Chapter 5: Subah Ki Shuruaat
The smell of the dhaba bathroom—damp concrete and stale urine—clung to Priyanka’s skin for the rest of the drive that day. No amount of the car’s jasmine air freshener could mask it, or so she felt. She sat in the back, Adi sleeping in her lap, staring out at the blur of scrubland. Every time the car hit a bump, her body would tighten, bracing for an accidental brush of a hand from Dibendo beside her, or a glancing look from Arvind in the front passenger seat. Neither came. The silence was worse.
That night, at a cheap lodge off the highway, Vishal had been affectionate, concerned. “You’re so quiet,” he’d murmured, pulling her close in the narrow bed. She’d wanted to scream it, to vomit the words: Your uncle saw me naked. He looked at me like I was a sweet in a shop window. But the words stuck in her throat, glued there by a lifetime of conditioning—don’t make a scene, don’t disrespect elders, don’t shatter your husband’s peace. She’d just buried her face in his shoulder and cried, which he mistook for exhaustion from the journey.
Now, in the pale grey light of dawn, his hand was on her shoulder, shaking her gently. “Priyanka. Wake up.”
She blinked, the dream of cold water and a creaking door dissolving. “Vishal? What’s happening? It’s so early.”
“Arvind chacha says we should stop at a special temple today. A famous one. But we need to get going to beat the crowd.” He was already dressed, packing his small bag. “Get ready.”
A cold knot formed in her stomach. A temple visit should have felt like a refuge, a blessing. Now it felt like a destination.
She dressed hurriedly in a simple cotton saree, her fingers clumsy with dread. As she fastened the final pleats, the door to their room opened without a knock.
Arvind leaned against the frame, already smiling, his eyes bright and intrusive. “Ah, good, you’re up! Yes, Bhabhi, today I will show you a very beautiful temple. But before that,” he said, his tone dropping to a mock-conspiratorial whisper, “you will have to fill the sindoor in your maang. It’s the rule. For the darshan.”
Priyanka felt her face grow hot. She looked down, adjusting her pallu to better cover her chest. “Chacha ji, why do you always joke like this?”
From the doorway of the adjacent room, Dibendo emerged. He was fully dressed, his hair combed back with water, looking stern and imposing. “Arvind. Enough.” His voice was a low rumble. He didn’t look at Priyanka, but his presence filled the narrow corridor. “Priyanka, finish up. We leave in ten minutes.” He turned and walked towards the stairs, his command hanging in the air.
Arvind winked at her, a quick, sly flash, before following his brother. “Just saying, Bhabhi. It’s a holy place.”
The car was a pressure cooker. Gopal had the engine running, his old eyes watching them load through the rearview. Priyanka settled in her now-customary spot between Vishal and the window, with Dibendo on her other side. The old man’s thigh was a solid, warm line against hers. Arvind sat ahead, half-turned in his seat so he could talk, his gaze perpetually skipping over Vishal to land on her.
“This temple,” Arvind explained as the city outskirts gave way to dense, green hills, “is very ancient. Very powerful for… marital harmony. For blessings of sons.” He smiled. “But the goddess there is a little unique. She prefers her devotees to look… complete. A married woman’s sindoor must be fresh and bright. It’s a sign of her good fortune.”
“That’s interesting,” Vishal said, genuinely engaged. “I’ve never heard of that.”
“Oh, yes. Very specific rules.”
Dibendo spoke from beside her, his voice so close she could feel the vibration. “Then we must follow them. It is a matter of respect.”
Priyanka said nothing. She watched the hills roll by, the mist clinging to the treetops like smoke. Adi squirmed in her arms, needing to be fed. Her breasts ached, heavy and tight. The thought of feeding him here, with them all around, made her skin crawl. She shifted, trying to create a barrier with her pallu.
“The baby is hungry,” Dibendo observed, not looking at her.
“I… I’ll feed him at the temple,” she murmured.
“No,” Dibendo said. “Feed him now. We will not stop again until we reach there. A crying child is a distraction for the driver.” It was framed as practicality. It felt like a order.
Her hands trembled slightly as she arranged her pallu, turning her body as much as she could towards the window, creating a flimsy tent of cloth. She felt exposed, hyper-aware of the three men in the car. Vishal looked away politely, out his own window. Arvind, in the mirror, let his gaze settle and hold. Dibendo simply stared straight ahead, his jaw tight, as the soft, rhythmic sounds of Adi feeding filled the quiet car. The intimacy of the act felt brutalized, turned into a public spectacle she hadn’t agreed to.
