Chapter 6: flirting competitive
The pregnancy did not soften the sharp edges of their arrangement; it honed them. Shilpa’s body began to change, a subtle rounding that Prem found perversely thrilling. Her confidence, born from her secret knowledge of his obsession, solidified into a permanent, challenging gleam in her eye. The careful secrecy of the early days was now a discarded skin. Prem moved through the house as its undisputed master, his desires the central gravity around which everything else orbited.
He began the game in the daytime, in the shared, mundane spaces. While Prema arranged flowers in the drawing room, he would walk up behind Shilpa at the sideboard as she poured juice. His hands would settle on her newly curved hips, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. “Getting plump, saali,” he’d murmur, loud enough for Prema to hear. “Like a ripe mango. Makes a man thirsty.”
Shilpa would lean back into him, a soft sigh escaping her. “Only your hands feel the difference, jiju,” she’d reply, turning her head to brush her lips against his stubbled jaw.
Prema’s scissors would snip a stem with vicious precision. A moment later, she would cross the room, a practiced smile on her face, and slide her hand into Prem’s free one, interlacing their fingers. “Don’t tease her, Prem. She’s delicate.” But her other hand would stroke his arm, her nails lightly scraping the skin beneath his sleeve, a silent counter-claim.
“Who’s teasing?” Prem would laugh, pulling Prema closer to plant a firm, possessive kiss on her mouth while his hand still cupped Shilpa’s hip. “I’m just appreciating what’s in my home.”
The movie nights became a sacred, twisted ritual. The home theatre, a cavern of velvet and shadow, was their arena. Prem would settle into his throne-like recliner. Without a word, Prema would take the left armrest, curling into his side. Shilpa would claim the right, her head finding his shoulder. Their hands, as if by independent will, would seek the warm skin beneath his open collar, fingers twisting in the dark hair on his chest. The competition was in every touch—who could elicit the deepest sigh, who received the most lingering kiss on the forehead.
He played only the Bhojpuri films now, the ones with the garish posters and the predictable, feverish plots. The dialogue was a torrent of innuendo. When the on-screen jiju, shirt straining over his muscles, said to his saali, “This field needs two kinds of rain, one from the clouds, one from me,” Prem would repeat it into the fragrant dark of Shilpa’s hair. Then he’d turn and whisper the same line against Prema’s temple, his breath hot.
During the sex scenes, which were plentiful and crude, the atmosphere in the room would thicken unbearably. The screen would show the hero tearing the heroine’s blouse. Prem’s hand, resting on Prema’s thigh, would slide upwards, beneath the silk of her salwar. She would stiffen, a small, wounded sound catching in her throat. “Prem… not here,” she’d whisper, but her body would arch slightly into his touch, her protest dying as his fingers found their mark.
Minutes later, the film would cut to the jiju and the saali in a hayloft. As they frantically coupled on screen, Prem’s attention would shift. His other hand, which had been absently stroking Shilpa’s arm, would move to the swell of her belly, then lower, pressing hard against the soft cotton of her clothes. Shilpa would gasp, her eyes glued to the screen, her own hand clamping over his to keep it there. “Jiju… someone will see,” she’d breathe, but she was already shifting to give him better access.
He owned their protests. They were part of the script.
One night, after a particularly graphic scene where the hero took both women to bed, the final line was, “A true king has two thrones. My heart is one. My bed is the other.” Prem let the words hang in the air, the credits rolling. He didn’t repeat them. He just looked at the reflected light playing on his wife’s conflicted face and his saali’s hungry one, and smiled. The statement was self-evident.
It was after one such night, the air in the house still vibrating with unspent tension, that he summoned her. A text, past midnight, when the marble floors were cold and the only light was the moon filtering through the jali windows: My study. Now.
Shilpa arrived wearing a thin nightgown, her hair loose. The study was lit by a single brass lamp, its light pooling on the massive teak desk and leaving the corners in deep shadow. The smell of old paper, leather, and a dying fire clung to the air. Prem stood by the window, a silhouette against the night-black glass, a glass of amber liquid in his hand.
“Close the door,” he said, without turning.
She did. The click of the latch was deafening.
“Take it off.” His voice was flat, a command.
She hesitated for only a second before obeying, letting the silk slip from her shoulders to puddle at her feet. The cool air raised goosebumps on her skin. She stood there, one hand unconsciously moving to cover the gentle curve of her stomach.
