Chapter 10: The shabnam confront
The silence after Naaz’s departure was not peaceful; it was a void where the town’s whispers swirled like dust devils, filling every crack. The official story of funded studies was a thin sheet over a sinkhole of speculation. The version that gained traction was far more visceral, told in hushed, thrilling tones over teacups and across market stalls.
The rumors had spread that Prem Jiju had trapped Naaz saali with his masculinity, that overwhelming aura of musk and money. They said he’d cornered her in the garden shed, or perhaps the unused pantry, his hands already on the waistband of her jeans. Jiju was about to fuck Naaz saali and his cock was playing with the cunt lips of saali, a forbidden threshold crossed in the dank dark. Then, the crash of the door. Nur caught them and separated Prem and cried, her weeping not angry but devastated, which made Prem feel a shame so sharp it overrode his lust. The rumors also said that to prevent Prem from getting tempted by that virgin cunt ever again, she had sent Naaz away for higher studies, a genteel exile paid for by the very man who had almost taken her.
This crafted scandal clung to Prem like a second skin. He heard its echoes in the respectful, slightly fearful nods from his suppliers. He saw it in the way women at gatherings now looked at Nur—not with pity, but with a new, wary calculation. She was the strategist, the one who could manage the unmanageable. This perception became their new truth.
It was into this atmosphere that Zarina discovered her pregnancy. The news was met with perfunctory joy. Another child. Another proof. But Zarina, wiser now, saw the flicker in Prem’s eyes—not of fatherly delight, but of calculation. A pregnant wife was a limited wife, at least for a time. She knew what that meant. The hunger in him hadn’t abated; it had just been redirected.
“I’ll go to Mummy’s for the first few months,” she announced one evening, her hand resting on her still-flat stomach. “The doctor said complete rest. It will be quieter there.” She didn’t look at Nur. She looked at Prem. “You’ll visit often.”
It was a statement, not a question, and it was understood by all. She was removing herself from the nightly equation, a tactical retreat. She was also, subtly, removing a variable from Nur’s domain. Nur nodded, her smile tight. “Of course. It’s for the best. Your health comes first.” The subtext vibrated between them: Your absence comes second.
With Zarina gone, the house’s energy condensed, grew denser. Shabnam’s visits, once sporadic, became frequent. The mujra had been a declaration; now she was claiming territory. She arrived under the pretext of keeping Nur company, a loyal friend to the ‘lonely’ first wife. But her presence was a constant, elegant provocation.
The kitchen became an unlikely arena. Prem stood by the massive industrial stove one rain-lashed afternoon, barefoot, feeling the cool press of water from the leaky faucet near his toes. The air was thick with the scent of charred bacon from his late breakfast and the peaty tang of last night’s whiskey, glasses still littering the counter. Shabnam leaned against the marble island, dressed in a simple salwar kameez that did nothing to hide the ripe curve of her hips.
Nur was at the table, shelling peas, her movements precise, her eyes missing nothing.
“Jiju, you cook?” Shabnam asked, her voice a playful lilt.
“I survive,” Prem grunted, scrubbing a pan. He felt her gaze on his back, on the movement of his shoulders under his thin cotton vest.
“A man who can provide and fry an egg. Rare.” She drifted closer, ostensibly to fetch a glass of water. As she passed, her hip brushed against his arm. The contact was electric, deliberate. He didn’t move away. He turned his head, meeting her eyes. In the cracked reflection of the backsplash, he saw the ghost of his own unshaven jaw, a blurred image of predatory stillness.
Nur’s shelling slowed. The tiny pop of each pea was an accusation.
“It’s lonely here with Zarina gone,” Shabnam continued, filling her glass from the filter. “You must miss her, Nur didi. All that… help.”
“We manage,” Nur said, her voice cool. “Prem is very… attentive.”
“I bet he is.” Shabnam took a slow sip, watching Prem over the rim. “I heard the most fascinating story at the beauty parlor yesterday. About you, Jiju.”
Prem turned, leaning against the counter, crossing his arms. The pose stretched the fabric of his vest. “Let me guess. I bankrupted a rival. Bought a mountain. The usual.”
“No.” Shabnam’s smile was all sharp edges. “This was about your… restraint. They say you almost had the youngest sister. Naaz. That you had her pinned, your famous cock out and ready, playing at her virgin cunt lips like a thief at a lock. And that Nur didi walked in, wept like a river, and you stopped. That her tears shamed you so badly you funded the girl’s exile to London.” She set the glass down with a deliberate click. “Is it true? Can a man like you be stopped by tears?”
