidden beneath sleeves, smiles, and carefully chosen words.
Outside, the first lights of evening flickered on across the apartment complex.
Inside, the conversation had entered a place from which neither of them would return unchanged.
The room remained still long after the last words had faded.
Outside, evening settled gently over the apartment complex. The laughter from the children's park drifted upward through the open balcony door, accompanied by the occasional bark of a stray dog and the distant hum of traffic beginning its nightly crawl.
Inside, neither woman moved.
Ritu's hand still rested lightly over Sarla's.
She could feel the roughness of years of work beneath her fingertips.
"Sarla," she said softly, "don't leave just yet."
The older woman managed a faint smile.
"I've already taken too much of your time, Memsaab."
"I wasn't asking."
The words came out more firmly than Ritu intended.
She softened her voice.
"Please."
Sarla searched her face for a long moment before giving a small nod.
"If it makes you feel better."
"It will."
Ritu stood and disappeared into the bedroom.
When she returned, she carried a small white first-aid box.
She placed it on the coffee table and opened it carefully.
Cotton.
Antiseptic cream.
A tube for bruising and muscle pain.
Medical tape.
Sarla watched quietly.
"You don't have to do all this."
"I know."
"I'm used to it."
"I know."
The answers were gentle but unwavering.
Ritu picked up the tube and read the label before looking up.
"May I see your shoulder?"
Instinctively, Sarla drew the edge of her dupatta closer.
"It will be fine in a few days."
"Maybe."
Ritu met her eyes.
"But I'd still like to make it hurt a little less."
For several seconds, Sarla remained motionless.
Then, with visible hesitation, she adjusted her dupatta and loosened the shoulder of her kurta just enough to uncover the bruised area.
Ritu immediately understood why Sarla had winced.
The bruise was larger than she had imagined.
Dark purple spread across the top of the shoulder, fading into yellow and green along the edges where it had begun to heal.
Without saying a word, Ritu squeezed a little ointment onto her fingertips.
"The cream may feel cold."
Sarla nodded.
The first touch was feather-light.
Ritu spread the medicine slowly, taking care not to press too hard.
Sarla's shoulders tensed.
"Hurting?"
"A little."
"I'll be gentle."
Silence settled between them again.
Not uncomfortable.
Just full.
As Ritu continued applying the ointment, she spoke almost to herself.
"You don't have to live like this."
Sarla gave a tired smile.
"So everyone says."
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
Ritu stopped for a moment.
"If someone hurts you..."
"...there are ways to protect yourself."
"There are women's organizations."
"The security officer."
"Shelters."
"You could leave."
Sarla let out a quiet breath.
"Leave."
She repeated the word as though testing its weight.
"It sounds very easy."
"It isn't."
Ritu resumed spreading the cream.
"But staying doesn't seem easy either."
"No."
"It isn't."
For a while, only the ticking of the wall clock could be heard.
Then Sarla spoke.
"When people look at us..."
"They see one moment."
"They don't see the years around it."
Ritu listened.
"I was nineteen when I married."
"I had nowhere else to go."
"My parents are gone."
"My brothers have their own families."
"Our sons are grown, but they are still trying to build their own lives."
She looked toward the balcony.
"If I walk away today..."
"...where do I begin?"
Ritu didn't answer.
She had no simple response.
She only knew that the bruise beneath her fingertips shouldn't exist.
As she reached for another small amount of ointment, she noticed a second faint discoloration near the upper arm.
Then another, older mark near the collarbone.
They were in different stages of healing.
Some recent.
Some nearly gone.
Her hand paused.
She looked up.
"Sarla..."
The older woman lowered her eyes.
"I know."
There was no attempt to hide them now.
Only quiet resignation.
Ritu swallowed hard.
"Has this been happening for a long time?"
A long silence followed.
Finally, Sarla nodded once.
"Sometimes months pass peacefully."
"Sometimes he loses control."
"He apologizes afterward."
"He cries."
"He promises it won't happen again."
Her smile was heartbreaking in its gentleness.
"Sometimes he even believes it."
Ritu closed the tube and set it back into the box.
She sat beside Sarla instead of across from her.
"You deserve to be safe."
The words were simple.
Unadorned.
Sarla looked at her with eyes that suddenly seemed much older than forty-six.
"I don't remember the last time someone said that to me."
The evening light had faded almost completely now.
The apartment glowed under the soft yellow lamps, making the room feel smaller, warmer.
For the first time since they had met, the distance between employer and employee had disappeared entirely.
There were only two women sitting side by side.
One discovering that comfort and security could not protect a person from loneliness.
The other revealing that kindness and endurance could not always protect a person from harm.
Neither knew what the future would demand of them.
But both understood, without speaking it aloud, that this conversation had changed something neither of them could easily put back where it had been.
Ritu looked at the bruise for another moment before closing the tube.
"This isn't the only place you're hurt, is it?"
Sarla lowered her eyes.
"It will heal."
"That's not what I asked."
The older woman remained silent.
Ritu drew a slow breath, choosing her words carefully.
"The bruise disappears beneath your kurta."
She held up the tube of ointment.
"If the injury extends farther down, I won't be able to apply this properly."
She met Sarla's eyes.
"If you're comfortable..."
"...could you take off your kurta for a moment? I'll close the curtains, and it's only so I can see where the bruising ends."
For several seconds, Sarla didn't move.
