Chapter 3: The Bra in the Laundry Basket
The knock on the door was soft. Three quick taps, the kind that meant Chandrahas kaka had forgotten something and was too polite to barge in.
I opened it to find him standing there, still in his kurta from earlier, his reading glasses perched on his nose. He looked apologetic in that particular way of his—shoulders slightly hunched, hands clasped together like he was about to ask for a favor.
"Sorry to disturb, beta. Just wanted to say we're turning in. Reshma has an early call with her sister tomorrow. You boys don't stay up too late, okay?"
"Of course, kaka. Goodnight."
He hesitated for a moment, his eyes drifting past me to Rahul, who was still frozen on the bed with that ridiculous expression on his face. I stepped sideways, blocking the view.
"Rahul, beta," Chandrahas kaka called out. "You look tired. Get some rest. Health is wealth, you know."
"Yes, kaka," Rahul said. His voice came out normal. Almost eerily normal. "Goodnight, kaka."
The door closed. Footsteps receded down the hallway. A door opened and shut somewhere in the distance—the guest room, where Reshma mami was probably already arranging her things, setting out her night cream, brushing that long dark hair that fell past her shoulders.
I turned back to Rahul.
He hadn't moved. The bra was still in his hands, a black lace thing that looked impossibly delicate in his grip. He was staring at it like it contained the secrets of the universe.
"You need to give me that," I said.
"No."
"Rahul, I'm not asking."
"No." His fingers tightened around the fabric. "You don't understand."
"You're right. I don't understand. I don't understand how my best friend—the guy who's supposed to be smart, who's supposed to have some fucking self-control—is standing in our bedroom at midnight holding his aunt's underwear like it's a religious relic."
"It's not—" He stopped. Swallowed. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, almost pleading. "It's not about that. It's not about the—the thing itself. It's about... her. What she smells like. What she feels like. This was on her body, bhai. Against her skin. I can still feel the warmth of it."
I wanted to vomit. I wanted to shake him until his teeth rattled. I wanted to call Amma and tell her everything, watch her slap some sense into him.
Instead, I sat down on the edge of my bed and rubbed my temples. "You've been sneaking into the laundry room."
It wasn't a question.
He nodded.
"How long?"
"I found your room," he whispered. "The clothes—the ones she wore last time she visited. There was a blouse. I could smell her on it. I touched it. I couldn't stop touching it. I hadn't even seen her in person yet, just the photo and the blouse, and I—"
"You what?"
He looked up at me, and his eyes were wet. "I took it. The blouse. I've had it for three days now. It's in my bag. I take it out at night and just... hold it. Smell it. Pretend she's there with me."
The floor dropped out from under me. I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, trying to breathe. "This is—this is so far beyond anything—"
"It's the same shirt you told me about. The white one with the blue flowers. I saw it in the laundry hamper at the end of the hallway. It had her scent on it. It still does. It's like she's in the room with me when I close my eyes."
"Stop," I said. "Just stop."
"You asked."
"I didn't ask for a confession. I asked for you to get your shit together."
He didn't respond. Just sat there on his bed, cradling that piece of underwear like a baby bird. The clock on the nightstand ticked past midnight. Somewhere in the house, a door creaked.
"Okay," I said, forcing myself to sound calm. "Here's what's going to happen. You're going to give me that. I'm going to put it back. In the morning, you'll be normal. You'll eat breakfast, you'll talk to kaka about cricket, you'll act like nothing is wrong."
"And then?"
"And then we wait. Nine days. That's it. After that, they leave. We go back to our lives. You forget any of this happened."
"I can't forget."
"You have to."
"I don't want to."
The words hung in the air between us. Simple. Devastating. He didn't want to forget her. Didn't want to go back to being just a nephew, just a kid, just a nobody whose life had nothing to do with hers.
"Rahul." I stood up and walked over to his bed. My voice came out harder than I intended. "Do you understand what happens if someone finds out? If Chandrahas kaka sees you looking at her the way you looked at her today? If Reshma mami notices?"
"They won't."
"But if they do."
"I'll be careful."
"That's not an answer."
He finally looked up. His eyes were still wet, but something new flickered in them. Something I hadn't seen before. A kind of reckless determination, bright and dangerous.
"I'll be careful," he said again. "I promise."
"Your promises don't mean anything."
He flinched. Good. I wanted him to feel that. Wanted him to understand the weight of what he was risking—for all of us. His relationship with kaka. My relationship with kaka. The entire family framework that held us together.