The kitchen air vanished. The drip of the faucet was a hammer fall. Nur had stopped moving entirely, her knuckles white around a pea pod.
Prem pushed off the counter. He took two steps, closing the distance to Shabnam. He didn’t touch her. He just loomed, his body radiating a heat that seemed to make the whiskey-glasses tremble. “Do I look,” he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in the copper pots, “like a man who gets stopped?”
Shabnam didn’t flinch. She tilted her head up, baring her throat. “I don’t know, Jiju. You tell me.”
It was Nur who broke the spell. She stood, the bowl of peas clattering onto the table. “The story is trash,” she spat, her composure fraying. “Naaz was a reckless girl with a crush. We sent her away for her own good. Prem didn’t touch her. His tastes are more… refined.” Her gaze sliced from Prem to Shabnam, equating them. “He doesn’t chase children. He attracts women. There’s a difference.”
Shabnam laughed, a soft, silvery sound that held no joy. “Of course, didi. My mistake. I forget you’re the curator of his tastes.” She turned her body slightly, now angled between them, a living fulcrum. Her hand came up, as if to adjust her dupatta, but her fingers trailed down the front of Prem’s vest, over the coarse hair revealed at the neckline. “So what does the curator allow… when the newest acquisition is away resting?”
Prem’s hand shot up and caught her wrist. Not to remove it, but to hold it there, against his chest. He could feel her pulse hammering. He saw the flush rise on Nur’s neck, a tide of furious jealousy. “She allows what benefits the house,” he said, his thumb stroking the inside of Shabnam’s wrist. “She understands… management.”
The competition was open now. It played out in a dozen subtle ways. When Prem read the newspaper in the drawing room, Shabnam would sit on the floor near his chair, her back against his leg, pretending to scroll through her phone. Nur would then occupy the arm of the same chair, her hand in his hair, massaging his scalp with possessive strokes. The air would thicken with the silent clash of their claims.
One evening, Shabnam brought wine. “A gift,” she said, her eyes on Prem. “To celebrate the coming baby.” It was a rich, red burgundy. She poured three glasses. When she handed Prem his, their fingers touched, and she let the contact linger, her little finger hooking around his for a breath too long. Nur watched, then took her own glass and immediately raised a toast. “To Zarina. The mother of another heir.” It was a blunt reminder of the hierarchy, of the foundational role Shabnam could never claim.
Later, as Shabnam was leaving, she lingered at the door. Prem walked her out. The night was cool, the garden shadows deep.
“She hates that I’m here,” Shabnam whispered, leaning against the doorframe, her body a silhouette against the warm light from the hall.
“She doesn’t hate it,” Prem murmured, stepping closer, his body shielding her from the view of the house. “She needs it. The threat. The proof that I’m still wanted. It makes her victory in keeping me mean something.”
“And what do you need, Jiju?” Her breath was warm against his chin.
“Variety,” he said simply, honestly. His hand found the dip of her waist, pulled her against him. Through the layers of fabric, he felt her softness give way. “I need the flirtation. The jealousy. The different textures.” He dipped his head, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. “Your performance was just the preview. When do I get the full show?”
She shivered, a full-body tremor of anticipation. “Soon,” she promised, her voice ragged. “When the curator… sanctions an extended viewing.”
He let her go, watching her walk to her car, her hips swaying with the promise of a chaos he was carefully, deliberately, inviting back in. He turned to see Nur standing in the doorway, her expression unreadable. She had seen the embrace, the whisper. She said nothing. She simply turned and walked back inside, leaving him in the dark, the taste of burgundy and forbidden fruit on his tongue, the structure of his managed empire feeling both solid and perilously, thrillingly, unstable.
The heavy door closed behind Nur with a soft, final click, a sound more condemning than a slam. Prem stayed in the garden’s damp dark, the ghost of Shabnam’s perfume and the metallic taste of confrontation clinging to him. He felt a broad, slow smile stretch his own lips in the darkness. This was better than he’d planned.
Inside, the hall light was too bright. Nur was not in the living room. He found her in their bedroom, sitting at her vanity, mechanically unscrewing an earring. Her reflection in the mirror was a mask of cold fury. “She is testing the walls of this house,” Nur said, her voice dangerously flat. “She thinks because Zarina is gone, the gate is unguarded.”
“You are the gate,” Prem replied, leaning against the doorframe, watching her. “And the wall. And the land itself.” He knew the words she needed.
“She spoke of that filthy rumor.” Nur’s hand trembled slightly as she set the earring down. “As if it were gossip about the weather. As if it were true.” Her eyes, sharp and luminous with anger, found his in the glass. “Did you like it? Her saying those words about you? About your… cock playing at that stupid girl’s cunt?”
