Chapter 8: holi affair
The morning of Holi dawned like a bruise—violet, pink, and tender. By noon, the compound was a riot of screaming color. Gulal hung in the air in dusty pink clouds, staining the white walls, the green leaves, the very sunlight with its festive poison.
Prema watched from the shaded veranda, a hand resting on the hard dome of her stomach. She had pleaded fatigue, a convenient excuse to remain an observer, a statue of wifely decorum amidst the chaos. She wore a simple, unstained white cotton sari, a blank canvas in the storm of pigment.
Prem, stripped to the waist, was a pagan king in the throes of revelry. His chest, a map of dark, curling hair, was splattered with emerald green and shocking pink. He laughed, a full-throated roar that seemed to shake the mango tree, as Shilpa dashed a bucket of turmeric-yellow water over his head. The liquid streamed down his torso, soaking the waistband of his dhoti, outlining the thick muscle of his thighs.
Shilpa was a creature unleashed. The bhang—the raw, milky cannabis paste mixed into the thandai—had worked its way into her blood. Her movements were fluid, reckless, her eyes wide and glassy with a desperate joy. She wore a cheap, flimsy choli and a skirt already saturated with color, the wet fabric clinging to the swell of her breasts, the curve of her hips. Every time Prem grabbed her, smearing a handful of purple paste on her cheek or neck, she shrieked with a pleasure that bordered on panic.
“Jiju, no more!” she would giggle, only to dart back and rub a streak of red into his beard.
The pretense of familial decorum had dissolved with the first sip of the spiked drink. Now, it was just biology. Animal attraction painted in primary colors.
Prem’s eyes, dark and hungry, followed Shilpa’s every swivel. He was playing, but the game had sharp teeth. When she stumbled, dizzy from the bhang and the spinning, he caught her. His large hands stayed on her waist a beat too long, his thumbs pressing into the soft dip above her hip bones. Shilpa didn’t pull away. She leaned into it, her head lolling back against his colored chest, her eyes seeking Prema’s on the veranda.
Prema met her gaze, her face a serene mask. She took a slow sip of plain lemon water.
“You’re so strong, Jiju,” Shilpa slurred, her voice thick. She turned in his grasp, her back to his front, and let her hands roam over his forearms, up to his biceps. “So much power. Like a… like a bull.” Her fingers threaded through the thick hair on his chest, tugging playfully. “All this. It’s so… male.”
Prem chuckled, the sound vibrating through her body. “Careful, choti saali. You’re playing with fire.”
“Fire is warm,” she sighed, grinding her ass back against him subtly. The wet fabric of her skirt darkened further where it met his soaked dhoti. “I’m so cold, Jiju. The water was cold.”
From her perch, Prema could see the precise moment his anatomy responded. A hardening, a distinct outline against the thin, dripping cotton. Shilpa felt it too. She pressed back harder, a slow, deliberate rotation of her hips.
“You should go change, Shilpa,” Prema called out, her voice cutting through the humid, color-streaked air. “You’ll catch a chill.”
Shilpa turned her head, her gaze landing on Prema with a glazed defiance. “But Didi, the fun is just starting.” She disentangled herself from Prem, but only to face him. She reached out and patted his cheek, leaving a green handprint. “My big, strong jiju. Your wife is so lucky. To have this every night.” Her voice dropped, but not enough. “Does she know how to use it? Or does she just lie there, thinking of God?”
The words hung in the air, toxic and bright as the gulal. Prem’s smile froze, then widened into something dangerous. He glanced at Prema, a flicker of something—challenge?—in his eyes.
Prema said nothing. She simply watched, her lemon glass held perfectly steady.
“My wife,” Prem said, his eyes locked on Shilpa’s intoxicated face, “is a virtuous woman. She doesn’t need to talk dirty to get a man’s attention.”
“Virtue is cold,” Shilpa pouted. She trailed a finger down his sternum, through the matted hair, over the hard ridges of his stomach, stopping just at the waistband of his dhoti. “I’m not virtuous, Jiju. I’m… curious. Didi says I ask too many questions.” She leaned in, her lips close to his ear. “Like, what does it feel like when you’re all the way inside? Does it hurt? Or does it feel like… coming home?”
Prem’s breath hitched. His hand shot out and grasped the back of her neck, not gently. “You’re drunk on bhang, girl.”