“Don’t,” he snapped, finally turning. His eyes were black in the low light. “I want to see it. All of it.” He took a slow sip of his drink, his gaze traveling over her as if she were a piece of art he was considering buying. “Now crawl. To me.”
Her breath hitched. A flash of something—shame, rebellion—flickered in her eyes, but it was quickly snuffed out by the deeper, darker need he had cultivated. She sank to her knees on the Persian rug, the intricate patterns scratching her skin. Then, on all fours, she began to move forward. The journey across the room felt endless, her body exposed and vulnerable, the heat of his stare a physical weight on her back. She kept her eyes down, watching her own hands advance over the swirling colors.
When she reached his feet, she stopped, her head bowed. He let the silence stretch, savoring her submission. Then he set his glass down with a soft thud.
“Look up.”
She did. He was staring not at her, but out the large window behind him, which offered a view of the manicured garden below, silvered by moonlight.
“See that path?” he said, his voice a low rumble. “Prema walks there every morning. She watches the roses bloom.” He finally looked down at her, a cruel smile touching his lips. “Now get up. Turn around. Put your hands on the glass.”
Trembling, she obeyed. The windowpane was shockingly cold against her palms and her breasts. She stared out at the sleeping garden, the very place of her sister’s quiet solace. Her breath fogged the glass.
She heard the rustle of his trousers, the clink of his belt. Then he was against her, his body a furnace at her back, his hands rough on her hips. He didn’t enter her gently. He pushed into her with a single, brutal thrust, making her cry out, her forehead thumping against the cold window.
“Quiet,” he growled into her ear, one hand snaking around to clamp over her mouth. His other hand pressed flat against the glass beside her head. He set a punishing rhythm, each drive of his hips slamming her body against the unyielding window. “She’ll be here in six hours. Smelling the dew. Planning her day.” His words were hot and slurred with lust against her skin. “And this glass… it will be clean. But you and I will know. We’ll know it was painted with you.”
The intensity was overwhelming. Sweat broke out across her skin, smearing on the glass where her body met it. Her own release, when it came, was sharp and involuntary, a silken rush that made her legs buckle. He held her up, his pace becoming frenzied, animalistic. With a final, deep grind, he spent himself inside her, a guttural groan torn from his chest.
They stayed like that for a moment, both panting, pressed against the window overlooking the garden. The evidence of their act trickled down her inner thigh. Slowly, he removed his hand from her mouth. She was crying, silent tears cutting through the sweat on her cheeks.
He pulled out, stepping back. He tucked himself back into his trousers, watching her slumped, shuddering form. He picked up his drink, finished it.
“Swapna was asking about you at the party last week,” he said casually, as if discussing the weather. “Your pretty cousin. So concerned about your ‘well-being’. Such innocent eyes.” He came close again, ran a possessive hand over the sweat-slick skin of her back. “I think I’ll corrupt those eyes next. Make her understand what real well-being is. What do you think, saali?”
Shilpa could not answer. She could only stare at the ghost of her own breath on the window, a fleeting signature over the garden path, already beginning to fade.
She could only stare at the ghost of her own breath on the window, a fleeting signature over the garden path, already beginning to fade. Behind her, Prem adjusted his clothing, the soft rustle of fabric the only sound in the thick silence. He left her there, naked and trembling against the glass, walking out of the study without a backward glance, the door sighing shut on its well-oiled hinges.
Shilpa didn’t know how long she stood there. The cold from the pane seeped into her bones. Eventually, she peeled herself away, seeing the faint, cloudy imprint her skin had left. She dressed mechanically, the silk of her nightgown feeling like a lie against her body. She slipped into the hall, a ghost moving through the sleeping house, and did not look back.
The next morning, Prema rose as she always did. Dawn was a grey promise at the edge of the sky. She tied her robe and moved silently toward the garden, seeking the calm of her roses before the household’s tensions awoke. The air was cool and carried the scent of damp earth. Her slippers whispered on the dew-damp grass of the path.
Something made her pause. A vague dissonance. She looked up toward the house, toward the dark window of Prem’s study. The moonlight was gone, replaced by the first pale gleam of day. The window should have been a clean, black mirror. But it wasn’t.
There were smears. Two distinct, hazy patches at about shoulder height, and a lower, wider blur. They disrupted the reflection of the sky. Frowning, she stepped off the path, the wet grass soaking her slippers, to get a closer look from the lawn.
