Chapter 2: A Flood beneath Sindoor
Later that evening, the home was calm. Her husband, Yogesh, took Aryan out to get school textbooks.
Meenal was finally alone.
Softly closing the bedroom door, she leaned against it and slow breath. The afternoon's incident lay thick in her chest, like velvet-wrapped shame.
What had he said?
"Sometimes your phone isn't the only thing requiring repair."
She shook her head, attempting to ignore his comments, but they resonated--seductive, arrogant, and infuriating.
Nevertheless, they ignited something, she was well aware. Slowly slipping out of her saree, she folded it with her shaking hands. She saw herself in the bathroom mirror. Hair sticking to her temples, hot cheeks, and eyes clouded with something she couldn't identify.
On the table lay her phone. She looked at it like a ticking bomb. The memory of the picture: her parted lips, the exposed blouse, the curvature of her waist. The look in his eyes.
The way he speaks. The unvarnished shame... and the awful, unrelenting heat that came after. She set on the bed's edge. Her hands shaking.
This was not right. She was a wife, a mother. Yet she felt ache inside her.
Slow and unsure, one hand slid down. She gasped.
She nibbled her bottom lip. "Stop it, Meenal," she said softly, nearly praying.
Her fingers, however, disobeyed. Ashamed of the yearning blossoming under her belly, she moved slowly, almost in a trance.
The recollection of Irfan's words, his lingering gaze, drove her beyond the threshold of thought and into feeling.
The heat radiated. She started to breathe erratically. Her legs twisted.
Then came the front door's sound creaking open. Panicking, she yanked the blanket over herself just as her husband walked into the room.
Carrying a plastic bag with notes and pencils, he appeared tired. Her cheeks were still on fire, so she smiled back with effort.
He didn't notice it. But within her, something had already started to split open--and Meenal was aware that what transpired in Irfan's store was not over. It had only just started.
She had gotten no message and it was unnecessary. She knew she had to go to his store today to pick up her repaired mobile. She was a bit nervous but she had told herself that it was a normal transaction. She would enter, grab the phone, and depart. No talking. No indulgence.
βΈ»
Next morning.
The kitchen filled with the clatter of spoons and the soft crackle of toasting bread. Aryan sat at the dining table, legs swinging beneath him, scowling at the burnt edge of his toast.
"Mumma, this tastes like charcoal," he muttered with theatrical disgust, pushing his plate away.
Meenal let out a distracted laugh, pulling the plate back. "Charcoal, huh? Since when are you a food critic? Eat it quietly, or make your own next time."
Aryan grinned, satisfied at getting a rise out of her, and took a reluctant bite. She handed him the jam, her fingers pausing as they brushed the glass jar. For a fleeting moment, her eyes lost focus--something about the stickiness, the quiet warmth of the morning, the way her own fingertips lingered--she felt that same strange echo from last night stir again.
She blinked it away, turning back to the kitchen counter.
It was time for his school bus. She held his hand as they walked toward the stop. When the bus arrived, she helped him climb aboard.
As she is back home, she remembered to go to mobile shop to collect her mobile.