Her fingers tightened around the edge of her dupatta.
No one had ever asked with such care.
Usually, injuries were something to hide.
Something to explain away.
Something to endure until they faded.
Not something another person wanted to help heal.
"You don't have to," Ritu added gently. "Only if you trust me."
A long silence followed.
Then Sarla gave the smallest of nods.
"I trust you, Memsaab."
Ritu stood immediately.
She walked to the balcony doors and drew the curtains closed, then checked that the apartment door was locked before returning.
Only then did she look back.
Sarla slipped off her dupatta first, folding it neatly despite the tremor in her hands.
After another hesitant breath, she removed her kurta.
She stood in her modest underclothes and salwar, instinctively folding one arm across herself, less out of embarrassment than habit.
Ritu's eyes did not linger on Sarla herself.
They went immediately to the injuries.
Her breath caught.
The bruise on the shoulder was only the beginning.
Faded yellow marks crossed one side of her ribs.
A dark purple patch spread along her flank.
Smaller bruises, already turning green with age, dotted her upper abdomen.
Some looked days old.
Others looked weeks old.
Together they formed a silent timeline of pain.
Ritu felt the tube of ointment grow heavier in her hand.
"My God..."
The words escaped before she could stop them.
Sarla gave a tired smile that never reached her eyes.
"I told you."
"They don't all happen at once."
Ritu couldn't answer.
She had expected another bruise.
Not a history written across skin.
Very gently, she squeezed a little ointment onto her fingertips.
"I'm going to touch your side now."
She waited.
Sarla nodded.
Only then did Ritu begin applying the medicine with slow, careful movements, taking care to avoid pressing directly on the darkest bruises.
Neither woman spoke for a while.
The room was so quiet that the ticking of the wall clock seemed unnaturally loud.
For Ritu, every bruise carried the same thought.
No one should have to hide this.
No one should have to become accustomed to it.
The room had grown so quiet that the ticking of the wall clock seemed to mark every passing second.
Ritu stood motionless for a moment, the small tube of ointment resting in her palm.
She had seen bruises before.
A colleague who had slipped on wet stairs.
A cousin after a minor car accident.
A childhood scbang on a younger sibling.
But nothing like this.
These injuries did not belong to a single unfortunate day.
They belonged to a pattern.
To weeks.
Perhaps months.
Perhaps years.
She drew a slow breath and uncapped the tube again.
"I'm going to apply a little more," she said quietly.
"If anything hurts too much, tell me."
Sarla nodded.
"You have very gentle hands, Memsaab."
The words made Ritu hesitate.
No one had ever described her that way.
At work, people called her efficient.
Organized.
Demanding.
Reliable.
Gentle was not a word she associated with herself.
She squeezed a small amount of ointment onto her fingertips.
The cream felt cool against her skin.
Carefully, she touched the edge of the bruise near Sarla's shoulder.
Not directly over the darkest part.
Around it first.
Spreading the medicine slowly.
Sarla's muscles tightened for an instant.
"I'm sorry."
"It's cold," Sarla murmured.
"Not painful."
Ritu relaxed slightly.
She continued, her movements measured, almost hesitant, as though afraid even kindness could hurt if offered too abruptly.
The bruise stretched farther than she had realized.
When she finished with the shoulder, she moved to another mark lower along Sarla's side.
Each one told the same silent story.
Some had begun fading into yellow.
Others remained deep violet.
One was little more than a shadow.
Another looked recent enough that the surrounding skin was still swollen.
Without realizing it, Ritu found herself breathing more slowly, more heavily.
Not from the effort.
From the ache building inside her chest.
How many mornings had Sarla come to work carrying this pain?
How many times had she scrubbed floors, washed dishes, climbed stairs, smiled politely at strangers...
...while these bruises healed beneath her clothes?
"I'm all right," Sarla said softly, noticing Ritu's expression before Ritu noticed it herself.
Ritu looked up.
"No."
Her voice was barely above a whisper.
"You're not."
For a long moment, neither woman spoke.
Ritu continued applying the ointment with the same care she had shown when bandaging her own finger that morning, only now every touch carried a different weight.
She wasn't simply treating bruises.
She was acknowledging them.
Acknowledging that they existed.
That someone had finally seen them.
When she reached another bruise near Sarla's ribs, she paused.
"May I?"
she asked.
Sarla answered with a quiet nod.
The question mattered.
No one had asked permission in a very long time.
The cream spread smoothly beneath Ritu's fingertips.
She worked in silence, her movements respectful and unhurried.
For the first time in her life, she found herself caring for another adult in such a personal way—not out of obligation, but because another human being had placed immense trust in her.
The realization settled over her with unexpected force.
Trust, she thought, could be as fragile as skin.
And just as easily wounded.
When she finally capped the tube and set it aside, she stepped back.
"There," she said gently.
"I've done everything I can for tonight."
Sarla looked at her for a long moment.
Then, with eyes glistening, she whispered, "Thank you."
It wasn't gratitude for the medicine.
Ritu understood that.
It was gratitude for being seen.
The evening light in the kitchen had turned golden and heavy, the kind of Delhi dusk that made everything feel thicker than it was. Ritu stood close—too close—holding the small tube of ointment between her fingers. Sarla was just a few inches shorter than her, which made the angle awkward yet intimate as they faced each other near the marble counter.


