Chapter 3: Scene 1
The car had deposited them at the Chatterjee home just as the last blush of sunset faded from the Kolkata sky. The journey back from the dhaba had been a silent, compressed version of the outward trip, the air inside the vehicle still humming with the unspoken events of the afternoon. Gopal had accepted his payment with a silent nod, his eyes lingering on Priyanka just a moment too long as she lifted Adi from the car. She had felt filthy, as if his knowing gaze had left a film on her skin.
Now, in the familiar clutter of her living room, the feeling wouldn’t wash off. The ceiling fan chopped lazily at the warm, still air. The smell of dust and old newspapers mixed with the faint, sweet scent of Adi’s talcum powder. It was home, but it felt like a different stage.
“My bones are shouting at me,” Arvind announced, collapsing into the well-worn armchair with a dramatic groan. “Nine hours in that car! But worth it, eh, Bhabhi? For the family bonding?” He winked at Priyanka, who was setting Adi down in his playpen.
She forced a smile, busying herself with toys. “Yes, Chacha.”
Vishal was hauling their small suitcase towards the bedroom. “I’ll just get this unpacked. Priyanka, can you make some tea? I think we all need it.”
“Of course,” she said, grateful for the directive, for the normalcy of the task. She moved towards the kitchen doorway.
Dibendo’s voice stopped her, calm and firm. “First, sit. Rest for five minutes. You carried the child all day. The tea can wait.” He was on the sofa, removing his sandals. His tone brooked no argument; it was the voice of the patriarch managing his household.
It was a small kindness, but it felt like a trap. To obey was to stay in the room with them. To refuse would be disrespectful. She perched on the very edge of the sofa, as far from him as possible, her back rod-straight.
“See how he cares for you?” Arvind chuckled, sipping from a glass of water he’d fetched himself. “Our Dibendo Bhai is a lion, but he has a soft heart for his daughter-in-law. Isn’t that right?”
Dibendo didn’t deny it. He leaned back, stretching his arms along the top of the sofa. The movement made his shirt tighten across his chest. He watched her, not Arvind. “She is the daughter of the house. Her comfort is important.”
Vishal called out from the bedroom, his voice muffled. “Priyanka, where did you put the extra charger?”
“In the side pocket of the blue bag!” she called back, too quickly, too loudly. She wanted to leap up and go find it herself, just to escape.
“Let him look,” Dibendo said, his voice lowering. “A man should know his own bags.” His eyes travelled over her, from the messy bun escaping its clip, down the line of her throat, over the curve of her breast where a faint, telltale dampness had seeped through her blouse from the last feed. She crossed her arms, heat flooding her face.
Arvind saw it too. His jovial mask slipped for a second, his gaze sharp and hungry. “The little king has been keeping you busy, I see. It’s a round-the-clock service, motherhood.”
The crudeness, veiled as casual observation, stole her breath. Before she could form a word, Dibendo spoke, his voice a low growl. “Mind your language, Arvind. Some things are not for commentary.”
The rebuke was to his brother, but his eyes never left her. It was as if he was chastising Arvind for looking at his property. The possessiveness in his stare was worse than Arvind’s lewdness.
Adi began to fuss, a thin, tired wail. Priyanka jumped up as if stung. “He’s hungry again. Excuse me.” She scooped up the baby and almost fled to the bedroom, where Vishal was now rooting through the suitcase.
“Everything okay?” he asked, looking up with a mild, distracted smile. “You look flushed.”
“It’s just the heat,” she whispered, sinking onto the edge of their bed. She turned away from him to nurse, her body a shield. She could hear the murmur of the older men’s voices in the living room, a rumble of secret conversation. Vishal hummed to himself, finding the charger.
Later, after tea was made and consumed in a stilted silence, after a simple dinner of leftovers, Vishal yawned enormously. “I’m dead on my feet. That drive really takes it out of you.” He patted Priyanka’s shoulder. “You must be exhausted too, love. Come to bed.”
Dibendo, reading the newspaper in his armchair, looked over the top of it. “You go, beta. Let her finish cleaning the kitchen. She said she wanted to. A woman’s work is never done, isn’t that right, Priyanka?”
She had said no such thing. She stood frozen, a dishcloth in her hand. Vishal, in his sleepy trust, just nodded. “Don’t be long.”
He left. The overhead light in the living room seemed to grow brighter, harsher. Arvind had already retired to his room. It was just her and Dibendo now, with the hum of the refrigerator the only sound.
She scrubbed a pot with frantic energy, the clanging loud in the quiet. She felt him before she saw him. He was standing in the kitchen doorway, a tall, solid shadow blocking her exit. He’d removed his formal shirt and stood in his vest and dhoti, his powerful arms bare.
“You worked very hard today,” he said. His voice was different now—intimate, thick.
“It was no trouble, Sasurji.”
“It is trouble. I saw. The way you had to manage in the car… it was uncomfortable for you.” He took a step into the small kitchen. The space shrank. “This family leans on you too much.”
She kept scrubbing, her knuckles white. “It’s my duty.”
“Duty.” He repeated the word as if tasting it. He was close enough now that she could feel the heat radiating from his body. The scent of sandalwood and his own skin was overwhelming. “A dutiful woman is a rare thing. A precious thing.”
His hand came up. Not to touch her, but to take the scrubbing brush from her frozen fingers. His rough skin grazed hers. He placed the brush on the counter. “Leave it. The maid will do it in the morning.”
“I should—”
“You should rest,” he interrupted, his voice dropping to a murmur. “Your feet must ache from being in the car all day. A woman’s feet… they carry the weight of the whole household.”
Priyanka’s heart was a wild drum against her ribs. She couldn’t look up from the floor. “I’m fine, really.”
“No,” he said, the word final. “Go. Sit on the sofa.”
Trembling, she obeyed, walking past him with her arms wrapped tightly around herself. She sat where she had before, on the edge. He followed, moving with a slow, deliberate purpose. He did not sit beside her. Instead, he pulled the small footstool over and sat on it, directly in front of her.
“Give me your foot,” he said.
It wasn’t a request. It was a softly spoken command. Priyanka stared, horrified. “Sasurji, no, please… this is not—”
“This is a father caring for his tired daughter,” he said, his eyes holding hers, allowing no escape. “There is no ‘not’. Give me your foot.”
Her mind screamed. This was wrong, a violation dressed in concern. But the authority in his voice, the weight of years of obedience, paralyzed her. Slowly, as if in a nightmare, she extended one leg. He took her bare foot in his large, calloused hands.
His thumb pressed into the arch, a slow, firm circle. A shockwave shot through her—not of pain, but of an intense, horrifying intimacy. His touch was skilled, strong. He kneaded the sole, his fingers working between her toes, his gaze now fixed on the foot in his lap as if it were a sacred object.
“See?” he murmured, his head bowed. “The tension is here. You carry too much.”
From down the hall, she could hear the faint rumble of Vishal’s snore. Safe, asleep, oblivious. In the silent, bright living room, her father-in-law massaged her foot with a possessive reverence, his breathing deep and steady, while she sat perfectly still, trembling, wishing the earth would open and swallow her whole.