Traditional Wife Broken by Gangster's Obsession

[Umavictor32]

Chapter 10: Guilt And Anger Destroyed Everything

Time: 11am chengalpattu

The Innova hummed along the highway, its tires singing against the asphalt—vrrmmmm—a steady, hypnotic drone that had been lulling Aaryan toward sleep for the past twenty minutes.

Vijay sat in the back seat, his son's head heavy against his thigh. Aaryan's eyelids drooped, fluttered, drooped again. His small fingers clutched the toy elephant, its trunk worn smooth from months of chewing.

"Close your eyes, kanna," Vijay murmured. He stroked the boy's hair—soft, damp with sweat. The air conditioning wheezed, struggling against the Chennai heat that seeped through the windows. "Appa's here. Sleep."

Aaryan mumbled something—mmmnn—and shifted, his cheek pressing into Vijay's lap.

Nirmala turned from the front passenger seat. Her purple silk saree rustled—shshk—as she twisted her torso to look back. Lipstick the color of dried blood. Bangles stacked to her elbows. Gold nose stud glinting in the afternoon light.

"Don't force him," she said. Her voice was low, honeyed, with an edge beneath it. "He'll sleep when he's ready."

Vijay's jaw tightened. "He needs rest. It's a long drive."

"Then let him rest properly." Nirmala tapped the driver's shoulder—a lean man with sun-darkened skin and a terse expression. "Stop at the next tea stall. There's one coming up. I know the owner."

The driver grunted. The Innova slowed, tires crunching over gravel—krrrk—as they pulled into a roadside stall.

---

The tea stall was a ramshackle affair—corrugated tin roof, wooden benches stained with years of spills, a blackened kettle steaming over a kerosene flame. The owner, a plump woman with kind eyes and a jasmine-scented saree, rushed forward when she saw Nirmala.

"Nirmala! After so long!"

"Kamala." Nirmala embraced her—thmp—then pulled back. "I need boiled milk. Fresh. For the child."

Kamala's eyes flicked to the Innova, to the small figure slumped against Vijay. "Of course. Give me five minutes."

Nirmala didn't wait. She walked past the stall, past the row of wilting banana trees, toward a small market tucked behind the highway. Vijay watched her go—the sway of her hips, the confident stride—and felt something twist in his gut.

She's one of his.

The thought arrived without warning. He pushed it away.

---

Nirmala returned ten minutes later with a green tin of Cerelac and a bottle of boiled milk, still warm. She climbed into the back seat beside Vijay and reached for Aaryan.

"Give him to me."

Vijay hesitated.

"Give him," she repeated. Not unkind. Not kind either. Just—firm.

Vijay passed the boy over. Aaryan stirred, whimpered—nnngh—then settled into Nirmala's arms.

She poured the milk into a steel tumbler, added two scoops of Cerelac, and stirred with a small spoon—tink, tink, tink. The smell rose—sweet, milky, faintly vanilla—and Aaryan's nose twitched.

"Open, kanna." Nirmala pressed the tumbler to his lips. "Just a little."

Aaryan drank. His eyes stayed closed.

"Good boy." Nirmala dabbed his chin with her pallu. "Now—story time."

She began to speak. Soft. Rhythmic. A tale about a movie she'd seen last week—Baththa, starring Vijay Sethupathi. 

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A story of a small boy, a corrupt politician, a mystery that unfolded slowly.

"—and the boy knew the secret," Nirmala murmured. "He knew who had killed the man. But he was scared. So scared. Because the politician was powerful. And the boy was just—"

Aaryan's breathing deepened. His fingers loosened around the elephant. His mouth fell open.

"—just a child." Nirmala's voice dropped to a whisper. "And the politician—Vijay Sethupathi—he looked at the boy and said—"

Aaryan was asleep.

Nirmala smiled. She wiped his face with a wet cloth—swp, swp—then eased him into the baby seat. His head lolled. His chest rose and fell.

"There," she said. "Done."

---

The Innova pulled back onto the highway.

Vijay stared out the window. The fields blurred past—green, brown, green—and the sun hung low, bleeding orange into the horizon.

Chithra.

