Chapter 4: The Cracked Door
The sound that woke me wasn't loud. It was the opposite—a tight, strangled noise, like someone trying to swallow a scream.
I opened my eyes to grey morning light and the ceiling fan's lazy rotation. For a second, I forgot where I was. Then I heard it again. A wet, ragged breath. A whisper that wasn't meant for me.
"Bhai."
I turned my head.
Rahul was on his knees beside his bed, hands clasped together like he was praying. But his eyes were open. Wide. Unblinking. Staring at the wall in front of him as if it held the secrets of the universe.
His pyjama bottoms were tented. Obscenely. The thin cotton did nothing to hide the shape of his erection, straining against the fabric, a dark patch already forming at the tip.
"Rahul?"
He didn't look at me. Just kept whispering, the words tumbling out in a rush. "Bhai... usne mujhe dekh liya... aur wo muskurai."
The words landed like stones in still water. Ripples spreading outward, touching everything.
"What?"
"She saw me." His voice cracked on the last word. "I was—I didn't mean to—the door was open, just a little, and I just wanted to see if she was awake, I swear, I wasn't going to—but she was standing there, bhai. Standing right there. And she was—"
He stopped. Swallowed. His throat moved like he was trying to force down something too large to swallow.
"She was what?"
"Undressing."
The word hung in the air between us. I sat up slowly, the blanket falling away from my chest. The room felt smaller than it had last night. The walls closer. The air thicker.
"Tell me everything," I said. "And don't leave anything out."
He turned to face me then. His eyes were red-rimmed, hollowed out. But beneath the exhaustion, something else burned. Something feral.
"I woke up early. Couldn't sleep. Kept dreaming about her. The blouse. The way she smelled. I thought—I thought if I just walked around, cleared my head, maybe it would stop. I went to the kitchen, drank some water. On the way back, I passed the guest room."
"The door was open."
"Not open. Just... not closed. A gap. Maybe this much." He held up his thumb and forefinger, barely an inch of space between them. "I could see the light from the window. I could hear her moving around. And I just—I stopped. I didn't plan it. I just stopped."
I wanted to interrupt. To tell him to skip to the part that mattered. But I knew better. He needed to say it all. To confess every detail, like a sinner at the feet of a priest.
"She was standing in front of the mirror. The big one, next to the wardrobe. Her back was to me, but I could see her in the reflection. She was wearing—fuck, bhai, she was wearing just a petticoat. Thin cotton. The kind that clings to everything. And a blouse. The blouse was open at the back. She was reaching behind, trying to unhook it."
His hands moved to his chest, mimicking the motion. Fingers trembling.
"I couldn't breathe. I knew I should walk away. I knew it. But my legs wouldn't move. I just stood there, watching her reflection. Watching her fingers work the hooks. One by one. Slow. Like she had all the time in the world."
"And then?"
"The blouse came off."
He closed his eyes. The memory washing over him like a wave.
"Her breasts, bhai. I've seen breasts before. You know I have. But not like that. Not hers. They were so—fuck, they were heavy. Full. The kind you just want to bury your face in. Her nipples were dark, almost brown, and they were hard. So hard. Standing up like they were begging to be touched."
He opened his eyes. They were wet again.
"She ran her hands over them. Slowly. Cupping them. Squeezing them. I could see her reflection in the mirror—her eyes were half-closed, like she was enjoying it. Like she was putting on a show. For herself. Or maybe... maybe for me."
"Don't say that."
"But it's true. She knew I was there. She had to know. And she just kept going. She bent over to pick up a fresh blouse from the bed. Her ass, bhai. Oh god, her ass. The petticoat was so thin I could see everything. The shape of it. The way it curved. The way the fabric disappeared between her cheeks."
His hand moved to his crotch. Not to stroke. Just to press. To relieve some of the pressure.
"I touched myself. I couldn't help it. I just—I grabbed my cock through my pyjamas and squeezed. And that's when the floorboard creaked."
"The floorboard."
"The one near the bathroom. You know how it always makes that sound. I shifted my weight and it creaked. Loud. And her head snapped toward the door. Toward me."
"You ran."
"I froze. I couldn't move. We just stared at each other through the gap. Her eyes—bhai, her eyes were so dark. So fucking dark. I thought she would scream. I thought she would call for kaka. I thought my life was over."
"But she didn't."
"No."
"What did she do?"
He looked at me. The feral thing in his eyes grew brighter.
