Chapter 7: competitive flirting
The monsoon rains had ceased, leaving behind a languid humidity that clung to the skin. In the aftermath of Veer’s birth, a new schedule emerged, as deliberate and enforced as the ticking of the grand hallway clock. Prem’s nights were now apportioned with a businessman’s precision.
Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays: the marital bedroom. The room held the deep, familiar scent of Prema’s jasmine perfume ingrained in the silk drapes, the memory of a thousand sanctioned intimacies. On these nights, Prem would come to her with a possessive gravity, his touches practiced and thorough, as if reaffirming a treaty. Prema would receive him, her responses measured, her mind often floating somewhere near the ceiling, listening. The walls, though thick, were not silent. Sometimes, from the nursery down the hall, would come the thin, hungry cry of the baby, followed by the softer, murmuring response of Shilpa. Prem would pause, his head tilting toward the sound, a smile touching his lips before he resumed. Prema would close her eyes, pretending the interruption was only about the child.
Tuesdays, Thursdays, Saturdays: the room that had been Shilpa’s, now transformed. It smelled of milk, talcum powder, and the sharper, younger fragrance of Shilpa’s skin. Here, Prem was different. Louder, more improvisational, his laughter rough against the walls. The bedframe would creak a frantic, urgent rhythm. Shilpa had learned to be less quiet, her cries punctuating the night, carrying through the ventilation shafts. Prema, lying alone in the vastness of her bed, would hear them. She’d picture it—the spill of Shilpa’s hair across the pillow, the greedy grip of her hands on Prem’s back, the way he probably whispered “saali” into her mouth like a curse and a blessing. The jealousy was a physical heat, pooling in her stomach, tightening her throat. She’d clutch her pillow, imagining it was his throat, or hers.
Sundays were his alone, spent in his study, a reminder that he was the source of all dispensation.
The days, however, were a shared theater of torment.
It began at breakfast. Prem, refreshed and radiating vigor, would hold court at the head of the table. Shilpa, often drowsy from a night with him or from tending to Veer, would wear her exhaustion like a badge. Prema, perfectly coiffed, would serve the food herself, a silent reclamation of territory.
“You look tired, Shilpa,” Prema would say, pouring tea. “Was Veer fussing again? You should let the ayah take him at night. A mother needs her rest.” The subtext hung in the air: So you don’t disturb my nights.
Shilpa would stretch, a slow, feline movement that pulled her kurti tight across her breasts. “Oh, it wasn’t Veer, didi. He slept like an angel. It was just… some night birds. Very loud. Very persistent.” She’d glance at Prem from under her lashes. “They don’t let a girl sleep.”
Prem would chuckle, buttering his toast. “Some birds are worth losing sleep for. Their song is… unique.” He’d reach out, not looking, and his hand would find Prema’s waist as she stood beside him, pulling her close. His other hand would tap the table near Shilpa’s elbow. “But a wise man needs a quiet dawn too. My biwi ensures that. Balance.”
The touching was constant, casual, and devastating. In the drawing room, Prem would recline on the divan. Prema would sit at his feet, leaning against his legs, her head on his knee. He’d stroke her hair absently. Then Shilpa would enter, carrying Veer, and without a word, she’d settle on the divan beside him, her body angled so her hip pressed against his. Prem’s hand would leave Prema’s hair and come to rest on Shilpa’s thigh, over her churidar, his fingers drumming a lazy rhythm. Prema, from her lower position, would see it all. She’d then shift, placing her hand high on his calf, her thumb rubbing slow circles on his inner leg. A silent duel of fingertips.
Shilpa fully embraced her role, morphing into a caricature stolen straight from the low-budget films they no longer needed to watch. Her walk gained an exaggerated sway. Her laughter became louder, throatier. She started using the coarse, poetic slang of the Bhojpuri screen.
One afternoon, Prem was examining accounts at his desk. Prema was reading nearby. Shilpa glided in, a glass of lassi in her hand. She didn’t bring it to him. She stood before the desk, took a deliberate sip, letting a drop cling to her lower lip.
“Accounts, jiju?” she purred. “All debits and credits? So dry.” She set the glass down, then leaned over the desk, her cleavage presented like an offering. “You should check my balance. I feel very… inflated these days.” She patted her chest. “Must be all the good care.”
Prema’s book went still. Prem leaned back, a grin spreading across his face. “Inflation is a sign of a healthy economy, saali. But it needs regular… auditing. Hands-on management.”
“My manager is often busy with other portfolios,” Shilpa pouted, mimicking the filmi dialogue with alarming accuracy.
“A diversified portfolio is a strong portfolio,” Prema said without looking up, her voice cool. “But wise investors know sentiment is fickle. A sudden crash… leaves everyone ruined.”
