Chapter 2: Teen Jism, Ek Chai
The silence Rohan Chatterjee left behind clung to the room like a thin film of dust. Priyanka stayed on the sofa, Arjun a warm, sleeping weight against her, until the feeling of his eyes faded from her skin. She made herself get up, lay Arjun in his crib in the corner, and busied herself straightening the already-straight cushions. The ordinary actions helped, a little.
Her phone buzzed on the side table. A message. From an unsaved number, but she recognized it.
Kya aapke ghar chai mil sakti hai? Garam garam? From Sujit Kaku.
Followed by a smiling emoji.
Priyanka’s thumb hovered over the screen. Her mother-in-law, Mohini, believed in being neighbourly. We must keep good relations, she always said. You never know when you need help. Saying no would require an excuse, a lie, and Priyanka was terrible at lies. She was composing a reply—“Ma is resting, maybe another time”—when a brisk, familiar knock rattled the front door.
It wasn’t Rohan’s polite tap. This was assertive, two sharp raps.
Before she could even call out, Mohini emerged from her bedroom, adjusting her sari. “Are you deaf, Priya? Answer the door.”
Priyanka opened it, and the hallway air, cooler and carrying the smell of frying luchis from another flat, washed over her. Sujit Ghosh stood there, his broad face arranged in a friendly smile. He was holding a small box of sweets. And just half a step behind him, like a shadow, stood Rohan Chatterjee, holding two books.
“See?” Sujit said, his voice booming in the confined space. “I told you she would be home. Hello, hello, Priyanka! We come bearing gifts. Mishti for the family, and Professor Saab here has some books for Debashish.”
Mohini appeared at Priyanka’s shoulder, her face brightening. “Oh! What a surprise! Please, come in, come in. So much formality, sweets!”
“No formality, just affection,” Sujit said, stepping past Priyanka. His shoulder brushed against hers. It was an accident, probably. But it felt deliberate, a claim of space. He smelled of tobacco and strong cologne.
Rohan followed, quieter, his eyes finding Priyanka’s for a knowing second. “I remembered Debashish mentioned an interest in Bengali poetry. I had these duplicates.” He held up the books, but his gaze was on her, measuring her reaction to this joint invasion.
“So kind, so kind,” Mohini chimed. “Priyanka, don’t just stand there. Make tea for our guests. The good Darjeeling. And bring some of the nimki from the tin.”
The command was a relief and a sentence all at once. The kitchen was an escape, but it was also a performance she’d have to return from. “Yes, Ma,” she murmured, turning away. As she walked, she felt the fabric of her sari blouse, checked the buttons with a furtive hand. All secure. It didn’t matter. She could feel it—the twin points of focus on her back, one bold and direct, the other subtle and simmering, tracing the line from her neck to her waist.
In the kitchen, she moved mechanically. The kettle on the gas, the clink of cups, the teaspoon scraping sugar. The sounds from the living room floated in.
“...and business is good, but these new online companies, they are a plague,” Sujit was saying.
“Indeed. A collapse of traditional value,” Rohan’s calm, lecturing tone replied.
“Priyanka! Is the water boiling?” Mohini called.
“Almost, Ma.”
She arranged everything on a tray. Her hands were steady, but her stomach was a tight knot. Taking a deep breath, she lifted it and walked back in.
Sujit and Rohan were seated on the longer sofa. Mohini had taken the armchair. The space felt crowded, male. Sujit’s eyes locked onto her the moment she entered, following her path from doorway to centre table. He didn’t even pretend to look away. It was a visual consumption, starting at her face, dipping to her chest, lingering on her hips as she bent to set the tray down.
“Ah, the minister of hospitality!” Sujit laughed. “You look tired, beti. This mothering work is hard, no? But you wear it well.” His smile was plastic, his eyes alive.
Priyanka forced a small smile, focusing on pouring the tea. Steam rose in a fragrant cloud. “Thank you, Kaku.”
“She is a strong girl,” Mohini said proudly. “Manages everything.”
“Strength is visible,” Rohan said quietly. He accepted his cup, his fingers carefully avoiding hers this time. “In the posture. In the bearing. It is a quality to be admired.” He took a slow sip, his eyes over the rim of the cup fixed on her.