The temple complex was smaller than she expected, nestled in a clearing in the woods. It was old, the stone walls blackened in places by time and oil lamps. It was not crowded. A lone priest sat near the sanctum. The air was thick with the smell of crushed flowers, incense, and wet stone.
As they approached the main shrine, the priest, a thin man with ash-smeared skin, gestured to her. “Matasha, for the darshan, your sindoor.”
Priyanka’s heart thudded. She looked at Vishal, a silent plea in her eyes.
Vishal, ever obliging, stepped forward. “Of course.” He took the small silver sindoor box from her purse. His touch at her hairline was familiar, tender, a brief connection that almost brought tears to her eyes. He applied the vermillion powder in the part of her hair, a short, simple line.
The priest shook his head. “No, no. For this Devi, it must be full. From the beginning of the maang to the crown. It is the tradition. It signifies the husband’s full protection and blessing.” He held out a larger, ceremonial copper box filled with sindoor.
Vishal hesitated, looking unsure. “I don’t know… that’s for the wedding ritual, really.”
“It is the rule here,” the priest said, his voice indifferent.
“Here, let me,” Arvind said smoothly, stepping forward before anyone could react. He took the copper box from the priest. His eyes sparkled with a predatory glee. “Since it’s for tradition. And Bhabhi’s good fortune.”
Priyanka froze. Dibendo stood a few feet behind Arvind, his arms crossed, his expression unmoving. An assent.
“Chacha, that’s not necessary,” Vishal said, but his protest was weak, polite.
“It’s just a ritual, beta,” Arvind said, his voice dripping with false benevolence. “For her safety on the journey.” He stepped close to Priyanka. Too close. She could smell his cologne, a cheap, sweet musk, mixed with sweat.
Her breath hitched. She stood rigid, staring at the worn stone beneath her feet. Arvind’s fingers, thick and slightly rough, pushed aside the hair at her forehead. The touch was intimate, violating. He dipped his ring finger into the bright red powder.
The sensation was slow, deliberate. He drew the line from the very front of her hairline back along her part. The powder was cool, but his finger was hot. He pressed too hard, a claiming pressure, tracing the path a husband makes only once, on his wedding day. It went on and on, a seemingly endless traversal of the most sacred marital space. She felt marked, branded. Her eyes stung.
“There,” Arvind said softly, his breath disturbing the hair at her temple. “Perfect. Now the Devi will be pleased.” He stepped back, admiring his work with a satisfied smile. He licked the residue of sindoor from his fingertip, a slow, deliberate movement, his eyes locked on hers.
Vishal looked slightly uncomfortable but shrugged it off as eccentric ritual. Dibendo’s gaze was heavy, approving. The priest nodded and gestured them toward the idol.
Priyanka moved forward on numb legs. The heavy line of sindoor felt like a wound, a burning trail etched into her skin. As she bowed her head before the dark stone goddess, she didn’t pray for blessings. She prayed for the journey to end. She prayed for a door that locked.
Behind her, Gopal leaned against the temple wall, smoking a beedi. He watched the group, his eyes missing nothing—the smug set of Arvind’s shoulders, the possessive stillness of Dibendo, the dazed shame in Priyanka’s downcast eyes. He took a long drag and exhaled a cloud of smoke into the holy air, a silent, cynical commentary on the whole performance. The car, he knew, would be even quieter on the way back. The silence wouldn’t be empty anymore. It would be full, stretched tight over the thing that had just been done.
It would be full, stretched tight over the thing that had just been done.
The car door slammed, a sound too final. Priyanka took her seat, the new sindoor a blazing trail of heat on her scalp. She stared at her hands, at the baby powder caught in the lines of her palms, and said nothing.
Vishal cleared his throat, tapping the driver’s seat. “Gopal-ji, we can go.”
“Yes, sir,” Gopal said, the engine coughing to life. His eyes found hers in the mirror for a fraction of a second. They were dark, knowing pools. He looked away.
For twenty kilometers, the only sounds were the whine of the tires and Adi’s soft gurgles. The green wall of the hills pressed in from all sides, closing them in a moving, private box. Priyanka’s mind replayed the feeling: the rough pad of his finger, the slow, claiming drag.
“You’re very quiet, Bhabhi,” Arvind said, not turning around. “The goddess’s blessing is heavy, no? Sometimes it feels like a weight.”
