Chapter 1: The Mortar & the Mystery
The mortar was cool and rough against her palm. The rhythmic thud-scrape, thud-scrape of pestle against stone was a familiar mantra, the sound merging with the steady whir of the ceiling fan overhead. Cumin, coriander, a single dried red chili. Mantra crushed them with a steady, practiced pressure, releasing a warm, earthy cloud that made her nostrils flare. Sunlight, thick and golden as ghee, streamed through the kitchen window, catching the dust motes dancing above the counter.
From upstairs, a new, unfamiliar rhythm answered her own. The scrape of furniture, the thump of a heavy box set down, the muffled voices of the new family moving in. A young couple, she’d heard. From the city. Mantra wondered if the wife would wear jeans like the college girls did, or stick to salwar kameez. She caught her own reflection in the darkened glass of the microwave—a glimpse of a navy blue sari with a thin silver border, a neatly pinned braid, eyes that looked… peaceful. Yes, peaceful. That was the word.
“Mummy, I’m hungry!” Aryan’s shout echoed from the living room, followed by the canned laughter of his cartoon.
“Five minutes, beta,” she called back, her voice a soft melody against the clash of cartoon violence. “Your aloo paratha is almost ready.”
She reached for the ghee, the ceramic bowl warm from the ambient heat. The phone on the wall rang, a sharp, jangling interruption. Wiping her hands on the end of her sari, she picked up the receiver.
“Haan, ji?”
“Mantra? It’s Meera. Did you see them? The new people?” Her neighbor’s voice was a conspiratorial whisper, as if the walls themselves were listening.
“Only a glimpse. A truck this morning.”
“He’s some kind of engineer. She’s… very modern, I think. I saw her carry a box herself. No shyness!” Meera said, and Mantra could picture her shaking her head, the phone cradled between ear and shoulder as she chopped vegetables for her own family.
“Maybe she’s just strong,” Mantra said, a faint smile touching her lips. She watched a lizard dart across the yellowing wall.
“Strong, hah! We’ll see. The husband seems quiet. They have no children? Strange, at their age.”
The conversation meandered—Meera’s daughter’s math tutor, the rising price of tomatoes—until a loud thump from directly overhead made Mantra flinch. Plaster dust sifted down from the ceiling light fixture in a fine, sparkling shower.
“You heard that?” Meera gasped.
“They’re just settling in,” Mantra said, more to reassure herself.
She hung up and returned to the stove, the comfortable rhythm of her morning officially broken. The noises continued. A steady dragging. A sudden, sharp crack that made her think of splitting wood. Then, for a moment, silence. She rolled out the dough, the belan pin smooth in her hands.
The crash, when it came, was explosive.
It wasn’t a box falling. It was something heavier, solid and catastrophic, followed by a metallic shudder that seemed to travel through the very bones of the house. The water tank. On the terrace.
Her heart gave a hard, sickening lurch against her ribs. Her fingers froze, mid-roll, the paratha lopsided and thin. The house was suddenly, terribly quiet. Even Aryan’s cartoons seemed to have paused.
She waited. For a shout. For a cry. For the frantic footsteps of apology.
Nothing.
Only the creak of the old house settling, and the frantic hammering of her own pulse in her ears. Curiosity, hot and prickling, spread across her skin. It was an accident. A clumsy moment. But the silence felt wrong. It stretched, taut and demanding.
“Mummy?” Aryan appeared at the kitchen door, his small face uncertain.
“It’s nothing, jaan. Go watch your show.”
She heard the front door open, the clatter of keys. Vikram was home for lunch. She listened to the familiar sounds—his shoes kicked off, the sigh as he dropped his briefcase. He appeared in the kitchen doorway, loosening his tie. “Something smells good. What was that huge noise? Sounded like it came from our roof.”
“The new people upstairs,” Mantra said, finding her voice again. It sounded strangely calm. “I think they dropped something. On the terrace. Maybe into the water tank.”
Vikram frowned, looking up at the ceiling as if he could see through it. “Idiots. They’ll crack the tank and we’ll have no water. I’ll go up and say something.”
