Chapter 10: jiju pins rasika
Sarika shifted on the plush divan, the silk of her sari whispering against the velvet. The single lamp cast long shadows, making Rasika’s sharp features look both severe and secretive. The scent of last night’s sandalwood from Prem’s visit still hung in the air, a taunt Sarika could practically taste.
“You look at him like he’s a god who occasionally fucks you,” Sarika said, the bitterness sharp on her tongue. “But it wasn’t always like this, was it? You were just the poor friend once. How did you even get him to look at you?”
A slow, triumphant smile spread across Rasika’s lips. She leaned back, tracing the rim of her empty wine glass. “You think it happened overnight? You think I just lay down and opened my legs? No, saali. It was a game. A long, delicious game.”
She let the silence stretch, watching Sarika’s impatient fidgeting. “After Didi married him, he was a fortress. So devoted. So… moral.” She spat the word like a pit. “But even fortresses have cracks. I saw his eyes on me when I’d play the innocent saali, bumping into him, asking him to fix my sari pallu that kept ‘slipping.’ He had this chest, you know? Like a bear’s. Hairy. I’d see it when he’d come home hot, unbuttoning his kurta. I’d make a joke, ‘Arre, Jiju, so wild! Does Didi need a jungle guide at night?’”
Sarika flushed, a mix of disgust and unwanted arousal tightening her stomach. “You’re vulgar.”
“I’m honest,” Rasika countered, her eyes gleaming. “He’d laugh, a deep rumble, but his eyes would darken. He’d control himself. He’d go to his Prema at night and fuck her senseless. And the next day, she’d tell me all about it, giggling, thinking she was sharing secrets with her dear friend. ‘He was an animal last night, Rasika,’ she’d sigh, rubbing her back. And I’d sit there, smiling, while my skin felt like it was on fire.”
She stood up, pacing like a caged tigress. “Then my father’s debts. The moneylenders at the door. I went to him, tears real that time. ‘Jiju, it is your duty to help your saalis, no? Especially the pretty, troubled ones?’ He gave me the money. A stack of notes, thick as a brick. But he gripped my wrist when he handed it over. ‘Not a word to Prema,’ he said. ‘She gets jealous. She doesn’t understand a man’s… responsibilities.’ His thumb brushed my pulse point. That was the crack.”
The memory seemed to pull her in. Her voice dropped, becoming a husky confession in the dim light. “Then came Holi. God, what a day. Colors everywhere. Laughter. Bhang flowed like water. We were all in the courtyard—him, me, Didi—throwing colors, screaming, bodies colliding. His hands were all over me, rubbing color into my cheeks, my neck, my waist, but it was ‘just fun,’ right? Just Holi. The bhang made him bold. His eyes were red-rimmed, feral. Didi left in the afternoon, her mother suddenly unwell. Convenient, no?”
Rasika’s gaze turned distant, haunted by the ghost of the girl she was. “I went back in the evening. To check on him, I told myself. The house was silent. He was alone, slumped on the diwan in the drawing room, a bottle empty beside him, a chillum smoked out. He was shirtless, just in his dhoti, that chest of his rising and falling heavily. He looked… like a king gone to ruin. And he looked at me—not like Jiju, not like his wife’s friend. He looked at me like prey.”
“Rasika,” he’d slurred, the word thick with bhang and desire.
The air was thick with the sweet, herbal scent of the intoxicant and the musk of dried color and sweat. I turned to leave, a feeble protest forming on my lips. “Jiju, you should rest…”
He moved faster than I thought possible for a man so gone. His hand shot out, fingers like iron bands around my wrist, and he pulled. I stumbled, falling against him, my colored churidar staining his bare skin. His other arm wrapped around my waist, crushing me to him. I could feel every muscle, every ridge of his abdomen, the rough hair of his chest scratching through my thin, wet kurti.
“You play games for years,” he growled, his breath hot and pungent against my ear. “With your eyes, your jokes, your jija-saali nonsense. You think I didn’t see? You think I don’t know what you want?”