“I’m drunk on you,” she whispered back, loud enough for Prema to catch every syllable. Then she laughed, a high, brittle sound, and pulled away. She stumbled towards the veranda, grabbing the pillar for support. She looked at Prema, her eyes shining with a brazen, chemical courage. “Your husband is a masterpiece, Didi. A pity to keep such art locked in a prayer room. He belongs in a… a gallery. Where people can… appreciate him.”
Prema placed her glass on the table with a quiet click. “You need to lie down, Shilpa. You’re not yourself.”
“Maybe this is myself,” Shilpa retorted, her words sloppy. “Maybe the bhang just… washed the fake color away.” She turned back to Prem, who was watching the exchange like a spectator at a wrestling match. “Jiju, be a darling. Help your poor saali to her room? My legs are like water.”
Prem wiped his face with a wet forearm, smearing the colors into a grotesque mask. He looked at Prema, a question in his eyes. A permission.
Prema held his gaze for a long moment. Then she gave the slightest nod. “Help her, Prem. She’ll fall and crack her head open.”
It was all the sanction he needed. He strode forward, the predatory grace of his movement undimmed by the bhang he’d also consumed. He hooked an arm around Shilpa’s waist, lifting her easily. Her body slumped against him, her head falling onto his colored shoulder. As he half-carried, half-dragged her into the dim coolness of the house, Shilpa’s hand slid down his back, low, to the top of his buttock. She let out a soft, whimpering moan.
Prema sat perfectly still until the sounds of their progress—shuffling feet, a giggle, a low murmur—faded down the hallway towards the bedroom wing. Then she stood. She walked into the kitchen, the marble cool under her bare feet. She poured herself another glass of lemon water. She drank it slowly, methodically, staring out the window at the battlefield of colors in the yard.
The silence of the house was a living thing. It pressed against her ears. She waited. Five minutes. Ten.
Then, a sound. Not a giggle. A sharp, high cry. It was cut off abruptly.
Prema put the glass down. She walked out of the kitchen, through the silent dining room, down the corridor lined with closed doors. She moved like a ghost, her white sari a pale smear in the shadowed hall. She stopped outside the door to the guest room Shilpa used.
The door was not latched. It stood open a crack, the width of a single finger.
Through the gap, the scene was a fragment of a lewd painting. The room was dark, the curtains drawn against the afternoon sun. A single shaft of light cut across the bed.
Shilpa was on her back, her colored skirt pushed up around her waist. Her flimsy choli was torn open, one breast exposed, smeared with blue and red pigment. Prem was between her legs, his dhoti gone, tossed on the floor. His body, a canvas of streaks and smudges, gleamed with sweat. He was already inside her, a fact made obscenely clear by the rhythmic, wet slapping of flesh on flesh.
“Jiju… please…” Shilpa whined, but her legs were locked around his back, her heels digging into the muscles of his ass, pulling him deeper.
“Please what?” Prem grunted, his voice ragged. He drove into her, each thrust jarring her body up the bed. “You wanted to see the gallery. You wanted to appreciate the art.” He grabbed her jaw, forcing her to look at him. “Is it what you imagined, you little whore?”
“Yes! God, yes!” she sobbed, her head thrashing side to side. “It’s so big… you’re splitting me…”
“You talked so much shit,” he growled, increasing his pace. The bedframe knocked against the wall with a steady, pounding rhythm. “Now just take it. Take all of it.”
Shilpa’s cries grew louder, less words and more raw, animal sounds. Her hands clawed at his colored back, leaving fresh red streaks on the green and yellow. Prem’s face was a mask of feral concentration, his eyes squeezed shut, his teeth bared. He fucked her with a single-minded intensity, a pure, brutal taking. The bhang had stripped away his control, her inhibition, leaving only this raw, grunting collision.
Prema watched from the darkness of the hall. She watched the sweat drip from his chin onto Shilpa’s throat. She watched Shilpa’s back arch, her mouth open in a silent scream as her climax hit her, violent and consuming. She watched Prem follow, his own release a shuddering, guttural roar as he collapsed onto her, spent.
For a minute, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing. Then, Prem rolled off her, lying on his back, one arm flung over his eyes. Shilpa curled onto her side, facing the door, facing the crack where Prema stood hidden.