"This isn't just about you," I said. "You get that, right? If this comes out, it's not just you who gets burned. It's everyone. Amma. Me. Kaka and mami's marriage. Everything."
He didn't respond. Just looked down at his hands, still clutching the bra.
"I need it," I said, holding out my palm.
He looked at me. Then down at the lace. Then back at me. For a second, maybe two, I genuinely thought he was going to say no.
But then he sighed—a long, shuddering exhale—and placed it in my hand.
It was warm. Still. Damp with sweat from his palms. I tried not to think about what else it might be damp with.
I walked to the door and slipped out into the dark hallway. It was quiet—just the hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen, the occasional click of the wall clock. The guest room was at the end of the hall, and I moved past it quickly, past the bathroom, down to the small laundry area near the back door.
I dropped the bra into the basket, shoving it under a pile of other clothes. It landed in the middle of a towel, black lace against white cotton. Tomorrow morning, when Amma did the wash, it would be nothing more than a forgotten item, lost in the usual chaos.
I hoped.
Back in our room, Rahul had already turned off the light. He was lying on his side, facing the wall, the blanket pulled up to his chin. I could hear his breathing—too fast, too shallow.
"Hey," I said, into the darkness.
He didn't answer.
"I'm not trying to be a jerk. I'm trying to protect you."
Silence.
"You have to know that."
A rustle of fabric. Then his voice, muffled by the pillow: "I know."
"Then stop. For real. No more sneaking. No more laundry room visits. No more... whatever this is."
"I'll try."
"That's not good enough."
"I know."
I lay back on my bed and stared at the ceiling. The fan whirred overhead, doing nothing for the heat. Through the window, I could see the faint orange glow of streetlights, the shadow of the mango tree in our yard.
Somewhere in the house, Reshma mami was sleeping. Or not sleeping. I wondered if she knew. If some part of her—some ancient, primal instinct—sensed that there was a predator in the house. Not dangerous, exactly. Just... hungry.
I tried to imagine what her blouse must have looked like in Rahul's hands. Soft silk, still warm from her body. The buttons she'd undone with her own fingers. The delicate embroidery she'd chosen that morning.
Stop it, I told myself. You're not helping.
I rolled over and faced the wall, mirroring Rahul's position. For a long time, neither of us spoke. The clock ticked through the minutes. One a.m. One fifteen. One thirty.
Just as I was finally drifting toward sleep, I heard him whisper something. It was barely audible—half breath, half word, a prayer or a plea.
"Beautiful."
I didn't ask what he meant. I didn't want to know.
When morning came, I woke to sunlight and the sound of the pressure cooker. The house came alive slowly, room by room. The smell of toast, the clatter of dishes, the murmur of voices filtering in from the kitchen.
Rahul was already up. I could tell by the empty bed, the neatly folded blanket, the absence of his bag by the door. I got dressed and shuffled to the bathroom, my head heavy with lack of sleep.
The door to the guest room was open. I glanced inside as I passed. The bed was made—crisp white sheets, a single pillow. On the small table by the window, a collection of small bottles: face cream, hand cream, the perfume she'd been wearing yesterday. Jasmine. Coconut oil.
Something else.
I stopped.
There, draped over the back of the chair, was a blouse. Pale blue, simple cotton, the kind of thing you'd throw on for a casual morning.
I looked around. No one was in the hallway. From the kitchen, Amma's voice floated out: "Rahul, beta, pass me the sugar."
I moved on. But the image stayed with me—that blouse, waiting there like an invitation. Like a trap.
At breakfast, the house was a different place. Everyone was up, dressed, cheerful. Chandrahas kaka was reading the newspaper and making comments about politics. Amma was bustling between the kitchen and the dining table. And Rahul—Rahul was sitting at the table, eating his toast, looking almost normal.
Reshma mami came in late, her hair still damp from the shower.
"Sorry, sorry," she said, sliding into her chair. "I couldn't find my—never mind."
She was wearing a different saree today. Soft orange, the color of marigolds. Her hair was loose, cascading down her back. She reached for the toast and smiled at me, at Rahul, at everyone.
"Pass the butter, beta?" she asked Rahul.
He picked up the butter dish. His hand was steady. His face was calm. He passed it to her without a single tremor.
"Thanks, sweetheart," she said.
I watched him. Watched the way he didn't react. Didn't blush. Didn't stare.
Maybe he'd listened. Maybe he'd actually decided to stop.
Then, under the table, I saw his foot. It had moved—just slightly—so that the edge of his shoe rested against the leg of her chair.
She didn't notice.
But I did.
And I knew, with a sinking certainty, that this wasn't over. It was only beginning.