Chapter 13: The First Full Massage
The door clicked shut behind Purshottam, and the sound of it echoed through the bedroom like a stone dropped into a well.
Ruby sat on the edge of the bed with the sheet pulled up to her collarbone. Her skin was still slick with oil—sandalwood and something else, something herbal and sharp that lingered in her nostrils. The smell of him. The old man's hands had left their scent on her body.
Manoj stood by the window with his back to her. His shoulders were rigid. His hands were shoved deep into his pockets.
He had watched. The whole time. He had stood in that corner like a sentinel while another man—an old, bitter, small man who had spent years calling his wife a whore—had touched her bare skin.
And he had not stopped it.
He had not even wanted to stop it.
That was the part that gnawed at him.
"Manoj," Ruby said.
He did not turn around.
"Come here," she said.
He turned.
His face was strange—caught somewhere between love and something darker. Something he could not name. He walked to the bed and sat down beside her. The mattress dipped under his weight. Their thighs touched through the thin cotton of the sheet.
"You're angry," she said.
"No."
"You're lying."
He exhaled. A long, slow breath that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest.
"I'm not angry," he said. "I'm—" He stopped. He ran a hand through his hair. "I don't know what I am."
Ruby reached out and took his hand. His fingers were cold. She pressed them against her palm, warming them.
"Tell me," she said.
Manoj stared at their joined hands.
"When he touched you," he said slowly, "I wanted to kill him."
Ruby did not flinch.
"But I didn't," he continued. "I didn't move. I didn't say anything. I just stood there and watched, and I kept telling myself that this was for you. That this was medicine. That this was healing."
He looked up at her. His eyes were wet.
"But it didn't feel like medicine," he said. "It felt like something else. And I don't know what that makes me."
Ruby squeezed his hand.
"It makes you human," she said.
He laughed. A short, bitter sound.
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer I have."
She leaned into him. Her shoulder—the good one—pressed against his arm. The sheet slipped a little, revealing the top of her breast. She did not pull it up.
"Do you want to know what I felt?" she asked.
Manoj hesitated. Then he nodded.
"It hurt," she said. "God, it hurt. When his thumb pressed into that knot under my shoulder blade, I thought I was going to scream. It was like he was reaching inside me and pulling something out. Something that had been stuck there for months."
She paused.
"But then—" She stopped. Chewed her lip. "Then it started to feel different. The pain was still there, but there was something underneath it. Something warm. Something that spread through my whole body like—like honey. Like I was melting."
Manoj's grip on her hand tightened.
"And when his fingers touched my breast," she said, "I felt it everywhere. Not just there. Everywhere. In my stomach. Between my legs. In my throat."
She looked at him.
"I haven't felt that in months, Manoj. Not since the fall. Not since the pain started. I thought that part of me was gone. I thought I was broken."
Manoj's jaw worked. His thumb traced circles on the back of her hand.
"You're not broken," he said.
"I know," she said. "But I needed to feel it to believe it."
They sat in silence for a long moment. The ceiling fan creaked overhead. Outside, a car passed, its headlights sweeping across the wall.
"So what happens now?" Manoj asked.
Ruby pulled the sheet tighter around herself.
"He comes back tomorrow," she said.
"I know."
"And the day after that. And the day after that. Fifteen sessions. Maybe twenty."
"I know."
She turned to face him fully. The sheet slipped again, pooling at her waist. Her breasts were bare in the dim light—full, heavy, the nipples still tight from the cold and from something else. Something she did not want to name.
Manoj looked at her. He did not look away.
"I need to know," she said, "that you're okay with this. Not just saying you're okay. Actually okay. Because if you're not—if this is going to break something between us—then I'll stop. I'll find another way."
Manoj reached out and touched her face. His palm was rough against her cheek.
"I'm not okay," he said. "I'm jealous. I'm angry. I'm confused. Every time I think about his hands on you, I want to punch a wall."
Ruby's face fell.
"But," he continued, "I also know that you need this. And I know that he's the only one who can help you. And I know that I love you more than I hate him."
He paused.
"So I'll be there tomorrow. And the day after. And every day after that. And if I have to stand in that corner and watch him touch you and pretend it doesn't bother me, then that's what I'll do. Because that's what you need."
Ruby felt tears prick her eyes.
"You're a good man," she said.
"I'm a man who loves his wife," he said. "That's all."
She kissed him.
It started soft—gentle, tentative, the way they had kissed a thousand times before. But then something shifted. Something hungry. Something that had been building for months, buried under pain and frustration and fear.
Manoj's hands found her waist. His fingers dug into her hips. She gasped against his mouth, and he pulled her closer, the sheet falling away entirely.
"I want you," she breathed.
"I know," he said.
He pushed her back onto the mattress, and she went willingly. The sheets were still slick with oil, still fragrant with sandalwood. She could smell Purshottam on her own skin, and the thought of it—the thought of that old man's hands on her body while her husband watched—sent a jolt of something electric through her veins.
Manoj kissed her neck. Her collarbone. The hollow of her throat.
"You're mine," he murmured against her skin. "No matter who touches you. No matter what happens. You're mine."
"Yes," she whispered.
His mouth found her breast. She arched into him, her hands tangling in his hair, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The pain in her shoulder was still there—a dull, persistent ache—but it was drowned out by something else. Something primal. Something that had nothing to do with medicine.
"I love you," she said.
"I know," he said.
And then he was inside her, and the world narrowed to the width of their bed, and the night swallowed them whole.
---
Later, when the sweat had dried on their skin and their breathing had slowed to something resembling normal, Ruby lay with her head on Manoj's chest. His heart beat against her ear—steady, strong, the most familiar sound in the world.
"Do you think he'll be able to fix me?" she asked.
Manoj's hand stroked her hair.
"I don't know," he said. "But I think he's going to try."
Ruby closed her eyes.
She thought about Purshottam. About the way his hands had trembled. About the way he had asked for permission—not once, but twice. About the way he had said, "I am not that kind of man," with his voice cracking like old wood.
She thought about the way his fingers had felt on her breast. Not tentative. Not lecherous. Not even clinical. Something else. Something that she could not quite name.
She thought about tomorrow.
And the day after.
And all the days that would follow.
A slow, dangerous smile curved her lips.
"Good," she whispered.
Manoj stirred.
"What?"
"Nothing," she said. "Just—good."
He kissed the top of her head and pulled her closer.
Outside, the night insects screamed. The banyan tree rustled in the wind. And somewhere across the wall, in the house next door, an old man sat alone in the dark, his hands still smelling of sandalwood and something else.
Something he had not felt in years.
Something that terrified him.
Something that he could not wait to feel again.