Intro: This is a truish short story with a bit of added spice. It is written in first person and involves an Indian American (me) and an Indian. So, if that is not your thing, I'd still suggest you to be openminded and read it. Lol. Be warned that this story comes under adultery between two consenting adults.
Foreign/unfamiliar words:
Varsha -- means rain in Sanskrit.
Bhayya -- means brother -- but can be used colloquially, usually towards older males.
NRI -- Non-Resident Indian.
Dowry -- It's a common practice in India, despite the age-old laws against it. Its entrenched in the culture and people don't think much of it unless the woman is really being harassed.
VPN -- Virtual Private Net -- Can allow you to imitate an IP address that is different from your actual location.
Salwar -- Indian female clothing. Google it :P.
*****
I am a thoroughly whitewashed Indian. Not because I dislike my culture but because it is hard not be Americanized when you've surrounded by white friends since sixteen; through high school, undergrad, masters and a couple of years after that. My favorite music is alt rock and Beethoven, and I wear polos and khakis. Yep, totally whitewashed. Did I say I played tennis?
I moved to a dusty but pretty, coastal city of India in the summer of 2016. I was 27 and very single. The weather was hot and languid, but the view of the sun's glaring reflection off the surface of a vast dark blue ocean, from the balcony of my air-conditioned condo, was breathtaking. I loved sitting on my wooden chaise in the verandah and read a book on my kindle, as I was buffeted by the cool evening breeze that swept around the nearby hills and blew parallel to the rocky beach.
I am not going to say what I did for a living, but I had a flexible work schedule and I could be considered well off, though not rich enough to drive an Audi or a BMW.
Dinesh and Varsha moved into my neighboring condo a couple of months after I moved in. The ten-storied apartment complex was new, and the flats were quickly being sold to young rich doctors or successful IT professionals. I rented mine from an NRI, but Dinesh and Varsha bought theirs.
They were a newly married couple; Dinesh 30 and Varsha 26. Dinesh had done his master's in computer science from USC and after saving some money, working in the Silicon Valley, he decided to move to India and begin a startup. The dowry from his arranged marriage also helped in setting up his company.
Dinesh was an interesting contrast of character. He was quite open minded in a lot of things yet possessed an old-fashioned traditional outlook towards life. We quickly became friends. The shared back-ground helped and he was also comfortable with my accent, which was oftentimes perceived as snobbish by some.
Only a few inches over five, Varsha was a small woman. However, she was well endowed, and her petite frame helped in highlighting it. With long locks of curly black hair, large sparkling brown eyes, thick lashes that curved against gravity and a small button nose, she was a pretty woman.
But initially, I had no interest in her. Years of being whitewashed had changed my taste in women to white and yellow.
All Indians are my brothers and sisters
-- a part of the national pledge we used to repeat in school days, had become my motto.
Varsha was quite comfortable around me, despite her husband's and her own presumed traditional mindset. Indian women have strange comfort zone around men younger than them, even if it is only by a single day -- something about women not marrying younger men.
The couple had somehow come under the impression that I was at most 25. Despite my well-built body, my boyish looks didn't help. I did not have a six pack, nor did I ever want one, but years of martial arts and sport had given me a prominent musculature. At 5'9, I wasn't a small person in India, especially beside Varsha.
"Vicky!" she used to come knocking around lunch time, if I was around, with a homemade lunch of rice and curries. She was a damn good cook and she somehow always knew when I was around. Sometimes we ate together, and soon we formed a bond. She was talkative and I was a good listener, and in her endless babble I realized that there was a lot more to her than the bright-eyed naivety she donned in front of her husband.
However, Vicky changed to 'Bhayya' after my parents came over for a visit. My mum is as talkative as Varsha and my age was the least of the things that Varsha came to know about me. Once my parents left, she still came to offer me lunch, but she stopped sticking around.
And I began to miss my time with her. Our conversations had never been deep, but they were fun, flighty and uninhibited. We had talked about the silliest of things: stuff we did as children, my impressions of America as a sixteen-year-old, how she loved to get drenched in the rain but no longer could, and so on. They had always brought joy to my heart and removed the heaviness from other things I had going on in my life.
So, one Sunday morning at ten, I went and knocked on their door. Dinesh was away on a weekend trip and I wanted to use the chance to rekindle our friendship; My intentions were completely pure. I can't claim that I had never checked her out, but I am after all a man.
"Bhayya?" Varsha opened the door after a minute, drying her wet hair with a towel. Her large pretty eyes widened in surprise. I had never taken the initiative to seek her out when she was alone.
"Hey Varsh. Have you cooked yet?" I asked her, trying to seem casual. I usually ate with the couple during the weekends. If we ordered food for delivery, it was on me. If Varsha cooked, it was on them.
"Naa. I was just about to start. Why? Do you want something particular?" she asked. She was sweet like that. Always trying to make something we wanted.
"Good! I have a craving for pasta. I know you liked the pesto sauce the last time we ordered Italian," I said, trying to sound like an enthusiastic younger brother. If it made her feel comfortable, I didn't mind putting on the persona. "Can we order some, please?"
"Er... sure. I didn't really feel like cooking, anyways," she replied in her thick but cute English accent. My Hindi wasn't the best, so we usually spoke in English.
"Awesome! Do you want to watch a movie or something until then?" I asked, not giving her a chance to get rid of me.
"I guess so. Come in," she replied, making way for me to enter.
The tech savvy Dinesh had hooked up his flat screen TV to Netflix and a VPN to replicate a US IP address. Netflix had recently come to India, but the Indian version did not have access to all English movies.
So, we hung out together and watched 'Bridesmaids', laughing our asses off at the antics of the characters. And by the end of the day, the wall Varsha had built up slowly started crumbling.
***
Days went by and Varsha still called me 'Bhayya' but our friendship had returned to our previous comfort. Dinesh seemed to be aware of it, but he didn't really seem to mind or harbor any doubts. Not that our behavior ever indicated a need such doubts.
"Are you a virgin?" Varsha suddenly asked me during one of our lunch 'dates' when Dinesh was not around. It came out of nowhere and surprised me out of the chicken leg I was gnawing on. Sex or anything to do with had never been involved in our conversations. It was almost forbidden.
"What?" I exclaimed as heat began to rise in my ears. I had never been overly conscious about such things, but it was different with Varsha and Indian women.
