Chapter 14: Two Pairs of Hands
The morning arrived with the unhurried cruelty of a Mathura summer—already suffocating by seven, the ceiling fan doing little more than pushing hot air in lazy circles.
Ruby woke first.
She lay still for a long moment, listening to Manoj's breathing beside her. Deep. Even. The sleep of a man who had spent his night wrestling ghosts and finally surrendered to exhaustion.
Her body ached in places she had forgotten she had.
Not the old pain—the sharp, electric thing that had lived in her shoulder for months. This was different. A deep, muscular soreness that spread from her neck to her lower back like a bruise that had settled into the bone. The kind of ache that came after a hard workout. Or a hard night.
She smiled at the ceiling.
Manoj stirred beside her.
"What time is it?" he mumbled into the pillow.
"Late enough."
"Late enough for what?"
She turned on her side to face him. His eyes were still closed, his hair a disaster, his jaw shadowed with stubble.
"For him to come back," she said.
Manoj opened one eye.
"You're eager."
"I'm curious."
He groaned and rolled onto his back.
"That's worse."
Ruby laughed. A bright, genuine sound that seemed to fill the small room and push against the walls.
"Get up," she said. "Make me tea. I need to bathe before he arrives."
Manoj sat up slowly. He looked at her—really looked at her—and something softened in his face.
"You're different today," he said.
"I know."
"Good different?"
She considered the question.
"Just different," she said. "Ask me again in a week."
---
Purshottam arrived at ten.
He knocked three times—sharp, deliberate, the knock of a man who had rehearsed it in his head a dozen times before his knuckles touched the wood.
Manoj opened the door.
They faced each other across the threshold. The old man looked smaller in the daylight, his shoulders hunched, his hands clasped behind his back. He wore a clean white kurta and carried a small cloth bag that smelled faintly of camphor and cloves.
"Come in," Manoj said.
Purshottam stepped inside. His eyes swept the room—the same room where he had stood the night before, where his hands had touched things they should not have touched—and settled on the closed bedroom door.
"She is ready?" he asked.
"She's waiting."
Purshottam nodded. He did not move toward the door.
"There is a problem," he said.
Manoj's jaw tightened.
"What problem?"
"I cannot do this alone."
Manoj stared at him.
"You did it last night."
"Last night was—" Purshottam paused, searching for words. "Last night was the surface. The easy part. Your wife has knots that go deep. Into her ribs. Her back. Her—" He gestured vaguely at his own chest. "Her chest. I cannot reach them all from one side. I need help."
Manoj crossed his arms.
"You want me to find someone else?"
"I want you to consider it."
"Where am I supposed to find a masseur in Mathura at ten in the morning? Someone I can trust? Someone who won't—" He stopped. The words hung in the air.
Purshottam met his eyes.
"I know someone," he said.
"Who?"
"Bansal. The shopkeeper."
Manoj blinked.
"The man who sells me cigarettes?"
"He trained as a masseur in his youth. Before his father died. Before he took over the shop."
"How do you know that?"
Purshottam looked uncomfortable.
"I know many things about many people," he said. "It is a habit I developed when I could not do much else."
The self-pity in his voice was so faint that Manoj almost missed it. Almost.
"You trust him?"
Purshottam hesitated.
"I trust him to be professional," he said carefully. "He is not—he is not like me. He does not care about the body he is working on. He cares about the money. And he is good at what he does."
Manoj ran a hand through his hair.
"If I say no?"
"Then I will do what I can. But it will take longer. And it will hurt her more."
From behind the bedroom door, Ruby's voice cut through the silence.
"Let him come."
Both men turned.
She stood in the doorway, wrapped in a thin cotton robe that clung to her curves like a second skin. Her hair was wet, pulled back from her face. Her feet were bare. She looked like something out of a painting—something that belonged in a gallery, not in a small house in Mathura.
"Ruby—" Manoj started.
"I heard everything," she said. "Let him come. If Purshottam-uncle says he's good, then I believe him."
Manoj closed his eyes.
"Fine," he said. "But I'm staying in the room."
Ruby smiled.
"I wouldn't have it any other way."
---
Bansal arrived twenty minutes later.
He was a wiry man in his late fifties, with graying hair and a mustache that seemed too large for his face. He carried a leather bag that had seen better decades and wore a nervous smile that he could not seem to turn off.
"Namaste, namaste," he said, bowing slightly as he entered. "Purshottam-ji said you needed—" His eyes landed on Ruby, and his smile faltered.
