I am Rohit, 23 years old, from Lucknow. I stay in my elder brother Vikram bhaiya’s house since I came to Delhi for my MBA. Bhaiya works in a shipping company, travels almost every week. So most of the time it is just me and my bhabhi Sunita in the big flat in Dwarka.
Sunita bhabhi is 29. Fair skin, long black hair always in a loose braid, big eyes with kajal, full figure — the kind of woman who looks beautiful even in a simple cotton saree. She always calls me Rohit with that soft Lucknowi accent and treats me like a younger brother. Cooks for me, fights with me about TV remote, scolds me if I come home late. Normal bhabhi behavior.
Except the way she looks at me sometimes is not normal bhabhi behavior at all.
I first noticed it three months after I moved in. She was in the kitchen making chai, wearing a yellow salwar, hair open. I came behind her to keep my cup in the sink and accidentally pressed against her from behind. She went completely still. Did not move away. I stepped back and mumbled sorry. She turned around and smiled and said chai ready hai, le ja. But her cheeks were dark pink and she would not meet my eyes.
After that I started noticing things. How she would come to call me for dinner and stand at my door a little longer than needed. How her pallu would slip and she would take her time fixing it. How when we watched TV together she would sit closer than necessary. How she laughed at everything I said.
I told myself I was imagining it. She is bhaiya’s wife. This is wrong. I repeated this every night.
Then one Thursday bhaiya called to say he was extending his trip by four more days. Bhabhi took the call in the kitchen. When she came to the living room her face was carefully neutral.
Bhaiya will come Sunday, she said.
Okay, I said.
She nodded and went back to the kitchen. But fifteen minutes later she came and sat next to me on the sofa — closer than usual.
Rohit, I want to ask you something, she said, looking at the TV. Do you think I am still good looking?
I looked at her. Bhabhi what kind of question is this.
Just answer.
You are very beautiful, I said honestly.
She was quiet for a moment. Then she said, Vikram never says that. He looks at his phone more than he looks at me.
I did not know what to say so I said nothing.
She turned to look at me then. Her dupatta had slipped off one shoulder. Her eyes were doing that thing again — that look that was not a bhabhi look at all.
Rohit, she said softly.
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Bhabhi, I said. My voice came out low.
She leaned forward and kissed me.
For two seconds I froze completely. Then every thought about wrong and right and bhaiya dissolved completely and I kissed her back. She made a small sound against my mouth and grabbed my shirt collar. Her lips were soft and she tasted like the cardamom from the chai.
We pulled apart. She looked at me, breathing fast, waiting to see what I would do.
I pulled her back and kissed her harder. She melted into me completely, her hands going to my hair, her body pressing against mine. Her dupatta fell to the floor and neither of us cared.
I have been thinking about this for so long, she said against my neck.
Me too bhabhi, I said. Me too.
She pulled back and looked at me with dark eyes. Do not call me bhabhi right now, she said. Right now just Sunita.
I took her hand and led her to my bedroom. She came without hesitating.
In my room she stood in front of me and started opening her salwar buttons slowly, eyes on mine. I watched her without moving. When the salwar slipped off her shoulders she was wearing a plain white cotton bra underneath and she had never looked more beautiful in my life.
I went to her and kissed her neck, her collarbone, my hands on her waist. She tilted her head back and gripped my shoulders hard.
Rohit, she said. Just my name. But the way she said it.
I unhooked her bra. She was full and heavy and warm and I put my mouth on her and she gasped and pressed my face closer. Her nails dug into my scalp.
Do not stop, she said breathlessly. Please do not stop.
I had no intention of stopping.
I laid her down on my bed and she pulled me down with her, her legs wrapping around me, her hips already moving. I kissed down her stomach, her navel, lower. When I put my mouth between her legs she buried her face in the pillow and moaned so loud she had to cover her own mouth.
Rohit… bahut zyada ho raha hai… ruk mat… she whimpered, switching to Hindi without realizing.
She came with her thighs shaking around my head and both hands gripping the bedsheet.
Then she pulled me up and looked at me with completely wrecked eyes and said ab aao mere paas.
We went slowly at first, both of us adjusting, and then not slowly at all. She wrapped her arms around my back and pulled me deeper and told me exactly what she wanted in a low dirty voice that I would never have imagined coming from the same woman who scolded me about coming home late. She said my name over and over, sometimes in a whisper, sometimes not a whisper at all.
Afterward we lay side by side in the dark, both staring at the ceiling, both breathing hard.
Now what, she said finally.
Now nothing, I said. Bhaiya comes Sunday. Until then you are Sunita and I am Rohit and this is ours.
She turned and looked at me. Then she smiled — slow and real and nothing like her usual polite bhabhi smile.
Make chai? she asked.
You always make the chai, I said.
Today you make it, she said, pulling the sheet up. I am comfortable.
I made the chai. I brought it back to my own bedroom and handed a cup to my bhaiya’s wife who was sitting in my bed with open hair and my old college tshirt and absolutely nothing else.
It was the best cup of chai of my life.