The brisk summer wind of May seemed to slap Mrinalini's back in cruel bursts as she leaned over a bucket of washed clothes on the roof. The scorching heat vaporised the moisture around her as she miserably squeezed each garment before hanging it.
Clad in a hand-me-down cotton saree that had seen better days, Mrinalini's voluptuous figure betrayed her age - at just 19, she had had her first child with her good-for-nothing husband, who seemed to know not much except for drinking.
And sex. Bad, horrible, drunken sex that only ever favoured him. Mrinalini stood in the heat, filled with disgust at the thought of the previous night, thinking of her husband forcing himself on her even as their son cried in a corner in the dark. Mrinalini could only do so much as not to cry herself.
But she knew not to complain - every woman in her family had a marriage like hers - it was her fate. Criss-crossed between the dark lines of her hands.
Then she met Kshitij. The tall, handsome man of this household seemed a lot like the men she saw occasionally in movies.
Watching movies as a child used to be her happy escape - they filled her with hope. But now that she was a wedded woman, she only felt a tinge of disappointment and a wave of acceptance.
To Mrinalini, Kshitij was the man of her dreams. He was also duly married.
Sana, his beautiful wife, turned heads wherever she went - Jaan, he called her - he doted on her like the romantic heroes Mrinalini grew up watching. They held hands, stole kisses when they thought she wasn't looking, and Mrinalini swore their eyes danced with passion every time they locked.
Sometimes watching them together gave her butterflies in her stomach - talk about living vicariously.
But today, things seemed off. Sana was nowhere to be seen. And Kshitij had a drink too many for just 11 in the morning.
Fighting the urge to ask him where she was, Mrinalini continued doing her chores. She was only starting to wash the dirty dishes in the sink when she felt Kshitij lightly brush against her back as he strode into the kitchen and opened the fridge to take another beer.
Shockwaves ran through her body as he stood there for half a minute, assessing the fridge, before quietly leaving with a beer bottle.
Embarrassed by her own desire, Mrinalini cursed her luck. She peered through the curtain that separated the kitchen and the hall. Kshitij sat on the sofa, with his long legs sprawled across the coffee table. He looked sullen. Worse, he looked like he had been crying. His eyes were puffed up, red. His eyebrows scrunched together as he stared at the beer bottle in his hand, not taking a sip.
"Sahab, are you all right?" was all Mrinalini could muster up to ask.
Kshitij stared blankly and nodded before taking a sip.
Mrinalini quickly finished her chores and left for the day. That night, when her husband entered forcibly inside her petticoat, she did not resist. She was thinking about Kshitij's sullen, beautiful face. She lay under her drunken husband. Not moving. Not caring. Deep in thought.
The next day, Mrinalini wore her best cotton saree. She was no stunner, but she had received lingering looks from men in the streets every time she wore this saree with its matching deep-cut blouse that flustered her with discomfort, but excited her all the same.
She felt only a flicker of guilt about what she was doing - trying to seduce a married man - but at the core of her being, she did not care. Morals had only gotten her so far in life. For once, she wanted to seize what she so vehemently desired - being held with love by a man she yearned for.
When Kshitij opened the door, he did not glance a second time at Mrinalini. He let her in and leapt to the couch, where beer bottles from yesterday still lay scattered. He seemed to have run out of beer - he had a bottle of whisky in his hand now.
Mrinalini leaned across the coffee table, not caring about the pallu that swung a bit too low over her chest to actually cover up anything, and picked up the bottles one after another.
This time, Kshitij noticed.
His eyes lay fixated on her breasts for longer than he would have allowed sober, but he managed to look away just in time as Mrinalini asked him if he wanted anything. He shook his head.
Mrinalini, however, had noticed his look. And boy, was she thrilled.
For the first time, Kshitij had noticed that Mrinalini actually was quite the piece. Sure, he had registered her enormous breasts the first time she had ever come to this house, but he had torn his eyes away, knowing it was wrong. But now... he wasn't sure he could tell right from wrong.
It didn't help how high he was. He had been drinking and smoking the entire night and had barely gotten an hour of sleep before waking up to his wife's phone call. She kept begging for his forgiveness, but truly, he didn't have a single fuck to spare.
He was still high when he followed Mrinalini to the roof, where she bent down to pick up one of Kshitij's shirts from the bucket. Kshitij quietly walked up to her and brushed the back of his palm nonchalantly against her back, light enough to be passed off as unintentional, but long enough to cop a feel.
Mrinalini jumped at the sudden invasion of her space, stepping back as Kshitij bent down, seemingly to help her hang the clothes. Mrinalini let him help her, even though something about this exchange felt... not right. Like a kick in the gut that seemed to crush the butterflies in her stomach. But she brushed it off. Once they were done, they walked back to the hall.
"Can you make me a couple of Chapatis and some egg curry? I'm starving." Kshitij demanded.
When Mrinalini went back to the kitchen, she found herself hyperventilating. She could not tell why. She wanted this. She made this happen. But now that the lion was at the door, this zookeeper seemed to have run out of meat.
Just as she ruminated, kneading the dough for the chapatis, Kshitij entered the kitchen again, standing behind her, breathing down her neck. Mrinalini froze. For a few moments, neither said anything. Kshitij then walked to the fridge, picked a bottle of Coke, and walked out of the kitchen.
Mrinalini could have sworn she felt his hard-on brush against her butt.
Mrinalini had hardly ever drawn attention to herself - she discounted her looks as average - but she had long, thick curls that sat on the top of her head like a crown. Her skin was a honeyed dark, and her eyes big and black. Her bosom heaved every time she walked, her thighs jiggled when she stopped in her tracks. She was a woman.
The early pregnancy had gifted her with a glow of fertility that seemed to attract all men.
Her husband wouldn't tell her this, for he was a lowlife and an insecure scoundrel, but the few friends he hung out with sang praises of his wife - they deemed him a lucky bastard, and he had spent one too many nights fantasising about his wife with other men - the idea thrilled him beyond his wildest imagination.