Prem’s eyes flicked between them, alight with pleasure. “No crashes in my house. Only controlled growth. And occasional… mergers.” He stood, walking around the desk. He stopped behind Shilpa, his hands on her shoulders. He looked at Prema over Shilpa’s head. “What do you think, jaan? Should we audit this asset?”
Prema met his gaze. The challenge was clear. She closed her book softly and rose. She walked to him, not to Shilpa. She slid her hands up his chest, feeling the familiar texture of his hair through his shirt. “You’re the expert, Prem. But remember, the first asset you ever acquired… it’s still here. And it knows all your tricks.” She went on her toes and whispered in his ear, loud enough for Shilpa to hear. “It even knows which tricks are borrowed from bad movies.”
She felt him shudder with silent laughter. He squeezed Shilpa’s shoulders, then let one hand drop to pinch Prema’s cheek. “My first asset is my wisest. But even wisdom needs to be reminded of its value.” He released them both. “Now, both of you, let me work. You’re affecting my liquidity.”
The competition escalated into the domestic sphere. If Prema cooked his favorite laal maas, Shilpa would learn to make a richer, spicier version. “Jiju needs fire to fuel his energy, didi,” she’d say, serving him. “My recipe has extra mirch. For stamina.” If Prema wore a saree in his favorite blue, Shilpa would appear later in a tighter, shinier version of the same color, the pallu draped provocatively low. “I copied you, didi,” she’d simper. “But the cloth clung to me differently. Like it knows my body is… newer.”
The night of the party for Prem’s business associates was the apex. Prema, as the wife, was the hostess, radiant in embroidered silk. Shilpa, as the young sister-in-law with a new baby, was present but meant to be demure. As the drinks flowed and a slow song came on the sound system, Prem pulled Prema to the center of the room for a dance. It was a display of conjugal harmony, his hand firm on her back, hers on his shoulder. They moved smoothly, a picture of elegance.
Then Shilpa appeared at the edge of the dance floor, holding a whiskey tumbler. She had changed into a dress that was too sleek, too modern for the gathering. She took a long drink, her eyes locked on Prem. Then, with a shrug that was pure Bhojpuri screen, she began to dance alone. Not a social dance, but a private, undulating performance. Her hips rolled. Her shoulders shimmied. Her eyes never left his. She mouthed the lyrics of the love song, meant for him.
A hush fell over parts of the room. Prema felt Prem’s hand tighten on her back. His steps faltered. He was watching Shilpa, mesmerized by the blatant, public claim.
“She’s drunk,” Prema hissed, her smile frozen.
“She’s magnificent,” Prem breathed, his voice thick.
Shilpa finished her dance as the song ended, throwing her head back with a laugh that was too loud. She drained her glass, then walked—swayed—directly up to them. She ignored Prema, putting a hand on Prem’s chest. “Your party is boring, jiju. Needs more… rhythm.” Her words were slurred just enough. “I have rhythm. You know I do.”
Prem caught her wrist, his expression a mix of fury and desire. “Go to your room, Shilpa. Now.”
“Which room, jiju?” she giggled, leaning into him. “Yours? Mine? Hers?” She looked past him at Prema’s stony face. “Oh, sorry, didi. Is this your dance? I just wanted to… partner.”
That night was a Thursday. Prem’s night with Shilpa. Prema lay in the dark, listening. The sounds from down the hall were not the usual sounds. They were fiercer, punctuated by Shilpa’s choked sobs and Prem’s growling voice, though the words were indistinct. Punishment or reward? Prema could no longer tell. The jealousy had mutated into a cold, hard knot of dread. Shilpa wasn’t just playing a part anymore; she had become it, and in doing so, she was rewriting the rules of their grim arrangement. The controlled fire Prem so enjoyed was sparking toward the curtains.
She heard a door slam. Heavy footsteps in the hall. They paused outside her door. She held her breath. Then they moved on, descending the stairs toward his study. Alone, Prema stared at the ornate ceiling, realizing the competition had no winner, only escalating stakes, and the price was the last shreds of their souls. The house, once a palace, now felt like a cage with three frenzied birds, and the only song left was one of sharpened claws and torn feathers.
The house, once a palace, now felt like a cage with three frenzied birds, and the only song left was one of sharpened claws and torn feathers. In the silent hour before dawn, Prema finally broke. She dressed mechanically and had the driver take her to her mother’s home, the familiar streets blurring through a film of unshed tears.
“She’s an animal, Maa,” Prema whispered across the kitchen table, her voice cracking. The scent of her mother’s ginger tea was a pathetic comfort. “Since the child came, it’s not… normal. The dancing, the touching, the way she speaks to him. He encourages it. It’s in my face every day.”
