20-08-2026, 04:37 PM
The morning light came grey through the kitchen window. Devika stood at the stove, wooden spatula moving through the sambar with mechanical rhythm. The vessels clinked. The pressure cooker hissed. Normal sounds. Safe sounds.
Behind her, the front door opened and closed.
"Devi?"
Arjun's voice — tired, hoarse, carrying the weight of twelve hours staring at code. She heard his laptop bag hit the floor. His shoes being kicked off. The shuffle of socked feet across tile.
"In here."
He appeared in the kitchen doorway. Dark circles under his eyes. Shirt wrinkled, collar askew. The stubble on his jaw two days past acceptable. He looked like a man who'd been wrung out and hung to dry.
"Long night?"
"Server crashed at 3 AM. Had to rebuild the entire deployment pipeline." He rubbed his face with both hands. "I'm going to sleep. Wake me for lunch?"
"Okay."
He was gone before the word finished leaving her mouth. The bedroom door clicked shut. Within minutes, the soft rumble of his snoring drifted down the hallway.
Devika turned back to the sambar. Stirred. Added salt. Tasted. The motions kept her hands busy while her mind wandered to places it shouldn't — black silk pooled on the floor, the ghost-pressure of rough fingers on her navel, the taste of paan and camphor on lips that weren't her husband's.
She pressed the wooden spatula hard against the pot's edge. Focused on the grain of the wood. The heat rising from the stove. Anything solid. Anything present.
Stop it. He's sleeping ten feet away. Your HUSBAND is sleeping ten feet away.
The morning passed in domestic routine. She swept the floor. Wiped the kitchen counters. Sorted the laundry — his work shirts, her cotton sarees, the black silk she'd worn last night tucked at the bottom of the pile, unwashed, still carrying the smell of temple smoke and sweat. She'd wash it later. Tomorrow. Next week.
She wouldn't wash it.
Arjun emerged at one in the afternoon, shuffling into the dining area with his hair sticking up on one side and pillow creases marking his left cheek. He dropped into the chair across from her and stared at the rice and sambar she'd laid out like a man seeing food for the first time.
"Smells good."
"Eat."
He ate. She watched him eat — the methodical way he mixed rice and sambar with his right hand, the small grunts of satisfaction, the complete absorption in the act of feeding himself. For five minutes, neither spoke. The ceiling fan turned overhead. A crow cawed outside the window.
Then Arjun set down his water glass and cleared his throat.
"Devi... I've been thinking."
She looked up. Something in his tone. Different from the usual work complaints and release cycle updates. Heavier.
"About what?"
"Work has been..." He paused. Rubbed the back of his neck. "Difficult. Very difficult lately. The client is making impossible demands. My manager is breathing down my neck. Every morning I wake up with this weight on my chest, like something is pressing down."
"You're stressed. It's normal—"
"It's not just stress." He met her eyes. "I think there's something wrong. Some negative energy affecting my work. My concentration. Everything."
Devika's hand paused mid-reach for the water jug. "Negative energy?"
"I know how it sounds. But my mother used to say — when things go wrong continuously, when nothing you do seems to work, sometimes it's not about skill or effort. Sometimes there's a... blockage. Something that needs to be cleared."
She set the jug down slowly. "What are you thinking?"
"Homan."
The word landed between them like a dropped stone.
"Homan," she repeated. "Here? In the flat?"
"Why not? We have space. The living room is big enough. And my mother always said homan is the most powerful way to remove obstacles, to clear negative energy, to—"
"I know what homan is, Arjun." Her voice came out sharper than intended. She softened it. "I'm just... surprised. You never talked about these things before. You always said pujas and rituals were old-fashioned—"
"I was wrong." His jaw set. That stubborn line she'd learned to recognize in their first month of marriage. "I've tried everything else. Extra hours. Weekend work. Skipping meals to finish deliverables. Nothing is helping. The problems keep multiplying. If there's even a chance that homan might clear whatever is blocking me..."
Devika pressed her lips together. The sambar on her plate had gone cold. She pushed a grain of rice around with her finger.
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"If you think it will help. We can do homan."
Arjun's shoulders relaxed. The tight line of his jaw softened. "Good. Good. I was thinking this Sunday. We can arrange everything by then."
"Sunday. That's..." She counted. Four days. "That's soon."
"The sooner the better. I can't keep going like this, Devi. Something has to change."
She nodded. Looked at her plate. The grain of rice she'd been pushing had left a trail through the sambar like a tiny boat through orange water.
"Who will conduct it?" The question came out carefully. Casually. As if she hadn't been turning it over in her mind since the word homan left his mouth. "We'll need a priest. A proper one."
"Rajendran."
Her stomach dropped.
"He's right here in the building. Does pujas all the time. Everyone says he's very knowledgeable, very experienced. Meenakshi aunty's daughter's wedding — he did all the rituals. Very proper, very traditional."
