Chapter 5: The roma thing
The days following the hotel debacle passed in a smothering haze of quiet triumph for the rest of the household, and simmering humiliation for Shilpa. Prem’s attentions, which she had fought so fiercely to monopolize, had cooled into a polite, distant warmth. He doted on his son, fulfilled his husbandly checks on Prema with detached efficiency, and treated Shilpa with the vague, affectionate negligence one might show a favourite pet who had recently misbehaved. Her attempts to recapture his focus—a lighter touch at dinner, a lower cut of blouse—were met with a distracted smile and a swift change of subject. The sounds from her room at night had ceased entirely. The silence was more punishing than any noise.
It was in this atmosphere of chastened frustration that Roma’s message arrived, delivered by a surly-looking driver to the front gates: a simple card requesting an afternoon visit. The bold, looping script seemed to pulse with unspoken provocation. Shilpa’s first instinct was to refuse, to burn the card and pretend the woman had never existed. But a deeper, more wounded curiosity prevailed. She needed to understand the weapon that had so thoroughly disarmed her.
She received Roma not in the formal drawing room, but on the secluded western terrace, where the fading afternoon sun cast long, accusing shadows. It was a territory Shilpa considered her own, a place of secret cigarettes and private reveries. To invite Roma here was a calculated risk, a tacit admission of their shared, sordid history.
Roma arrived not in sequins, but in a crisp, lemon-yellow salwar kameez, her hair demurely covered with a dupatta. The transformation from cabaret siren to respectable visitor was jarring. Only her eyes, kohl-rimmed and appraising, betrayed her true nature.
“Thank you for seeing me,” Roma said, her voice a low murmur that carried across the empty terrace. She settled into the wrought-iron chair without waiting for an invitation, her movements still possessing that fluid, performative grace. “I wanted to thank you in person. For the… opportunity.”
“Opportunity?” Shilpa repeated, pouring tea with a hand she willed to steadiness.
“With Premji.” Roma’s lips curved. “It’s not every day one encounters a man of such… singular focus. Or stamina.”
Shilpa’s cup clinked against the saucer. She placed it down carefully. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
“Of course you do.” Roma took a slow sip, watching Shilpa over the rim. “You set the stage, darling. I must say, the suite, the flowers… very thoughtful. Though unnecessary. He would have been just as fierce on a bedsheet on the floor.” She set her cup down, leaning forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. “He told me things, you know. In the… intermissions.”
A cold dread trickled down Shilpa’s spine. “He was celebrating his son. Men say things in celebration.”
Roma laughed, a soft, pitying sound. “Oh, no. This wasn’t about the baby. This was about you. Or rather, about your sister.”
The world seemed to tilt slightly. The scent of jasmine from the garden below grew cloyingly sweet. “Prema?”
“He was in a reflective mood after the third time,” Roma said, examining her perfectly manicured nails. “Smoking, looking out at the city lights. He said it reminded him of his wedding night. With her.”
Shilpa remained motionless, a statue of forced composure.
“He said she wept,” Roma continued, her tone conversational, as if discussing the weather. “The whole time. Silent, polite little tears. He said it was like deflowering a statue. Beautiful, cold, duty-bound. He finished his business, kissed her forehead, and left her there in the marital bed.” Roma paused, letting the image settle. “And then, still buzzing with the thrill of it—the conquest, the tradition—he couldn’t sleep. The energy, you understand? It needed an outlet.”
She looked directly at Shilpa, her gaze sharp and unwavering. “So he came to me. That very night. Sent his driver to fetch me from the club. I was just starting out then, you see. He paid double. Said it was a celebration.” Her smile was thin, razor-like. “He fucked me against the wall of a friend’s borrowed flat in Colaba. My perfume clashing with the sandalwood paste still on his chest from the wedding rituals. He was… exuberant. A tiger who’d tasted its first blood and wanted more. He said it was the only way to wash the taste of her tears from his mouth.”
The terrace, the house, the entire world receded. All Shilpa could hear was the rush of blood in her own ears. The image was vile, and utterly believable: Prem, his sacred wedding sherwani cast aside, his body still marked by the rites of marriage, taking a cabaret girl in a crude, frantic coupling. The respectability, the noble bearing—all of it, a performance.
“He corrupted himself the moment he vowed to be faithful,” Roma said, almost gently. “Some men are like that. The restraint, the duty… it just makes the hunger worse. Your sister never stood a chance. She was the trophy. I was the release.”
“And I?” Shilpa managed to ask, her voice a dry whisper.
Roma tilted her head. “You were the challenge. The forbidden fruit hanging a little higher on the tree. He enjoyed the game with you, I think. The secrecy. The family tension. But honey, a man like that… he doesn’t settle for one flavour. He needs a banquet.” She stood, smoothing the yellow fabric of her kameez. “He’s a magnificent animal, your Jiju. But he’s an animal. He was rutting with dancers before your sister’s wedding night tears were dry. Remember that.”
She left then, her footsteps silent on the stone. Shilpa sat alone as the sun dipped below the garden wall, plunging the terrace into a premature twilight. The fireflies began their blinking dance, points of false light in the gathering dark.
All her strategies, her silks, her perfumes, her petty victories over Prema—they were the actions of a child playing checkers while Prem was playing a different game entirely. She had seen his desire for her as a unique and powerful force, a corruption she had inspired. But the corruption was already there, foundational, twining through his character like a deep-rooted vine. He had not fallen from grace for her; he had never resided there.
The sound of Rahul’s faint cry floated from the nursery wing, followed by the softer murmur of Prema’s voice. The first wife, the mother of his heir, secure in her hard-won purpose. And Shilpa? She was neither trophy nor release. She was a transient diversion who had mistaken her own novelty for power.
A cold clarity washed over her, sharper and more devastating than any jealousy. She was not the architect of this family’s ruin. She was merely another symptom of a decay that had begun long before she entered its gilded doors. The question that now remained, hanging in the jasmine-scented darkness, was what one did with such a poisonous truth.