The tea was served. Priyanka retreated, intending to stand by the crib, to use Arjun as a shield and an excuse to leave. But there was no space by the crib. It was in the corner behind Sujit. To get there, she’d have to walk past him, within inches. She stayed near the doorway, a tentative sentinel.
“Don’t hover, Priya,” Mohini chided gently. “Sit. They are like family.”
Family. The word twisted in Priyanka’s gut. She perched on the very edge of the single chair opposite Mohini, her body angled towards her mother-in-law, away from the sofa. She felt like a specimen under twin microscopes—one blunt and crude, the other precise and analytical.
Sujit dunked a nimki in his tea, ate it with a loud crunch. “So, when is our little prince’s next meal time? He must be on a strict schedule, no?”
The question was a grenade rolled into the centre of the room. Mohini chuckled. “Oh, every two hours, like clockwork. My Priyanka is a dairy farm!”
Priyanka wanted the floor to swallow her. She stared at her own lap, at the floral pattern of her sari.
“A natural rhythm,” Rohan mused, placing his cup down with a soft click. “The body’s wisdom. It is a sacred biology, really. Often misunderstood in the modern world.” His voice was pedagogical, but the subject matter was her, her body. He was intellectualizing his stare, giving it academic cover.
Sujit grinned, a piece of pastry stuck to his tooth. “Sacred, yes. But tiring! You must eat more ghee, Priyanka. To keep up your strength. For the baby’s sake.” His gaze dropped pointedly to her chest. “You need to maintain the supply.”
The crude practicality of it, wrapped in false concern, was worse than Rohan’s abstract leching. Heat flamed across her cheeks and neck. She had no words. A trapped sound caught in her throat.
Mohini, oblivious, nodded in firm agreement. “He is right! I tell her every day.”
From the crib, Arjun stirred, letting out a pre-cry whimper. Salvation and dread, intertwined.
“See?” Sujit said, spreading his hands as if proven right. “The customer is calling.”
Priyanka was on her feet before the first full cry came. “Excuse me,” she whispered, and moved to the crib. This meant passing the sofa. Sujit didn’t pull his knees in. She had to sidle past, and she felt the whisper of his trouser leg against her ankle. She scooped Arjun up, his warm, fussing body a frantic anchor to reality.
She stood there, holding him, facing the wall. The men were behind her. She could feel their waiting silence. The choice was stark: ask them to leave, which was unthinkably rude, or feed her son under this dual observation.
“Don’t be shy, beti,” Sujit said, his voice dropping to a mock-conspiratorial tone. “We are all uncles here. It is the most natural thing in the world.”
“Indeed,” Rohan echoed, soft as a sigh. “Do not discomfort yourself on our account.”
Mohini said nothing. She just sipped her tea, a faint, approving smile on her face. This was normal. This was life.
Priyanka’s hands trembled as she unbuttoned her blouse with one hand, as she arranged the sari pallu. The curtain was thinner than ever. Arjun latched on with a desperate urgency, and the room filled with the soft, intimate sound of his feeding. She closed her eyes, but it only amplified her other senses. The weight of the stares was a physical pressure on her exposed shoulder, on her back.
“A healthy appetite,” Sujit remarked, and she heard the rustle as he leaned forward. “Good, good.”
“A profound bond,” Rohan added, his voice closer than it should have been. Had he leaned forward too? “One can almost see the life passing between them. A pure transaction.”
Their words swirled around her, one vulgar, one perversely poetic, both reducing her to a function, a spectacle. She bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper, focusing on that sharp, clean pain, using it to tether her mind away from this room, from these men, from the unbearable complicity of her own family.
She understood now this was not coincidence. It was coordination. They had come together, emboldened by each other, by the unspoken rules of this place that gave them rights and her only duties. The sugar, the books, the sweets—they were just tickets. The show was her.
Arjun fed, oblivious. The tea grew cold in the cups. And Priyanka stood, trapped in the spotlight, staring at a crack in the plaster, mapping its entire, meaningless journey from ceiling to wall, waiting for the curtain to fall.