A slow, satiated smile spread across Shilpa’s swollen, colored lips. Her eyes, hazy with bhang and sex, found the shadow in the doorway. She knew. She held Prema’s invisible gaze, and the smile turned triumphant, vicious.
She had won this round. She had taken something in Prema’s own house, and she wanted Prema to know it.
Prem sat up, running a hand through his messy, pigmented hair. He seemed to become aware of the open door. He frowned, stood up with a wince, and walked to it, his naked body painted and magnificent in the shaft of light. He pushed it closed with a definitive click, shutting Prema out.
The lock turned.
Prema stood in the sudden, absolute darkness of the hallway. The colors from the festival bled through the high window at the end of the hall, painting the floor in dying shades of orange and purple. From behind the closed door, she heard a low murmur, then a faint, feminine laugh.
She turned and walked back towards the light, her steps measured, her back straight. The festive sounds from the town outside floated in—children laughing, drums beating, the distant shout of “Holi Hai!”
Inside, the silence returned, thicker now, weighted with a new and irreversible truth. Prema reached the veranda, retrieved her half-finished glass of lemon water, and sat down. She looked out at the ruined garden, at the puddles of colored water, at the abandoned bucket.
Her hand rested on her stomach. The child kicked, a strong, sudden movement.
A cold, crystalline clarity settled within her, hardening like a diamond under pressure. The pact with Rasika was no longer a strategic option; it was a necessity. Shilpa was not just a victim or a distraction. She was an active, venomous rival. And Prem was not a man to be managed or understood. He was a force of nature that needed to be broken.
She would break him. She would break all of them.
The sun began its slow descent, washing the colored world in a pale, forgiving gold. But in Prema’s eyes, there was no forgiveness. Only the precise, patient calculation of a demolition yet to come.
Only the precise, patient calculation of a demolition yet to come.
The lock clicked, a sharp sound in the silent hall. A moment later, the guest room door opened, flooding the dim corridor with a slice of garish afternoon light.
Prem Jiju stepped out, a lit cigarette already between his lips. He wore only his damp, stained dhoti, low on his hips. His chest, a tapestry of smeared color and dark, wet hair, gleamed with a fresh sheen of sweat that carried the sharp, musky scent of sex and Shilpa’s cheap sandalwood perfume. A wicked, sated smile played on his lips, the expression of a man who has taken exactly what he wanted.
Shilpa saali followed, stumbling slightly on unsteady legs. She had wrapped a thin cotton sheet around herself, but it did little to cover her. It was tucked loosely under her arms, her shoulders and the upper swell of her breasts bare, streaked with blue and violet handprints. Her own sweat made the dried colors on her skin and neck glisten. She giggled, a low, throaty, intoxicated sound, and attached herself to Prem’s side.
She slipped one arm around his waist, her fingers splaying possessively over his hip. Her other hand went immediately to his chest, her nails combing through the damp, curling hair there in a slow, lewd caress. She leaned her head against his bicep, looking up at him with glassy adoration.
“My bull,” she slurred, her voice hoarse from screaming. “My big, strong jiju. You fucked me so deep I think I felt it in my throat.” She giggled again, her breath hot against his skin.
Prem exhaled a stream of smoke, his smile broadening at her crude words. He didn’t push her away. His hand came up to stroke her tangled, colored hair. “You asked for it, little whore. You got it.”
“I want more,” she pouted, her hand sliding from his chest down the hard plane of his stomach. “I’m still so empty. You didn’t finish the job.” Her fingers traced the waistband of his dhoti, dipping just beneath it.
It was then, as they shuffled into the brighter light of the sitting room, that Prem saw Prema.
She hadn’t moved from the veranda. She sat perfectly still in her white sari, a statue of wifely composure, her hands folded neatly over her pregnant stomach. Her eyes met his, cool and assessing, taking in the entire tableau: his post-coital swagger, Shilpa’s debauched cling, the vivid evidence of their coupling written on their skin.
Prem’s wicked smile faltered. A flicker of something—guilt, alarm—passed through his eyes. He tried to disentangle himself from Shilpa’s grip, gently prying her fingers from his hip. “Shilpa, stop,” he muttered, his voice losing its bravado.
But the bhang and the fucking had dissolved all of Shilpa’s inhibition. She clung tighter, a limpet of sweat and desire. “Why stop, Jiju? Didi doesn’t mind. Do you, Didi?” She turned her head to look at Prema, her own smile a twisted mirror of Prem’s earlier wickedness. “She knows what a real man needs. She’s pregnant. She can’t fuck you like I can.”