The marks were on the outside of the glass. She could see that now. They had a faint, oily opacity. Her mind, still soft with sleep, tried to categorize them—a clumsy cleaner, a bird’s impact. Then the angle of the dawn light shifted minutely.
It illuminated the subtlest of textures: the whorl of a fingerprint, the elongated streak of a sliding palm. The lower smear was different. It had run, just a little. Her breath caught, sharp in her throat. A cold, hollow feeling opened in her stomach.
She stood frozen, staring. The garden around her, her sanctuary, felt suddenly exposed and ugly. Her eyes traced the invisible geometry from those smears to the floor inside, to the space where someone would have stood, or been held. A image flashed, unbidden: a bare back pressed against the cold glass, skin slipping on its surface.
“No,” she whispered to the empty air. It was just a window. It was nothing.
But she couldn’t move. The puzzle pieces, the ones she had been desperately refusing to assemble, began to click together with a terrible, silent finality. The late-night summonses. The possessive hands always finding Shilpa’s new curves. The smell of Prem when he returned to their bed sometimes—not just of sweat and smoke, but of something sharper, muskier, a scent that wasn’t hers.
Last night. He had come to bed very late. His skin had carried that same sharp scent. When he’d kissed her neck, she’d turned away, pleading a headache.
“Suit yourself,” he’d murmured, his voice thick with sleep or satisfaction. He had fallen asleep almost instantly, a deep, sated sleep.
Now, standing in the dew, Prema understood the source of that satisfaction. It was painted on her window. It was a message left in carelessness, for her to find. Her chest tightened, making it hard to breathe. The roses, their petals soft and velvety, seemed to mock her.
She turned and walked back to the house, her steps slow and heavy. The marble floor of the foyer was icy under her wet soles. She didn’t go to the kitchen. She climbed the stairs, each step an effort, and walked directly to Prem’s study.
The door was unlocked. The room still held the night’s intimacy—the faint, stale odor of whiskey, the deeper, pungent note of sex. It was unmistakable here, concentrated. Her eyes went to the window. From inside, the smears were invisible. The glass was clear, showing her distorted reflection and the brightening garden beyond.
But on the deep red Persian rug, just before the window, she saw it. A small, damp patch. Not water. It had a slight sheen. Nearby, almost hidden in the pattern, was a single, long, dark hair. She bent and picked it up. It was silky, and far too long to be Prem’s.
A sound escaped her, a choked gasp of agony. The final piece. She clutched the hair in her fist, her knuckles white. The memory of Prem’s wicked smile, his ‘thank you’ kissed into her mouth after being with Shilpa, now tasted of poison. It hadn’t been gratitude. It had been gloating.
The door opened behind her. Prem stood there, already dressed for the day, crisp and powerful. He saw her by the window, saw her clenched fist, saw the direction of her gaze. His expression didn’t change. It simply settled into a calm, expectant mask.
“Prema,” he said, his voice even. “You’re up early.”
She turned to face him. The pain was a living thing, twisting inside her, but on the surface a terrible cold was rising. She opened her hand, letting the single hair drift silently to the rug between them.
“You did it here,” she said. Her voice was flat, dead. It wasn’t a question.
He followed the hair’s descent, then looked back at her. He didn’t deny it. He didn’t speak. He just watched her, measuring her reaction, his dark eyes devoid of the warmth she had spent a lifetime loving.
The silence confirmed everything. It was more brutal than any admission. In that silence, Prema discovered the true architecture of her world. It was not built on love or family, but on his appetite, and her willing blindness. The foundation cracked, and something in her face shifted, hardened.
PREMA DISCOVERS.
The hair settled on the rug between them, a final punctuation mark to a sentence she’d refused to read. Prema’s face drained of all color, but her eyes turned to dark, hard stone. Prem watched the transformation, a flicker of interest cutting through the calm of his features.
“You’ll catch a chill,” he said, his voice unnervingly casual. He gestured to her damp slippers. “The grass is wet.”
She didn’t look at her feet. She looked at the window, then back at him. “How long?”
“Does it matter?” He took a step into the room, his presence expanding to fill the silence. “It’s done. It’s been done. The child is coming.”
“My sister’s child.” The words were brittle.
“Our child,” he corrected, his tone leaving no room for argument. “This family’s child.” He moved to the decanter, poured two fingers of whiskey, and offered it to her. She didn’t move. He shrugged, drank it himself. “You wanted this. We wanted this.”
