I Love Married Woman

Raj woke to the clatter of a metal bucket hitting the street below his window, the sound sharp enough to cut through the haze of last night's cigarette smoke and restless dreams. His cot creaked as he rolled over, the thin mattress doing nothing to ease the ache in his back—or the one lower down, stirred by the memory of her. The room was a sweatbox already, the sun barely up, and the fan above spun lazily, kicking dust into the air. He rubbed his face, stubble rough under his palms, and reached for the binoculars on the wobbly table. Day two in Jaipur, and she was already all he could think about.

He dragged the plastic chair back to the window, the same spot he'd claimed last night, and peered out. The narrow street was waking up—kids in faded uniforms darted between cycles, a chaiwala (Tea Shopkeeper) banged his kettle, and a bony cow nosed through a pile of trash. Her house sat there, fifteen meters away, its cracked plaster walls and rusty gate blending into the clutter. No sign of her yet. The bathroom window was shut, blinds down, mocking him with its silence. His dick twitched anyway, the image of her wet, hairy body burned into his skull—those thick arms, that unshaved mess between her legs, the way she'd fucked her fingers like no one was watching. Except he had been.

He'd moved to Jaipur for a job, not this. Tenders—dry stacks of paper and petty bureaucrats—were supposed to be his ticket out of the village, a step toward something bigger. But now? Now he was a man possessed, binoculars glued to his hands, waiting for a glimpse of a married woman he didn't even know. Priya. He'd named her that in his head last night, half-drunk on lust and nicotine, because it fit—simple, secret, hers.

The day dragged him out eventually. He showered in the cracked sink, cold water stinging his skin, and pulled on a cheap cotton shirt already damp with sweat by the time he hit the street. The tender office was a twenty-minute walk through Bapu Bazaar, past hawkers shouting over piles of bangles and bolts of cloth, the air thick with dust and frying pakoras. He kept his head down, dodging rickshaws and stray dogs, but his eyes flicked up every few steps, scanning for her. What if she worked nearby? What if she shopped here? He didn't know her routine yet, but he'd learn it. He had to.

The office was a concrete box, stale with cigarette smoke and the hum of a dying AC. Raj sat at a chipped desk, sorting tender bids for road repairs—numbers and signatures blurring into nothing.

His boss, a fat man named Sharma with a permanent scowl, barked at him to double-check a file. Raj nodded, barely listening. His mind was back at the window, replaying her moans, imagining her hairy thighs spread just for him. A coworker, Vikram—slick hair, sharper tongue—leaned over, smirking. "New guy's already checked out. City too much for you, village boy?" Raj forced a grin, muttering something about the heat, but Vikram's eyes lingered, suspicious. Raj didn't care. Let him snipe. He had bigger things to chase.

By evening, he was back in his room, shirt off, skin sticky with the day's grime. The street below buzzed—Diwali was a week away, and Jaipur was gearing up, lanterns flickering in doorways, kids setting off crackers that popped like gunshots. He grabbed the binoculars, heart kicking as he aimed them at her house. The bathroom window was still shut, but the front door swung open. There she was.

Priya stepped out, a plain blue sari draped over her, the kind that hid everything he'd seen and craved. She carried a jute bag, probably heading to the market, her steps slow, unbothered.

Up close through the lenses, she was realer than last night—her face plain but striking, thick eyebrows framing those big, dark eyes, lips full and unpainted. Her hair was tied back, a few loose strands sticking to her neck in the humidity. The sari clung where it shouldn't, hinting at the body beneath—round hips, heavy breasts, all that hair he knew she didn't shave.

She paused at the gate, glancing up—not at him, just around, like she felt eyes on her. Raj froze, binoculars trembling in his grip. Did she know? Could she sense him? Her gaze passed his window, blank, and she moved on, disappearing around the corner toward the vegetable stalls. He dropped the binoculars, chest tight, dick half-hard just from watching her walk. He didn't touch himself this time—too restless, too wired. He needed more than a memory now. He needed her routine, her habits, her.

The next morning, he was up before the Chaiwala, binoculars ready. She emerged at seven, same blue sari, heading somewhere—work, maybe, or a temple. He tracked her down the street, noting the rhythm of her steps, the way she tugged her pallu tighter against the morning chill. Evening came, and she was back by six, bag heavier, hair messier. Day after day, he mapped her—market trips at dusk, a quick chat with the paanwala (Shopkeeper) on Tuesdays, a lone walk to the bus stop Thursday mornings. He missed her once, stuck late at the office with Sharma's endless revisions, and it gnawed at him, a hollow ache that kept him pacing his room till midnight, binoculars useless against a dark house.

He admitted it to himself one night, sprawled on the cot, a cigarette burning down to his fingers. "I'm fucked," he muttered to the ceiling, voice hoarse. "Can't sleep without seeing her. Can't breathe without wanting her." It wasn't just her body—though fuck, that hairy, wet mess haunted him—it was her quiet, the way she moved like no one owned her, not even whoever husband she was tied to. He didn't know her name, her voice, her touch, but she'd hooked him deeper than any village girl ever had. Work was a blur, tenders a means to an end, but her? She was the pulse in his veins now, restless and loud.

He stubbed the cigarette out, the fan creaking overhead, and grabbed the binoculars again. Her bathroom light flicked on, a sliver of yellow through the blinds. His breath hitched. She was there—shadow moving, sari gone, a flash of bare shoulder before the blinds snapped shut. Not enough, never enough. He dropped the binoculars, hands shaking, and lit another smoke. Tomorrow, he'd watch again. And the day after. He'd wait, restless, until she gave him more—whether she knew it or not.