As she spoke, her wandering hand, the one that had been toying with his waistband, found the prominent, renewed bulge straining against the thin, wet cotton of his dhoti. She cupped him there, fingers curling around the hard length of him, squeezing deliberately. Her other hand continued its idle, provocative stroking of his chest hair. She was a portrait of brazen ownership, hanging on him, touching him in the most intimate way, right in front of his wife.
Prem’s body betrayed him instantly. He stiffened further under her touch, a soft grunt escaping him. His face, however, was a mask of conflicted panic. He looked at Prema, his expression striving for apology, for control, but it was utterly undermined by the reality of Shilpa’s hand on his erection and his own obvious, undeniable arousal.
“Prema,” he began, his voice strained. He placed his hand over Shilpa’s on his chest, not to remove it, but as if to hold it still. “She’s… the bhang. She’s not in her right mind. I was just… helping her to her room.”
Shilpa snorted, a crude, wet sound. She gave him another slow squeeze through the fabric, her eyes locked on Prema’s. “You helped, Jiju. You helped so much. You filled me right up.” She leaned her head against him, nuzzling his colored skin. “I can still feel you dripping out of me.”
Prema watched, her face an impassive lake. The lemon water in her glass was warm now, the ice long melted. She took a slow, deliberate sip, the simple act a profound dismissal of their display. She set the glass down. The click of it on the marble tabletop was like a period at the end of a sentence.
She looked from Prem’s apologetic, sweat-sheened face to Shilpa’s triumphant, drunken leer. She saw the possessive curl of Shilpa’s fingers, the bold outline of Prem’s excitement, the whole sordid, sticky truth of it.
“It seems the festivities have exhausted you both,” Prema said, her voice devoid of any emotion. It was flat, factual, like a doctor noting symptoms. “You should clean up. The colors will stain your skin permanently if left.”
She rose then, a slow, graceful movement that emphasized the weight of her pregnancy. She didn’t look at Prem’s guilty eyes or Shilpa’s mocking smile. She looked past them, through the open door, to the wreckage of the garden.
Without another word, she walked inside, leaving them standing there in the sitting room—Prem caught between shame and desire, Shilpa glued to him like a leech, the fading light painting them in shades of gold and regret. The cold, precise calculation in Prema’s mind clicked forward another notch, solidifying into a plan as hard and sharp as a shard of glass.
The cold, precise calculation in Prema’s mind clicked forward another notch, solidifying into a plan as hard and sharp as a shard of glass.
She slept that night, a deep and untroubled sleep. The sounds from the guest room had eventually ceased, replaced by the heavy silence of spent bodies. Her own child turned inside her, a quiet, persistent reminder of a future that required decisive action. She woke with the dawn, her resolve polished to a brutal shine.
Shilpa did not emerge for breakfast. Prema ate alone, the clink of her spoon against the bowl the only sound in the vast dining room. When the household chores settled into their mid-morning lull, Prema ascended the stairs. She did not knock on the guest room door. She turned the handle and entered.
Shilpa was sitting up in bed, the sheets pulled to her waist. Her bare shoulders were a canvas of fading color and fresh, dark bruises. Her hair was a wild nest around a face pale and hollow-eyed from the bhang and the physical ravishment. The room smelled of sweat, sex, and stale perfume. She flinched when Prema entered, pulling the sheet higher.
“Close the door,” Shilpa said, her voice raspy.
Prema did. She walked to the center of the room and stood, her hands folded over her belly. She said nothing for a long moment, letting the weight of her presence fill the space. Her eyes cataloged the evidence: the torn choli on the floor, Prem’s stained dhoti draped over a chair, the rumpled sheets.
“You look unwell,” Prema stated, her tone clinical.
“I’m fine,” Shilpa croaked, defiance flaring briefly.
“No. You are not.” Prema took a step closer. “You are used goods. He fucks you in my house, under my roof, while the colors of a festival dry on your skin. He leaves his marks. And then he goes back to his wife’s bed. What do you imagine happens next?”
Shilpa’s chin lifted. “He cares for me. He said—”
“He says what he needs to in order to keep your legs open,” Prema interrupted, her voice a cold scalpel. “I heard what he called you. ‘Little whore.’ Is that the tender endearment you were hoping for?”
