Chapter 9: The Gift in the Bathroom
The dinner was a disaster for the first eleven minutes.
Purshottam had scrubbed his house twice. He had aired out the spare room. He had borrowed a chair from the neighbor's servant and arranged the three seats around his small dining table with the precision of a man defusing a bomb.
And now Manoj Dixit was sitting across from him, smiling too wide, saying, "The paneer is excellent, uncle. Really. Best I have had in months."
It was not excellent. Purshottam had bought it from the market that morning and it was rubbery and bland, and he knew it, and Manoj knew he knew it, and they were both pretending otherwise.
"The salt in the dal," Purshottam said, setting down his spoon. "I added too much. I was distracted. I apologize."
Ruby, seated to his left, touched his wrist. Just a brush of her fingers. "Uncle. It is perfect. Sit down. Eat."
He sat. He ate. The dal tasted like ash in his mouth.
The table was small. Too small. Ruby's knee kept brushing against his under the table—or maybe it was Manoj's; he could not tell, and the not knowing was its own kind of torture. Every time he felt the pressure of a limb against his own, his stomach clenched, and he had to remind himself to breathe.
Manoj was talking about his office. Something about a file that had gone missing. Purshottam nodded at what he hoped were appropriate intervals.
Ruby was watching him.
Not staring. Not accusing. Just watching. Her dark eyes moved over his face like she was reading a book she had already read twice and was still finding new things in.
"The transfer orders," Manoj said, and Purshottam realized he had missed something. "They are saying it might be next month. To Agra. Only a year, they say, but you know how these things go."
Purshottam blinked. "Agra?"
Manoj nodded, reaching for another chapati. "If it happens. Nothing is confirmed. But Ruby would stay here, of course. The house, the colony—she loves it here."
Purshottam's eyes slid to Ruby. She was not looking at him anymore. She was tearing a piece of chapati into smaller and smaller pieces, her face unreadable.
"Of course," Purshottam said. His voice came out strange.
Ruby glanced up. Their eyes met for a fraction of a second. Then she smiled—bright, dazzling, the kind of smile that made men forget what they were saying.
"Enough about Agra," she said. "Uncle, tell us about your son. The one in Canada."
Purshottam's throat tightened. He had not spoken about Vikram in months. Years, maybe. The boy called on Diwali. Sent a card on his birthday. Had a wife now, a child, a life that had nothing to do with Mathura or his father or the small, dusty house where he had grown up.
"He is well," Purshottam said. "He works in—in computers. Software."
"What does he do exactly?" Ruby leaned forward, genuinely curious, and Purshottam felt something in his chest loosen.
"He writes code. For banks, I think. It is complicated. I do not understand it." He paused. "He has a daughter. Kavya. She is three."
"Three!" Ruby's face lit up. "Do you have pictures?"
Purshottam hesitated. Then he rose and shuffled to the wooden cabinet by the wall, the one that held the few things he had not thrown away. He returned with a creased photograph—Vikram and his wife and a small, serious girl with Vikram's eyes.
Ruby took the photo. She studied it for a long moment, and something soft passed across her face.
"She has your forehead," she said, handing it back. "The same shape. You must be very proud."
Purshottam looked at the photograph. He looked at his son's face, his granddaughter's face, the family he had been given and had somehow, slowly, lost.
"I am," he said quietly. "I am proud."
He put the photo away and returned to the table. The dal was cold now. He did not care. He ate it anyway.
Ruby told a story about her mother—something about a wedding, a runaway horse, a plate of jalebis that ended up in a river. Manoj laughed so hard he had to put down his glass. Purshottam found himself smiling. Actually smiling. His face felt strange, as if the muscles had forgotten how.
By the time Ruby produced the gulab jamun—she had brought them from the sweetshop near the temple, the good one, the one that used real khoya—Purshottam was almost relaxed. Almost comfortable. The silence between them had softened into something almost like companionship.
Then Ruby excused herself to use the bathroom.
Purshottam did not think anything of it. He was too busy trying to explain to Manoj why the rent on the colony's common water tank had gone up again. Manoj was nodding, asking questions, being the polite, attentive younger man he always was.
The bathroom was at the back of the house, past the kitchen, past the room where Purshottam slept. Ruby walked there slowly, her saree whispering against the floor.
She closed the door behind her.
The bathroom was small—a toilet, a sink, a cracked mirror above it. The bulb overhead flickered slightly, casting strange shadows on the walls.
Ruby looked at herself in the mirror.
Her cheeks were flushed. Her eyes were bright. She looked like a woman who had made a decision and was about to see it through.
She reached behind her back and unfastened the hooks of her blouse. Then her blouse came loose, and she slid her arms out of the sleeves, careful not to dislodge the pallu.
The bra was black. Lace. Expensive—Manoj had bought it for her birthday last year, from a shop in Delhi that he had been too embarrassed to enter and had sent her into alone.
She unhooked it and pulled it off. Her breasts fell free, heavy and warm, the nipples hardening in the cool air of the bathroom.
She looked at the bra in her hands. The lace was delicate, almost fragile. It smelled faintly of her perfume—jasmine, the one Purshottam would have smelled when he stood in her doorway.
Her panties came next. She reached under her saree, found the waistband, and slid them down over her hips and legs. They were the same black lace, the same perfume.
She laid both pieces on the edge of the sink. Then she found a scrap of paper—an old receipt in her purse—and a pen.
She wrote four words.
I hope you like it.
She looked at the note. She looked at the lingerie. She looked at herself in the mirror—naked under her saree now, nothing between her skin and the world except a few yards of yellow cotton.
She smiled.
Then she opened the door and walked back to the dining table.
Purshottam was mid-sentence when she returned. Something about the water tank. He did not even look up.
But Manoj did.
