Chapter 12: rasika pregnant
The nausea hit her first thing in the morning, a sudden, sharp revolt in her gut that sent her stumbling to the bathroom. Rasika retched over the toilet, empty but for bile, a cold sweat breaking on her forehead. She knew. Even before the missed period, before the dull ache in her breasts, she knew. It was a sick, heavy knowledge that settled in her pelvis.
She stared at her reflection in the misty mirror afterward. Her face was pale, her eyes wide with a panic that had nothing to do with illness and everything to do with strategy. A baby. A fucking baby. This was a complication she had meticulously avoided with pills, with timing, with lies. This was a chain.
Prem noticed her silence that evening. He’d come straight from Prema’s, the scent of jasmine and anticipation still clinging to him. Rasika was curled on the divan in the courtyard, watching the purple jacaranda blossoms fall like slow tears.
“What’s wrong with you?” he asked, lighting a cigarette.
She didn’t turn. “I’m pregnant.”
The match went out. Silence stretched, thick and tense. Then his hand was on her shoulder, turning her. His eyes searched her face, not for truth—he believed her instantly—but for her reaction. “You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
A slow, astonishing smile spread across his face. It wasn’t the greedy, possessive grin he wore in bed. This was something else. Wider. Softer. Proud. “A child,” he breathed, the word full of wonder. He sank to his knees before her, his hands going to her still-flat stomach. “My child.”
Rasika recoiled. “Your child? Prem, think. What does this mean? An unmarried woman, pregnant by a married man? The scandal. The whispers. They’ll call me a whore in the open market. They’ll spit on me.” Her voice was a desperate scrape. “This ruins everything. I lose my power. I become a pathetic, dependent thing.”
He looked up at her, his joy undimmed. “You don’t see.” He stood, pulling her up with him. “This doesn’t ruin it. It sanctifies it.”
He called a gathering the next day. Not at his main house—never there—but in the large, open reception room of the jacaranda house. He summoned Sarika from her self-imposed exile downstairs. He even sent a driver to fetch Shilpa, Prema’s pretty young cousin who had come to stay and help during Prema’s final weeks.
They assembled under the high ceiling fan: Rasika, rigid and furious on a cushioned chair; Sarika, hovering near the doorway, confused; and Shilpa, fresh-faced and curious in a sky-blue salwar kameez, her eyes taking in the opulence.
Prem stood in the center, a patriarch in his domain. He puffed on his cigarette, expansive. “Everyone is here. Good.” He gestured to Rasika with his chin. “Rasika is carrying my child.”
The announcement landed like a stone in still water. Sarika’s hand flew to her mouth. Shilpa’s eyes widened, a flicker of something—shock, fascination—crossing her face.
“This is a blessing,” Prem continued, his voice echoing. “A new life. But there are questions of… propriety. So, let me make things clear.” He looked at Sarika, then at Shilpa. “Rasika is my saali. Your saali. In the old ways, if a saali cannot marry, if she is left unprotected, it is the duty of the jiju to care for her. To protect her. To see that her line continues.”
Rasika closed her eyes, humiliation burning her cheeks. He was framing her as a charity case, a responsibility. It stripped her of her dark power, repackaged her as a victim he was nobly saving.
“This child,” Prem said, placing a hand on Rasika’s shoulder, a gesture of ownership rather than comfort, “will bear my name. It will want for nothing. And Rasika will be treated with the respect due the mother of my blood.” He turned his gaze on Sarika. “You will help her. Whatever she needs.”
Sarika nodded mutely, her eyes darting to Rasika’s stomach with a new, calculating glint.
Then Prem turned to Shilpa. The girl blinked up at him, innocent and rosy. “And you, Shilpa saali,” he said, his tone dropping into something more intimate, a lazy warmth creeping in. “You see how a jiju cares for his family?”
Shilpa smiled, a little flustered. “Yes, Jiju. It’s… very generous.”
“Generosity is duty,” Prem said, smiling back. He clapped his hands. “Gifts! To celebrate.”
