Chapter 2: lick-lick eye?
Sunlight sliced through the kitchen window, highlighting dust motes dancing above the simmering pots. Priya hummed softly, a counterpoint to the rhythmic chop-chop-chop of her knife on the worn wooden board. Lentils bubbled beside her, releasing earthy steam. Her bare feet, soles already lightly dusted with flour from earlier, were planted firmly on the cool stone floor as she worked.
Vikram stood frozen in the doorway, the scent of cumin and coriander momentarily forgotten. His gaze, as it had been increasingly since Priya arrived, was magnetically drawn downward. Her left foot, angled slightly, bore a distinct smudge of grey ash near the arch, a stark contrast against the honeyed skin. The memory of yesterday – the startling intimacy, the taste of earth and salt, the strange compulsion that overrode his rational mind – surged through him, hot and undeniable.
She turned, sensing him, a stray curl escaping her braid to brush her cheek. Her dark eyes met his, holding a flicker of something unreadable – amusement? Understanding? "Oh, Vikram-bhaiyya," she said, her voice smooth as warmed milk. "I seem to have made a mess again near the chulha. The ash... it clings." She gestured vaguely towards the hearth, then turned back to her vegetables, the knife resuming its rhythm. Chop. Chop. Chop.
No command. Just an observation. A statement of fact that hung in the fragrant air, thick as the steam.
His throat tightened. The duty, the tradition, the overwhelming, humiliating pull warred within him. He was the eldest. She was… nineteen. New. Yet, the sight of that ash-darkened sole ignited a furnace in his gut. Denial wasn't an option. It was a compulsion wired deep, deeper than reason.
He didn't walk. He sank. Knees hitting the stone with a soft thud that vibrated up his spine. Then, deliberately, painfully, he lowered his torso, pressing his chest flat against the cool, slightly gritty floor. He inched forward, not using his hands, not using his knees. Only the muscles of his torso and legs, dragging his weight across the stone like some low, creeping creature. A worm. Towards her feet.
The distance felt immense. Every drag scraped his shirt against the floor, a harsh whisper accompanying his ragged breaths. He kept his eyes fixed on the target: the elegant curve of her arch, the faint tracery of veins beneath the skin, the offending grey smudge. He could smell the woodsmoke now, mingling with the spices and the faint, clean scent of her.
He arrived. Panting slightly, his forehead almost touching the ground near her heel. He raised his head just enough. His tongue, dry at first, flicked tentatively against the edge of the ash stain. Grit scraped. He licked again, broader this time, flattening his tongue against the warm, resilient skin. Ash dissolved into a gritty paste on his tongue – bitter, acrid. He worked methodically, focusing only on the texture under his tongue, the heat radiating from her sole, the impossible intimacy of the act. Clean. He licked once more, a final, broad stroke, leaving the skin damp and unmarked.
A small sigh escaped Priya, almost inaudible. Satisfied? Or merely acknowledging? She didn't look down. Instead, she finished chopping the last onion, wiped her hands on her saree, and moved. Fluidly, without hurry. She stepped over him, her other foot landing lightly, deliberately he thought, on the patch of floor he'd just dragged across, and walked towards the large clay pot of rice flour sitting open near the pantry. Five paces away.
Vikram watched the hem of her saree sway as she walked. He closed his eyes for a second, the taste of ash coating his mouth. Then, wordlessly, he lowered his head again. Chest to stone. He began the arduous drag across the kitchen floor. Scrape… drag… scrape… His shoulders burned. His ribs felt bruised. The stone was unyielding.
He reached her new position. She stood by the flour pot, measuring out a cup. Her right foot now rested partially on a small spill of the fine white powder. She shifted her weight slightly as he approached, grinding the powder deeper into the creases of her sole.
He didn't hesitate this time. He stretched his neck, craning upward, and pressed his lips, then his tongue, to the flour-dusted skin. It coated his mouth instantly, a choking dryness, clumping on his tongue and lips. He had to work harder, licking with broad, wet strokes to dissolve the paste, feeling the fine grit between his teeth. Her skin tasted clean beneath it, a hint of salt and warmth. He focused on the arch, the ball, the delicate ridge of her toes, cleansing each curve until the white was gone, replaced by a damp sheen and the lingering taste of raw grain.
