Chapter 8: Anjaan Mehmaan
The living room air was thick with the smell of lemon polish and sunlight. Priyanka sat rigidly on the middle of the three-seater sofa, a blue cotton antimacassar scratching against her neck. Rohan was at her breast, feeding with a quiet, rhythmic urgency. Normally, this was a moment of deep, private calm, a small island of peace in her day. Today, it felt like an exposure.
Her skin still felt wrong. Not her own. A vague, chemical taste lingered at the back of her throat, no matter how many times she had rinsed her mouth or drank water. The memory of the kitchen three hours earlier was not a clear picture, but a series of shattered sensations: the bitter sweetness on her tongue, the predatory gleam in Sujit Kaku’s eyes as he stepped closer, the terrifying disconnect between her mind screaming and her body refusing to obey.
She had gotten away. How? A noise from the hallway—her father-in-law’s cough? The shuffle of slippers? Something had broken the spell. Sujit had retreated, his smile snapping back into place like a rubber mask, muttering something about the shop. He’d left the open box of sweets on the counter. She’d stared at them for a full minute before sweeping the entire thing, box and all, into the wet garbage, heaping tea leaves and eggshells on top to bury it.
Now, every sound from the front door made her flinch. The click of the lock turning was a gunshot.
“Priyanka! We have a guest!”
Debashish’s voice was cheerful, booming in the small foyer. Her husband’s normalcy was a dagger. She fumbled, hastily pulling her sari’s pallu over her exposed shoulder, detaching Rohan with a soft pop. The baby whimpered in protest, his mouth searching the air. “Shhh, shhh, just a minute,” she whispered, her voice trembling.
Before she could stand, they entered.
Debashish led, his face open and smiling. Behind him was a man she didn’t recognize. Taller than her husband, with a neat haircut and a crisp, checkered shirt tucked into tailored trousers. He carried a laptop bag slung over one shoulder.
“This is Rahul Shetty, from my new project team at the office,” Debashish announced, gesturing with pride. “He was in the neighborhood for a client meeting, so I thought, why not bring him home for some proper Bengali hospitality?”
Then Debashish turned to her. “And this is my wife, Priyanka.”
Rahul Shetty’s eyes found her immediately. They were quick, intelligent eyes. They took in the scene in one efficient sweep: the dishevelled young mother on the sofa, the crying infant in her arms, the hastily arranged sari pallu. They didn’t linger with Sujit’s crude hunger, but their assessment was no less thorough. A faint, professional smile touched his lips.
“A pleasure,” he said, his voice a smooth baritone. He didn’t nod. He just looked.
Priyanka’s skin crawled. The last time a man had looked at her like that, she had been drugged in her own kitchen. This was different, but it mined the same raw nerve. It was a look that acknowledged her as a woman first, a hostess second. She felt a hot flush rise from her chest to her throat. She instinctively lifted a hand to the high neck of her blouse, her fingers adjusting a button that was already perfectly fastened.
“Hello,” she managed, dipping her head slightly. “Please, sit. Would you like some tea? Coffee?” The hostess’s script tumbled out automatically.
“Oh, don’t trouble yourself,” Rahul said, but he was already moving to the single armchair opposite her, settling in as if he owned it. He placed his laptop bag carefully beside the chair. “Debashish has told me so much about his family. It’s nice to put a face to the stories.”
Debashish beamed, oblivious to the current of tension he had ushered into the room. He sat on the sofa next to Priyanka, a little too close, his weight making her tilt toward him. He reached over and chucked Rohan under the chin. “And this is the little king, Rohan! See, Shetty? My boy.”
Rohan, distracted, stopped crying and stared at the new man with wide, wet eyes.
“He has his mother’s eyes,” Rahul observed, his gaze flicking from the baby to Priyanka’s face and holding there for a beat too long.
The compliment was a trap. She felt its wires brush against her. A polite ‘thank you’ would be an acceptance of that intimate scrutiny. Silence would be rude. She gave a non-committal hum, looking down at Rohan’s head, inhaling his clean, milky scent to ground herself.
“I’ll make the tea,” she said, standing abruptly. The movement was clumsy. The edge of her sari almost caught on the sofa arm.
“Let me help,” Debashish said, starting to rise.
“No!” The word came out sharper than she intended. She forced a lighter tone. “No, you entertain your guest. I’ll just be a minute. You men can talk business.”
She escaped to the kitchen, her heart hammering against her ribs. The kitchen. Her palms grew slick with sweat. The counter where the white box had sat was bare, wiped clean. She leaned against it, taking deep, shuddering breaths. The geyser hummed in the corner. Through the archway, she could hear their voices, a low murmur punctuated by her husband’s familiar laugh.
She put the kettle on, her movements mechanical. Clink of cups. Spoon of sugar. The normal sounds were a lifeline.
Rahul Shetty’s voice carried, clear and composed. “…yes, the data analytics side is fascinating. It’s all about understanding hidden patterns of behavior. What people want, sometimes before they even know it themselves.”
Debashish said something she couldn’t catch.
“Oh, absolutely,” Rahul replied smoothly. “People reveal themselves in the subtlest of ways. A glance. A hesitation. The things they try to hide are often the most telling.”
A chill, unrelated to the steam from the kettle, crept down Priyanka’s spine. She stared at the teaspoon in her hand. It trembled.