“No, don’t.” The words came out too quickly. He looked at her, puzzled. “They just moved in. It’s embarrassing. Let them be.”
He shrugged, dipping a finger into the potato filling and licking it. “You’re too soft, Mantra. People take advantage.” He kissed her temple, a perfunctory gesture. “Hurry with the food, I have a one-thirty call.”
The meal was a quiet affair. Vikram scrolled through his phone. Aryan chattered about his cartoon. Mantra pushed her food around her plate, her ear trained on the ceiling. The silence from above was now a presence, a weight pressing down.
The silence from above was now a presence, a weight pressing down.
She cleaned the kitchen long after Vikram left, the echo of that crash ringing in her ears more clearly than the clatter of plates. The next morning, as she chopped onions for lunch, the sharp smell making her eyes water, movement in the shared driveway below caught her attention. It was the new woman, Hema.
She was heading out, pulling the gate shut behind her. She wore tight black leggings and a loose, sunny yellow top that ended at her hips. The contrast was startling against the dusty brown street. Mantra’s knife stilled.
From her vantage point, she had a clear view of Hema’s back as she turned to check the lock. The leggings clung to every curve, outlining the strong, plump shape of her thighs, rounded and full. They were powerful, unequivocal. A different kind of body than any Mantra saw in her own circle—not hidden by the forgiving drape of a sari or a voluous salwar.
Hema swung a backpack over one shoulder and walked away with a brisk, athletic stride. The motion was fascinating, a study in confident, unselfconscious movement. Mantra stared until the yellow dot disappeared around the corner.
She looked down at her own hands, speckled with onion juice, then at the familiar, muted colors of her own wardrobe drying on the line. Her heart was beating a little too fast for just chopping vegetables. A vague, formless heat bloomed in her chest, part curiosity, part something else she couldn’t name. The crash, and now this vision of unequivocal life from upstairs, felt connected. The quiet house seemed to hum with a new, unsettling frequency.
The quiet house seemed to hum with a new, unsettling frequency.
Familiarity grew in the following weeks through polite greetings on the stairs and the shared relief of a working water tank. Hema’s mother, Mrs. Iyer, was a kindly woman who often gifted Mantra extra idli batter. Hema herself was bold, her laughter quick and loud, and she’d taken to calling Mantra “Akka” with an easy warmth that felt both foreign and flattering.
One Thursday morning, Mrs. Iyer appeared at Mantra’s door looking apologetic. “Akka, a huge favor,” she said, wringing her hands. “Hema has a college function, a traditional event, but nothing in the shops fits her… proportions. You stitch so beautifully. Could you make her a blouse? We will pay, of course.”
Mantra hesitated, her eyes drifting to the ceiling where Hema’s footsteps paced. “Of course. No payment. Tell her to come this afternoon for measurements.”
The afternoon heat was thick and syrupy. Mantra’s sewing kit lay open on the living room sofa when a firm knock came. Hema entered, a breeze of citrus perfume and restless energy. “Thanks for this, Akka. You’re saving my life.”
“Stand there, in the light,” Mantra said, her voice softer than intended. She uncoiled the measuring tape, its yellow length stark against her palm.
The room was very quiet. Mantra stepped close, the scent of Hema’s skin and shampoo enveloping her. She looped the tape around Hema’s bust, her fingers brushing the warm, soft cotton of Hema’s camisole. “Arms down, beta,” she murmured, noting the number.
She moved behind Hema to measure her shoulders, her gaze falling on the elegant, strong line of Hema’s neck. Her fingers trembled slightly as she brought the tape around the full curve of Hema’s hips, the number confirming what her eyes had witnessed from the window. The tape tightened, a slight, intimate pressure.
Hema stood perfectly still, her breathing the only sound. Mantra’s own breath caught, suspended in the heavy, silent air between them.
Mantra’s own breath caught, suspended in the heavy, silent air between them. The number on the tape was ample, confirming what her eyes had already seen.
“All done,” Mantra said, her voice a whisper as she stepped back, the distance feeling both a relief and a loss.
Days passed in their ordinary rhythm, the blouse measurements tucked away in a drawer with her sewing kit.