As he finished the last sweep, tongue rasping slightly over her heel, Priya murmured, "So clumsy today." She turned, cup of flour in hand, and moved again. Towards the sink where she’d been washing bitter gourd. Muddy water pooled slightly on the floor there. Eight paces. She stepped squarely into the damp patch, her clean sole instantly darkening with silt.
Vikram’s breath hitched. His muscles screamed protest. He dropped his head, the scent of damp earth and vegetable peelings filling his nostrils. Scrape… drag… Stone scraped his elbow through the thin cotton of his shirt. A low groan escaped him this time, muffled against the floor. He kept crawling.
The mud was slick, thicker than ash, colder than flour. It coated her sole and the high curve of her instep. He pressed his face closer, his nose almost brushing her skin. His tongue worked in broad, lapping motions, gathering the cold, gritty sludge. It tasted of soil and decaying vegetation, filling his mouth. He swallowed reflexively, fighting a wave of nausea. Focus. Clean. Clean. He licked upwards, following the line of her tendon, feeling the fine bones beneath. Clean. He licked the mud from between her toes, the action shockingly intimate. His head swam.
"Vikram-bhaiyya?" Priya’s voice floated down, calm. She’d turned the tap back on. A fresh trickle of dirty water splashed near her other foot. "This gourd is very stubborn."
He froze, mid-lick. Mud still coated his tongue, his chin. He looked up. Her face was the picture of serene concentration as she scrubbed the vegetable, but the corner of her mouth held the faintest, knowing curve. She let her newly cleaned foot hover, then slowly, deliberately, lowered it into the fresh puddle forming on the stone.
Scrape… drag… Vikram began the agonizing crawl towards her left foot, the taste of mud heavy in his mouth, the cool dampness of the floor seeping into his clothes. His limbs trembled with effort, sweat beading his temples. Across the kitchen, near the stove, a pinch of bright red chili powder glowed like spilled blood on the floor where she’d seasoned the lentils earlier.
Her shadow fell over him as he approached the puddle. She shifted her weight, her right foot, the one he'd just cleaned of flour, now hovering precariously close to the chili powder. Waiting.
The chili powder glowed like embers on the stone floor. Priya’s right foot hovered, a breath away from the crimson spill. Vikram’s throat clenched, anticipating the burn. He dragged himself forward, chest scraping the damp stone near the sink, the lingering taste of mud thick on his tongue. Every muscle screamed.
"Careful, Vikram-bhaiyya," Priya murmured, not looking down, her voice light as she scrubbed the bitter gourd under the trickling tap. "That looks quite potent." Her hovering foot dipped, the sole brushing the edge of the powder, coating the arch in a fine, fiery dust. She shifted her weight onto it, grinding the spice deeper.
He reached her. The sharp, acrid scent stung his nostrils. He pressed his tongue flat against the arch, desperate to gather the powder quickly before it truly burned. Heat exploded instantly – a fierce, prickling sting that seared his taste buds and made his eyes water. He gasped, pulling back slightly, then forced himself forward again, licking in frantic, broad strokes. Tears blurred his vision as he tried to dissolve the paste, the heat radiating through his mouth and lips. Clean. Mostly. His tongue felt numb, raw.
Priya sighed softly, stepping away from the sink, leaving faint wet footprints. "Much better," she said, almost to herself. She moved towards the large earthenware bowl where she’d been whisking yogurt for raita. A dollop had splashed onto the floor near its base. Six paces. She stopped beside it, her left foot resting squarely in the creamy white puddle.
Vikram watched her go, his mouth still ablaze, his breath ragged. He dropped his forehead to the cool stone, seeking momentary relief. The scrape of his body across the floor echoed dully. Each inch felt like a mile. Sweat stung his eyes, mingling with the remnants of chili-induced tears. His shirt clung, damp and gritty.