"Feeling better?" he asked, casual, not even glancing at her body.
"Much," Ruby said. She sat down, and the movement made her saree shift, and she felt the fabric slide against her bare nipples, against the soft skin of her belly, against the place between her legs where there was now nothing but cotton and air.
The sensation was electric. Every shift of her body, every breath, every slight movement of her arms sent a whisper of sensation across her skin. She felt exposed. She felt alive.
Purshottam was still talking about the water tank.
Ruby picked up her spoon and dipped it into the bowl of gulab jamun. The syrup was sticky and sweet. She lifted the spoon to her lips and ate, slowly, watching Purshottam's face as she did.
He did not notice. He was too busy being a host, being polite, being normal.
But she noticed him.
She noticed the way his eyes kept flickering to her, then away. She noticed the slight tremor in his hand when he reached for his glass of water. She noticed the flush that had crept up his neck and settled in his cheeks.
He was nervous. More nervous than he had been at the start of the meal.
He knew something was coming. He just did not know what.
Manoj finished his gulab jamun and leaned back in his chair. "That was wonderful, uncle. Really. We should do this more often."
Purshottam nodded. "Yes. Yes, of course."
Ruby stood. "I should use the bathroom before we go."
She walked past Purshottam's chair, close enough that her hip brushed his shoulder. She felt him stiffen. She did not look back.
In the bathroom, she checked her reflection. Still flushed. Still bright-eyed. She adjusted her pallu, tucking it more securely over her shoulder.
Then she returned to the table.
"Ready?" Manoj asked, rising.
"Ready."
They said their goodbyes at the door. Manoj shook Purshottam's hand—a firm, friendly grip. "Thank you, uncle. Truly. This was lovely."
Purshottam nodded. His voice, when he spoke, was hoarse. "Thank you for coming."
Ruby stepped forward. She did not offer her hand. Instead, she leaned in close, close enough that her lips almost brushed his ear.
"Goodnight, uncle," she whispered. "Sleep well."
She pulled back. Their eyes met.
Purshottam's face was a mask of confusion and want and terror. His lips parted slightly, as if he wanted to say something, but no words came.
Ruby smiled. Then she turned and followed her husband out into the night.
The gate creaked shut behind them. Their footsteps faded down the lane.
Purshottam stood in the doorway for a long moment. The night air was cool on his face. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. The moon was a thin sliver behind the clouds.
He closed the door.
He turned the latch.
He leaned his forehead against the wood and closed his eyes.
His heart was pounding. His palms were sweating. His mouth was dry.
He had felt it. When Ruby leaned in, when her lips brushed his ear, he had felt the heat of her body. He had smelled her perfume—jasmine, the same jasmine from last night. He had felt the soft brush of her hair against his cheek.
And he had wanted.
God help him, he had wanted.
He pushed himself away from the door. He walked to the bathroom. He did not know why. He told himself he needed to wash his face, to splash cold water on his skin, to calm down.
He opened the bathroom door.
The light was still on. The bulb flickered overhead.
And there, on the edge of the sink, lay a piece of black lace.
Purshottam froze.
He stared at it. His brain could not process what he was seeing. It was fabric. Women's fabric. Delicate and dark and utterly, impossibly out of place.
Beside it, a scrap of paper.
He picked up the paper first. His hands were shaking so badly he could barely read the words.
I hope you like it.
He read them again. Then again.
Then he looked at the lace.
It was a bra. He knew it was a bra. He had seen his wife's bras, long ago, hanging on the line to dry. But those had been simple things—white cotton, functional, without ornament.
This was different. This was black and lace and small, so small it could not possibly have contained Ruby's breasts. It was the kind of thing a woman wore for someone. The kind of thing a woman wore to be seen.
He picked it up.
The fabric was soft. Delicate. It smelled of jasmine and something else—something warm and female and intimate.
His fingers found the second piece. The panties. Matching black lace. So small they fit in the palm of his hand.
He stood there, in the flickering light of the bathroom, holding a woman's undergarments in his hands. His breath came in short, sharp gasps. His heart was pounding so hard he could hear it in his ears.
He should throw them away. He should march next door and demand to know what kind of game she was playing. He should—
He lifted the bra to his face.
He inhaled.
The scent hit him like a wave. Jasmine. Soap. Woman. It filled his lungs, his head, his entire body. He closed his eyes and breathed in again, deeper this time, and his knees nearly buckled.
He had not smelled anything like this in twenty-two years. He had not felt anything like this in twenty-two years. The wanting, the aching, the desperate, animal hunger that he had buried so deep he had convinced himself it was dead.
It was not dead. It was alive. It was clawing its way out of his chest.
He lowered the bra. He looked at it in his hands. Then he looked at the note again.
I hope you like it.
He did. God help him, he did.
Purshottam folded the lingerie carefully—so carefully, as if it were made of glass—and tucked it into the pocket of his kurta. The fabric was warm against his chest, against his heart.
He turned off the bathroom light.
He walked to his bedroom.
He sat on the edge of the bed, in the dark, and he pressed his hand against his pocket, feeling the shape of the lace beneath the cotton.
He did not think of a single cruel thing to say.
He thought only of her. Her eyes. Her voice. The way she had whispered in his ear.
Goodnight, uncle. Sleep well.
He would not sleep. He knew that now. He would lie awake all night, with the lingerie in his pocket and the scent of jasmine in his nose and the taste of something new—something terrifying and beautiful and alive—on his tongue.
And in the morning, he would water the tulsi.
And he would wait.
Because she had said six o'clock. She had said bring your complaints. She had said I will bring the sugar.
But she had not said what would happen after.
That, Purshottam thought, was the most terrifying thing of all.
He lay back on the bed. He closed his eyes. He pressed the lace to his face and inhaled, one more time, and let the darkness take him.