“Jiju, no, please—” My voice was a weak thread.
“Shut up,” he muttered, and his mouth crashed down on mine. It wasn’t a kiss; it was a claiming. Teeth and tongue and the bitter taste of bhang. His hands were everywhere, grabbing, tearing. The clasp of my kurti gave way. The wet fabric was yanked down my shoulders. He broke the kiss to stare at my breasts, heaving under my soaked choli. A rough, calloused hand pawed at the thin cloth, then beneath it, squeezing my flesh so hard I cried out.
“You want to be a saali?” he panted, dragging me up by the arm. “Then be one.”
He half-dragged, half-carried me down the hallway to their bedroom—their bedroom. Prema’s perfume lingered on the sheets. He threw me onto the marital bed. The world spun. Before I could scramble back, his body was over mine, his weight pinning me down. He fumbled with his dhoti, and then I felt it—the hot, hard, insistent press of him against my thigh through my thin churidar.
“Jiju… I’m a…” The word ‘virgin’ died in my throat.
“I know,” he said, and there was a dark triumph in his bloodshot eyes. He yanked my churidar and underwear down in one brutal motion. The cool air hit my exposed skin. He spat into his palm, a crude, wet sound, and slicked himself. He didn’t ask. He didn’t coax. He positioned himself, the blunt head of his cock pressing against a part of me no one had ever touched.
“This is my right,” he grunted, and then he pushed.
The pain was a white-hot spike, tearing through me. I screamed, but his mouth covered mine again, swallowing the sound. He held himself there for a second, buried to the hilt inside my trembling, resisting body, a low groan vibrating in his chest. Then he began to move.
It was a furious, punishing rhythm. The bed, Prema’s bed, rocked and slammed against the wall. Each thrust was a violation, a conquest. The bhang and the earlier excitement had erased all gentleness, all pretence. He fucked like he was trying to exorcise something, or claim it. His hairy chest rubbed against my tender skin. He grabbed my breasts, pinching my nipples hard. I cried, I whimpered, I scratched at his back. But somewhere, beneath the pain and the shock, a terrible, thrilling heat began to bloom. The raw power of him, the sheer animalistic possession, ignited something dark and deep inside me.
He fucked me until the pain subsided into a sore, full ache. Until my own traitorous body began to move with his. He rolled us over, smoking a cigarette while I rode him, his hands guiding my hips, his eyes never leaving mine, watching me unravel. He took me from behind, my face pressed into Prema’s pillow, his fingers digging into the flesh of my hips. He whispered filthy things, calling me his randi saali, his secret. He came with a roar that seemed to shake the very walls, collapsing onto me, sweating and spent.
But he wasn’t done. After a while, he’d stir again, his hands roaming, his mouth on my neck, between my legs, waking me from a doze with fresh, aching need. He took me again, slower this time, more deliberately, as the night deepened. He made me come with his fingers and his tongue before sliding back inside, showing me a different kind of power—the power to make me beg for it.
When the first grey light filtered through the windows, he finally stopped. He got up, washed, dressed in silence. He looked at me, bruised and shattered on the rumpled sheets, a bloody smear between my thighs. He threw a blanket over me.
“I’ll drop you home,” he said, his voice back to normal, as if we’d just shared a cab.
Back in the present, Rasika’s eyes were glazed, her breathing slightly quickened. She took a long sip of water, her hand steady. “He dropped me at my doorstep as the sun came up. Said nothing. Just drove away. Two days later, a package arrived. Expensive silk. Gold earrings. No note.”
She turned to Sarika, whose face was pale, her lips parted. “That,” Rasika said softly, venomously, “is how you turn a jija into a lover. You don’t ask. You take. And you make sure he can never forget what he took. That night, in his wife’s bed, he didn’t just fuck me, saali. He broke something in himself. And I own that broken piece. I own the guilt, and the heat, and the memory. That’s why he comes back. Not for you, with your simpering looks. For me. Because I was the sin he chose, and he can’t forgive himself for how much he still wants it.”