Her name rose unbidden. Her face. Her voice. The way she'd looked at him that morning—broken, hollow, done.

I sold her.

The thought hit like a fist. He pressed his palm against the window, felt the glass vibrate—brrrrr—and something inside him cracked.

"Stop." His voice came out hoarse.

The driver glanced in the rearview mirror. "Sir?"

"Stop the car." Vijay's throat worked. "I need—I need to go back."

Nirmala turned. "What?"

"I can't do this." He was shaking now. Full-body tremors. "I can't—she's my wife. My wife. I can't sell her. I'll work overtime. I'll sell the flat. I'll—I'll do anything. Just take me back."

The driver reached for his phone. "I need to inform—"

Nirmala's hand shot out. She snatched the phone from his grip—tk—and held it to her chest.

"Drive," she said.

The driver blinked. "But Muthu sir—"

"Drive," she repeated. Her voice was steel wrapped in silk. "Take us back to Chennai. As he says."

The driver hesitated. Then nodded. The Innova made a U-turn—screeeech—and the tires bit into the road.

---

Vijay's hands were shaking. He pulled out his phone. Speed-dialed Chithra.

Rrrring. Rrrring.

Saroja answered.

"Vijay." Her voice was flat. Unsurprised.

"I need to talk to Chithra." His words tumbled out. "Please. Just—put her on. I'm coming back. I'm coming home. I'm not—I'm not doing this. Tell her. Tell her I—"

"Hold on." A rustle—shff—the phone moving.

Vijay waited. His heart hammered. The Innova's engine growled—grrrrr—and the road rushed beneath them.

---

In Porur, Saroja stood in the kitchen doorway, the phone pressed to her ear. Chithra sat on the sofa, her knees drawn up, her body wrapped in a faded nightie. Her face was pale—drawn—and her hands kept drifting to her lap, pressing against the fabric of her nightie.

The shaving had left her raw. Not bleeding, not wounded—just exposed. Every brush of cotton against her bare skin sent a spark of sensation through her. Itch. Heat. A strange, alien awareness.

She couldn't sit still.

"Chithra." Saroja extended the phone. "Vijay wants to talk to you."

Chithra's stomach lurched. "No."

"Chithra—"

"I said no." Her voice cracked. "I don't want to—I can't—"

"Tell him I'm busy."

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Saroja's eyes narrowed. She put the phone back to her ear. "She doesn't want to talk."

"I need to—" Vijay's voice broke. "Please. Just five minutes. I need to explain—"

"She said no."

"Then make her!" His voice rose. "She's my wife! I have a right—"

Saroja's tone change. What the hell you think you are chithra ?"

Silence.

"And you know—" Saroja glanced at Chithra, who was staring at the floor, her hands clenched in her lap. "—she's also used you as a parasite."

Chithra's head snapped up...

Saroja ignored her. She kept speaking into the phone. "Vijay understood his mistake.... He is asking sorry... He is rectifyinh his mistake by deciding to come back to chennai... But you are soo adamant... If he is wrong, then you used him for your survival... You didnt give him proper sexual pleasure which every husband gets from his wife.... If he is wrong then what are you... Aren't you a parasite? Saroja roared...

The word hit Chithra like a physical blow.

Parasite.

The morning flooded back. Saroja's hands. The razor. The kiss. The word repeated—again and again—parasite, parasite, parasite—until it felt carved into her bones.

And now—now Vijay was hearing it too.

She stood. Her legs shook. The nightie brushed against her bare pussy—fft—and she flinched, but she didn't stop.

"Saroja." Her voice was ice. "Give me the phone."

Saroja turned. Surprised.... Still gave phone to her.



Silence.

"Maybe Saroja's right," Chithra said. "Maybe I am a parasite. Maybe I used you too. For money. For security. For a house." She laughed—broken, hollow. "Maybe we're both parasites. Two insects, feeding off each other."

"Chithra, please—"

"But you know what?" Her voice dropped. "I'd rather get fucked by Muthu Pandi than spend another day as your wife."

The words hung in the air.

Chithra's heart stopped. She hadn't meant it. She hadn't—she swore she hadn't. But the word parasite had triggered something. A defense. A shield. If she was going to be called a parasite, then by God, she'd be one.