"Yes, but..." She searched for words. Safe words. "He might be busy. Temple duties and all. Maybe we should call someone else. From outside. There are agencies that—"
"Agencies?" Arjun frowned. "Devi, we have a temple priest living in our own building. Why would we pay strangers to come from outside? Rajendran sir knows us. Knows the building. It will be comfortable, familiar."
Familiar. The word sat in her mouth like a stone.
"I just don't want to disturb him. He's an old man. These rituals take hours. The smoke, the chanting, the sitting on the floor... it might be too much for him."
"Too much?" Arjun laughed — the first genuine laugh she'd heard from him in days. "Devi, the man does this every day. This is his profession. You think a simple homan in our flat will tire him out?"
"That's not what I—"
"Besides, I've seen him at functions. Strong as an ox for his age. Sits cross-legged for hours without shifting. Voice doesn't even crack during long mantras." Arjun shook his head, still smiling. "No, no — Rajendran sir is perfect. I'll ask him today itself."
Devika's fingers had gone white around her water glass. She loosened her grip. Breathed.
Think. Say something. Give him a reason that makes sense.
"What if he says no? He might have prior commitments. Temple festivals, other pujas..."
"Then we'll reschedule. But I doubt he'll say no. He's always been friendly to us. Remember when he helped carry the groceries that day? Very helpful man."
Helpful. His hands on her waist in the bride room. His finger in her navel in the crowd. His hardness pressed against her stomach while five hundred people danced around them.
"Arjun..." She set down the glass. Met his eyes. "Maybe we should consider other options. The temple near Laxmi Road has priests who do house visits. My mother's cousin knows a very good pandit in Satara who—"
"Satara? You want me to bring a priest from Satara for a homan?" Arjun's frown deepened. "Devi, what's going on? Why are you so against Rajendran sir? Did something happen?"
The question hung in the air. Heavy. Loaded.
Tell him. Tell him everything. The temple corridor. The wedding. The dancing. The kisses. Tell him and watch his face change and—
"Nothing happened."
The lie came out smooth. Practiced. The same lie she'd been telling herself for weeks.
"Then what's the problem?"
"There's no problem. I just thought..." She waved her hand vaguely. "Outside priest might be better. More professional. Less... awkward."
"Awkward?"
"He lives in the building. We see him every day. Having him do personal rituals in our flat... it might feel strange afterward. Every time we pass him in the corridor, there will be this... thing between us."
Arjun stared at her for a long moment. Then he sighed. Reached across the table. Took her hand.
"Devi. I know you're a private person. I know you don't like people getting too close. But Rajendran sir is harmless. A temple priest. A widower who spends his days doing puja and his nights sleeping alone in that small room. What possible 'thing' could there be?"
His thumb rubbed across her knuckles. Gentle. Reassuring. The touch of a husband who thought he understood his wife.
"I need this, Devi. Work is killing me. I feel like I'm drowning every day. If homan can help — if there's even a small chance — I have to try. And I trust Rajendran sir. Everyone in the building trusts him. He's been doing rituals here for years. Never any complaints."
Complaints. The cleaning woman bent over the cot post. The rhythm. The grunting.
Devika closed her eyes. Opened them.
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"If you think Rajendran sir is the right person... okay. We'll ask him."
The relief that flooded Arjun's face was almost painful to watch. He squeezed her hand. Smiled — that rare, full smile she'd fallen in love with three years ago. Before the job. Before Pune. Before everything.
"Thank you, Devi. This means a lot."
"I know."
"I'll talk to him today. After I wake up properly. Maybe evening time, when he's done with temple duties."
"Evening. Yes."
"Sunday morning, then. We'll need to buy havan samagri, ghee, flowers... you can handle that?"
"I can handle it."
"Good." He stood. Stretched. His spine cracked audibly. "I'm going back to sleep for a few hours. The release is tonight — I'll need my energy."
He walked around the table. Bent. Kissed the top of her head. His lips were dry against her hair. Brief. Distracted.
"You're the best wife, Devi. You know that?"
She didn't answer. Just sat there, staring at the cold sambar on her plate, listening to his footsteps fade down the hallway, the bedroom door closing, the silence that followed.
Sunday.
The word echoed in the empty dining room.
Sunday he comes here. Into this flat. Where I sleep. Where I bathe. Where I stand in front of my mirror at midnight touching my swollen lip and thinking about—
She stood abruptly. The chair scbangd against the floor. She gathered the plates with shaking hands and carried them to the kitchen.
The tap ran cold over her wrists. She let the water flow. Counted her breaths.
Four days. I have four days to figure out how to sit in the same room with that man while my husband watches. Four days to learn how to look at his face without seeing his hands. Four days to forget the taste of him.