“I’m fine, Chacha ji,” she whispered. The words tasted like ash.
Dibendo shifted beside her, his shoulder brushing against hers. He didn’t move away. “The temple was correct. Procedures must be followed. A woman’s symbols must be clear for all to see.” His statement was a verdict, leaving no room for her sick, swirling shame.
Vishal finally spoke, trying to knit the tearing fabric back together. “The architecture was interesting. That old Dravidian style.” His voice was too loud, too cheerful. It grated against her nerves.
“Yes, yes,” Arvind said, waving a hand. “But the real destination is ahead. My friend’s place. He has a farmhouse near the next town. Very peaceful. We’ll stay the night there.”
Priyanka’s head snapped up. “A farmhouse? We were going to the hotel in Trichy.”
“Change of plan,” Arvind said, easy as anything. “Better facilities. More space. For the baby.”
Vishal turned, his brow furrowed. “You didn’t mention this before, Chacha.”
“A last-minute kindness! My friend insisted. He heard I was traveling with my beautiful family.” Arvind’s smile was audible in his voice. “You don’t say no to such hospitality.”
Dibendo gave a single, slow nod. “It is settled. We accept.”
A cold dread, sharper than the one in the dhaba bathroom, seeped into Priyanka’s bones. A remote farmhouse. Not a public lodge with thin walls and other guests. A private space. Her palm found the cool glass of the window. She wanted to press right through it.
They turned off the main highway onto a pitted dirt road just as the sun began to bleed orange into the sky. The car jolted violently, tossing them together. Dibendo’s hand shot out to steady himself, landing high on her thigh. He left it there for three long, paralyzing seconds before withdrawing.
“Sorry,” he grunted. Not to her. To the universe.
The farmhouse was a low, sprawling building of faded yellow stucco, surrounded by silent coconut groves. No other lights were visible in the gathering dusk. A lone man, Arvind’s friend, met them with a silent nod and showed them inside to a large, bare living area. The floors were cool stone. The air smelled of dust and disuse.
“Only three bedrooms, I’m afraid,” Arvind announced, clapping his hands together. “My friend has the master. Vishal, you and Priyanka take the one at the end of the hall. Dibendo-da, you and I will share the larger one next to it.” He beamed. “It’s perfect.”
It was a configuration that placed their room directly between the two men, with the blank, soundless wall of the grove on the other side. A perfect box.
Dinner was a tense, quiet affair of simple rice and curry. The friend ate quickly and vanished. Arvind drank. His words became looser, his eyes more persistent. Dibendo watched, sipping water, a statue of quiet authority.
Later, in the stark bedroom, Vishal collapsed onto the cot, exhausted. “Strange day,” he mumbled into the pillow. “But nice temple, right? A unique experience.”
Priyanka stood by the window, watching the shadows of the coconut leaves sway like grasping fingers. She could hear the low rumble of the men’s voices through the wall. A bottle clinked. Laughter. Arvind’s laugh.
“Vishal,” she said, her voice thin.
“Hmm?”
“I’m… uncomfortable. With this place.”
He sighed, a tired husband’s sound. “It’s just one night, Priyu. They’re family. What can happen?” He was asleep within minutes, his breathing deep and regular.
The voices next door eventually faded. The house creaked, settling into the deep night. Priyanka lay beside her sleeping son and husband, eyes wide open, tracing a crack in the ceiling. The sindoor still burned. The memory of the water splashing her bare skin in the dhaba, the shock of the door swinging open, Arvind’s hungry eyes—it all looped behind her eyelids.
A soft knock came at their door.
Not a dream. Two taps, polite and clear.
Her heart seized. Vishal didn’t stir.
The knock came again, a little firmer.
She slipped out of bed, her bare feet silent on the stone. She didn’t open the door. “Who is it?”
“Priyanka.” It was Dibendo. His voice was a low, measured tone through the wood. “Come out. We need to speak.”
Her breath hitched. “Papa-ji… it’s late. Vishal is sleeping.”
“Now.” The word was absolute. It was the voice that commanded the household, that brooked no dissent from her for years. “Do not wake him. This is between us.”
Her hand went to the latch. It was cold iron. She thought of the locked bathroom door that hadn’t locked. She thought of the sindoor line. She thought of the empty miles stretching in every direction outside.
PRIYANKA AGREES.
She turned the latch and stepped out into the dark hall, pulling the door closed behind her.