"She straightened up. Slowly. She didn't cover herself. Didn't reach for the saree. Didn't even flinch. She just stood there, tits out, looking at me through the crack in the door. And then..."
"Then what?"
"She smiled."
The word fell from his lips like a curse.
"A small smile. Just the corners of her mouth turning up. Like she knew a secret. Like she'd just won something. And then she turned back to the mirror and started brushing her hair. Like nothing had happened."
He was shaking now. His whole body. I could see the tremors running through his arms, his shoulders, his jaw.
"She saw me, bhai. She saw me watching her. And she smiled. What does that mean? What the fuck does that mean?"
I didn't have an answer. I didn't want to have an answer. Because every possible answer led somewhere we couldn't come back from.
"Maybe it means nothing," I said. "Maybe she was just—maybe she didn't see you clearly. Maybe she thought you were someone else."
"She looked right at me. Right into my eyes."
"Maybe she was embarrassed. Maybe the smile was nervous."
"That wasn't a nervous smile."
"Rahul—"
"I know what I saw." He stood up suddenly, pacing the small space between our beds. His erection was still visible, still straining. He didn't seem to notice. Or care. "She looked at me like she knew. Like she'd known all along. Like she'd been waiting for me to crack."
"You're reading too much into it."
"Am I?"
He stopped pacing and faced me. The morning light caught his face, illuminating the dark circles under his eyes, the stubble on his jaw, the wild mess of his hair.
"Last night, you told me to stop. You told me to be careful. And I tried, bhai. I really tried. But it's like—it's like the universe is conspiring against me. Like she's conspiring. The door being open. Her standing there. The smile. It's too much. It's too fucking much."
"It's a coincidence."
"Is it?"
"Yes."
"You don't believe that."
I wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him he was being paranoid. That his guilt was making him see things that weren't there. But the words stuck in my throat. Because I didn't believe them either.
The door being open was one thing. But her not covering up? Her smiling? That wasn't normal. That wasn't the behavior of a woman who'd been caught off guard.
That was the behavior of a woman who knew exactly what she was doing.
"Okay," I said, swinging my legs out of bed. "Okay. Here's what we do. We act normal. We go to breakfast. We eat. We talk. We pretend this morning never happened."
"And if she says something?"
"She won't."
"But if she does?"
"Then you play dumb. You say you were half-asleep. You say you don't remember. Whatever it takes."
"That's your plan? Lie?"
"Lie, deny, deflect. Whatever gets us through the next nine days."
He laughed. A short, bitter sound.
"Nine days. You think I can survive nine days of this?"
"You have to."
"And what about her? What if she doesn't want me to survive? What if she wants to watch me burn?"
I stood up and grabbed his shoulders. Forced him to look at me.
"Listen to me. Whatever she wants, whatever she's doing, you can't play her game. You can't react. You can't engage. You have to be a ghost. Invisible. Do you understand?"
He stared at me. His pupils were dilated, almost swallowing the brown of his irises.
"I understand," he said.
But the way he said it—slow, deliberate, like he was tasting each word before letting it go—told me he didn't. Not really.
"You need to shower," I said. "Cold water. Now."
He nodded. Grabbed his towel. Walked to the door.
Then he stopped.
"Bhai?"
"What?"
"What if... what if I don't want to be a ghost?"
He didn't wait for an answer. Just opened the door and disappeared into the hallway, leaving me alone with the weight of his question and the smell of his sweat still hanging in the air.
I stood there for a long time, listening to the house wake up. The pressure cooker whistling. Amma's voice calling from the kitchen. The distant sound of the shower running.
When I finally went downstairs, Rahul was already at the table. His hair was wet, combed back. He was eating toast and chatting with Chandrahas kaka about the cricket scores. His voice was steady. His hands weren't shaking.
He looked like a different person.
And when Reshma mami walked in—hair loose, wearing a simple yellow saree, smelling of jasmine and coconut oil—he didn't look at her. Didn't even glance.
She sat down across from him. Poured herself some tea.
And then she said, "You were up early today, Rahul. I heard you moving around."
The room went still. Or maybe it didn't. Maybe it was just me, my heart stopping for a full second before stuttering back to life.
Rahul looked up. Met her eyes. Smiled.
"Couldn't sleep, mami. Just restless, I guess."
She smiled back. A small smile. Just the corners of her mouth turning up.
"I understand," she said. "Some nights are like that."
She lifted her cup to her lips and took a sip. Her eyes never left his.
And beneath the table, I watched her foot move. Just slightly. So that the edge of her sandal rested against the leg of his chair.
He didn't pull away.