Chapter 4: Nahaate Hue
The chill of the evening had settled into Priyanka’s bones, a deep cold that even the warm living room hadn’t been able to thaw. It had been hours since Dibendo had finally released her foot, his slow, methodical massage ending only when Arvind had wandered back out for a glass of water, his eyebrows raised in silent, knowing comment. Priyanka had fled to bed, lying rigid beside Vishal’s sleeping form, feeling the ghost of those possessive hands on her skin.
Now, at a lonely dhaba on the long, dusty road to Tamil Nadu, she just wanted to feel clean.
The trip had resumed at dawn, a tense quiet hanging over the car. Gopal drove, his eyes constantly in the rearview. Dibendo sat in brooding silence. Arvind had tried his usual jokes, but they fell flat, landing like stones in mud. The only relief was Adi, gurgling in her arms. When Vishal suggested they stop for a late lunch, she seized the chance.
“I’m going to give Adi a quick wash,” she announced, the baby fussy and sticky from the journey. “And then I’ll freshen up myself.”
Vishal, already distracted by the menu board, nodded. “Take your time. We’ll order for you.” Dibendo watched her gather the baby bag, his expression unreadable. Arvind just smiled, a slow, lazy curl of his lips.
The bathroom was exactly what she’d feared: a small, bare concrete cell at the back of the dhaba. A single, fly-spotted bulb hung from a wire. The walls were stained, the floor perpetually damp. A small, plastic tank of cold water sat in the corner with a battered mug beside it. The door was a warped slab of wood with a simple metal latch that didn’t look promising.
She locked it. Or thought she did. The latch didn’t click into place with any solidity. She pushed the door, and it held. Good enough.
Working quickly in the dim, yellowish light, she laid a clean towel on a dry patch of floor and stripped Adi, washing his little limbs with the cold water, making him shriek and then laugh. She dried and dressed him, the routine calming her. “There, my prince. All clean.”
She handed a freshly-changed, smiling Adi to Vishal at their table outside. “Your turn,” he said, wiping dal from his chin. “Hurry, the food is coming.”
Returning to the bathroom, she bolted the door again, pushing a small, broken brick she found against the bottom for good measure. The air was thick with damp and the faint, sour smell of old urine. She wanted to be fast.
She peeled off her kurti, the cotton sticking to her skin. The cool air raised goosebumps. She unhooked her bra, the relief immediate, and reached for the mug to pour water over her neck and shoulders. The cold was a shock, a gasp ripped from her. She poured another, scrubbing at her arms, her collarbone, trying to wash away the memory of the previous night, the grit of the road, the weight of their eyes.
She was bent forward, her back to the door, water sluicing down the valley between her breasts, when she heard the scrape.
The brick nudged aside. The latch, poorly seated, popped open with a dull thunk.
The door swung inward.
Priyanka froze, mug in hand, water dripping from her chin onto her bare chest. Her mind blanked, refusing to process.
Arvind stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the harsh daylight outside. He had one hand on the doorframe, leaning in. His eyes, wide with pretended surprise, didn’t leave her body. They travelled down, slow, deliberate, taking in the full, heavy curve of her breasts, the dark nipples tightened from the cold, the swell of her hips above the waist of her salwar.
A full second, two, hung in the wet air.
“Oh! Oh, my God!” Arvind exclaimed, his voice a parody of shock. He didn’t step back. He didn’t close his eyes. “Bhabhi! I am so sorry! This… this stupid latch.”
His apology was a smirk wrapped in words. He was looking right at her.
Priyanka’s body moved before her mind did. A strangled sound escaped her throat as she dropped the mug, which clattered on the concrete. She scrambled for her bra, fumbling, her wet fingers slipping on the clasp. She turned, presenting her back, but that felt worse, more vulnerable. She could feel his gaze like a physical touch on the skin of her shoulders, the dip of her spine.
“Get out!” she hissed, the words choked and trembling.
“Of course, of course, so sorry,” he said again, his tone light, almost amused. “I was just looking for the other toilet. This one is… occupied, I see.” He finally took a step back, but his hand remained on the door, holding it open. “My mistake. A genuine mistake.”
It was the same tone he’d used in the car, hiding poison in a joke. There was nothing genuine about it. The way his eyes had lingered was a violation, a silent theft.
He pulled the door shut slowly. Through the crack, she saw his smile, bright and sharp, before the wood blocked him out.
Priyanka stood there, shaking violently, the cold now a deep, internal freeze. She clutched her bra to her chest. The sound of the dhaba—clattering plates, loud laughter, a truck horn blaring—flooded in through the thin walls, a jarring, cruel normalcy. She was naked in a dirty room, and the world outside carried on, completely unaware.
She didn’t hear the latch click again. She didn’t trust it. She dressed with frantic, clumsy speed, her skin feeling crawly and unclean, as if his vision had left a tangible print. The clean kurti felt like a lie. When she finally stepped out, blinking in the sun, the group was at the table, eating.
Vishal waved her over. “Everything okay? You look pale.”
Arvind took a large bite of a paratha, chewing thoughtfully. He met her eyes across the dusty yard. He didn’t wink. He didn’t smile. He just looked, his expression one of bland, innocent interest, before turning to Dibendo and saying something about the traffic.
Gopal, sitting a little apart drinking tea, watched her walk back. His old eyes saw everything. He took a slow sip, and set his cup down without a sound.