[Umavictor32]

Chapter 28: Politics and Devotion

[Location: Muthu's house, Besant Nagar | Day: Friday | Date: 8th January 2027 | Time: 10:15 AM]


The door swung open.

Sethuraman stood on the threshold in his immaculate white veshti and shirt, the gold Rolex glinting on his wrist. His bald head caught the morning sun, and the faint scent of expensive sandalwood soap drifted in with him. Behind him, a black SUV idled in the driveway, the engine a low, patient rumble.

His eyes found Chithra first.

She watched the shock register—a flicker, quickly buried. His gaze traveled from her face to the pale yellow baby doll dress that barely covered her thighs, to her bare legs, to the tangled hair falling past her shoulders. Then past her, into the living room, where Muthu sat shirtless in the armchair with a whisky glass balanced on his knee.

A long beat of silence.

"Vanakkam, sir," Chithra said. Her voice came out steady, though her fingers curled into the hem of the dress. "Please, come in."

Sethuraman stepped inside. He didn't offer his hand. His eyes swept the room once—the open balcony door, the curtains lifting in the sea breeze, the two glasses on the side table—and settled on Muthu.

"Muthu."

"Sir." Muthu rose, setting his glass down with a soft clink. He didn't reach for a shirt. "Sit. Please."

Sethuraman lowered himself into the armchair across from Muthu. The leather creaked under his weight. Chithra stood near the door, uncertain, her bare feet pressed flat against the cool marble.

"How are you both?" Sethuraman asked. His tone was pleasant, almost paternal. "Keeping well?"

"Fine, sir," Muthu said. "All fine."

Chithra nodded. She smiled, a small, careful thing. "Yes, sir. Very fine."

Sethuraman's gaze drifted to the whisky glass on the table. Then to the one in Chithra's hand—the one from earlier, half-filled, that she'd forgotten to put down. His eyebrow lifted a fraction of an inch.

"Whisky, Muthu? At this hour?" A thin smile. "It's barely past ten."

Muthu said nothing. His head dipped slightly, a man accepting a scolding he didn't intend to defend. The curve of his mouth was almost sheepish.

Chithra watched the exchange. Her thumb traced the rim of the glass. The liquid inside was warm now, amber against the crystal.

"Chithra." Sethuraman's voice cut through the silence. "Would you mind making some coffee? I need to discuss something with Muthu. Alone."

Muthu's head came up. "Sir, it's okay. I believe Chithra. She can stay."

The room changed temperature.

Sethuraman turned. Not fast—slow, deliberate, like a man rotating a heavy door. His eyes met Muthu's, and something hard passed between them. Not anger exactly. Something older. A reminder of hierarchy.

Chithra saw it. Felt it in the sudden stillness of the air.

"I'll make the coffee," she said quickly. Her voice was bright, too bright, but it filled the silence. "How do you take it, sir?"

"Two sugars. No milk."

She nodded. Walked toward the kitchen. Then stopped at the table.

Muthu's glass sat there, half-full, the ice long melted. Chithra reached down, picked it up, and drained it in one slow swallow. The whisky burned—glug, glug—and she licked her lips after, grinning at Sethuraman with an expression that was half child, half devil.



"Waste not," she said, and disappeared into the kitchen.

Sethuraman stared at the empty glass. Then at Muthu. His face was unreadable.

---

The kitchen door swung shut.

Sethuraman leaned back. The pleasantness drained out of him like water from a cracked pot. "The election," he said. "We won. But we didn't get the majority."

Muthu's body went still.

"108 seats. We needed 118." Sethuraman's fingers drummed on the armrest. "The coalition is fragile. The opposition is already whispering. Any day—any hour—they could move a no-confidence motion. And if they do, we lose the throne. Re-election. Everything."

Muthu's jaw tightened. "How did this happen, sir? We controlled the polling booths. We—"

"We did what we could." Sethuraman's voice sharpened. "But votes are votes. People are unpredictable. Now we deal with the consequences."

Silence.

Then Muthu leaned forward. His elbows rested on his knees, his shoulders hunched. Steam from the kitchen drifted through the door—the smell of boiling water and coffee grounds.

"What if we pull winners from other parties?" he said. "There are always a few. They can be persuaded."

Sethuraman's eyes narrowed. "Persuaded how?"

"Money. Or muscle." Muthu shrugged. "Whatever works. Some men respond to cash. Others need a reminder of what happens when they refuse. I have men. I have resources. Give me a week."

"Re-election is a gamble, Muthu. You know that."

"I know." Muthu's voice was low, steady. "But so is waiting. Tell the Chief Minister we're with him. Me and my men—we're always with him. He doesn't need to be tense."

Sethuraman was quiet for a long moment. His thumb rubbed his chin, slow and thoughtful.

Then he spoke again. And this time his voice had changed. Softer. Heavier.

"There's another thing."

Muthu waited.

"Saroja."

The name landed like a stone in still water.

"She's been with us for years," Sethuraman continued. "She won an MLA seat. She's been your backbone, Muthu. Your right hand. During Vijay's negotiation—during the whole thing with Chithra—she was the key player. She corrupted the wife. She handled the husband. She did everything."

"I know what she did," Muthu said slowly. "What about her?"

"She's planning to leave. Join the opposition."

Muthu stood up.

The chair scbangd back—screech—and tipped, catching on the rug. He didn't notice. His fists clenched at his sides, and the muscles in his bare shoulders bunched like rope.