Prem didn’t answer immediately. He crossed the room, the floorboards creaking under his weight. He stood behind her, placing his heavy hands on her shoulders. He felt the rigid tension in her muscles. “I liked,” he said, his breath stirring the hair at her temple, “that she is so obsessed with the stories of this house that she rehearses them aloud. I liked that it made you remind her, and me, who the architect is.” His fingers began to knead her shoulders, a deliberate, possessive pressure. “Your jealousy is the mortar, Nur. Without it, this is just a pile of stones.”
She let out a shuddering breath, her eyes closing. Her head leaned back against his stomach. “I hate her.”
“I know.” He bent, his lips brushing the line of her jaw. “Use it.”
The following evening, Shabnam returned, this time with a box of elaborate sweets from the city. Her apology was all smooth, practiced grace. “Nur didi, I spoke out of turn last night. Forgive me? I brought rasmalai.” Her smile was contrite, but her eyes, when they flicked to Prem, sparkled with unchastened mischief.
Nur accepted the offering with a queen’s nod. “It’s forgotten. We all get carried away by gossip sometimes.” Her tone dismissed the entire incident as trivial, reducing Shabnam’s provocation to a common pratfall. “Prem, darling, get some plates. Shabnam, sit. Tell me, how is your mother’s knee?”
It was a masterful deflection. For an hour, the conversation was a polite, tedious stream of familial minutiae. Prem watched, amused, from his armchair. Nur had shifted the battlefield to a terrain of mundane domesticity where she was the undisputed general. Shabnam fidgeted, her energy caged by talk of physiotherapy and property taxes.
Finally, Shabnam turned a desperate smile toward Prem. “Jiju, you’re quiet. Tired from managing all your… holdings?” The pause was deliberate, a tiny vault back to their previous night’s intimacy.
Prem stretched, the fabric of his shirt pulling across his chest. He caught Nur’s warning glance but chose to feed the fire instead. “Some holdings are more demanding than others,” he said, his voice a lazy drawl. “Some need constant negotiation. Others…” He let his gaze travel slowly over Shabnam, then back to Nur, a blunt comparison. “…are peacefully productive.”
The air tightened. Nur’s smile didn’t waver, but her knuckles were white on the arm of her chair. Shabnam leaned forward, the neckline of her kurti gaping slightly. “Negotiation can be the most fun part, don’t you think?”
“It depends,” Nur interjected, her voice like cut glass. “On whether both parties understand the value of what’s being offered. And its true cost.” She stood suddenly. “Prem, help me in the kitchen with the tea.”
It was a command, not a request. In the kitchen’s bright fluorescence, she wheeled on him. “You are enjoying this too much.”
He leaned against the counter, crossing his arms, the leaking faucet dripping near his bare foot. “Yes.” The admission was plain, unvarnished. “I am. Your eyes have a fire I haven’t seen since Zarina first came into our bed. Her confidence is a challenge that sharpens you. This is alive, Nur. This is not management. This is a game.”
“She is not a game piece. She is a woman who wants your money and your reputation wrapped around her.”
“And you,” Prem said, pushing off the counter to stand before her, “have my name, my children, and my empire in the palm of your hand. Who is playing for higher stakes?” He cupped her face, his thumb stroking her cheekbone. “So play better. Stop being polite. Make her sweat for it.”
When they returned with the tea tray, Shabnam had moved. She was now on the floor by Prem’s chair, idly flipping through an art book he’d left there. It was a blatant reclaiming of space. Nur didn’t hesitate. She set the tray down and instead of sitting opposite, she perched on the wide arm of Prem’s chair, her hip pressing against his shoulder, her hand resting on his other shoulder. Her thigh was now in Shabnam’s line of sight, a territorial barrier.
“The Kandinsky?” Nur said, looking down at the book. “Prem prefers the earlier, more chaotic period. Before the discipline set in.” Her fingers absently played with the hair at the nape of his neck. “I’ve always found his later work too… predictable.”
Shabnam looked up, her face tipped back. The position was submissive, but her expression was all defiance. “Chaos is exciting, didi. But it doesn’t last. Structure is what endures.” She reached out and, under the pretext of pointing to a color on the page, let her fingers trail along the cuff of Prem’s trousers, tracing his ankle. “See how the blue holds the red in place? Otherwise, it would just be noise.”
Prem sat utterly still, a god on a contested altar. He could feel the heat from Nur’s body beside him, the delicate, claiming scratch of her nails on his scalp. He could feel the whisper-touch of Shabnam’s fingers on his ankle, a promise of a different kind of worship. The competition was a tangible current arcing between the two women, and he was the conductor. His excitement was a low, steady thrum in his veins, a possessive thrill that had nothing to do with lust and everything to do with power.