She leaned in close, her perfume clashing with the residual scent of Prem in the room. “So next time you hear us through the wall, remember the girl covered in colors, and the taste of bhang, and the sound of a marriage bed breaking a virgin. That’s the sound of your losing.”
Sarika stared, the echo of Rasika’s confession clinging to the velvet-draped walls like smoke. Before she could form a reply, the heavy tread of boots sounded in the hallway. Prem’s shadow filled the doorway, his broad shoulders blocking the light from the corridor. He carried the night’s chill and the scent of tobacco and cheap street food on his kurta.
“Jiju,” Rasika breathed, her voice shifting from venom to honey in an instant. She uncurled from the divan, a slow, deliberate movement that made her sari cling to her hips. “We were just talking about you.” Sarika looked away, busying herself with a loose thread on her own sleeve.
Prem’s eyes, dark and weary, flicked between them. He grunted, walking to the sideboard to pour a whiskey. The glass clinked. “Talk is cheap,” he said, his back to them. “I pay the electricity bill on this house, not the gossip bill.” He drained the glass in one go. Rasika watched the muscles of his throat work, her own pulse quickening.
She floated towards him, her bare feet silent on the rug. “Your day was long,” she murmured, not a question but an observation. Her fingers, light as moths, touched the tension coiled in his shoulder. He didn’t shrug her off. Sarika, from her corner, watched this familiar dance, her jaw tight. “Let me help.”
“Help,” he repeated, a low, humorless sound. He turned, his gaze landing on her. It was the same look she’d described from the Holi night—a storm barely contained. But tonight it was edged with a different frustration, the weight of his legitimate life pressing down. Prema, the new son, the expectations. “You can’t help.”
“Can’t I?” Her voice dropped to a whisper meant only for him. Her hand slid from his shoulder down his chest, fingertips combing through the coarse hair visible through the thin cotton. “You carry the whole world here, Jiju. So hard.” She let her thumb brush slowly over his nipple. He drew a sharp breath. Sarika stood up abruptly, the movement jerky.
“I should go,” Sarika muttered, her voice brittle.
“Stay,” Rasika commanded without looking away from Prem. “Sit. Watch.” This was the real punishment, the true victory. Prem’s eyes flickered to Sarika, a flash of something—shame, annoyance—but Rasika’s hand was now splayed over his sternum, feeling the frantic beat of his heart. His resolve was paper-thin tonight, worn ragged by domesticity. She could smell it on him, the need for something raw and unforgiving.
She leaned in, her lips close to his ear. Her perfume, jasmine and something darker, engulfed him. “You come here smelling of baby powder and responsibility,” she whispered, the words hot against his skin. “Let me wash it off you.” Her other hand found his, guiding it to the knot of her sari at her waist. “Show her how a real man unwinds. Show her what you really are.”
A tremor ran through him. His fingers clenched around the silk. For a suspended moment, he was still, caught between worlds. Then, with a ragged sigh that was surrender, he yanked. The knot gave way. The sari pooled in a cascade of crimson at her feet. She stood before him, and Sarika, in just a delicate blouse and petticoat, her skin glowing in the lamplight.
“Fuck,” he breathed, the word torn from him.
He crushed her to him, his mouth claiming hers with a desperate, angry hunger. This kiss wasn’t like the bhang-fueled violence of the first time. It was seasoned with familiarity and a year’s worth of stolen, guilty passion. His hands groped and clutched at her through the thin fabric of her choli. He palmed her breast, his thumb finding her nipple and pinching hard through the silk. She moaned into his mouth, a sound of pure provocation.
Breaking the kiss, he spun her around to face the divan where Sarika sat frozen. He pulled her back against his chest, his arms banded around her waist. His eyes locked on Sarika’s horrified face in the dim light. “You wanted to know how it started?” he growled, his voice thick. “Watch how it continues.”
