Chapter 13: The Dare That Turns the Tables
The washroom door clicked shut behind her, and the silence that followed was a living thing.
Balwant stared at the closed door. His kurta still hung open, the silver locket resting against the gray hairs on his chest, rising and falling with each breath. He looked like a man who had just watched his last chance walk out of the room on two perfect legs.
"Beta," he said quietly, "tumne kya kar diya?"
Son, what have you done?
I didn't answer. I couldn't. My heart was hammering against my ribs, my palms were slick with sweat, and somewhere in the pit of my stomach, a cold knot of realization was tightening with every passing second.
I had just told Reshma Shetty—Rohan's mother, the woman who had fed me dinner a hundred times, the woman whose son was my best friend—to go find some stranger on this train and let him eat her out. On camera. And send me the video.
What the fuck had I been thinking?
"You gave her a dare," Balwant said, his voice flat. "Now she will complete it."
"I know."
"You know?" He turned to face me, and for the first time, I saw something other than flirtation in his eyes. Something harder. "Tumhe pata hai yeh train kahan ja rahi hai? Kashmir. Pahadon ke beech. Yahan koi bhi ho sakta hai. Koi bhi."
You know where this train is going? Kashmir. Into the mountains. Anyone could be here. Anyone.
"I know."
"Toh phir?"
I didn't have an answer for him.
The train lurched. I grabbed the edge of the sink to steady myself, and my fingers brushed against the black lace still sitting there—the panty, abandoned, forgotten in the chaos of the last few minutes. I picked it up without thinking. The fabric was warm. Still warm from her body.
Balwant watched me.
"Woh tumhari dost ki maa hai," he said.
She's your friend's mother.
"I know."
"Toh phir tum usse aise kyun dekh rahe ho?"
Then why are you looking at her like that?
I shoved the panty into my pocket. "Main nahi dekh raha."
I'm not looking.
"Jhooth."
Lies.
He was right. I was lying. I had been lying since the moment she stepped onto this train with her low-waisted saree and her exposed navel and her scent that wrapped around my throat like a fist. I had been lying to myself, telling myself this was just a journey, just an obligation, just a favor for a friend.
But here I was. In a washroom. With her panty in my pocket. And a video coming to my phone that I had demanded she make.
"Hum bahar chalte hain," I said.
Let's go outside.
Balwant didn't move.
"Tum jaao," he said. "Main thoda saans le loon."
I nodded. Pushed open the washroom door. Stepped into the corridor.
The world hit me like a slap.
Sunlight streamed through the windows, harsh and indifferent. The train had slowed—we were passing through a station, maybe, or approaching one, the platform a blur of faces and colors and the smell of chai and samosas drifting in through the open doors. Normal life. Normal people. Going about their normal days while I stood here with a married woman's underwear in my pocket and the taste of her skin still on my lips.
I looked left. Right. No sign of Reshma.
My phone was gone. She had taken it. She had asked for the PIN and I had given it to her—I had actually given it to her—and now she was somewhere on this train, hunting for an old man to fuck.
I started walking.
The corridor swayed beneath my feet. I passed compartments—families with children, businessmen with laptops, a group of college students laughing at something on someone's phone. None of them looked at me. None of them knew. None of them could see the evidence of what I had become.
I reached the end of the carriage. The door to the next coach was open, and I stepped through, my eyes scanning every face, every figure.
And then I saw her.
She was standing near the door of the pantry car, her back to me, her saree adjusted so that the pallu hung just so—covering her chest, revealing her back, the folds of fabric dipping low enough to show the curve of her spine. She was talking to someone. An old man.
Not Balwant.
This one was smaller. Wirier. Bald on top with a fringe of white hair around his ears, a walking stick propped against the wall beside him, a garland of marigolds around his neck that suggested he had recently visited a temple. He was wearing a white kurta-pajama, and he was laughing at something Reshma had said.
His laugh was loud. Uninhibited. The laugh of a man who had not expected to find himself in this situation but was enjoying it immensely.
I stopped.
My chest tightened.
I watched her lean in. Watched her hand come up to rest on his arm. Watched his eyes drop—down, down, down—to the place where her saree dipped below her navel, to the smooth brown skin of her stomach, to the shadow of her belly button that she had never once tried to hide.
He said something. She laughed. Tossed her hair.
And then she turned.
She saw me.
Her smile didn't falter. It widened.
She raised her hand—the hand holding my phone—and waved.
Then she gestured for me to come closer.
I didn't move.
She gestured again. More insistent this time. And the old man turned to look at me, his eyes curious, his expression open and friendly and completely unaware of what he was about to become.
I walked toward them.
