Chapter 2: Breakfast Table Ka Drama
The bathroom was a cramped, dank concrete cube at the back of the dhaba. Priyanka leaned against the locked door, the sharp smell of phenyl and stale urine filling her nose. Her heart thumped against her ribs. Outside, the clatter of plates and the rumble of trucks on the highway were muffled, distant things. Here, it was just the sound of her own shaky breath.
It was just a joke, she told herself, pressing her cool palms to her warm cheeks. Arvind Chacha always jokes. Vishal overreacted.
But her father-in-law’s fingers, deliberately brushing hers as he took the tea cup, hadn’t felt like a joke. The touch had been slow, possessive. It had lingered a second too long, a silent claim that made her skin crawl even now. She straightened her kurta, the soft cotton suddenly feeling thin and inadequate. The baby, Adi, stirred in his sling against her chest, a warm, grounding weight. She adjusted the cloth, ensuring he was snug.
When she stepped back into the harsh morning sun, the scene had shifted. Vishal was paying the dhaba owner, his back tense. Arvind was already climbing into the middle row of the hired Toyota Innova, his loud voice carrying. “Come on, beta! Time is wasting! The temples of Madurai await!”
Dibendo stood by the open sliding door, one hand resting on the roof. He looked at her, his gaze sweeping from her face down to Adi, then back up. It was the same assessing look he gave a ledger book. “Everything alright?” he asked, his voice low.
“Yes, Sasurji. Just… freshening up,” Priyanka murmured, ducking her head.
“The baby is quiet. Good.” He didn’t move from the door, forcing her to brush past him to get to her assigned seat in the middle row. She felt the solid bulk of him, caught a whiff of his sandalwood soap and old sweat. She slipped in quickly, settling by the window. Vishal was to be in the front passenger seat. Dibendo and Arvind would flank her in the middle.
The driver, Gopal, watched it all in the rear-view mirror. His eyes, sharp in his wrinkled face, met hers for a fleeting instant before flicking away. He said nothing, just started the engine with a soft rumble.
“Right!” Vishal said, buckling in with forced cheer. “All set? Gopal-ji, you know the route?”
“Since before you were born, babu,” Gopal said, his voice a dry rasp. He pulled the car onto the asphalt, the dhaba receding into a blur of color.
For the first hour, the tension ebbed. The hypnotic rhythm of the highway, the green fields blurring past, the steady hum of the engine—it lulled them into a tentative peace. Adi slept. Vishal pointed out landmarks. Arvind told a long, rambling story about a trip to Mysore in his youth.
Then Adi woke, fussing. The familiar, pressing fullness in her breasts announced his need.
“He’s hungry,” Priyanka said quietly, already feeling the heat of three pairs of eyes on her.
“Of course, of course,” Arvind said, his tone overly understanding. “We are family only. Don’t be shy.”
Dibendo cleared his throat. “The child must eat.” It was an order, not permission.
Priyanka’s fingers fumbled with the buttons of her kurta. She turned as much as she could toward the window, pulling up her blouse and nursing Adi under the cover of a light shawl. It was a practiced, modest maneuver. Yet she was achingly aware of the space behind her, of the silence that had fallen in the car save for the soft sounds of her suckling son. The shawl slipped a little, revealing the curve of her shoulder, the strap of her bra.
Vishal, in the front, was looking resolutely at the road ahead, a magazine open on his lap. Unseeing.
But in the mirror, she saw Gopal’s eyes. They weren’t on the road for a second. They were fixed on the reflection of her profile, a faint, unreadable curve on his lips.
And beside her, she could feel it. Dibendo wasn’t moving. He was a statue, his breathing imperceptibly slowed. She didn’t dare look, but she knew his head was turned just so, his peripheral vision taking in the intimate scene. From the other side, Arvind let out a long, quiet sigh, pretending to look out his own window, but his reflection in the glass showed his eyes were closed, as if savoring a private thought.
The air in the car grew thick, warm, heavy with a silence that was louder than any talk. It was broken only by Adi’s gentle gulps. Priyanka stared at a single rain scar on the windowpane, tracing its path with her eyes, her face burning with a shame she couldn’t name. This was natural. This was her child. Why did it feel like a performance?
When Adi was done, she rearranged her clothes with trembling hands, the shawl now clutched tightly around her like armor.
“Better?” Dibendo asked, his voice oddly thick.
She nodded, unable to speak.
“Good,” he said. A large, heavy hand came to rest, patting her knee twice. It was a paternal, reassuring gesture. It stayed for a moment longer than it should have, the heat of his palm seeping through the thin cotton of her salwar. Then it withdrew, leaving a phantom imprint.
Vishal, finally turning around, beamed. “All happy back there? Gopal-ji, next good stop, we’ll have some lime water, okay?”
“As you say, babu,” Gopal said, his eyes crinkling at the corners as they returned to the endless road ahead, a knowing smirk permanently etched into his features. The car sped south, carrying its unspoken cargo deeper into the day.