Hi Readers!! Bringing out a new story with some fresh Characters and a complete fiction. This is a background story. Hope you like this:
The silence in the cramped kitchen was deafening, broken only by the rhythmic clatter of Munai’s bangles as she kneaded dough. Forty years old Bengali housewife, with the soft, round contours of a well-loved doll and skin as fair as fresh cream, Munai felt anything but cherished. Six months. Six agonizing months since her husband, Som, was swallowed by the maw of a fraudulent MLM scheme, leaving her to face the world alone. The whispers followed her like a shadow – from her in-laws, whose eyes held a constant accusation, to the neighbours who offered saccharine pity laced with judgment, and relatives who now avoided her gaze. Each day was a tightrope walk, balancing the crushing weight of their disapproval with the desperate hope for Som's return.
Som, her 43-year-old husband, with his once-proud, well-built frame now softened by a protruding belly, was a coal processing plant technician. He was a simple man, easily swayed by the promise of quick riches, a vulnerability that had cost them everything. Munai remembered the day the security officer came, the chaos, Som's bewildered face. Now, the small savings were gone, swallowed by legal fees and the demands of daily life without his income. Her 5'2" chubby frame felt heavier with each passing day, burdened by the unspoken questions and the constant, piercing stares. She missed Som's booming laughter, even his snoring – anything to break the suffocating quiet of their home.
Then, like a sudden monsoon shower after a long drought, came Mr. Singh. Forty-five, dark-skinned, with a gleaming bald head and a surprisingly hairy body that belied his otherwise chubby build, he was Som’s colleague. Known for his spendthrift ways, Mr. Singh had, against all odds, stepped forward. He had moved mountains, pulling strings and arranging the best legal aid money could buy, tirelessly working to clear Som’s name. Munai had only seen him in passing before, a distant acquaintance. Now, he was their unlikely saviour, his presence a strange mix of relief and an unsettling intensity in his eyes whenever they met hers. She dismissed it as gratitude, a natural byproduct of their shared ordeal.
The day Som returned was a blur of tears and overwhelming relief. He looked gaunt, his eyes hollow, but he was home. Munai clung to him, burying her face in his chest, the scent of him, of freedom, washing over her. The house, once a tomb of despair, buzzed with a fragile joy. That evening, a small celebration was arranged. The in-laws, for once, wore smiles instead of frowns. Neighbours, curious and perhaps a little ashamed, brought small gifts. Munai, despite her weariness, had dressed in her finest saree, its vibrant blue a stark contrast to the muted tones of her recent life. Som, too, looked presentable, his spirit slowly rekindling.
They sat opposite Mr. Singh, who looked unusually sharp in a crisp white shirt and khakee trousers. The air was thick with unspoken thanks. "Singh," Som began, his voice thick with emotion, "we don't know how to thank you. You saved my life, saved my family. I will repay you, every penny, over the coming months." Munai nodded, her eyes welling up. Mr. Singh merely waved a dismissive hand. "Forget about money, Som. What are friends for?" Som insisted, his gratitude too profound to let it go. "No, Singh, I must. It's a matter of honour." Mr. Singh’s eyes, dark and unreadable, flickered towards Munai, lingering for a fraction too long before settling back on Som. A slow, chilling grin spread across his face, a silent, predatory promise that sent a shiver down Munai’s spine. The celebration continued, but for Munai, a new, unsettling shadow had just fallen.
The silence in the cramped kitchen was deafening, broken only by the rhythmic clatter of Munai’s bangles as she kneaded dough. Forty years old Bengali housewife, with the soft, round contours of a well-loved doll and skin as fair as fresh cream, Munai felt anything but cherished. Six months. Six agonizing months since her husband, Som, was swallowed by the maw of a fraudulent MLM scheme, leaving her to face the world alone. The whispers followed her like a shadow – from her in-laws, whose eyes held a constant accusation, to the neighbours who offered saccharine pity laced with judgment, and relatives who now avoided her gaze. Each day was a tightrope walk, balancing the crushing weight of their disapproval with the desperate hope for Som's return.
Som, her 43-year-old husband, with his once-proud, well-built frame now softened by a protruding belly, was a coal processing plant technician. He was a simple man, easily swayed by the promise of quick riches, a vulnerability that had cost them everything. Munai remembered the day the security officer came, the chaos, Som's bewildered face. Now, the small savings were gone, swallowed by legal fees and the demands of daily life without his income. Her 5'2" chubby frame felt heavier with each passing day, burdened by the unspoken questions and the constant, piercing stares. She missed Som's booming laughter, even his snoring – anything to break the suffocating quiet of their home.
Then, like a sudden monsoon shower after a long drought, came Mr. Singh. Forty-five, dark-skinned, with a gleaming bald head and a surprisingly hairy body that belied his otherwise chubby build, he was Som’s colleague. Known for his spendthrift ways, Mr. Singh had, against all odds, stepped forward. He had moved mountains, pulling strings and arranging the best legal aid money could buy, tirelessly working to clear Som’s name. Munai had only seen him in passing before, a distant acquaintance. Now, he was their unlikely saviour, his presence a strange mix of relief and an unsettling intensity in his eyes whenever they met hers. She dismissed it as gratitude, a natural byproduct of their shared ordeal.
The day Som returned was a blur of tears and overwhelming relief. He looked gaunt, his eyes hollow, but he was home. Munai clung to him, burying her face in his chest, the scent of him, of freedom, washing over her. The house, once a tomb of despair, buzzed with a fragile joy. That evening, a small celebration was arranged. The in-laws, for once, wore smiles instead of frowns. Neighbours, curious and perhaps a little ashamed, brought small gifts. Munai, despite her weariness, had dressed in her finest saree, its vibrant blue a stark contrast to the muted tones of her recent life. Som, too, looked presentable, his spirit slowly rekindling.
They sat opposite Mr. Singh, who looked unusually sharp in a crisp white shirt and khakee trousers. The air was thick with unspoken thanks. "Singh," Som began, his voice thick with emotion, "we don't know how to thank you. You saved my life, saved my family. I will repay you, every penny, over the coming months." Munai nodded, her eyes welling up. Mr. Singh merely waved a dismissive hand. "Forget about money, Som. What are friends for?" Som insisted, his gratitude too profound to let it go. "No, Singh, I must. It's a matter of honour." Mr. Singh’s eyes, dark and unreadable, flickered towards Munai, lingering for a fraction too long before settling back on Som. A slow, chilling grin spread across his face, a silent, predatory promise that sent a shiver down Munai’s spine. The celebration continued, but for Munai, a new, unsettling shadow had just fallen.
DeviKamasutra 
Not a "simple" housewife
Not a "simple" housewife
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