He produced boxes. For Rasika, a heavy gold necklace, the price of which could feed a family for a year. For Sarika, a silk sari, deep green like a forest pool. And for Shilpa, a delicate silver anklet with tiny bells. He placed it in her palm himself, letting his fingers linger against her skin. “For our pretty saali,” he murmured. “To remind us that beauty must be adorned.”
Shilpa blushed, her fingers closing over the silver. “Thank you, Jiju.”
Prema heard the news that evening, not from Prem, but from the driver. She sat in her bedroom, the weight of her own imminent child a physical counterpoint to the hollow opening inside her chest. He had publicly claimed Rasika’s bastard. He had gifted her cousin. He was building a world where his transgressions were not secrets, but traditions. The silence she had chosen as a shield was now a cage of her own making.
That night, Prem came to her house. He smelled of tobacco and a faint, unfamiliar perfume—Shilpa’s sandalwood soap. He was buoyant, pouring himself a whiskey. “You heard?” he asked, not looking at her.
“I heard,” Prema said, her voice thin.
“It is a good thing,” he stated, swallowing the amber liquid. “A son, perhaps. A brother for our child.”
“A brother?” The word tasted like ash. “You think my child will call that… that baby brother?”
He turned, his face hardening. “They will. They are of the same blood. My blood.” He set the glass down. “The old ways are not so bad, Prema. They bring order.”
She had no words left. He left soon after, claiming business. He went to the jacaranda house, but not to Rasika’s room. He went to the study and drank alone.
Downstairs, Sarika waited. She had bathed, using the expensive rose attar she’d been hoarding. She wore the new green sari, draped to accentuate her narrow waist. She watched the study door from the shadows of the courtyard.
When Prem emerged, hours later, he was drunk. His steps were heavy, his brow furrowed. He saw her standing there, a pale shape in the moonlight filtering through the jacaranda blooms.
“Jiju,” she said softly, stepping forward. “Can I get you some water?”
He waved a dismissive hand, but his eyes raked over her. The sari was a good color. It made her skin look like cream. “You look… nice,” he slurred.
Sarika dipped her head, a practiced gesture of submission. “You are too kind, Jiju. After your generosity today… it is the least I can do.” She moved closer, within arm’s reach. The scent of roses mingled with the whiskey on his breath. “Rasika Didi is resting. The pregnancy tires her. It must be difficult, to be in her condition… and alone so much.”
Prem’s gaze focused on her. There was a vulnerability in his drunkenness, a need for validation Rasika had spent the day stripping away. “She is not grateful,” he muttered.
“Not everyone understands a man’s burdens,” Sarika whispered. She placed a tentative hand on his arm. “His need to provide, to care for so many.” Her touch was light, soothing. “You work so hard. You should have peace.”
He looked down at her hand, then back at her face. In the dim light, she looked pliant. Soft. Uncomplicated. Unlike the furious, scheming woman upstairs, or the silently accusing wife across town.
“Peace,” he echoed, the word bitter.
“Let me,” Sarika said, her voice dropping to a hushed, intimate tone. She gently guided him, not towards the stairs to Rasika’s room, but towards her own smaller quarters off the courtyard. He didn’t resist.
Her room was simple, neat, smelling of detergent and that rose attar. She led him to the edge of her narrow bed. “Sit, Jiju. Let me help you.”
He sat heavily. She knelt before him, slowly removing his shoes. Her hands worked his socks off, her fingers massaging his feet with a gentle, persistent pressure. He groaned, leaning back on his elbows, watching her through half-closed eyes. Her pallu had slipped, revealing the curve of a shoulder.
“You are a good girl, Sarika,” he mumbled.
She looked up, her eyes luminous in the faint light. “I only wish to serve, Jiju. To make things easier for you.” Her hands drifted from his feet, up his calves, over the taut fabric of his trousers. She saw the familiar swell beginning there. Rasika was pregnant, unwieldy, angry. Prema was enormous, a sacred vessel. But she, Sarika, was here. Available. Needy.
She leaned forward, until her face was inches from his groin. She could smell the musk of him through the cloth. She looked up at him, her expression one of pure, devoted awe. “You give so much to everyone,” she breathed, her words a hot whisper against the growing bulge. “Who gives to you?”