The water kept running. Her reflection stared back at her from the kitchen window — faint, ghost-like, superimposed over the grey afternoon sky.
Four days.
Behind her, the front door opened and closed.
"Devi?"
Arjun's voice — tired, hoarse, carrying the weight of twelve hours staring at code. She heard his laptop bag hit the floor. His shoes being kicked off. The shuffle of socked feet across tile.
"In here."
He appeared in the kitchen doorway. Dark circles under his eyes. Shirt wrinkled, collar askew. The stubble on his jaw two days past acceptable. He looked like a man who'd been wrung out and hung to dry.
"Long night?"
"Server crashed at 3 AM. Had to rebuild the entire deployment pipeline." He rubbed his face with both hands. "I'm going to sleep. Wake me for lunch?"
"Okay."
He was gone before the word finished leaving her mouth. The bedroom door clicked shut. Within minutes, the soft rumble of his snoring drifted down the hallway.
Devika turned back to the sambar. Stirred. Added salt. Tasted. The motions kept her hands busy while her mind wandered to places it shouldn't — black silk pooled on the floor, the ghost-pressure of rough fingers on her navel, the taste of paan and camphor on lips that weren't her husband's.
She pressed the wooden spatula hard against the pot's edge. Focused on the grain of the wood. The heat rising from the stove. Anything solid. Anything present.
Stop it. He's sleeping ten feet away. Your HUSBAND is sleeping ten feet away.
The morning passed in domestic routine. She swept the floor. Wiped the kitchen counters. Sorted the laundry — his work shirts, her cotton sarees, the black silk she'd worn last night tucked at the bottom of the pile, unwashed, still carrying the smell of temple smoke and sweat. She'd wash it later. Tomorrow. Next week.
She wouldn't wash it.
Arjun emerged at one in the afternoon, shuffling into the dining area with his hair sticking up on one side and pillow creases marking his left cheek. He dropped into the chair across from her and stared at the rice and sambar she'd laid out like a man seeing food for the first time.
"Smells good."
"Eat."
He ate. She watched him eat — the methodical way he mixed rice and sambar with his right hand, the small grunts of satisfaction, the complete absorption in the act of feeding himself. For five minutes, neither spoke. The ceiling fan turned overhead. A crow cawed outside the window.
Then Arjun set down his water glass and cleared his throat.
"Devi... I've been thinking."
She looked up. Something in his tone. Different from the usual work complaints and release cycle updates. Heavier.
"About what?"
"Work has been..." He paused. Rubbed the back of his neck. "Difficult. Very difficult lately. The client is making impossible demands. My manager is breathing down my neck. Every morning I wake up with this weight on my chest, like something is pressing down."
"You're stressed. It's normal—"
"It's not just stress." He met her eyes. "I think there's something wrong. Some negative energy affecting my work. My concentration. Everything."
Devika's hand paused mid-reach for the water jug. "Negative energy?"
"I know how it sounds. But my mother used to say — when things go wrong continuously, when nothing you do seems to work, sometimes it's not about skill or effort. Sometimes there's a... blockage. Something that needs to be cleared."
She set the jug down slowly. "What are you thinking?"
"Homan."
The word landed between them like a dropped stone.
"Homan," she repeated. "Here? In the flat?"
"Why not? We have space. The living room is big enough. And my mother always said homan is the most powerful way to remove obstacles, to clear negative energy, to—"
"I know what homan is, Arjun." Her voice came out sharper than intended. She softened it. "I'm just... surprised. You never talked about these things before. You always said pujas and rituals were old-fashioned—"
"I was wrong." His jaw set. That stubborn line she'd learned to recognize in their first month of marriage. "I've tried everything else. Extra hours. Weekend work. Skipping meals to finish deliverables. Nothing is helping. The problems keep multiplying. If there's even a chance that homan might clear whatever is blocking me..."
Devika pressed her lips together. The sambar on her plate had gone cold. She pushed a grain of rice around with her finger.
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"If you think it will help. We can do homan."
Arjun's shoulders relaxed. The tight line of his jaw softened. "Good. Good. I was thinking this Sunday. We can arrange everything by then."
"Sunday. That's..." She counted. Four days. "That's soon."
"The sooner the better. I can't keep going like this, Devi. Something has to change."
She nodded. Looked at her plate. The grain of rice she'd been pushing had left a trail through the sambar like a tiny boat through orange water.
"Who will conduct it?" The question came out carefully. Casually. As if she hadn't been turning it over in her mind since the word homan left his mouth. "We'll need a priest. A proper one."
"Rajendran."
Her stomach dropped.
"He's right here in the building. Does pujas all the time. Everyone says he's very knowledgeable, very experienced. Meenakshi aunty's daughter's wedding — he did all the rituals. Very proper, very traditional."