Sarla’s left arm bore a cluster of fading bruises, yellowish-purple marks that spoke of something Ritu didn’t want to name. The older woman had tried to hide them under the sleeve of her salwar, but Ritu had noticed anyway. She always noticed.


“Hold still,” Ritu said quietly, her voice softer than she intended.


She squeezed a small amount of the cooling gel onto her fingertips. The menthol scent rose sharp and clean between them. When she touched Sarla’s skin, the woman gave the faintest flinch, then relaxed. Ritu rubbed the ointment in slow, careful circles, feeling the warmth of Sarla’s arm beneath her palm, the slight roughness of skin that spoke of years of hard work.


Sarla stood very still. Her breathing was measured, almost deliberate. At this distance, Ritu could see the fine lines at the corners of her eyes, the way her full lips pressed together slightly, the single strand of grey in the dark hair that had escaped her bun. There was a quiet strength in Sarla’s posture, even now, that made something shift uncomfortably in Ritu’s chest.


The kitchen felt smaller than usual. The hum of the refrigerator, the distant sound of traffic outside the balcony, the faint smell of the dal Sarla had cooked earlier—all of it faded. All Ritu could focus on was the heat radiating from the woman in front of her and the way her own pulse had quickened.


She applied more gel, moving higher, closer to the shoulder. Their faces were inches apart now. Ritu could see the flecks of gold in Sarla’s brown eyes, could smell the faint sandalwood soap she used. Sarla’s gaze didn’t waver. There was no embarrassment in it, no shame. Only a steady, knowing look that made Ritu’s stomach tighten.


*What am I doing?* The thought flashed through her mind, sharp and unwelcome.


Her fingers slowed. The tube suddenly felt heavy in her other hand. She became acutely aware of Sarla’s breasts rising and falling with each breath, of the way her own body had leaned in without conscious permission. Their lips were dangerously close. Close enough that if either of them moved even a fraction...


Ritu pulled back abruptly, the moment fracturing. She pressed the entire tube into Sarla’s palm, her fingers brushing the other woman’s longer than necessary.


“Apply this every day,” she said, her voice coming out huskier than she liked. She cleared her throat. “Morning and night. Don’t skip. It will help with the... pain.”


Sarla looked down at the tube, then back up at Ritu. A small, gentle smile touched her lips, the kind that didn’t quite reach her eyes.


“Thank you, memsaab,” she murmured. Her voice was low, calm, with that slight rural lilt that never failed to stir something in Ritu. “You are very kind.”


Ritu stepped back further, crossing her arms over her chest as if to create distance. The cool evening air from the open balcony door suddenly felt sharp against her flushed skin. She could still feel the ghost of Sarla’s warmth on her fingertips.


“It’s just medicine,” Ritu replied, turning toward the sink to wash her hands. She needed something to do with them. “Anyone would do the same.”


But they both knew that wasn’t true. Not in this house. Not with the way Arjun had been working late these past weeks. Not with the way Ritu had started looking forward to the hours when Sarla moved quietly through the flat, humming old film songs under her breath, her presence strangely soothing amid the constant pressure of bills and deadlines.


Sarla slipped the tube into the pocket of her dupatta. She didn’t move to leave immediately. Instead, she lingered, wiping down the already clean counter with slow, deliberate strokes.


“You work very hard, memsaab,” she said after a moment, not looking up. “Sometimes I see you sitting with files late at night. Your shoulders get tight. Like you’re carrying more than you should.”


Ritu dried her hands on a dish towel, her movements precise. She didn’t answer right away. The words hung between them, gentle but probing.


“It’s just work,” Ritu said finally. “Everyone has pressure.”


Sarla nodded, but the small smile returned, knowing. She picked up her bag from the corner chair. “Still. Take care of yourself. Body remembers everything we ask it to carry.”


At the door, Sarla paused, one hand on the frame. She glanced back over her shoulder. For a second, their eyes met again, and Ritu felt that same strange pull low in her belly—the one she had been trying to ignore for weeks now.


“Goodnight, memsaab.”


The door closed softly behind her.


Ritu stood alone in the kitchen for a long time, staring at the spot where Sarla had been. Her fingers still tingled from the contact. The scent of menthol lingered in the air like an accusation.


She pressed her palms flat against the cool marble counter and let out a long, shaky breath. The flat felt emptier than usual. Arjun wouldn’t be home for at least another two days. The silence pressed in, heavy with unanswered questions and the slow, dangerous awareness that something inside her was quietly, insistently waking up.


And for the first time, she didn’t try to push it back down.