She stood in the middle of the living room, still in her robe, her arms crossed loosely over her chest. She looked at him the way she looked at everyone—directly, without apology.
"I need a massage," she said. "Therapeutic. I have knots in my shoulder and my ribs. I've been in pain for months."
Bansal swallowed.
"Therapeutic," he repeated.
"Purely therapeutic."
"Of course. Of course."
Manoj stepped forward.
"I'm her husband," he said. "I'll be in the room the entire time. You'll do exactly what Purshottam-uncle tells you to do. Nothing more. Nothing less."
Bansal nodded quickly.
"Understood. Completely understood."
Purshottam, who had been standing silently by the window, cleared his throat.
"We should begin," he said. "The oil needs time to absorb."
Ruby turned and walked back toward the bedroom. The three men followed her like a procession—Purshottam first, then Bansal, then Manoj, who closed the door behind them and took his place in the corner.
---
The room had been prepared.
A white sheet covered the bed. A small table beside it held two bottles of oil, a clean towel, and a glass of water. The curtains were drawn, but the midday sun still found its way through the gaps, striping the floor with heat.
Ruby untied her robe.
She let it fall.
Bansal made a sound—half gasp, half cough—and immediately turned his head away.
Purshottam did not look away. He had seen her last night, had touched her last night, but somehow this felt different. The light was different. The stakes were different. He forced himself to focus on the task.
"Lie down," he said.
Ruby obeyed.
She stretched out on her stomach on the white sheet, her face turned to one side, her arms resting loosely at her sides. Her body was a landscape—the curve of her spine, the swell of her hips, the heavy weight of her breasts pressed against the sheet.
She was completely naked.
Manoj, from his corner, watched his wife's back rise and fall with each breath. He watched the way the light played across her skin. He watched Bansal's trembling hands as the shopkeeper fumbled with his oil bottle.
"You take the top," Purshottam said. "Shoulders. Neck. Ribs. And—" He paused. "The chest. When she turns over."
Bansal's Adam's apple bobbed.
"And you?"
"The lower body. Hips. Thighs. Back. Buttocks."
They spoke about her body the way farmers spoke about land—dividing it, apportioning it, negotiating the boundaries between them.
Ruby said nothing. Her eyes were closed.
She was already gone.
---
They began.
Bansal knelt at the head of the bed, his knees pressing into the floor, his oiled hands hovering over Ruby's shoulders. He hesitated for a moment—one long, terrible moment—and then he touched her.
His hands were different from Purshottam's. Softer. More practiced. He worked the muscles of her neck with his thumbs, tracing circles that grew wider and deeper with each pass. He found the knot at the base of her skull and pressed into it with steady, unrelenting pressure.
Ruby exhaled.
It was a sound that was not quite a moan.
At the other end of the bed, Purshottam poured oil into his palms and began working on her feet. He started with her heels, kneading the calloused skin with his knuckles, then moved to the arches, pressing his thumbs into the soft tissue. He worked his way up her calves, then her ankles, then the backs of her knees.
His hands moved higher.
Ruby's breath caught.
Bansal reached her shoulders. He gripped them—both at once—and squeezed. The muscles yielded under his palms, releasing a tension that had been there for so long that Ruby had forgotten what it felt like to be without it.
"Don't stop," she whispered.
Bansal's hands moved down. Along her spine. Along the ridges of her ribs. He could feel the knots there—tight, angry bunches of muscle that had curled around her bones like fists. He pressed into them, one by one, working them loose with slow, deliberate strokes.
Purshottam's hands reached her thighs. He oiled the backs of them, then the inner curves, then the soft, private flesh at the top. His fingers moved slowly. Carefully. He was aware of Manoj's eyes on him from the corner.
He did not look up.
Ruby's body began to respond.
It was not a choice. It was not something she decided to do. It was something that happened to her—a warmth that spread from the places they touched to the places they did not. Her fingers curled against the sheet. Her hips pressed down into the mattress. Her breath came in shallow, uneven gasps.
"Turn over," Purshottam said.
She turned.
Bansal looked away. Then looked back. Then looked away again.
Purshottam did not look away. He had learned that much last night.
Ruby lay on her back now, her arms above her head, her breasts exposed to the dim light. They were full and heavy, the nipples dark against the pale skin, the curves soft and yielding. The oil had spread across them, catching the light like water.
She was beautiful.
The word felt inadequate. It felt like calling the ocean wet.
The men resumed their work.