The color drained further from Shilpa’s face. “You don’t understand. It’s… it’s different with us. It’s not just fucking.”
Prema let out a soft, mirthless laugh. “Oh, my dear, foolish girl. That is all it ever is with him. You saw Rasika. She has been his ‘different’ for years. And now he fucks her sister in front of her. You think you are special? You are a novelty. A slightly newer toy.”
Shilpa’s eyes glistened. “He wants me. He gets hard just looking at me.”
“He gets hard looking at the maid bending over to sweep,” Prema countered flatly. “His desire is a reflex, not a compliment. And it has an expiration date. He’s already planning your expiration.”
Shilpa went very still. “What do you mean?”
Prema took another step, now standing at the foot of the bed. She relayed Prem’s words from the veranda with chilling precision. “The old customs officer’s son has been asking. Thinks you’re pretty. A few lakhs should settle it.’ Those were his words. You are an asset on a ledger. One he will trade when he tires of you, or when you become too troublesome.”
A single tear traced through the smudged color on Shilpa’s cheek. “You’re lying.”
“Am I?” Prema’s gaze was pitiless. “Why would I lie? You have already taken what you want. You flaunted it in my face. I gain nothing by lying to you now. I am simply telling you the truth you are too blind to see.”
She let the words hang in the fetid air. Shilpa’s defiance crumpled. Her shoulders slumped, the sheet slipping to reveal a purple bite mark on her breast. She looked broken, used, and very, very young.
“What should I do?” The question was a whisper, stripped of all pretense.
“You have a choice,” Prema said, her voice softening just a fraction, enough to mimic sympathy. “You can wait for him to sell you to a stranger. Or you can help me.”
Shilpa’s head snapped up. “Help you?”
“He needs to be stopped. Not just from discarding you, but from doing this to any other girl. To Rasika. To the next one after you.” Prema’s hand rested on her stomach. “For my child. I will not let him continue.”
“How?”
“You live here. You see things. You hear things. He talks when he is… satisfied.” Prema’s lip curled. “He boasts. I need names. Numbers. Details of his dealings. The real ones, not the stories he tells at parties.”
“You want me to spy on him?”
“I want you to survive,” Prema corrected. “Your cooperation buys you a share of what we take from him. Enough to disappear, to start somewhere new. On your own terms. Not as his discarded whore or a customs officer’s bought bride.”
Shilpa stared, her mind working through the fog of her hangover and humiliation. The calculation was clear: remain a pawn, or become a player. Her eyes, red
-rimmed and weary, hardened with a new understanding. She nodded, once. “What do you need?”
That evening, Prem returned from his office earlier than usual. The tensions of the day, the confrontation, the unspoken threat in Prema’s calm eyes, had churned into a restless, aggressive energy in his gut. He found Shilpa in the back garden, ostensibly watering the potted plants. She wore a simple, clean salwar kameez, her hair tied back. She looked virginal, contrite, and utterly desirable.
He approached her from behind, his shadow falling over her. She turned, startled, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. “Jiju.”
“You’re avoiding me,” he stated, his voice low.
“No, I…” She looked down, playing the part perfectly. “After yesterday… I was ashamed. I behaved like a… like that word you used.”
He grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at him. “You behaved honestly. I liked it.” His thumb brushed her lower lip. “Do you feel ashamed now?”
She shook her head, her eyes wide. “I feel… empty. Since you left.”
A raw, hungry smile spread across his face. He glanced towards the house. Prema’s silhouette moved behind the kitchen window. “Come,” he growled, taking her wrist.
He didn’t lead her to her room. Instead, he pulled her into the small, tool shed at the far end of the garden. It was dark, crowded with bags of soil and terra cotta pots, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and fertilizer. He kicked the door shut, plunging them into near darkness save for a few slats of twilight cutting through the wooden boards.
He backed her against a rough shelf, the edge digging into her spine. There was no prelude, no sweet talk. His mouth came down on hers, hard and demanding. She responded with a feigned gasp, then opened for him, her tongue meeting his with a practiced willingness she had only learned the day before.
“You’re a fast learner,” he muttered against her lips, his hands yanking the drawstring of her salwar. The pants pooled at her ankles. His fingers dove between her legs, finding her already slick. “Fuck. Still wet for me from yesterday?”