With a shaking hand, she unbuttoned his trousers. He didn’t stop her. He watched, his breath coming faster. She freed his cock, already thick and hardening. He was bigger than she’d imagined, a heavy, veined weight in her hand. She felt a jolt of fear, then a surge of victorious power.
She didn’t hesitate. She took him into her mouth.
Prem gasped, his hips jerking upward. Sarika’s head bobbed, her technique clumsy but fervent. She used her tongue, her lips, her throat, pouring all her jealousy, her loneliness, her ambition into the act. She worshipped him. She made soft, wet sounds, letting saliva slick his length. She took him deep until she gagged, then pulled back, gasping, and stroked him with her fist.
“You’re so strong, Jiju,” she moaned between passes of her tongue over his head. “So powerful. Let me… let me take care of you.”
He tangled his hands in her hair, not gently. He fucked her mouth, his movements growing frantic, selfish. This was what he needed. Not complication. Not demands. Just this raw, uncomplicated hunger aimed at him.
“Yes,” he grunted, his voice thick. “Take it. Take your Jiju.”
She did. She took him until his grip on her hair tightened painfully and his body went rigid. He came in her mouth with a ragged cry, pulses of bitter salt flooding her throat. She swallowed, forcing it down, a sacramental act of possession.
When he was spent, sagging back on the bed, she cleaned him with the edge of her sari, tenderly. She tucked him away, buttoned his trousers. She rested her head on his thigh, a humble supplicant.
He stroked her hair, his touch dazed, post-coital. “Good,” he muttered. “You are a good girl.”
Upstairs, Rasika lay awake, her hands on her stomach. She heard the faint creak of Sarika’s door. She heard the muffled, desperate sounds. She knew.
A cold, sharp smile touched her lips in the darkness. The pregnancy had changed the board, but the game was far from over. Sarika had made her move. A pawn thinking it could become a queen. But Rasika was already the queen. And a queen, even one weighed down with an heir, knew how to sacrifice a pawn.
The next afternoon, Prem returned to his main house. He found Shilpa alone in the sitting room, arranging flowers. The scent of tuberoses filled the air.
“Where is Prema?” he asked, his voice still rough from the night.
“Sleeping, Jiju,” Shilpa said, smiling. “The baby is heavy today.” She held up a perfect, white bloom. “Beautiful, no?”
“Very,” he said, watching her slender fingers on the stem. He walked closer. The silver anklet he’d gifted her glinted on her bare foot with a tiny, musical chime. “You wear it.”
“Of course, Jiju. It’s lovely.” She glanced at him, a shy, upward look through her lashes. “You are in a celebratory mood. Two babies on the way.”
He reached out, not for the flower, but to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. His finger brushed her cheek. She didn’t pull away. Her breath hitched, just slightly.
“In the old days,” he said, his voice low, “a jiju had a duty to all his wife’s sisters. To protect them. To ensure their futures.” His thumb traced her jawline. “You are here, so far from your home. Who protects you, Shilpa?”
Her lips parted. A faint blush colored her cheeks. “You do, Jiju.”
He smiled, a slow, confident curve of his lips. He leaned in, as if to smell the flower in her hand, his mouth close to her ear. “Remember that,” he whispered. “Your jiju will always take care of you.”
He straightened up and left her there, holding the tuberose, the imprint of his touch burning on her skin, the promise hanging in the fragrant air like a threat. Or an invitation.
Prema, from the shadow of the hallway where she had been standing for a full minute, slowly turned and walked back to her bedroom on silent feet. Her hands cradled the unbearable weight of her child. The house, scented with flowers, felt like a tomb. And in the courtyard of the jacaranda house, Sarika washed her mouth out with water, tasting still of him, and began to plot her next move, while upstairs, Rasika felt the first fluttering kick within her, a tiny, insistent rebellion.
And in the courtyard of the jacaranda house, Sarika washed her mouth out with water, tasting still of him, and began to plot her next move, while upstairs, Rasika felt the first fluttering kick within her, a tiny, insistent rebellion.
