I Love Married Woman

The heat in Jaipur didn't let up, even at noon, when the sun turned the streets into a shimmering haze of dust and sweat. Raj leaned against the counter of a cramped paan shop two doors down from his rented room, the air thick with the tang of betel leaf and cheap tobacco.

He'd come for a smoke, something to kill the itch in his hands after another useless day at the tender office—Sharma breathing down his neck, Vikram smirking over his shoulder—but his eyes kept drifting to her house. Priya's house. The gate was shut, the blinds still, but he could feel her in there, moving through her quiet, caged life.

The shopkeeper, a wiry old man named Kishan with a face like crumpled paper, spat a red stream of paan juice into a tin can and squinted at Raj. "New here, eh? Village boy?" His voice was gravelly, teasing, but his hands worked fast, folding a leaf around lime paste and supari.

"Yeah," Raj said, lighting a cigarette, the match flaring sharp against the dimness of the shop. "Moved in a few days back. Work." He nodded toward her house, casual, like it didn't matter. "Who lives there?"

Kishan's eyes flicked up, following Raj's gaze, and a slow grin spread across his stained teeth. "That's Anil's place. Textile fella—sells saris, shawls, whatever he can move. Not that he's around much." He stuffed the paan into his cheek, chewing loud. "Gambling type. Spends half his nights in Johari Bazaar, throwing rupees at cards like they grow on trees. Shop's bleeding dry, they say."

Raj's pulse kicked. Anil. Her husband had a name now, a shape—some bastard too busy losing money to touch her. He exhaled smoke, keeping his voice steady. "Wife's alone a lot, then?"

Kishan chuckled, a wet, knowing sound. "Priya, yeah. Good woman, quiet. Keeps to herself. In-laws are the real tyrants—old man and his wife, praying all damn day at that Krishna temple down the road. Think she's cursed 'cause she hasn't popped out a kid yet. Blame her for everything—Anil's debts, the empty house, even the bloody heat." He spat again, shaking his head. "Poor thing's stuck. Anil's gone, in-laws nag, and she just takes it."

Priya. What a coincidence, the name he gave her was same as real.

So, it was Priya, with her hairy arms and thick thighs, her wet, untouched body he'd seen through that window. He pictured her now, trapped in that cracked house, her husband off chasing cards while she stood naked in the bathroom, fingers deep in herself because no one else would do it. His cigarette burned down to the filter, scorching his fingers, but he barely felt it. "She doesn't work?" he asked, fishing, greedy for more.

"Nah," Kishan said, wiping his hands on a rag. "Used to help Anil at the shop, years back, but he stopped bringing her. Keeps her locked up now, like a bird. In-laws don't let her out much—say it's improper. She sneaks to the market sometimes, that's it." He leaned closer, voice dropping. "Heard Anil's got a temper when he's home. Doesn't hit her, but yells plenty. Last week, saw him storm out at dawn—probably lost big again."

Raj's jaw tightened. A temper. A gambler. A man who left her alone, Anil didn't deserve her. He tossed the cigarette butt into the street, watching it smolder in a pile of vegetable peels. "Sounds like a shit deal for her," he muttered, half to himself.

Kishan shrugged. "Life, eh? She's tougher than she looks. Keeps that house running, even with those old fools praying over her shoulder." He squinted at Raj again, sharper this time. "Why you asking, boy? Seen her around?"

Raj forced a laugh, shrugging it off. "Just curious. Neighbor, you know." But his chest was tight, his mind racing.

Priya. Alone, isolated, her husband a ghost, her in-laws a curse. Every word Kishan spat fed the fire in him, turning his restless watching into something darker, hungrier. He bought a paan he didn't want, just to keep the old man talking, but Kishan moved on to another customer—a rickshaw driver haggling over change.

Back in his room, the day unraveled slow and brutal. He sprawled on the cot, shirt off, the fan creaking uselessly above. The binoculars sat on the table, taunting him, but her house was dead—windows dark, gate locked.

He closed his eyes, and she was there anyway: Priya, peeling off that blue sari in his head, her hairy arms lifting as the fabric dropped. Her belly soft, her breasts heavy, nipples dark and stiff. That thick bush between her legs, wet from neglect, not water, waiting for someone—him—to claim it. His hand slid down his stomach, under his pants, but he stopped, teeth gritted. Not yet. He wanted her real, not a ghost in his fist.

Evening fell, and the street lit up with Diwali prep—lanterns swaying, firecrackers snapping, the air thick with oil and sugar from frying jalebis. He dragged the chair to the window again, binoculars in hand, and waited. Hours bled by, his eyes aching, until her front door cracked open.

She stepped out, a shawl over her sari this time, the fabric loose but clinging where the wind caught it. Market run, probably—Kishan said she sneaked out sometimes. She moved fast, head down, but Raj tracked her: the sway of her hips, the way her sandals slapped the dirt, the faint outline of her body under all that cloth.

Up close through the lenses, her face was tired—lines under her eyes, lips pressed thin—but still strong, still her. The shawl slipped as she adjusted her bag, showing her arm—dark hair stark against pale skin, unshaved, unhidden for a second before she tugged the cloth back. Raj's breath caught. Anil didn't see her, didn't want her, but he did. She disappeared around the corner, and he dropped the binoculars, hands shaking, dick hard against his thigh.

He lit a cigarette, the smoke curling thick in the room, and paced. Priya. Trapped with a gambler who'd rather bet than fuck her, in-laws who'd rather pray than free her. Isolated, alone, her body wasting away behind that rusty gate.

He saw her in the bathroom, fingers slick, moaning for no one—except now he knew her name, her cage, her life. It wasn't just lust anymore. It was need, sharp and deep, cutting through the haze of tenders and Jaipur's noise. He'd watch her tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that. He'd learn her, know her, until she wasn't just a shadow across the street. Until she was his.