He arrived at the yogurt spill. The coolness radiating from it was a small mercy. He pressed his lips to the creamy mess on her sole. It was slick, tangy-sweet against his raw tongue, soothing the burn momentarily. He licked methodically, gathering the cool yogurt, cleansing the delicate curve from heel to toes. The contrast was jarring – fire followed by cool relief. He lingered slightly longer than necessary on the smooth skin beneath the residue.
"Almost done," Priya announced cheerfully, lifting her now-clean foot. She turned towards the shelf where jars of honey gleamed. "Just need a touch of sweetness." She reached up, her saree rustling, and fumbled slightly. A thick golden stream of honey splattered onto the floorboards near her toes. Three paces. She stepped back, her right heel landing squarely in the viscous pool.
Vikram groaned inwardly. His shoulders felt like lead weights. He began the crawl again, a slow, torturous slide across the kitchen. The scent of honey, cloying and sweet, filled the air. He reached the golden puddle. Her heel was coated, honey clinging thickly between her toes. He pressed his face close, his tongue working against the sticky sweetness. It clung stubbornly, requiring firm, repeated strokes. The honey coated his lips, his chin, filling his mouth with an overwhelming sweetness that felt sickly after the chili and mud. He worked diligently, separating her toes with his tongue to clean the sticky residue trapped there, the intimacy profound and humbling.
Priya watched him from the corner of her eye, a faint, unreadable smile playing on her lips as she stirred honey into the yogurt. "So sticky," she commented lightly. She lifted her cleaned foot, examining it critically. Then, without hurry, she walked towards the spice cabinet. Near its base, a spilled pinch of bright yellow turmeric powder formed a small, vibrant stain on the floor. Seven paces. She paused, her left foot hovering just above the stain, waiting for him to begin his agonizing journey across the stones once more. Vikram lowered his head, tasting honey and despair, and dragged himself forward.
The turmeric powder glowed like captured sunlight on the stone floor. Vikram dragged himself towards it, the lingering sweetness of honey thick and cloying in his mouth, mixing unpleasantly with the phantom burn of chili. His shoulders screamed; each scrape of his chest against the gritty stone sent fresh jolts of agony through his abused muscles. Priya’s left foot hovered patiently, perfectly poised above the vibrant yellow stain.
"Such a bright color," Priya remarked casually, adjusting a jar of cumin seeds on the shelf above. Her voice was light, conversational. "Hard to miss." Her foot descended, the sole pressing firmly into the turmeric, grinding the powder into a fine paste against her skin and the cool stone. The sharp, earthy scent hit Vikram’s nostrils just as he arrived, panting, his face inches from her heel.
He pressed his raw tongue flat against the stained arch. The turmeric was drier than the honey, finer than the flour, coating his mouth instantly with a pungent, slightly bitter dust. It clung stubbornly. He worked with broad, insistent strokes, feeling the grit against his teeth, the warmth of her sole beneath the spice. The yellow stained his lips, his chin, turning his desperation visible. Clean. Mostly. A faint golden hue remained on her skin, stubbornly resisting his tongue.
Priya hummed softly, a tuneless little melody, as she turned away. She walked towards the large clay water pot standing near the back door. Condensation dripped steadily down its side, forming a slick, dark patch on the floor where mud had been tracked in earlier. Eight paces. She stopped beside it, her right foot resting squarely in the muddy dampness. Vikram watched the hem of her saree sway, a dark curtain against the bright kitchen. He dropped his forehead back to the stone, tasting turmeric and exhaustion. The crawl began again. Scrape. Drag. A low, involuntary groan escaped him this time. The distance felt infinite.
He reached the muddy patch. The silt was cold and thick, clinging to her sole and between her toes. He pressed his face close, ignoring the chill seeping into his clothes. His tongue rasped against the gritty sludge, gathering the cold earth and water. It tasted like the riverbank, like decay, filling his mouth with a loamy bitterness. He swallowed thickly, fighting nausea, focusing on the task: cleanse the arch, the ball, each toe. The intimacy of separating her toes with his tongue was a familiar humiliation now, layered with fatigue.