One stifling afternoon, the air thick enough to taste, Mantra hauled a bucket and brush up to the sun-baked terrace to tackle the seasonal chore of scouring the overhead water tank. The white plastic lid was heavier than she remembered. She wrestled with it, her sari pallu slipping from her shoulder, a slick of sweat already forming between her shoulder blades.
“Akka, let me help!”
Hema’s voice was a welcome shock. She stood at the terrace doorway, a basket of wet clothes perched on her hip. She was dressed for the searing heat in thin, loose cotton pajamas and an oversized, faded blue kurta that billowed around her.
“It’s too much work for you alone,” Hema said, already setting the basket down.
Before Mantra could protest, Hema had pushed the lid aside and, kicking off her flip-flops, climbed nimbly into the empty concrete tank. “Pass the brush,” she said, smiling up. The movement made the neck of her loose kurta gape wildly.
Mantra handed the tools down, her eyes inadvertently dipping into that shadowy expanse of skin. “Be careful, the floor is slippery.”
Hema laughed, a bright sound. “I’m fine!” She filled a small bucket from the tank’s residual puddle, knelt to wet a section of the wall, and began to scrub. Each time she knelt, the kurta’s neckline plunged open like a curtain drawn back. Mantra stood above, tasked with taking the rinsed bucket Hema handed up.
The cycle repeated. Kneel, scrub, fill, stand, reach. With every upwards reach of Hema’s arms, the fabric strained and fell open. Mantra’s fingers brushed Hema’s as she took the bucket, but her gaze was pulled, relentlessly, into that deep, tantalizing cleavage. It was a mesmerizing glimpse of soft, shadowed curves, of heat and hidden skin.
She tried to make her glances seem casual, a mere check on Hema’s progress. On the fifth or sixth exchange, as Hema knelt again, the kurta fell entirely to one side. For a breathtaking second, Mantra saw not just cleavage, but the sharp, elegant lace edge of a bra. It was a delicate, peach-colored lace, a shocking contrast against Hema’s dusky skin. Mantra’s throat went dry.
Mantra’s throat went dry. The glimpse of lace felt more intimate than the entire sun-baked terrace. She forced her eyes away, her knuckles white on the edge of the tank. “You’re… doing a good job,” she managed, the words sticking.
“It’s just stubborn in this corner,” Hema said, scrubbing with renewed vigor, completely unaware.
After that, Mantra found herself cataloging Hema’s body with a fervor that shamed her. The memory of Hema’s breasts—their full weight, the shadowed valley between them—haunted her while she chopped vegetables or folded laundry. She became obsessed with the idea of seeing more, of the dark peaks she imagined lay beneath those bright, modern bras.
Another afternoon, wrist-deep in soapy water, Mantra saw Hema enter the main gate. Her heart gave a little stutter. Hema wore a calf-length skirt in a vibrant, sexy orange that clung to her hips and swished with each step. Mantra’s gaze devoured the shape of her legs, the curve of her calves.
She wanted to see more. She needed an excuse.
Her eyes scanned her own kitchen, landing on the ceiling. The tube light in the corner had been flickering for a week. Vikram kept forgetting to fix it. A plan, desperate and thrilling, clicked into place.
She dried her hands quickly, her pulse a frantic drum against her ribs. She went upstairs and pressed the bell. Hema opened the door, still in that dazzling orange. “Akka! Hello.”
“The tube light in my kitchen is giving trouble,” Mantra said, smiling apologetically. “Vikram is at work, and I’m too short. Could you…?”
“Of course, no problem!” Hema said, her smile easy. “Let me just come down.”
Mantra hurried back, a flutter of anticipation in her stomach. She waited, staring at the faulty light.
When Hema arrived minutes later, the disappointment was a physical ache. Hema had changed into loose, modest cotton pants and a long t-shirt. “Didn’t want to get my good skirt dusty,” she explained brightly, already dragging a chair under the light.
Mantra watched her climb up, the loose fabric hiding every line she had longed to see. “Yes,” Mantra whispered, handing her the new tube, the opportunity lost. “Very sensible.”