Chapter 4

Instead of sitting alone at the house, Raghu decided to work on his northern field. The stretch of gray land that was ignored and forgotten—not leased to anyone. He began planting bamboo and hardy lemon trees, and the physical labor was a welcome distraction.

He felt the distraction necessary because of Meena. At home, he couldn’t help but ogle at Meena, who was a quiet presence in the house. She came early and did the chores. Her eyes always had simmering resentment of her marriage. She spoke only when necessary.

But Raghu’s feelings for her changed. His admiration and pity for her transformed into a constant urge, a low hum in his veins. He wanted her—to take her, to fuck her. He imagined breaking her unhappiness, filling that void with passion. But he was unsure.

Meena wasn’t a brothel girl like Lata, who would come to his bed willingly. Meena was still married and wasn’t just someone to desire. Trying to force her would only make her push her away. He didn’t know how to break down.

However, everything changed with the midsummer rain. The downpour came fast and hard. It turned the garden into a muddy mess. Birds flew away, seeking shelter under the eaves. Raghu just had a shower. Watching the rain, he stood by the front door, leaning against the frame.

Raghu was shirtless and wore only his boxer shorts. A white towel hung loosely over his shoulders, still damp from the shower. Water droplets clung to his chest, tracing lines down his muscles. He didn’t expect Meena to arrive in this weather. Rain poured outside. The wind howled. It wasn’t the best time for a visit.

But then again, Meena always surprised him.

As he watched the rain, he noticed Meena sprinting across the garden. She looked worried and drenched—rain soaked her cotton sari, making it cling to her like a second skin. It turned nearly see-through. Suddenly, she tripped over muddy ground. She stumbled and slid in the slush. Just when it looked like she would fall, she regained her balance.

Finally, she reached the front door, breathless. Her chest heaved. The wet material of her sari clung to her body. Every curve was on display. Raghu stepped aside. He swung the door wide. She entered the dry refuge of the hall.

“You shouldn’t have come in this weather,” he said, his voice low. “You could’ve just called me. I would’ve picked you up.”

Meena didn’t answer right away. She stood in the entryway, dripping onto the polished floor. Her gaze traveled from his bare, muscled chest to his eyes. Raghu noticed her shiver. Her shoulders were hunched. Raghu took the towel from his shoulders.

“Here, use this,” he said, his voice softer now. “You’ll catch a cold.”

Meena reached for the towel. Her fingers brushed his palm. She didn’t look at him. As she dried her face, her movements felt slow. Almost robotic.

“Thank you, Saab,” she murmured. “But who really cares about me?” she asked, her voice flat. “My husband clearly doesn’t.”

Raghu watched her closely. The way she clutched the towel told him everything. Her knuckles were white against the fabric. Tension radiated from her jaw. Her eyes darted to the door, as if a ghost might enter.

“What’s wrong, Meena?” he asked, his voice steady. “Did you fight with someone? With Saurabh?”

“Saurabh? That bastard? He’s a leech, Saab,” Meena began, her laughter almost a sob. “He spent the morning threatening me—claiming he needed the money.”

Raghu watched her as she vented, drying herself with the towel he had given her. He held back, letting the silence amplify the storm pounding on the roof. He noticed how her eyes lingered on his chest. Her breathing was still uneven. Her pupils widened in the dim light of the hallway.

“I had to give him the money you paid me. Every single rupee,” she blasted, clearly frustrated at the situation.

“Don’t be so upset, Meena,” Raghu said. “I will pay you some advance.”

She looked away. “He went god knows where. He said he would come back in a week,” she said, shame flickering across her face. “All men are, in the end, just like him,” she said.

Then she looked at Raghu. She met him in the eye, stepping closer. The damp cotton of her sari clung to her thighs.

“Except you, Saab,” Meena whispered, her voice softening. “Thanks for being very nice to me.”

Raghu moved closer. “Don’t say that, Meena. I’m not a saint.” He glanced at her sari, the wet fabric clinging to her curves. “I know I’ve felt something for you. It’s part of being a man—obsessed with alcohol, money, or women. Some guys can control it better than others,” he said with raw honesty.

Meena looked at him, her eyes bright. “That’s the issue, Saab. I wish you hadn’t held back. Just take what you want from me. Not worrying about anything.” She stepped closer, her voice soft yet urgent. “I like you a lot. I would do anything for you. For the first time in years, you’ve made me feel alive.”

Raghu pulled Meena close; their bodies clashed together. She gasped softly, feeling his damp chest against hers. Before she could react, he leaned down and kissed her. At first, it was gentle. But then, he intensified the kiss. His tongue slipped past her lips, claiming her mouth.

Meena stiffened, surprised. For a moment, her hands hung in the air. Then, she melted into him, kissing back with a need that felt urgent. She dropped the damp towel long ago. She leaned in, trying to become one with him.