"Always so much mud," Priya sighed, stepping back from the water pot. She moved towards the stove where lentils simmered. A splash of hot oil had escaped the karahi, forming a small, dark, dangerous pool on the floor beside it. Five paces. She paused, her left foot hovering near the shimmering oil. Vikram’s breath caught. He remembered the chili’s fire. This was different. Potential agony.
He dragged himself forward, his movements slower, more labored. The scent of hot oil and cumin filled the air. Sweat stung his eyes, mixing with the yellow turmeric residue on his face. He arrived, trembling. The oil gleamed, perilously close to her skin. Priya shifted her weight almost imperceptibly, letting the ball of her foot graze the very edge of the spill. A thin smear darkened her sole.
He hesitated, staring at the hot oil stain. Then, driven by the compulsion deeper than fear, he pressed his lips cautiously to the edge of the smear. Heat radiated, not searing, but intensely warm, warning. He flicked his tongue quickly, gathering the thin, greasy film. It tasted metallic, burnt, coating his tongue unpleasantly. He worked fast, small, precise licks, avoiding the hottest center, cleaning the oil from her skin before it could truly burn. Relief washed over him as he finished, leaving only warmth and dampness.
"Careful," Priya murmured, not looking at him, stirring the lentils. "Hot." She lifted her cleaned foot and walked towards the salt jar sitting open on the counter. A small mound of coarse crystals had spilled onto the floor beside it. Four paces. She stopped, her right foot hovering directly above the salt. Vikram closed his eyes for a second, tasting oil and dread. He lowered his head. Scrape. Drag. The salt crystals glittered like tiny diamonds under the window light. Priya let her foot descend slowly, pressing her heel firmly into the sharp pile, grinding it into her skin. The crunch was audible.
He reached her. The coarse salt crystals bit into his already raw tongue instantly. Pain lanced through his mouth, sharp and shocking. He gasped, pulling back, tears springing to his eyes. He forced himself forward again, licking tentatively at the salty grit embedded in her heel. It dissolved slowly, stinging fiercely, a harsh counterpoint to the honey’s cloying sweetness still lingering. Each lick was agony, scraping his tender flesh. Clean. The salt left his tongue throbbing, his mouth feeling flayed.
Priya glanced down at him finally, her expression serene. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips. "Thirsty work," she observed softly. She stepped away from the salt jar, leaving a faint crystalline dusting on the stone. She moved towards the bucket of vegetable peelings near the back door. A slick of onion slime glistened on the floor beside it. Seven paces. Vikram watched her go, his mouth a landscape of pain – salt, oil, turmeric, chili, mud, honey. He tasted despair, metallic and thick. He dropped his head. The crawl began again, slower now, each movement a monumental effort. His limbs trembled violently. Near the stove, a forgotten smear of bright red chili powder mixed with a splash of spilled water, forming a thin, ominous paste. Priya’s shadow fell across it as she reached the peelings, her left foot lifting, poised, ready to find its next mark.
Priya’s shadow fell across the slick patch near the vegetable peelings as she reached them, her left foot lifting, poised, ready to find its next mark. It hovered for a heartbeat over the glistening onion slime puddled beside the overflowing bucket. Vikram, still prone on the stone floor near the salt jar, tasted the harsh sting lingering on his raw tongue, his body a trembling map of scrapes and aches. He watched her bare sole descend, slow and deliberate, pressing firmly into the translucent, viscous mess with a soft, wet sound. Slime coated her arch, oozing thickly between her toes.
"Uff," Priya murmured, almost to herself, a faint wrinkle appearing on her smooth brow as she looked down at her foot. "These onions are slippery today." She didn't wipe it off. She simply stood, bearing her weight on the slimed foot, turning slightly to glance back at him over her shoulder. Her dark eyes held a question, an expectant stillness. The sharp, sour tang of crushed onions cut through the kitchen's spice-laden air.