"I'll kill that bitch."

"Sit down."

"She can't—" Muthu's voice cracked. "She knows everything. The booths. The bribes. The Periyamalai issue. The—"

"SIT DOWN."

Muthu sat. His chest heaved. His hands were shaking.

Sethuraman watched him with the calm of a man who had seen worse. "Be patient. Don't make decisions in anger. That's how we lose."

"If she goes to the other side," Muthu said, "she'll yell out every secret we have. Every deal. Every murder. She'll destroy us."

"Agreed." Sethuraman nodded. "Which is why we need to bring her back. Not kill her. Bring her back."

"How?"

Before Muthu could answer, a voice came from the kitchen doorway.

"What if I speak to her?"

Both men turned.

Chithra stood there, a steel tray in her hands. Three cups of coffee steamed on it—black, fragrant, the smell cutting through the salt air. She was still in the baby doll dress, her hair still wild, but her face had changed. Something quiet and hard had settled behind her eyes.

Muthu's reaction was immediate. "No. No, Chithra. You stay away from this."

"I know what she wants."

"You don't know anything." He stood, crossing the room toward her. "This isn't your world. This isn't—"

"I know she's angry," Chithra said. "I know she feels insulted. I know she wants to be respected. And I know—" She paused, letting the words settle. "I know what it feels like to have no one listen to you."

Muthu stopped. His hands hung at his sides.

Sethuraman had gone very still in his chair. His eyes moved between them—a scientist observing a phenomenon he hadn't predicted.

"You think you can bring her back?" he asked.

"I can try."

"Chithra—" Muthu started.

Sethuraman held up a hand. "Let her speak."

Chithra set the tray down on the side table. She didn't sit. She stood beside the armchair, her bare feet silent on the marble, and looked at Sethuraman directly.

"Why did she leave? Truly?"

Sethuraman's lips pressed together. He glanced at Muthu—a question, a permission—and Muthu's reluctant nod gave him permission to speak.

"Few years back," Sethuraman said, "during corona time, there was an issue at Periyamalai University. A student protest. Political. Dangerous. Muthu handled it. He played a major role in resolving it—quietly, efficiently. There was money involved. Compensation from the government. Muthu, Saroja, and a few others were part of the distribution."

He paused.

"Saroja felt she was given less than her share. She kept quiet at the time. But she remembered. And now—now that the party is in a critical situation—she's using it. She says she's been insulted. She says she's going to join the opponent party, resign her MLA post, and force a re-election."

"If she resigns," Muthu said bitterly, "we lose the seat. If we lose the seat, we lose the majority. If we lose the majority—"

"I understand," Chithra said.

"Do you?" Sethuraman's voice was cool. "This isn't about feelings, Chithra. This is about power. Survival."

"I know." She met his eyes without flinching. "And I know I can make her come back."

Muthu stepped forward. "You're not doing this. It's too dangerous. Saroja isn't—she's not like you. She's—"

"She's a woman who was treated like a tool," Chithra said. "And she's tired of it. I know that tiredness. I've lived in it."

The room went quiet.

Sethuraman broke the silence. "I personally don't wish for this," he said slowly. "It's risky. It could backfire. But if you're sure—truly sure—you can resolve this, then I'll allow it. I won't stop you."

Chithra nodded. "I'll do my best."

Muthu stared at her. His mouth opened, closed, opened again. Something moved in his face—confusion, yes, but underneath it, something else. Something warm and unexpected, rising like a tide he couldn't stop.

"Chithra," he said, his voice hoarse. "You don't have to do this for me."

She turned to him. Her smile was small, but it reached her eyes.

"I want to see you happy," she said. "I'll do anything for that."

The words hung in the air. Simple. Final.

Muthu's throat worked. He looked at her—this woman who had been a stranger three months ago, a widow, a mother, a victim—and something inside him cracked open.

"Anything?" he repeated, barely a whisper.

"Anything," she said.

Sethuraman cleared his throat. He rose from the chair, smoothing his veshti, his face unreadable once more. "Then it's settled. I'll arrange a meeting. But Chithra—" He paused at the doorway. "This is politics. Not a prayer circle. Whatever happens, remember that."

"I will," she said.

He left. The door clicked shut behind him. The SUV's engine revved and faded.

Chithra stood in the middle of the room, the whisky still warm in her belly. The coffee steamed, untouched, on the tray. And Muthu—Muthu watched her like a man seeing the sun after months of rain.

"You're serious," he said.

"Yes."

"You'll talk to Saroja."

"Yes."

"Why?"

She walked to him. Her bare feet stopped inches from his. She looked up—he was so much taller, always had been—and placed her palms flat on his chest. His skin was hot under her hands.

"Because you gave me a place to sleep," she said. "You gave me food. You gave me—" She stopped. Breathed. "You gave me something to do. Something that matters. I don't know what that means yet. But I know I'm not going to watch you fall apart if I can stop it."

Muthu closed his eyes. When he opened them, they were bright—not with tears, but with something close.

"Fuck," he whispered.

She laughed. A soft, watery sound.

"Language," she said.

He pulled her into his chest. His arms wrapped around her, tight, and she pressed her ear to his heartbeat. The sea whispered through the open window. The coffee went cold.

"Chithra."

"Hm?"

"Don't die doing this."

She smiled against his skin.

"I won't.. Even if so, my muthu will come saving me..."

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