“I didn’t want this.” Her voice was a raw scrape. She pointed a trembling finger at the rug. “This. Here. In my home. On my window.”
“Your home?” A slow, dangerous smile touched his lips. “Our home. My study.” He set the glass down with a definitive click. “The arrangement succeeded, Prema. Be angry if you must. But in a few months, you will hold a baby in your arms. Your son will have a brother. Your parents will have another grandson. That was the goal, wasn’t it?”
He walked to her, stopping so close she could smell the whiskey on his breath, the sandalwood soap on his skin, and beneath it, that other, muskier scent. He didn’t touch her. “The goal was not your happiness, my love. It was the family’s legacy. Your happiness is my concern, but it is not the contract.”
She flinched. The cold calculation in his words was more devastating than any heated admission of lust. It reduced her pain to a logistical footnote.
“And her?” Prema whispered.
“Shilpa stays.” His reply was immediate, final. “She is the mother of my child. We do not abandon our women. We don’t discard them after they’ve served their purpose. That’s what makes us different from animals.” He said it with the smug conviction of a man rewriting scripture to suit his appetites. “She is part of this house now. Permanently.”
Prema finally looked away, her gaze lost in the gardens that no longer felt like hers. The fight drained out of her, replaced by a heavy, chilling comprehension. She was not the wronged wife discovering a betrayal. She was a stakeholder being briefed on a merger she had unknowingly approved.
“I need to change,” she said, her voice hollow.
“Yes,” he agreed softly, his hand coming up to brush a stray tear from her cheek with a thumb. She didn’t pull away. The gesture was possessive, not comforting. “Change, Prema. This anger is a luxury we cannot afford. The family is watching.”
She left the study. She did not slam the door. The sound of her soft, retreating footsteps was more terrible than any fury.
The birth arrived with a swift, violent urgency one monsoon-drenched night. The house thrummed with muffled panic and stifled prayers. Prem paced the hallway like a caged panther, his shirt sticking to his back. Prema sat rigidly on a bench outside the room, her hands clasped so tightly her knuckles were bone-white. She listened to Shilpa’s screams, each one a shard of glass in her chest.
Then, cutting through the rain and the pain, came a different sound. A sharp, healthy, indignant wail.
The doctor emerged, sweat on his brow but smiling. “A boy. A strong, beautiful boy. Mother is tired but well.”
Ragini erupted into sobs of joy, clutching her husband. Prem’s face broke into a magnificent, triumphant grin. He clapped the doctor on the back, then turned to Prema. He pulled her up from the bench and kissed her hard on the mouth in front of everyone. “Our son has a brother,” he declared, his voice thick with emotion. “Our family has its fourth prince.”
Prema felt her own smile form, reflexively, a perfect mirror of expected joy. “A blessing,” she heard herself say.
They named him Veer.
The house transformed into a shrine of pastel blue and soft linen. Congratulations poured in. Prem wore fatherhood like a new crown, his chest seeming to broaden with pride. Ragini fussed over Shilpa, calling her “beta” more tenderly than she had in years. Shilpa, propped on pillows, glowed with a raw, powerful beauty, the baby a sleeping trophy in the crook of her arm.
Prema’s role solidified into a delicate performance. She cooed over the baby, her fingers stroking his downy head while her eyes traced the new, intimate ease between Prem and Shilpa. He would sit on the edge of Shilpa’s bed, the city’s paperwork forgotten, just watching her nurse.
“Look at his grip,” Prem murmured one afternoon, his finger caught in Veer’s tiny fist. “Strong. Like his father.” His eyes, however, were on Shilpa’s exposed breast. “And he knows where to find his treasure. A smart boy already.”
Shilpa laughed, a low, throaty sound. “He’s greedy, jiju. Takes after you.” She looked past Prem to where Prema stood arranging flowers. “Isn’t he greedy, didi?”
Prema set a marigold down carefully. “All men are,” she said, her tone light, almost playful. “You’re just learning that now?”
Prem threw his head back and laughed, a rich, rolling sound of pure pleasure. “My gharwali is a philosopher!” He reached out, snagging Prema’s wrist and pulling her toward the bed. She came, reluctantly, and he made her sit beside him, his arm around her shoulders, facing Shilpa. “Listen to her, adhi gharwali. She’s teaching you the secrets of managing us.”