Vikram groaned, a low sound scraped from his throat. Every muscle screamed protest – shoulders burning, ribs bruised, knees raw. The cool stone felt like a punishment against his chest. He pushed. His body resisted, trembling violently as he dragged himself forward an inch. Another inch. The distance to the peelings bucket yawned like a chasm. Scrape. Grind. Each movement sent fresh jolts of agony through his spent frame. Sweat dripped from his chin, mingling with turmeric stains and salt grit on the floor. His vision blurred at the edges.
He reached the slime. The cold, gelatinous mess clung thickly to Priya’s sole, smelling sharply of sulfur and earth. He lowered his face, the scent filling his nostrils, making his stomach churn. His raw tongue touched the cold slickness. It clung, thick and stubborn. He pressed harder, flattening his tongue against her arch, trying to gather the slime. It slid greasily over his taste buds – sour, acrid, utterly repulsive. He gagged, swallowing bile, forcing himself to continue. He licked upwards, separating her slimed toes with his tongue, the intimacy now layered with profound physical disgust. Cold slime coated his lips, his chin.
Priya shifted her weight slightly, her foot flexing subtly under his ministrations. "Take your time, Vikram-bhaiyya," she said softly, her voice calm, almost soothing. "No rush." Her gaze drifted towards the window, watching a bird land on the sill, utterly detached. The casual dismissal stung worse than the salt. Her clean right foot tapped lightly on the stone nearby, free of any mess for now.
He finished, her sole glistening wetly, the slime gone, replaced only by his saliva and the faint sheen of onion residue. He lifted his head, panting, his mouth a battleground of conflicting tastes – chili’s phantom burn, salt’s sting, honey’s cloying memory, and now the sour, lingering filth of onion slime. Exhaustion threatened to pin him to the floor. He couldn’t look up at her.
She moved. Not far. Just two steps towards the large brass container holding soaked chickpeas near the sink. Water had seeped out, pooling darkly on the floor, thick with starchy sediment. Her newly cleaned left foot stepped squarely into the murky water. She let out a small sigh as the cold hit her skin. Then, with deliberate slowness, she lifted her right foot – the one that had been tapping, clean and dry just moments ago – and pressed it down firmly into the centre of the chickpea sediment sludge. It was thick, grainy, and pale beige. She ground her heel into it, twisting slightly.
"Always leaking," Priya commented idly, looking down at the container, not at him. Her tone was light, conversational. Vikram stared at her right foot, now buried to the ankle in the starchy muck. The sheer, deliberate escalation was crushing. He tasted despair, metallic and cold. His arms shook violently as he tried to push himself up onto his elbows. He managed it, barely. He started the crawl. Towards the chickpea sludge. Towards the final, impossible demand.
His progress was glacial. Muscles that had screamed before now shrieked, threatening to tear. He inched forward, sweat pouring, vision tunneling. The stone scraped raw skin beneath his torn shirt. He gasped for air, each breath a ragged sob. The starchy smell of the chickpea water filled his nose. He reached the edge of the pool. Her foot was caked, the ankle deep in the thick paste. He lowered his head. His trembling arms gave way. His chest hit the wet stone with a thud. He couldn’t lift himself. His raw, filthy tongue stretched out, straining, barely touching the gritty paste coating her heel. It was too much. Too far. The grains scratched his abused flesh.
He tried to push up again. Failed. A low, broken whimper escaped him. He lay there, cheek pressed to the cold, wet floor beside her slimed ankle, the starchy grit gritty against his skin. His body had nothing left. Every nerve shrieked. Every muscle fiber shivered on the edge of failure. The kitchen swam. The sounds grew distant – the bubbling pot, Priya’s faint humming. Darkness pulsed at the edge of his vision. He couldn't move another inch. Not even for her. Not even for the compulsion that had driven him this far into the dirt.
Priya looked down at him, her expression unreadable. She didn’t move her foot away from the sludge. She simply watched him lie there, utterly spent, trembling violently against the floor at her feet, his breathing shallow and ragged. The silence stretched, thick with his defeat. "Perhaps," she began, her voice soft, almost gentle, "that's...".
HE COLLAPSES EXHAUSTED