Each step felt like wading through water. The closer I got, the more details I could see—the gold chain around his neck, the ring on his finger, the small pouch of tobacco he was holding in one hand. His face was lined and weathered, but his eyes were bright. Clever. The eyes of a man who had seen too much to be surprised by anything.
"Yeh Rahul hai," Reshma said, introducing me. "Mera beta samaan hai."
This is Rahul. He's like my son.
The old man looked at me. Then at her. Then back at me again. Something flickered in his expression—understanding, maybe, or amusement, or both.
"Namaste, beta," he said. "Main Prithvi hoon."
Hello, son. I'm Prithvi.
Prithvi.
The name hit me like a stone.
Balwant had mentioned him. Earlier, in the washroom, when we were playing truth or dare. Prithvi and Balwant—the two old men Reshma had been eyeing. Balwant had been the chosen one, the one she had kissed, the one whose chest she had touched.
But now she was here. With the other one.
"Reshma ji ne mujhe bataya ki tum dono khel rahe ho," Prithvi said, his voice creaking like old wood. "Truth or dare."
"Something like that," I managed.
He nodded. "Achha khel hai. Maine bhi khela tha. Bahut saal pehle."
Good game. I played it too. Many years ago.
He smiled at Reshma. She smiled back.
And I understood.
She had already told him. Already offered. Already made her proposition to this man—this stranger—and he had accepted. He was willing. More than willing. He was looking at her like she was the first woman he had seen in decades, like she was water in a desert, like she was something he had given up hoping for long before I was born.
"Rahul," Reshma said, her voice soft, "phone."
She held it out to me.
I took it.
The screen was still warm. I looked down and saw that she had already opened the camera. Already set it up. Already made sure everything was ready.
"Bas ek video," she said. "Woh bana dega. Tumhe bhej dega. Aur phir…" She paused. Tilted her head. "Phir panty tumhari."
Just one video. He'll make it. Send it to you. And then… then the panty is yours.
Prithvi was watching us. His expression hadn't changed. He looked like a man who had lived long enough to understand that sometimes the universe offered gifts without explanation, and the only proper response was to accept them with gratitude.
"Kahan?" he asked.
Where?
Reshma looked around. The corridor was empty now—the train had picked up speed again, and everyone had retreated to their seats. But it wouldn't stay empty for long.
"Washroom," she said. "Balwant ke saath wala."
Prithvi nodded. Started to gather his walking stick.
I stood there. Frozen. My hand wrapped around my phone. My mind screaming at me to stop this, to say something, to do anything other than stand here and let this happen.
But I didn't.
I couldn't.
Because underneath the horror, underneath the guilt, underneath the voice in my head that sounded like Rohan's—there was something else. Something darker. Something that wanted to see this through.
Something that wanted to watch.
Reshma turned to me. Her eyes were warm. Knowing. She reached out and touched my cheek—just a brush of her fingers, feather-light and electric.
"Tum bhi aa rahe ho na?" she asked.
You're coming too, right?
I nodded.
I didn't trust myself to speak.
She smiled. Turned. Started walking back toward our carriage, her saree swaying with each step, her hips moving in that unhurried rhythm that had haunted me since the moment she stepped on this train.
Prithvi followed. His walking stick clicked against the floor. Slow. Steady.
And I followed them both.
The washroom door was still closed.
Balwant was still inside.
Reshma knocked. Once. Twice.
The door opened.
Balwant stood there, his kurta now buttoned, his expression unreadable. He looked at Reshma. Then at Prithvi. Then at me. And something in his face closed—like a door slamming shut, like a light switching off.
"Toh yeh hai tera shikaar," he said.
So this is your prey.
Prithvi smiled. "Balwant Singh. Bahut saal baad."
Balwant Singh. After many years.
"You know each other?" Reshma asked.
Balwant's jaw tightened. "Hum neighbours the. Bohot saal pehle. Phir woh Delhi chala gaya."
We were neighbors. Many years ago. Then he moved to Delhi.
Reshma's eyes sparkled. "Toh phir toh aur bhi achha hai. Purane dost. Purani yaadein."
Then it's even better. Old friends. Old memories.
She stepped past Balwant into the washroom.
Prithvi followed.
And I stood in the doorway, watching as the door began to close.
Reshma's hand caught it.
"Aao," she said to me.
Come.
I stepped inside.
The door clicked shut.
The washroom was smaller now. Crowded. Three old men—two old men—and me and her. The air was thick with the smell of cologne and sweat and something else, something raw and animal and undeniable.
Reshma turned to face us.
She looked at Balwant first. Then Prithvi. Then me.
"Achha," she said. "Ab shuru karein?"
Okay. Shall we begin?
Prithvi stepped forward.
His walking stick clattered to the floor.
And he reached for the knot of her saree.