Chapter 3: Gussa aur Gila
The drawing room’s silence, after the men had finally left with over-effusive thanks and lingering looks, had been brittle. Dinner was a quiet affair of clinking plates and Mohini’s satisfied commentary on the quality of the sweets Sujit Kaku had brought. “So generous,” she’d said, twice. Priyanka had tasted nothing.
Now, in the soft glow of the bedside lamp, the bedroom felt like a fragile sanctuary. Arjun was asleep in his cot, his breath a gentle rhythm. Priyanka sat on the edge of the bed, brushing her hair, the repetitive motion a feeble attempt to smooth the frayed edges of her day. Each stroke was a replay—Sujit’s grinning face, Rohan’s measured words, the feel of their eyes like static on her skin.
The door burst open.
It wasn’t a gentle push. It was a hard swing that hit the wall with a crack, making the lamp shudder. Debashish stood in the doorway, his tie loose, his shirt sleeves rolled up, but his face was a closed fist of anger. He’d been quiet when he came home, had eaten his meal with a grunt. The storm had been brewing.
“Debu?” Priyanka said, the brush freezing in her hand.
He stepped in and kicked the door shut behind him. The finality of the sound made her flinch.
“What is this I am hearing?” His voice was low, sharp, each word a clipped blade.
“Hearing from who?” she asked, dread pooling cold in her stomach.
“From Ma! From the whole building, probably!” He didn’t shout, not yet. He paced the narrow space between the bed and the wardrobe, a caged animal. “Sujit Kaku and Rohan Sir were here this afternoon. Together.”
“They… they came for tea. Ma invited them in.”
“And you served it. And then you fed Arjun. Right there.” He stopped pacing and looked at her, his eyes blazing. “With them sitting there. Watching.”
Priyanka’s mouth went dry. “He was crying. He was hungry. What was I supposed to do?”
“You were supposed to go to another room!” The volume rose now, cracking the tense quiet. “You take the baby and you go to the bedroom! You say he needs changing, you say anything! You don’t just… just open your clothes in front of two old men!”
The phrasing, so crude and brutal from her own husband, felt like a slap. The shame she had swallowed all afternoon surged up, hot and acidic. “I didn’t ‘open my clothes,’” she whispered, her own voice trembling. “I was covered. Ma was there. It’s not like I had a choice—”
“Choice?” He let out a short, bitter laugh. “You always have a choice. You could have said no. You could have just left. But no. You sat there, or stood there, or whatever you did, and you let them stare. Do you have any idea how it looks?”
The accusation twisted inside her. She had let them. The burden was placed squarely on her shoulders, a weight that crushed her earlier helplessness into something ugly and complicit.
“How it looks to who?” she asked, a spark of defiance igniting through the hurt. “To you? Or to them?”
“To everyone! To me!” He ran a hand through his hair, frustration etching lines on his forehead. “I am at work, and my wife is at home giving a… a viewing! My mother is sitting there like it is a television show! And those two, that lecherous shopkeeper and that… that philosopher pervert, they are getting front row seats! Do you think they come to discuss poetry?”
She knew that. Of course she knew that. His anger was naming the humiliation she had felt, but instead of sharing it, he was weaponizing it against her. “And what was I to do, Debashish? Tell your mother’s guests to get out? Create a scene? You know how she is about ‘good relations’. Would you have supported me if I did?”
He faltered for a second, the truth of the question hitting its mark. He wouldn’t have. Challenging Mohini was a complicated, exhausting battle he rarely chose to fight. His silence was confirmation.
“That’s not the point,” he muttered, deflecting. “You should know. You should feel… modest. You should want to be private.”
Tears finally spilled over, tracing hot paths down her cheeks. “I do want to be private,” she choked out. “You think I enjoyed that? You think I felt anything but sick? Every time that man Sujit looks at me, I want to peel my skin off. Rohan Sir’s comments make my flesh crawl. I feel their eyes on me for hours after they leave. But this is the house you brought me to. This is the life. Where do I go?”
Her words hung in the air, too raw, too true. They exposed the gulf between them—her trapped reality, his abstract concern for propriety.
Debashish looked at her crying, at the genuine anguish on her face, and some of the rigid anger seemed to drain from him, replaced by a helpless irritation. He wasn’t equipped for this, for the messy, visceral reality of her discomfort. It was easier to be angry at her than to confront the disrespect of the neighbors or the outdated expectations of his own home.
“Just… just be more careful,” he said, his voice dropping, the fight gone and leaving only a tired command. “Don’t make it so easy for them. For my sake.”
He turned away, stripping off his shirt, his back to her. The conversation was over. Her feelings were a sidetrack, his embarrassment was the main line.
Priyanka wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. The salt taste lingered. She looked at his back, the familiar slope of his shoulders, and felt a loneliness so profound it stole her breath. The man who was supposed to be her shelter was just another wall in the maze.
“For your sake,” she repeated softly, to no one.
He didn’t hear her. He was already walking toward the bathroom, the routine of his life reasserting itself. The door closed, and the sound of the shower starting was a white noise that drowned out the silent, shuddering aftermath of the fight.
Priyanka lay down, curling onto her side, facing Arjun’s cot. Her body felt hollowed out. The bedroom was no sanctuary. It was just a quieter cage. Outside, the hum of the city continued, indifferent. Inside, the unspoken rule solidified: her comfort was negotiable; everyone else’s feelings were not.
She listened to the water run and waited for the numbness to return.