His hand slid down her flat stomach, over the sheer fabric of her petticoat, and between her legs. Rasika gasped, arching back into him. He rubbed her through the material, a rough, circular motion. “She’s already wet,” Prem announced to the room, to Sarika. “Always is for me.” He hooked his fingers into the waistband of her petticoat and underwear, dragging them down her thighs in one rough motion. The air was cool on her exposed skin.
He pushed her forward, bending her over the back of the divan, just feet from where Sarika sat rigid. Rasika’s cheek pressed against the velvet. She could see the patterns in the fabric, smell its dusty perfume. Prem’s hands gripped the soft flesh of her hips. There was no more preamble, no gentle seeking. He shoved his own kurta and pajamas down just enough to free his erection, thick and flushed angry red.
He spat into his palm, slicked himself once, and notched the broad head against her. “This what you wanted?” he grunted, not waiting for an answer. He pushed inside with a single, deep, unstoppable thrust.
Rasika cried out, a sharp sound of fulfillment. He filled her utterly, a stretch that was past pain into pure, shocking possession. He didn’t move for a second, letting her feel every inch buried inside her, letting Sarika see the intimate, brutal connection. Then he pulled back and slammed home again.
The rhythm was punishing, a piston driving into softness. Each impact rocked her body, made the divan creak. His grip on her hips was vise-tight, sure to leave bruises. The wet, filthy sound of their coupling filled the silent room, louder than their ragged breathing. Rasika pushed back against him, meeting every thrust, a willing accomplice in her own degradation.
“Yes, Jiju,” she chanted, her voice muffled against the velvet. “Fuck your randi. Fuck me harder.” She glanced sideways, meeting Sarika’s wide, tear-bright eyes. A twisted smile touched Rasika’s lips. “See, saali? See how he takes what’s his?”
Prem’s pace grew frantic, animalistic. One hand left her hip and fisted in her hair, yanking her head back. The angle deepened, and she screamed, a raw sound torn from her throat as he hit a place that blinded her. His control shattered. His thrusts became erratic, powerful jabs. “Take it,” he snarled, his body slamming into hers. “Take all of it, you greedy bitch.”
He came with a guttural roar, pulsing deep inside her, his whole body shuddering against her back. He held himself there, buried to the hilt, for a long moment, his forehead damp against her spine. The only sounds were their heaving breaths and the soft, choked sob from Sarika.
Slowly, he pulled out. Rasika felt the hot trickle of him on her inner thigh. She stayed bent over, spent, victorious. Prem straightened his clothes, not looking at either woman. He walked to the sideboard, poured another whiskey with a hand that trembled slightly, and drank it.
He set the glass down with a definitive click. “Sarika,” he said, his voice flat, emptied. “Go home.”
Sarika fled, the door clicking shut behind her. Prem finally looked at Rasika, who had straightened up, turning to face him. Her makeup was smeared, her hair a mess, her body marked. She wore it like a trophy.
“Happy?” he asked, the word barren.
She walked to him, trailing the scent of sex and sweat. She took his hand, still sticky from his own release, and placed it back between her legs, guiding his fingers inside her, where she was still wet and swollen from him. “Almost,” she said, holding his gaze. “Now finish what you started. Your saali is still waiting.”
He looked at her, his expression unreadable in the oily gloom. Then, with a roughness that was its own tenderness, he scooped her up. Her legs wrapped around his waist as he carried her to the bed. He laid her down amidst the rumpled silk and proceeded to finish what he started with his mouth and his fingers, until she clawed at the sheets and sobbed his name, not Jiju, but Prem, a shattered plea.
After, as they lay tangled and damp, he lit a cigarette. The smoke curled towards the ceiling, a grey ghost in the lamplight. “I bought the yellow house on the corner of the market road,” he said abruptly, his voice gravel. “The one with the jacaranda tree.”
Rasika propped herself on an elbow. “For me?”
“For you,” he said. He took a long drag. “And for Sarika.”
The silence that followed was brittle, charged. Rasika sat up completely, the sheet pooling at her waist. “For Sarika,” she repeated, flat.