Ragini listened, her face a placid mask. She stirred her tea, the spoon clinking softly. “The child is born, beti. The purpose is served. But the soil is already tilled. You cannot now forbid the rain.”
“What does that mean?” Prema’s question was a plea.
“It means your jiju is a masculine man,” Ragini said, her eyes steady and hard. “Such men have needs. Strong needs. He is a provider, a king in his home. Should a king go hungry?” She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a practical murmur. “At home is better than outside. On the street, in some cheap hotel with some disease-ridden nonsense. This way, it is contained. This way, the family’s wealth, his attention, stays within these walls.”
Prema stared, her hope curdling in her stomach. “You’re saying I should just… share? Watch this?”
“I am saying you must keep your husband happy. Both of you must.” Ragini’s tone brooked no argument. “Shilpa has a duty now. She gave the child, but she must also give comfort. Luxury. It is a service to the head of the family. To you. Her didi.” She placed a cool hand over Prema’s trembling one. “Smooth his way. Both of you. Your competition is a child’s game. Your unity in his satisfaction is your power. Now drink your tea before it gets cold.”
Prem knew within the hour. His driver reported the unscheduled visit. By the time Prema returned, hollowed out by her mother’s cold calculus, he was waiting in the foyer. He leaned against the marble pillar, spinning his car keys around a finger.
“Sought counsel, jaan?” he asked, his voice deceptively light.
Prema froze, her purse dangling from her limp hand. She said nothing.
He pushed off the pillar and walked to her, slow and predatory. He didn’t touch her. He just breathed in the scent of her mother’s house clinging to her clothes. “And what did the wise mother say?”
“She said…” Prema’s voice was a ghost. “A king should not go hungry.”
A slow, triumphant smile spread across Prem’s face. It was the grin of a man whose every transgression had not just been forgiven, but sanctified. He hooked a finger under her chin, forcing her eyes up. “Such a smart woman, your mother. She understands the architecture of things.” He leaned close, his next words a warm, toxic promise against her ear. “Now, let’s not let this delicious understanding go to waste.”
The change was immediate and grotesque. With the external validation of patriarchal logic, Prem shed the last veneer of subtlety. The flirtation became a mandated performance. The touching was no longer incidental; it was a demonstrative ritual.
That evening, he summoned them both to the drawing room after dinner. Veer slept in his crib nearby. Prem sat in his throne-like armchair, a glass of brandy in hand. “Come,” he said, his gaze encompassing both women.
Prema stood by the fireplace. Shilpa hovered near the sofa. They glanced at each other, a flicker of shared, terrified comprehension passing between them.
“Closer,” Prem said, his voice soft but edged.
They obeyed, moving to stand before him, a few feet apart. The air was thick with the smell of his cologne and the sweet, decaying scent of tuberoses in a vase.
“Your mother explained the situation to me,” Prem said, swirling the brandy. “About my needs. About your duties.” He took a sip, his eyes dark over the rim of the glass. “Show me you understand.”
Silence stretched, taut and painful.
Then Shilpa moved first. A switch had flipped. The rebellion she’d toyed with was channeled now into obedient seduction. She sank gracefully to the carpet at his feet, not like a supplicant, but like a decoration. She leaned her head against his knee, her hand resting on his calf. “Always, jiju,” she murmured, the filmi cadence gone, replaced by something simpler and more dreadful. “Your comfort is my luxury to give.”
Prem’s hand came down to stroke her hair. He looked at Prema, his eyebrow arched in expectation.
A part of Prema withered and died in that moment. She saw the trap with perfect clarity: defy him and be the brittle, failing wife; obey and become a collaborator in her own degradation. The fight left her in a slow, cold exhale. She knelt on the other side of his chair, her spine rigid, and laid her cheek against the armrest, her face turned toward him. The leather was cool and smelled of wealth.
“Good,” Prem sighed, a sound of deep contentment. His free hand found the nape of Prema’s neck, his thumb rubbing circles there. “See? Harmony. No more sharp words. Just… gentle hands.”
He kept them there for a long time, alternately petting them like favored pets, while he finished his drink and talked of stock prices. The competition didn’t die; it mutated into something more efficient and brutal. It was now about who could better embody Ragini’s directive—who could provide more convincing “comfort,” more alluring “luxury.”
Days bled into a performative haze. If Prem looked tired, Shilpa would appear moments later with a warm towel for his neck. Prema, not to be outdone, would have the cook prepare his favorite sweet, feeding him a piece with her own fingers, lingering near his lips. The dance from the party was now a domestic template. While Prema massaged his shoulders after work, Shilpa would kneel and remove his shoes and socks, her hands working over his feet with a slow, deliberate pressure that made his eyes close.
“Your didi’s hands hold the stress of the house,” Prem would murmur, his head lolling back. “But you, saali… you carry its heat in your palms.”