Weeks passed, swollen and tense. Prema’s time came on a night of torrential rain. Her screams were swallowed by thunder. After seventeen hours, a son emerged, squalling and perfect. Prem held the boy with a reverence he reserved for nothing else, his eyes glistening with a primal pride. “My heir,” he kept saying, his voice thick. “My strong son.”
The main house filled with the scent of incense and boiled milk. Prema, exhausted and hollowed, watched Prem adore the child from her bed. His joy was a wall she could not scale. He stayed for three days, playing the devoted father, before the restlessness returned. The scent of the jacaranda house called him.
He arrived with boxes of sweets, his good mood a tangible force. Rasika, now visibly rounded, reclined on a daybed in the sitting room. She smiled, a careful, practiced curve of her lips. “Jiju. Congratulations.”
“A son, Rasika,” he said, kneeling beside her, his hand pressing against her belly. “Your turn next. A brother for him.”
She captured his hand, held it. “Perhaps a sister. To soften you.” Her laughter was light, but her eyes were sharp, assessing his energy. He was buzzing, too much for this quiet room. “The doctor was here yesterday,” she mentioned, looking down at their joined hands. “He was very stern. No… exertions. For three months after the birth. To protect the baby.”
Prem’s smile faltered. His thumb stopped its circular motion on her stomach. “Three months?”
“For the baby’s health,” she said, her tone leaving no room for debate. She leaned back, feigning a weary sigh. “It is a small price. But I am so tired these days, Jiju. I can barely keep my eyes open past sunset.”
He stayed for dinner, the conversation stilted. Rasika yawned elaborately before the last plates were cleared. “You will forgive me,” she murmured, touching his arm. “This child steals all my strength.” She guided him to the door of her bedroom, kissed his cheek with chaste finality. “Sleep well, Jiju.”
The door clicked shut. Prem stood in the hallway, the silence of the large house pressing in on him. The adrenaline from his son’s birth, the pent-up energy with no outlet, coiled inside him. He lit a cigarette, the flare of the match loud in the quiet. He walked downstairs, the marble cool under his bare feet.
Sarika’s door was ajar. A slice of yellow lamplight cut across the dark floor. He paused, smoke curling from his nostrils. He heard the faint rustle of cloth from within.
“Jiju?” Her voice was soft, a whisper from the shadows. “Is everything alright? Did Rasika Didi need something?”
He pushed the door open fully. She was seated on the edge of her bed, brushing her hair. She wore a simple, thin nightgown, the outline of her body visible against the light behind her. She looked up, her face a mask of concerned innocence. “You seem… unsettled.”
“She’s asleep,” he said, his voice rough. He took another drag, exhaling slowly. “The doctor says no fucking for three months.”
Sarika’s eyes widened, just slightly. She set the brush down. “Oh.” A calculated pause. “That must be… difficult. For a man like you.” She stood, the fabric of her nightgown clinging. She approached him, stopping just outside his personal space. “All this celebration. All this life. And you have nowhere to put your energy.”
He looked at her, really looked. The lamplight gilded her skin. He remembered the wet heat of her mouth, her fervent, greedy sounds. The memory was a live wire in his gut. “No,” he agreed.
She stepped closer. The smell of her, soap and warm skin, cut through the cigarette smoke. Her fingers touched the back of his hand, where it held the cigarette. “You shouldn’t be alone with your thoughts, Jiju.” Her thumb stroked his knuckles. “Not tonight.”
He dropped the cigarette, grinding it under his heel. His other hand came up, fingers tangling in her hair, pulling her head back. There was no pretense now, no gentle seduction. His mouth crashed onto hers, hard and demanding. She moaned into the kiss, her hands scrabbling at his shirt, pulling it open. Her nails raked through the coarse hair of his chest.
“Fuck me, Jiju,” she panted, breaking the kiss. Her eyes were dark, desperate. “Please. I need it. I’ve been thinking of nothing else.”
He shoved her backward onto the bed. Her nightgown rode up her thighs. He undid his trousers, his cock springing out, already fully hard and angry-looking. He didn’t bother with foreplay. He knelt between her legs, pushed her thighs apart with his knees, and drove into her in one brutal, deep thrust.