“Noise has its appeal,” he murmured, his voice a low vibration they both had to lean in to hear. He let his hand fall from his lap, his fingers coming to rest, seemingly casually, on the back of Shabnam’s neck where she knelt. Her breath hitched. At the same time, he turned his head and pressed a kiss into the fabric over Nur’s thigh. He felt her jump, a tiny shock of victory.
He had them both, literally in hand, each touch a reward and a provocation to the other. The room was silent save for the ragged symphony of their breathing. The game was no longer subtle. It was declared, and the rules were his to break.
The pressure of his hand on Shabnam’s neck and the heat of his lips against Nur’s thigh fused the three of them into a single, unstable circuit. Shabnam’s exhale was a shudder that Prem felt through his fingertips. Nur’s nails dug into his scalp, a silent, claiming reprimand that only made his blood run hotter.
“Chaos needs a container, Jiju,” Shabnam breathed, her voice muffled, her cheek now pressed against the rough fabric of his trouser leg. Her breath warmed his skin.
“And I am the container,” Nur stated, her words dropping into the quiet room like stones. She shifted, swinging her leg down so her foot now planted itself firmly on the floor between Prem and Shabnam, a bridge and a barrier. “This house, this life, is the container. You are a guest admiring the vase, Shabnam. I am the one who filled it.”
Prem laughed, a soft, dark sound of pure pleasure. He removed his hand from Shabnam’s neck, watching the red imprint of his fingers fade from her skin. He leaned back, surveying his domain. “And what am I?”
“The kiln,” Nur answered instantly, her eyes blazing into his. “The fire that hardens the shape. Without you, it’s just wet clay.”
Shabnam pushed herself up, her knees sore from the floor. She didn’t retreat. She smoothed her kurta, a flicker of raw hurt quickly masked by defiance. “Kilns can overfire. Crack everything. A wise potter knows when to open the door.” She met Prem’s gaze. “To let in a draft.”
The next day, the competition turned tangible. It began over something absurd: his lunch. Nur had instructed the cook to prepare his favorite, a rich lamb biryani, layers of fragrant rice and meat steeped in whole spices. The scent filled the house by noon.
Shabnam arrived just as it was being served, carrying a stainless steel tiffin carrier. “I was cooking for my brothers and made too much,” she lied smoothly, her eyes on Prem. “I remembered you liked spicy food, Jiju. It’s a Kerala fish curry. My mother’s recipe. It burns in a different way.” She set the carrier on the table next to the biryani, a direct challenge.
Two steaming dishes sat before him. Nur stood by his chair, her posture rigid. Shabnam hovered at the other side of the table, all false innocence.
“Well,” Prem said, a grin spreading across his face. He felt like a king offered tribute by warring states. “It would be rude to refuse such effort.” He took a clean plate. With deliberate slowness, he spooned a portion of Nur’s biryani onto one side. Then he lifted the lid of Shabnam’s tiffin, releasing a pungent, coconut-laced heat. He spooned the glossy, dark fish curry onto the other side.
He ate a mouthful of biryani first, chewing thoughtfully. “Perfect. As always.” Nur’s shoulders eased a fraction. Then he scooped up the fish curry, the gravy red and ominous. He put it in his mouth. The heat was immediate, complex, a sharp, vinegary punch that made his eyes water. It was excellent.
“It has fire,” he admitted, reaching for his water glass. “A sneaky fire. Builds slowly.”
“Some fires are like that,” Shabnam said, sitting without being asked. “They don’t announce themselves. They just… consume.”
Nur pulled out her own chair and sat down. She didn’t serve herself. She watched him. “A balanced meal needs the foundation of the rice. The meat. Otherwise it’s just flavor without substance, Prem. All heat, no nourishment.” She spoke to him, but every word was aimed across the table.
Prem took another bite of the fish, then another of the biryani, mixing them in his mouth. The clash of spices was extraordinary, a war on his tongue that he alone commanded. “Why choose?” he said finally, his mouth full. “I have the appetite for both.”
The following evening, Shabnam wore perfume. It wasn’t Nur’s subtle jasmine. This was opium and night-blooming tuberose, a scent that didn’t enter a room so much as possess it. It coiled around Prem the moment he walked in from his study, a sensory leash.
Nur smelled it too. Her eyes narrowed. She disappeared upstairs and returned ten minutes later. She wasn’t wearing a different perfume. She had rubbed raw sandalwood paste on her wrists and the hollow of her throat, its clean, woody, sacred aroma a stark, puritanical counterpoint to Shabnam’s decadence. The air in the drawing room became a battlefield of olfactory absolutes.