One afternoon, he found them together in the sunroom. Prema was mending a shirt. Shilpa was sketching aimlessly. He stood in the doorway, watching them, a lazy smile on his face. “My two pillars,” he said, walking in.
He went to Shilpa first, bending to kiss the crown of her head, his hand sliding along her collarbone. Then he crossed to Prema, taking the mending from her hands and lifting her to her feet. He kissed her, deep and lingering. He tasted of the paan he’d eaten after lunch.
“I am a lucky man,” he stated, pulling back but keeping them both within his orbit. “My world is self-contained. Perfect.” He traced Prema’s lower lip with his thumb. “You give me peace.” He turned his head, catching Shilpa’s gaze. His hand slipped from Prema’s waist to rest on the small of her back. “And you give me fire. A man needs both to build an empire that lasts.”
He left them there, the ghost of his touch branding both their skins. The sun streamed in, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air between them. They did not look at each other. They simply stood, two beautiful instruments, waiting for the next demand from the musician who owned them, the rhythm of their captivity now a syncopated, pounding beat deep in their blood. The path ahead was horrifyingly clear, and they were both walking it, step by meticulous step, into a deepening dark.
The path ahead was horrifyingly clear, and they were both walking it, step by meticulous step, into a deepening dark. Prem, sensing the new, pliable tension between them, decided to mold it into a spectacle. The following Friday, he dismissed the staff after dinner and led them, a hand on each woman’s back, into the larger drawing room where the furniture had been pushed aside. “No more gloomy silence,” he announced, his voice echoing in the cleared space. “We celebrate our understanding.”
He connected his phone to the hidden speakers, and the opening blast of a popular Bhojpuri dance number thundered through the room. The lyrics were unmistakable, bragging about a man whose home was a temple because it housed two goddesses—one for devotion, one for desire. The synthetic dhol beat was aggressive, primal.
“Dance,” Prem commanded, not a request.
He started with Prema, pulling her into the center of the floor. His movements were broad, exaggerated, pure celluloid hero. He spun her, his grip firm, his hips thrusting in time with the crude rhythm. Prema moved with a stiff, genteel grace that was utterly mismatched to the music’s vulgar pulse. She kept her eyes on his shoulder, her jaw tight, a reluctant ornament.
Then, with a sharp grin, he released her and grabbed Shilpa’s wrist. Shilpa melted into the rhythm instantly, her body becoming fluid, answering every thump of the bass. She threw her hair back, her hips circling in a way that was all instinct, her gaze locked on Prem with a defiant hunger. He matched her, move for move, their dancing a public copulation.
The song changed to another hit, its lyrics detailing a quarrel between the biwi and saali over who pleased the jija more. Prem laughed, a loud, hearty sound, and stretched out both arms. “Come! Fight your battle here! Show me what your arguments are worth!”
It was a grotesque invitation. Prema, fueled by a sudden, vicious humiliation, stepped forward. She began to dance closer to him, her movements becoming sharper, her hands mapping his chest with a possessive claim. She tried to mirror Shilpa’s sensuality but it came out as a desperate, angular pantomime.
Shilpa saw the attempt and sneered. She slid between them, her back against Prem’s front, grinding against him, her eyes challenging Prema over her own shoulder. Prem’s head fell back, exultant, his hands on Shilpa’s waist, egging her on. The room filled with the smell of their exertion, cheap perfume, and cheap whiskey from the lyrics.
“Yes!” he roared along with the vocals. “This is how a king lives!”
He was no longer Prem; he was the fantasy, the paper-thin hero validating his conquest through their competition. He pushed Shilpa gently toward Prema, and for a few dizzying seconds, the women danced around each other, a tense orbit of flicking wrists and hostile glances, while Prem circled them like a director, like a judge. Prema’s silk pallu slipped. Shilpa’s hair stuck to her sweating neck.
Another song crashed in, faster, more explicit. Prem pulled them both to him, one in each arm. Their bodies collided against his, breaths coming in ragged gasps. He turned his face from one to the other, smelling Prema’s jasmine shampoo, then Shilpa’s sweat-salted skin. “My peace,” he grunted into Prema’s ear. Then he bit Shilpa’s earlobe. “My fire.”
The music suddenly stopped. The silence that followed was swollen, broken only by their heavy breathing. Prem released them, stepping back to admire his work. Prema trembled, her elegance in ruins. Shilpa’s chest heaved, victory and shame warring in her glazed eyes.
“Good,” Prem said, his voice returning to its normal, controlled timber. He picked up his abandoned drink from a side table and took a slow sip. “We’ll do this again. It’s healthier than all that quiet plotting.” He smiled, a clean, cold flash of teeth in the dim light. “Swapna will be visiting next week. She’s been so curious about our happy home. I think she’d enjoy the music.”