Sarika cried out, a sharp, guttural sound of shock and pleasure. She was tight, and wet enough only from anticipation. He didn’t care. He fucked her with hard, punishing strokes, the bed slamming against the wall in a rhythmic, frantic drumbeat. Each thrust knocked a gasp from her lungs.
“Yes!” she screamed, her voice raw. “Just like that! Use me, Jiju! Fuck your saali!”
He grabbed her hips, his fingers digging into her flesh, lifting her to meet his thrusts. The sound of their bodies colliding was obscenely loud in the small room—slapping skin, the creak of the bed, their ragged breathing. Sweat bloomed on his back, on her chest. He leaned down, capturing a nipple through the thin fabric of her nightgown in his teeth. She shrieked, arching underneath him.
“You’re a greedy little cunt,” he grunted, pounding into her. “Aching for it. Weren’t you?”
“Yes!” she sobbed, her hands clawing at his shoulders. “Every night. Waiting for you to come fuck me. Please don’t stop!”
He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. The frustration of the week, the denied access to Rasika, the sheer physicality of his own vitality, all channelled into this single, violent act. He fucked her like he was trying to leave a permanent mark, to brand her from the inside. She wrapped her legs around his waist, heels digging into his ass, pulling him deeper with each plunge.
The door swung open.
Rasika stood there, her silhouette framed by the dim light from the hall. Her pregnant belly was a profound curve in her loose nightdress. Her face was utterly still, a mask carved from ice. Her eyes took in the scene: Sarika, pinned beneath Prem, her nightgown torn, her skin slick with sweat; the sheets tangled and damp; Prem’s powerful back muscles flexing with each relentless drive.
Prem didn’t stop. He glanced over his shoulder, saw her, and his pace only intensified. A wicked, defiant smile split his face, visible in the low light. Sarika, seeing Rasika, let out a moan that was pure theatrical triumph. She dragged her fingers through the sweat on Prem’s chest, twirling his chest hair lewdly.
“Jiju… oh god, Jiju… right there!” she wailed, her eyes locked on Rasika’s horrified face.
“You bitch,” Rasika whispered, the words barely audible over the noise.
Sarika’s smile was a vicious, gloating slash. She met Rasika’s gaze and tightened her legs around Prem, milking him. “He needed it, Didi,” she gasped, her voice pitched for maximum cruelty. “You can’t give it to him. I can.”
Prem growled, his release building. He looked from Sarika’s triumphant face to Rasika’s frozen one, and the transgression, the raw exhibition of his power, spurred him on. He fucked harder, faster, the bedposts rattling.
With a final, tearing groan, he came inside Sarika, his body shuddering violently. He collapsed onto her for a moment, before rolling off, pulling out. He reached for the pack of cigarettes on the nightstand, his hands trembling slightly. He lit one, the ember glowing brightly in the sudden, heavy quiet.
The only sounds were their labored breathing and Sarika’s soft, satisfied whimpers. She lay sprawled, limbs loose, a sheen of sweat making her skin glow. She lazily traced patterns in the hair on Prem’s chest, her eyes never leaving Rasika.
Rasika did not move. The betrayal was not in the sex—she had expected that—but in the theater of it. In Prem’s smiling complicity. In the utter dissolution of her precarious authority.
“Get out,” Rasika said finally, her voice hollow and cold.
Sarika giggled, a low, dirty sound. “Or what, Didi? You’ll tell Jiju? He’s right here.” She pressed closer to Prem’s side. “And he’s very… satisfied.”
Prem exhaled a cloud of smoke, watching Rasika through the haze. He said nothing. His silence was his agreement.
Rasika stared at them, at the intimate, sweaty tangle of limbs, at the smug satisfaction on the younger woman’s face, at the casual dominion on the man’s. The life inside her kicked, a hard, painful reminder of her own anchor. She had nothing to say that would matter here, in this room stinking of sex and victory. She turned and walked away, her footsteps slow and heavy on the stairs.
Behind her, she heard Sarika’s whisper, clear and sharp. “She’s gone, Jiju. Again?”
And the sound of Prem’s low, lazy chuckle before the door closed, sealing her out.