“It’s a big house. Two floors. Separate entrances. You’ll each have your own space.” He wouldn’t look at her, focusing on the burning tip of his cigarette. “And I’ve put a sum in the bank. A fixed deposit. In both your names. The interest will come every month. Regular income.”
A cold knot tightened in Rasika’s stomach, beneath the pleasant ache he’d left between her legs. “You’re putting me in a house. With her.” Her voice was dangerously soft. “You’re giving her the same as me?”
Finally, he turned his head. His eyes were hollow, exhausted. “She is also my saali,” he stated, as if explaining something simple to a child. “She has needs. This solves it.”
“Solves it?” A bitter laugh escaped her. “You think a fucking bank deposit solves what just happened on that divan? You think she’ll live downstairs and listen to you fucking me through the ceiling and be happy with her monthly interest?” Her jealousy was a live wire, sizzling and spit. “She’ll want more. She’ll take more.”
“She’ll have what I give her,” Prem said, stubbing out the cigarette with finality. “Just like you.”
He stood, a mountain of a man pulling on his clothes, retreating into the armor of his authority. “The papers will be ready tomorrow. You’ll both sign.” He leaned down, his face close to hers. The scent of sex and smoke clung to him. “Be happy, Rasika. This is security. This is more than you ever dreamed of when you were a poor friend crying about your father’s debts.”
He left then, the door closing with a quiet, definitive click. Rasika stared at the space he’d occupied. The gift felt like a dilution, a sharing of her throne. The house wasn’t a sanctuary; it was a cage she would now share with a rival. Her victory over Sarika tonight now tasted like ash.
A month later, the jacaranda tree scattered purple blooms across the courtyard. Sarika, in a new silk sari bought with her first interest payment, was humming in the downstairs kitchen. The sound floated up the shared staircase, grating on Rasika’s nerves. Prem was due tonight. She had made sure Sarika knew it.
When his car pulled into the drive, Rasika was waiting at the top of the stairs, dressed in nothing but a translucent black night robe. She heard the low murmur of his voice downstairs, heard Sarika’s light, eager response. The bitch was offering him tea.
“Prem,” Rasika called, her voice a lazy, carrying drawl. “Are you coming up, or do I have to start without you?”
Silence from below. Then, his heavy tread on the stairs. He appeared, looking up at her where she leaned against the doorframe. Her robe was open, revealing the shadows between her breasts. His gaze darkened.
She didn’t give him a chance to speak. She took his hand and led him into her apartment, shutting the door loudly enough for the sound to echo down the stairwell. She didn’t bother with lights. The moonlight through the window was enough.
She pushed him onto the bed and climbed atop him, a slow, deliberate ascent. She kissed him with a possessive fury, biting his lip until he groaned. She rode him with a relentless, grinding rhythm, her nails digging into the thick mat of hair on his chest. She made sure every gasp, every slap of skin, every filthy word she whispered was audible through the floor.
“You’re mine,” she panted, riding him hard, her body glistening with sweat. “This,” she grasped the coarse hair over his heart, twisting it slightly, “is mine. This house is just a shell. What’s inside it, what’s under your skin, is mine.”
He came inside her with a choked curse, his hands clenching on her hips. She collapsed onto his heaving chest, her fingers still toying idly with the sweat-damp hair.
A soft, almost imperceptible creak sounded from the hallway outside her door. Sarika, listening. Rasika smiled against Prem’s skin.
In a voice loud and clear, dripping with false sympathy, she said, “Poor Sarika must be so lonely downstairs. Listening. Maybe you should go to her, Jiju. Be a good brother-in-law. She’s your saali, after all.” She plucked a single grey hair from his chest and held it up, examining it in the moonlight. “But stay a little longer. Your real saali isn’t finished with you yet.”
She felt his body tense beneath her, caught between irritation and renewed arousal. She lowered her head and took his nipple into her mouth, biting down just shy of pain. His sharp inhale was her answer. Sarika’s silent presence on the other side of the door was the victory. The war for the house, and the man who paid for it, had just begun.