Bansal took her shoulders again, kneading the muscles that wrapped around her collarbone. His hands moved lower, into the hollows beneath her arms, then lower still, into the tops of her ribs. He worked the intercostal muscles with his fingertips, loosening the tight web of tissue that had bound her chest for months.
His thumbs grazed the upper slopes of her breasts.
Ruby made a sound.
A small sound. A quiet sound. But a sound that made Bansal freeze, his hands hovering, his eyes wide.
Manoj, from the corner, said nothing.
Purshottam's hands moved to her hips. He gripped the bones and squeezed, working his thumbs into the tight muscles that connected her pelvis to her spine. He worked his way down, into the curves of her buttocks, pressing into the deep knots that had settled there like stones in a riverbed.
Ruby's back arched.
She was not sure what she was feeling anymore.
The pain was still there—the sharp, electric thing that lived in her shoulder, the dull ache in her lower back, the tension that ran through her body like a wire pulled too tight. But it was fading now, replaced by something else.
Something warm.
Something liquid.
Something that pooled in her belly and spread through her limbs and made her toes curl.
"Don't stop," she whispered.
Purshottam's hands paused.
"Both of you," she said. "Don't stop."
Bansal's breath was ragged. His hands were trembling. But he obeyed.
He pressed his thumbs into the undersides of her breasts, working the deep tissue that ran along her ribcage. Then higher, into the outer edges. Then higher still, into the soft, heavy curves that trembled under his touch.
Ruby's lips parted.
Her breathing was quick now, shallow and uneven, the kind of breathing that came before a storm.
Manoj watched.
His fists were clenched at his sides. His jaw was tight. His heart was pounding in his chest. He wanted to look away, but he could not. He wanted to leave, but he could not move.
He watched his wife's body stretch beneath the hands of two men.
He watched her face—the way her eyes were closed, the way her lips were parted, the way her brow furrowed and softened and furrowed again.
He watched her surrender.
---
Purshottam's hands reached her calves.
He could feel the tension there—the way her muscles jumped and tightened with each pass. He could feel the heat radiating from her skin. He could feel the pulse that beat in the hollow behind her knee—fast, insistent, out of rhythm with her breathing.
He closed his eyes.
He had not intended for this.
He had intended to heal her. To fix what was broken. To prove—to himself, to her, to Manoj—that he was not what they thought he was.
But his hands were on her skin, and her skin was slick with oil, and her body was responding to him in a way that made his own body respond in kind.
He wanted to stop.
He wanted to run.
He wanted to stay here forever.
"Harder," Ruby whispered.
Purshottam's eyes opened.
"Harder," she said again. "Please."
He pressed his thumbs into the meat of her calves, and she moaned—a long, low sound that seemed to come from somewhere deep in her chest.
Bansal's hands moved to her breasts.
He cupped them now—fully, openly—and lifted them gently, working the muscles beneath with his fingertips. He was not pretending anymore. He was not being careful. He was doing exactly what he had been asked to do.
The room was silent except for the sound of breathing.
Ruby's breathing. Fast and shallow.
Purshottam's breathing. Slow and measured.
Bansal's breathing. Ragged and desperate.
Manoj's breathing. Still.
---
The session lasted another hour.
By the time they were done, Ruby's body was limp and boneless, a puddle of flesh and oil on the white sheet. Her eyes were closed. Her breathing had slowed. A small smile curved her lips.
Bansal stood up on shaky legs.
"I should—" He cleared his throat. "I should go."
Purshottam nodded.
"Come back tomorrow," he said.
Bansal looked at Ruby. At Manoj. At the door.
"I will," he said.
He left.
Purshottam lingered for a moment, looking at Ruby's sleeping form. Then he, too, turned to go.
"Uncle."
He stopped.
Ruby's eyes were open now. They were dark and depthless, and they looked at him the way no one had looked at him in years.
"Thank you," she said.
He nodded once.
And then he walked out.
---
Manoj closed the door behind him and stood in the hallway for a long moment.
He could hear Ruby moving inside—the rustle of the sheet, the soft pad of her footsteps. She was cleaning herself up. Getting dressed. Pretending that nothing had happened.
But something had happened.
Something had changed.
He did not know what it was yet. He did not know if it was good or bad or something in between. He only knew that he was standing in the hallway of his own home, and his wife was in the bedroom, and his heart was beating in his chest like it wanted to break free.
He pressed his palm against the door.
And he waited.
Inside, Ruby hummed a tune he did not recognize.