“Always for you, Jiju,” she breathed, her hands fumbling with the buckle of his belt. She had to play her part, to keep him close, to make him talk. She undid his trousers, freeing his erection, which sprung out thick and heavy in the dim light. She took him in her hand, stroking him slowly, feeling him throb.
“Put it in your mouth,” he commanded, his voice gravelly.
She sank to her knees on the dusty shed floor, the rough concrete biting her skin. She took him into her mouth, working him with a clumsy, enthusiastic rhythm she knew he liked. She hollowed her cheeks, sucked hard, let her teeth graze him just enough. His hand tangled in her hair, guiding her pace, forcing himself deeper until she gagged.
“Good girl,” he grunted, pulling her up. He turned her around, bending her over a sack of potting mix. Her cheek pressed against the rough burlap. He didn’t enter her slowly. He shoved into her with one brutal, shearing thrust.
Shilpa cried out, a sharp sound swallowed by the confined space. The soreness from yesterday was a fresh, white-hot pain. He didn’t wait for her to adjust. He set a punishing, jackhammer rhythm, each slam of his hips driving her into the unyielding sack. The shed walls trembled with the force.
“You’re mine,” he panted, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. “You understand? My little secret whore. My fuck.”
“Yes, Jiju,” she choked out, tears of real pain stinging her eyes. She pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts, playing the role. “Only yours. Fuck me, use me…”
He was lost in it, in the dark, in the illicit thrill, in the complete control. “You tell anyone… your Didi… anyone… and I’ll ruin you.” His words came in broken gasps between thrusts. “I’ll tell them you begged for it. That you’re a cheap slut who seduced me.”
“I am,” she sobbed, the admission a twisted key. “I’m your cheap slut. Your whore.” She forced her voice to coo, to plead. “Just don’t give me to that customs officer, Jiju. Please. Keep me. I’ll do anything.”
He froze for a second, his body buried deep inside her. “What did you say?”
Shilpa’s heart hammered against the burlap sack. This was the precipice. “The customs officer’s son,” she whispered, turning her head slightly. “Prem said you might… that he wanted… please, Jiju. Don’t sell me. I’ll be good.”
His grip on her hips tightened viciously. “Who told you that?” he snarled, his rhythm resuming, harder, angrier.
“I heard… I heard you talking to Rakesh Sir on the phone,” she lied, the name Prema had given her slipping out. “When you were on the veranda. About the accounts. About how a sale would look cleaner.”
The effect was instantaneous. His thrusts became erratic, furious. The mention of his accountant, of his private business, spoken aloud in this crude context, short-circuited something in him. It mingled threat with arousal, power with exposure.
“You listen to my calls, you dirty cunt?” he rasped, his pace becoming frantic, sloppy. “You think you can use that?”
“No, Jiju, never, I just— ah!” Her sentence broke into a scream as his hand came down hard on her buttock, a stinging slap that echoed in the shed. The pain kaleidoscoped with a shocking, unwanted burst of pleasure. He spanked her again, and again, the sharp cracks punctuating his ragged breathing.
“You’re mine to do with as I please,” he chanted, a mantra of possession. “Mine to fuck. Mine to sell. Mine.” His control snapped. With a final, violent shudder, he came inside her, his release a hot flood as he collapsed over her back, his weight pinning her to the rough burlap.
They stayed like that for a minute, his heavy breaths hot on her neck. Slowly, he pulled out and stepped back, fastening his trousers. Shilpa straightened up, wincing at the fresh ache between her legs. She turned to face him, her face streaked with dust and tears.
He looked at her, his expression unreadable in the gloom—a mix of sated lust, lingering anger, and a dawning wariness. He cupped her face, his thumb wiping roughly at a tear. “You hear things, you keep them here,” he said, tapping her temple. Then his hand slid down to her throat, not squeezing, just holding. “Or you’ll regret it.”
He left her there, in the dark shed, to pull up her pants and wipe herself clean with a corner of her dupatta. She listened to his footsteps recede across the garden. The information was a cold stone in her belly. He had confirmed it all. The customs officer. Rakesh. The sale.
She leaned her forehead against the cool wood of the shed wall. Prema was right. She was a commodity. And her only way out was to become a thief in the house where she was both prisoner and pet. She smoothed her clothes, wiped her face, and stepped out into the twilight. The plan was no longer Prema’s alone. It was now theirs.