Chapter 35: Feast of Flesh
The air in the dining hall was thick enough to taste—cardamom, cumin, the sweet rot of marigolds from a garland left too long in the heat. Satish, at the head of the table, held court on port authority tariffs, his voice a steady drone. Rohan listened, nodding, his face a careful mask of engagement that Priya saw right through. She watched the slight tightening around his eyes. He was performing, and it was exhausting him.
Then the doors opened.
She entered not like a guest, but like a weather system changing. Anjali. Her sari was a translucent crimson, the blouse a mere suggestion of sequins and skin. The fabric didn’t whisper; it hissed. She was older than Priya had imagined, but it was an age polished to a dangerous sheen, all smoky kohl and diamonds at her ears. Her gaze swept the room, dismissing the walls, the furniture, Satish, Priya, before landing on Rohan.
It stuck.
“My God,” she said, her voice a low, honeyed rasp that cut through Satish’s monologue. “Satish-bhai, you didn’t do him justice in your descriptions.” She moved, a glide that was all hip and confidence. “You must be Rohan. The prodigal nephew returned.”
She was upon him before he could stand fully. She engulfed him in a hug, a theatrical press of her body against his. Her chin rested on his shoulder, her mouth inches from his ear. Priya, sitting beside her son, saw the muscles in his back lock.
Anjali’s whisper was barely audible, a breath meant for one. “So, my darling nephew… how are you?”
It was the following sound that froze the blood in Priya’s veins. A soft, deliberate moan. A hum of appreciation that was intimate, proprietary. It lasted a half-second. A full stop of violation.
Rohan jerked as if stung, trying to disentangle himself. Beneath the starched white tablecloth, Priya’s hand shot out and clamped over Rohan’s, her nails biting into his palm. Don’t you dare flinch. Don’t you give her that.
Anjali pulled back, her fingers trailing from his shoulder down his arm, a slow, claiming stroke. She smiled, all painted lips and perfect teeth. “So handsome. You have your mother’s eyes. The good ones.”
She took the seat directly opposite Rohan, ignoring Priya completely. The dinner resumed, but the script had been shredded. Servers brought bowls of dal, baskets of roti. Anjali served herself slowly, languidly, her eyes never leaving Rohan’s face.
“Satish-bhai says you are learning the shipping business,” she said, tearing a piece of bread with her fingers. “It’s a brute of an industry. All those containers, those schedules. So… logistical. Don’t you find it soulless?”
“It’s complex,” Rohan said, his voice careful. “There’s a pattern to it I’m starting to see.”
“A pattern.” She laughed, a sound like breaking glass. “How very male. I always saw it as a living thing. A beast. You don’t study a beast. You either ride it or get eaten.” She took a sip of wine, leaving a crimson stain on the rim. “I prefer to ride.”
Satish cleared his throat, uncomfortable. “Anjali, the boy is just learning the basics. Let’s not overwhelm him.”
“Why not?” she purred, leaning forward. The neckline of her blouse gaped, a calculated shadow. “Basics are for clerks. He’s family. He should understand the texture of what he might inherit. The flesh of it.” Her gaze slid to Priya, finally acknowledging her. “You’ve kept him very academic, Bhabhi. Very… clean. This world is not clean.”
Priya met her look. She kept her voice a placid lake. “Clean hands can still grasp what they need to.”
Anjali’s smile widened, but her eyes went flat. “Can they? Slippery things, power. They need a certain… grit to hold onto.” She turned back to Rohan. “You should come to the club tomorrow. On me. See how the beast plays when it’s off the clock. Music. Drinks. Real conversation.”
Beneath the table, Priya’s grip on Rohan’s hand tightened. He was rigid.
“I have meetings with Uncle Satish all day,” Rohan said.
“After. I’ll send a car. Consider it your real orientation.” It wasn’t an invitation. It was a summons.
The rest of the meal passed in a blur of fraught silence and mundane chatter. When it finally ended, Anjali stood, kissing Satish on the cheek, then deliberately rounding the table to Rohan. She cupped his face, a parody of auntly affection. Her thumb stroked his cheekbone. “Until tomorrow, darling. Wear something you can move in.”
She left, the scent of her tuberose perfume hanging behind, cloying and aggressive.
Back in their suite, Rohan walked straight to the sink and splashed water on his face. He braced himself against the counter, head bowed.
“She’s…” he began, then shook his head.
“She’s exactly what your grandfather said she was,” Priya finished, her voice quiet. She stood in the doorway, her own anger a cold, sharp stone in her gut. “This isn’t about attraction, Rohan. That was a territory marker. She was showing Satish, and you, and me, that she sees you as a thing. A pawn, or a pet.”
He turned, water dripping from his chin. His face was pale, his eyes bright with a confused humiliation that made Priya’s heart crack. “What do I do? I can’t go to that club.”
“You have to.”
“What? Mom, after that? You saw—”
“I saw a test. The first of many. If you don’t go, she tells Satish you’re weak, uninterested, a child who runs to his mother. Satish’s faith in you, which is already conditional, evaporates.” Priya crossed her arms, holding herself tight. “If you go, you walk into her arena. But at least you’re on the field.”
Rohan stared at her. The shy, sensitive boy she’d raised was grappling with a calculus he’d never learned. “And what? I just let her… touch me? Whisper God-knows-what?”
“You learn.” The words felt like ash in her mouth. “You listen. You give away nothing. You become a mirror. She wants to see a certain kind of man? Show her a blank surface. Let her project. And you report every word back to me.”
He slumped onto the bed, head in his hands. “This is insane. This isn’t a business. This is some… grotesque game.”
“It’s both,” Priya said, sitting beside him. She wanted to pull him into her arms, to shield him. Instead, she placed a hand on his back, feeling the tension coiled there. “Your grandfather warned me. The fire is lit. We can’t just smell the smoke anymore, Rohan. We’re in the trees.”
He was silent for a long time. When he looked up, something had shifted. The confusion was still there, but underneath it, a new hardness was forming, a layer of resolve crystallizing in the heat of his shame.
“What do I wear?” he asked, his voice hollow.
Priya almost smiled, a bitter, broken thing. “Wear the armor she expects. Wear something expensive. And call your grandfather in the morning. Tell him the encounter occurred exactly as he predicted. Then ask him what comes next.”
She left him there, staring at his own reflection in the dark window, already beginning to change.