I'm sorry, she wanted to say. I didn't mean it. Please. Please come home.


">

But the words wouldn't come.

"There was dead silence from vijay's end and call got disconnected."

Click.

The line went dead.

---

Vijay lowered the phone. His hand was shaking. His whole body was shaking.

The Innova hummed. The fields blurred. Aaryan slept in his seat, his face peaceful, his elephant clutched tight.

And then—

Ting.

A WhatsApp notification. A voice message from an unknown number.

Vijay's thumb hovered. He shouldn't. He knew he shouldn't. But something—curiosity? dread? self-destruction?—made him tap it.

The first voice clip played.

Moaning. Chithra's moaning. Low and broken and involuntary—mmmmnph—and beneath it, the buzz of a trimmer—shrrrrr—and Saroja's voice, soft and coaxing.

Vijay's face went white.

His thumb hovered again. The second clip.

Saroja's voice. Chithra's voice. A conversation.

"—yes, Vijay is an asshole," Chithra was saying. "I was using him. Just for survival. I hate his touch. That's why I never washed my pussy after urinating. I wanted him to stay away. I wanted—"

Crack.

The phone hit the window. Then the floor. Then the dashboard. But unknown to vijay, this message was not completly correct... Some portions were being fabricated by muthu....

Vijay was screaming. Not words—just sound. A raw, animal roar that filled the Innova and bounced off the windows.

"VIJAY!" Nirmala grabbed his arm. "Stop! Stop!"

Aaryan woke. His eyes flew open—gasp—and his face crumpled. He began to cry.

Nirmala released Vijay. She scooped Aaryan into her arms—hff—and pressed his head to her shoulder.

"Shhh, kanna. Shhh. It's okay. It's okay."

The boy sobbed. His small body shook.

Nirmala rocked him. Murmured in his ear. Ten minutes passed—ten long, tense minutes—and slowly, Aaryan's cries faded to whimpers, then to silence, then to sleep.

---

The driver watched through the rearview mirror. He waited until Vijay had quieted—until the man's screams had died to ragged breathing—and then he pulled out his own phone.

He broke his phone. Threw it. Screaming.

He sent the message. Then pocketed the phone.

---

Ten minutes later, Nirmala's phone buzzed.

She glanced at the screen. Read the message.

80% of Vijay's debt is cleared. The loan will be marked as paid by Monday.

Nirmala's eyebrow rose. She said nothing.

---

Vijay sat slumped in his seat. His fists were clenched. His breath came in sharp bursts—hhk, hhk, hhk.

"Take me to Ooty," he said.

The driver blinked. "Sir?"

"Ooty." Vijay's voice was stone. "I said—take me to Ooty."

Nirmala leaned forward. "Vijay—"

"Don't." He didn't look at her. "Just—don't."

"I was only going to say—" She paused. "Why not call Chithra again? Talk to her. Give her one last chance."

Vijay turned.

His hand moved before he could think—SMACK—and his palm connected with Nirmala's cheek.

The sound was sharp. Absolute.

Nirmala's head snapped sideways. Her bangles jangled—chlng—and she went still.

Silence.

The Innova hummed. Aaryan slept. The fields blurred.

Nirmala touched her cheek. Slow. Deliberate. Then she straightened.

"It's okay," she said. Quiet. Calm. "I can understand."

Vijay stared at his hand. His palm stung. His throat worked.

"I—"

"It's okay," Nirmala repeated. She turned to face the front. "Driver. Take us to Ooty."

The driver nodded. The Innova accelerated—vrrmmmm—and the sun sank below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of blood and fire.

---

Aaryan slept. Nirmala watched the road. Vijay stared at nothing.

And somewhere in Chennai, in a cramped flat in Porur, Chithra sat on the floor, the phone still pressed to her ear, listening to the silence.

I didn't mean it.

The thought looped. Again. Again.

I didn't mean it.

But the phone was dead. And Vijay was gone. And the night stretched ahead—dark, endless, waiting.

The fan creaked. Krr, krr.

Chithra closed her eyes without knowing the fact that she created a grave for herself........