The term hung in the sunlit room. Adhi gharwali. Half-wife. It was a joke, a line from a hundred movies. But here, in this room smelling of milk and talcum powder, it breathed and took shape.
Shilpa’s smile didn’t falter. She adjusted the baby, her movement deliberately graceful. “I have the best teacher, jiju. Didi manages this whole palace. I just have to manage… smaller things.” Her gaze dropped pointedly to the baby, then flicked to Prem.
The double meanings became the household’s new language. At dinner, Prem would praise Prema’s cooking. “This korma is perfect, jaan. The secret is in the slow warming, isn’t it? Letting the cream settle just right.”
Then he’d spoon a portion onto Shilpa’s plate. “You need your strength, Shilpa. Feeding a growing boy is hard work. It drains all your reserves.” His foot would seek Prema’s under the table, a simultaneous pressure. “Good thing there’s plenty to go around. My home is abundant.”
Shilpa would lick a drop of sauce from her spoon. “Abundant is one word for it, jiju.”
Some days, Prema played along. The competition sparked a strange, dark excitement in her veins. When Shilpa wore a new saree, Prema would glide in wearing a deeper shade of the same color, her jewelry more refined. “Oh, you look sweet,” she’d say to Shilpa. “Like a fresh blossom. Prem always loved simple flowers.” She’d turn to him. “But you said once that full-blown roses have the most scent, didn’t you, jaan?”
Prem would pull Prema onto his lap right there, nuzzling her neck. “I said many things. But a wise gardener tends all his flowers, no? Each has its season.”
Other days, the jealousy was a physical ache. She would see Prem’s hand lingering on the small of Shilpa’s back as they admired the baby, or hear their shared laughter from the nursery, a private sound. She’d retreat to her prayers, the beads slipping through her fingers, but finding no solace.
One evening, with Veer two months old, they were in the drawing room. Shilpa was on the floor with the baby on a blanket. Prem and Prema shared the sofa.
“He’s trying to roll over,” Shilpa announced, delighted.
Prem leaned forward, his eyes warm. “Ambitious. Wants to explore his territory already. Good.”
Prema watched him watch them. The old, wounded question rose again, inevitable and sharp. “Prem,” she said, her voice quiet but clear. “Now that Veer is here… what is the relationship between you and Shilpa?”
The room went very still. Shilpa froze, her hand hovering over the baby.
Prem leaned back slowly. He didn’t look at Prema. He looked at Shilpa, then at his son. “She is the mother of my child,” he said, as if explaining something simple to a dull student. “She is your sister. She is part of our family. That is the relationship.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“I know what you mean,” he cut in, his tone losing its playful edge. He finally looked at her, his gaze steady and unapologetic. “We do not abandon our women, Prema. We made a choice for this family. We brought her into this. She has given us a gift.” He gestured to Veer. “Do you suggest we now ask her to live like a widow in her own home? To lock her away in a room? Is that the kindness you want?”
Prema was silent, trapped by his twisted morality.
“She stays,” he concluded, his voice softening back into that coercive warmth. “As family. All of us. Together.” He reached out, taking Prema’s hand in one of his and stretching his other toward Shilpa. After a heartbeat, Shilpa placed her hand in his. He linked them, a human chain strung between the sofa and the floor. “My gharwali. My adhi gharwali. Two pillars. My home is strong because of this.”
That night, the movie they watched was notorious. The jiju was a local strongman, openly living with his wife and saali. The dialogues were razor-sharp and filthy. During a scene where the hero boasted of having “two keys to one treasure lock,” Prem chuckled.
He turned to Prema, squeezing her thigh. “This writer is a poet, no?” Then he looked at Shilpa, sprawled on a divan with her feet near his lap. “What do you think, saali? Can one lock have two keys?”
Shilpa wiggled her toes against his leg. “A strong lock needs strong keys, jiju. One might break if used all the time. Better to share the work.”
Prema found herself speaking, her voice dripping a honeyed venom she didn’t know she possessed. “But a cheap lock breaks no matter what, shilpa. The problem is the quality of the lock, not the keys.”
Prem’s laugh was a roar of delight. He pulled Prema closer, kissing her temple roughly. “My biwi has the sharpest keys of all!” He was ecstatic, vibrantly alive in the center of their charged, overlapping desires and resentments. This was his masterpiece, playing out in real time, in his living room. The competition wasn’t a flaw; it was the engine, and he fed it with every glance, every double-edged word, believing himself utterly in control of the fire he stoked.