Prem sat in his chair, a spectator to this silent, sensorial war. He found himself leaning slightly toward Shabnam when she spoke, drawn by the narcotic pull of her scent. Then he’d catch the serene, sharp sandalwood from Nur and feel a different, grounding pull. He was being torn in the most pleasurable way.
“Your perfume is very… noticeable, Shabnam,” Nur commented, not looking up from her embroidery.
“Thank you, didi. It’s called ‘Midnight.’ It’s for when the day ends and other… instincts begin.” She was painting her nails a violent red, her toes splayed on the coffee table.
“Sandalwood is better,” Prem said suddenly, surprising himself. Both women looked at him. “It lasts on the skin. It becomes part of you. The other…” He gestured vaguely toward Shabnam. “It’s an event. It happens to you.” He saw the flash of triumph in Nur’s eyes, the sharp sting of rejection in Shabnam’s. He’d chosen, but only to see how they’d react.
Nur’s smile was a blade. Shabnam’s face hardened. She screwed the cap back on her nail polish with a definitive click. “Some people are afraid of events, Jiju. They prefer museums.”
The clash needed a release. It came during a late-night downpour that rattled the windows. The power flickered and died, plunging the house into a deep, roaring dark. Prem lit an old kerosene lamp from the storeroom, its orange glow carving a small, intimate world in the living room.
They were alone. The servants had retired. The storm sealed them in.
Shabnam, emboldened by the dark and the drumming rain, stood before Prem’s chair. “You said my dance was a preview,” she murmured, the lamp light making shadows dance in the hollow of her throat. “The power is out. The curator is… otherwise occupied.” Nur had gone to check on the children with a flashlight.
“And?” Prem asked, his voice low. He didn’t move.
“And I don’t need music.” She began to move, not the elaborate choreography of the mujra, but something simpler, more ancient. Just the slow, rolling undulation of her hips, a figure-eight carved in the dim air. The storm was her tabla, her shadow a vast, provocative echo on the wall behind her.
Prem watched, his thirst a tangible ache. He heard Nur’s returning footsteps on the stair but didn’t turn. Shabnam saw them too. She didn’t stop. She slowed, her eyes locked on Prem’s, her hands sliding up her own body in a whispered caress.
Nur appeared at the edge of the lamp light, a statue holding a flashlight. The beam cut through the room, landing squarely on Shabnam’s moving form. She didn’t speak. She just watched, her face a cold, beautiful mask.
Shabnam, under the twin gazes of the man she wanted and the woman who owned him, completed her final, slow rotation. She ended not in a prostration, but in a proud, defiant stance, her chest rising and falling with quick breaths.
The silence was heavier than the storm.
Nur finally switched off the flashlight, letting the lamp reclaim the room. “The children are asleep,” she said, her voice utterly normal. She walked to the sideboard and poured three small glasses of brandy. She brought them over, handing one to Prem, then one to Shabnam. Her fingers brushed Shabnam’s.
“A talented performance,” Nur said, taking a sip. “Even without an audience that understands its value.” She looked at Prem. “I’m going to bed. Don’t be too long. The rain is making the stairs cold.”
She left them, taking the lamp with her. The room was plunged into near-darkness, lit only by the intermittent flash of lightning. Prem remained in his chair, the brandy warming his hand. Shabnam stood where she was, a silhouette now.
“She didn’t scream. She didn’t cry,” Shabnam whispered, her bravado fading into confusion. “She poured a drink.”
“She marked her territory,” Prem corrected, his excitement a live wire in his gut. “The drink wasn’t hospitality. It was a dismissal. You are a passing amusement, served in a glass. She is the vintage in the cellar.” He stood up, finally approaching her. In the lightning flashes, he could see the sheen of sweat on her skin, smell her potent perfume mixed with her own salt.
“So that’s it?” Her voice wavered. “I amuse you?”
A flash of light illuminated his face, his hungry, thrilled expression. “You consume me,” he breathed, closing the last inch between them. He didn’t kiss her. He pressed his forehead against hers in the dark, a gesture of shocking intimacy. “You and her, circling each other, teeth bared for me—it’s the most alive I’ve felt since Zarina walked into my bedroom. Don’t stop.”
He pulled away before she could respond, leaving her alone in the storm-ridden dark, her body still humming from her dance, her mind reeling. He took the stairs two at a time, following the scent of sandalwood to his bedroom, where a different, deeper fire awaited. The game had no rules, only winners and losers, and tonight, he felt like the only winner.