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Chapter: 2
(Introduction)

Throughout the time I spent at the wedding, I tried my best to avoid my father. Yet, running into him occasionally was unavoidable. Every time we crossed paths, whenever he seemed about to say something, I would quickly walk away, pretending to be busy with some task. Finally, during the *talambralu* (the ritual of showering the couple with rice), he came up beside me and pulled my hand. With no way to escape, I looked at him, questioning what he wanted. He gestured with his eyes, signaling for me to step aside. When I hesitated, he pulled my hand again. Realizing I had no other choice, I followed him to the side.

He led me behind the *mandapam* (wedding altar) and, rubbing his hands together in an embarrassed manner, said, "I'm sorry." I looked away and asked, "Why are you apologizing to me?" feigning ignorance. In response, he simply lowered his head. Seeing him bow his head like that pained me, but I masked my emotions and asked, "Besides, with Mom at home, how could you do something like this, Dad?"

"You know how your mother is. For the past few years, she hasn't shown any interest in such things. What am I supposed to do?" he replied, his head still bowed. It was true—I had also noticed that things hadn't been right between my parents lately. Still, I couldn't help but wonder how he could have done this—and with his own sister, no less—so I asked him exactly that. “That’s just her situation. Her husband doesn’t pay her any attention,” Dad said.

“So what if he doesn’t? Couldn’t she just find someone else?”

“If a sister and brother are in the same room, no one would suspect anything, would they?”

“Just because no one suspects anything, does that mean it could be with *anyone*!?”

“Why would it be with just *anyone*? It’s only because she’s my sister—that’s all.”



“Even so, didn’t you feel it was wrong to do that with your own sister?”

“What’s wrong with it? She had a strong urge, and as her brother, I served her. It’s my responsibility to satisfy her, isn’t it?”

“Oh, my—what a ‘noble’ responsibility…”

“It’s the truth! If someone close to us is struggling, shouldn’t we help them out? If someone close to *you* were in that kind of distress, wouldn’t you help them, too?”

Hearing Dad speak so bluntly made me feel quite uneasy. Before I could react, he pressed, “Tell me—would you do it or not?” “Why drag me into this? Just drop it,” I said, sounding annoyed.

“It’s just that… you’re the only one who knows about this, aren’t you?”

“So *that’s* what this is about. Fine, I won’t tell anyone.”

“Then you aren’t angry with me, are you?”

“That’s your own personal struggle—why would I be angry about it?” As soon as I said that, Dad hugged me tightly in his joy, kissed my cheek, and said, "Thanks, dear." In that embrace, my breasts were pressed firmly against his chest. Realizing this, he let go and said, "Sorry, dear." I let out a sigh—"Phew!" "What was that for?" Dad asked.

"Oh, nothing," I said, starting to move away.

Dad suddenly grabbed my hand to stop me and asked, "Tell me, why did you say 'phew'?"

"I told you, it's nothing," I replied, trying to hurry off, but he caught me by the waist, pulled me close, and insisted, "Tell me." Struggling to break free, I said, "Ugh, let go, Dad!"

He held on even tighter, pulling me into another firm embrace. This time, my breasts were pressed even more firmly against his chest.

"Look, I said 'phew' because of how you held me just now—that’s why! Now, let go," I said, sounding a bit annoyed.

"Sorry, dear—are you angry?" he asked, loosening his grip slightly.

"No, not really," I replied, hoping he might let go.



Instead, he tightened his hold again and asked, "You're really not angry, are you?" Once more, my breasts were crushed against him.

I let out an “Ugh...” under my breath and said, with a hint of annoyance, “Not me—go hug your sister instead. Let go, Dad.”

He released me, saying, “Alright, I won’t hug you anymore,” then added in a low voice, “Did you see everything?”

“See what?” I asked, not quite catching his meaning.

“You know... what I did with your aunt,” he said, swallowing hard.



As soon as he asked, the memory of what I had witnessed that day came rushing back, and my whole body began to heat up.

In that state of rising heat, I simply replied, “Mm-hmm.”

“And how did it make *you* feel?” he asked, placing his arm around my waist.

Since I was wearing a saree, his hand rested warmly against the fold of my waist—right in the gap between my blouse and the fabric of the saree.

This warmth only intensified the heat within me; I let out a heavy, labored breath and stood frozen in place.

Gently stroking that fold, Dad said, “Tell me—you got pretty worked up watching it, didn’t you?” As he stroked it, a tremor began to ripple through me, accompanying the heat. In the midst of that trembling,

I whispered, “Mm-hmm.”

“So, what did you do afterward?” he asked, pressing lightly into the fold at my waist.

“I didn’t do anything,” I replied, my voice quivering.

Moving his hand slightly upward until it touched the lower edge of my blouse, Dad said, “You’ve seen my secret—now, tell me yours.”

I felt a sudden, sharp rush of blood coursing through my body. My trembling intensified. Father moved his hand even higher.

My breasts felt heavy; I had an urge to squeeze them tightly. Had he waited a moment longer, he might have done exactly that—but just then, someone approached, and he let go of me abruptly. The woman who arrived remarked, drawing out her words, "Well, well—what kind of private conversation are a father and daughter having?"

"Oh, it’s nothing, Auntie..." Father replied. As he led me away, he whispered into my ear, with a laugh, "If she knew what we were really talking about, her heart would stop!" I found it funny, too, and burst into laughter. Just as he reached out to place his arm around my waist again, I darted aside, exclaiming, "No, Father—that’s wrong!" and ran off.