"Yes, but..." She searched for words. Safe words. "He might be busy. Temple duties and all. Maybe we should call someone else. From outside. There are agencies that—"
"Agencies?" Arjun frowned. "Devi, we have a temple priest living in our own building. Why would we pay strangers to come from outside? Rajendran sir knows us. Knows the building. It will be comfortable, familiar."
Familiar. The word sat in her mouth like a stone.
"I just don't want to disturb him. He's an old man. These rituals take hours. The smoke, the chanting, the sitting on the floor... it might be too much for him."
"Too much?" Arjun laughed — the first genuine laugh she'd heard from him in days. "Devi, the man does this every day. This is his profession. You think a simple homan in our flat will tire him out?"
"That's not what I—"
"Besides, I've seen him at functions. Strong as an ox for his age. Sits cross-legged for hours without shifting. Voice doesn't even crack during long mantras." Arjun shook his head, still smiling. "No, no — Rajendran sir is perfect. I'll ask him today itself."
Devika's fingers had gone white around her water glass. She loosened her grip. Breathed.
Think. Say something. Give him a reason that makes sense.
"What if he says no? He might have prior commitments. Temple festivals, other pujas..."
"Then we'll reschedule. But I doubt he'll say no. He's always been friendly to us. Remember when he helped carry the groceries that day? Very helpful man."
Helpful. His hands on her waist in the bride room. His finger in her navel in the crowd. His hardness pressed against her stomach while five hundred people danced around them.
"Arjun..." She set down the glass. Met his eyes. "Maybe we should consider other options. The temple near Laxmi Road has priests who do house visits. My mother's cousin knows a very good pandit in Satara who—"
"Satara? You want me to bring a priest from Satara for a homan?" Arjun's frown deepened. "Devi, what's going on? Why are you so against Rajendran sir? Did something happen?"
The question hung in the air. Heavy. Loaded.
Tell him. Tell him everything. The temple corridor. The wedding. The dancing. The kisses. Tell him and watch his face change and—
"Nothing happened."
The lie came out smooth. Practiced. The same lie she'd been telling herself for weeks.
"Then what's the problem?"
"There's no problem. I just thought..." She waved her hand vaguely. "Outside priest might be better. More professional. Less... awkward."
"Awkward?"
"He lives in the building. We see him every day. Having him do personal rituals in our flat... it might feel strange afterward. Every time we pass him in the corridor, there will be this... thing between us."
Arjun stared at her for a long moment. Then he sighed. Reached across the table. Took her hand.
"Devi. I know you're a private person. I know you don't like people getting too close. But Rajendran sir is harmless. A temple priest. A widower who spends his days doing puja and his nights sleeping alone in that small room. What possible 'thing' could there be?"
His thumb rubbed across her knuckles. Gentle. Reassuring. The touch of a husband who thought he understood his wife.
"I need this, Devi. Work is killing me. I feel like I'm drowning every day. If homan can help — if there's even a small chance — I have to try. And I trust Rajendran sir. Everyone in the building trusts him. He's been doing rituals here for years. Never any complaints."
Complaints. The cleaning woman bent over the cot post. The rhythm. The grunting.
Devika closed her eyes. Opened them.
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"If you think Rajendran sir is the right person... okay. We'll ask him."
The relief that flooded Arjun's face was almost painful to watch. He squeezed her hand. Smiled — that rare, full smile she'd fallen in love with three years ago. Before the job. Before Pune. Before everything.
"Thank you, Devi. This means a lot."
"I know."
"I'll talk to him today. After I wake up properly. Maybe evening time, when he's done with temple duties."
"Evening. Yes."
"Sunday morning, then. We'll need to buy havan samagri, ghee, flowers... you can handle that?"
"I can handle it."
"Good." He stood. Stretched. His spine cracked audibly. "I'm going back to sleep for a few hours. The release is tonight — I'll need my energy."
He walked around the table. Bent. Kissed the top of her head. His lips were dry against her hair. Brief. Distracted.
"You're the best wife, Devi. You know that?"
She didn't answer. Just sat there, staring at the cold sambar on her plate, listening to his footsteps fade down the hallway, the bedroom door closing, the silence that followed.
Sunday.
The word echoed in the empty dining room.
Sunday he comes here. Into this flat. Where I sleep. Where I bathe. Where I stand in front of my mirror at midnight touching my swollen lip and thinking about—
She stood abruptly. The chair scbangd against the floor. She gathered the plates with shaking hands and carried them to the kitchen.
The tap ran cold over her wrists. She let the water flow. Counted her breaths.
Four days. I have four days to figure out how to sit in the same room with that man while my husband watches. Four days to learn how to look at his face without seeing his hands. Four days to forget the taste of him.
The water kept running. Her reflection stared back at her from the kitchen window — faint, ghost-like, superimposed over the grey afternoon sky.
Four days.
![[+]](https://xossipy.com/themes/sharepoint/collapse_collapsed.png)