I Love Married Woman

Priya woke to Gopal's prayers droning through the walls, a low chant that clawed at the pre-dawn stillness. The room was dark, gray light seeping under the shutters, and her body ached on the thin mattress—alone, always alone. She lay still, eyes tracing ceiling cracks, willing the day to hold off. It wouldn't. Shanti's voice would come soon, sharp as a blade, and the grind would start. She pulled the blanket up, faded cotton brushing her legs.

The clock ticked past five. Gopal's "Hare Krishna" swelled, pounding her skull. She slid out of bed, bare feet on cold tile, and tugged on her nightgown—old, stretched, stained—hiding the body she didn't bother with anymore. Why should she? Anil hadn't touched her in so long she'd lost the count, and the mirror was just a dusty blur she ignored. She tied her hair back, strands clinging to her neck in the sticky heat. Jaipur stirred outside—rickshaws coughing, a rooster crowing—but in here, it was a tomb.

In the kitchen, she lit the stove, flame hissing under a battered pot. Dal bubbled slow, parathas crisped on the tawa, ghee scent heavy and thick. Her hands moved on autopilot—knead, roll, flip—while Shanti shuffled in, sari rustling like dead leaves. "Too slow," she snapped, bony finger jabbing. "Always dawdling. No wonder this house is cursed."

Priya's jaw tightened, but she stayed silent, flipping a paratha with a sharp flick. Gopal joined, prayer beads clicking, bald head gleaming under the bulb. He ate without a word, eyes flicking to her then away, like she was a blemish on his sanctity.

After breakfast, time passed as she worked on washing clothes and cleaning the house.

The door creaked at afternoon, Gopal back from his temple run, a small box in hand. Laddoos—golden, syrup-soaked, dusted with cardamom. The smell hit Priya like a punch, tugging at a hunger she buried deep. She loved sweets—gulab jamuns, jalebis, anything that melted sweet and warm—but Shanti's glare stopped her cold. "Not for you," the old woman said, snatching the box to her side. "Too fat already. No wonder you can't give us a grandson."

Priya's fingers curled on the table, nails biting her palm. She wanted to grab one, cram it in her mouth, let the sugar drip while Shanti choked on her spit. But she didn't. She never did.

She went and made lunch and after lunch done, the in-laws lingered, Shanti's voice rising again. "We're going to Govind Dev Ji tomorrow. Pray for your womb—barren thing's no use to us."

Priya's chest tightened, a bitter laugh clawing up her throat, but she swallowed it. Pray for my womb? Their useless son hasn't touched me in years—how's a grandson supposed to pop out of thin air? She kept her face blank, hands stacking plates, while Gopal nodded, muttering, "Too many sins," like she wasn't there. Anil's chair sat empty, his absence a ghost at the table—off gambling, no doubt, leaving her to carry this alone.

The kitchen cleared at last, Shanti off to nag the neighbors, Gopal to his puja room. Priya stood over the sink, dishes clattering, and brewed a cup of tea—too strong, too dark, the way Shanti despised. She sipped it slow, bitterness sharp on her tongue, a small, secret rebellion. She leaned on the counter, the tea warming her chest, and let herself breathe.

The phone waited in the next room, an old Nokia buried under Anil's unpaid bills. She dug it out, fingers shaky, and dialed Neha. The line crackled, then cleared—Neha's voice came through, bright but distracted. "Priya! Been ages—hold on, I'm pinning a sleeve here."

Fabric rustled on her end, a seamstress's chaos in Delhi. Priya sank onto a stool, Gopal's chants a faint hum. "Shanti's on me again today," she said, voice low. "Same old crap—too slow, too useless. Anil's gone, probably losing more money we don't have."

Neha hummed, half-listening. "God, that woman's a hag..."

They continue talking... "They're dragging me to the temple tomorrow, fix me like I'm the problem."

Neha laughed faintly. "They're mad. Anyway, this thread's a mess—talk later?"

Priya nodded to no one. "Yeah. Later."

She hung up.

Footsteps slapped the tiles—Shanti, back too soon. "What're you doing, idling by that phone?" she barked, hands on hips. "Work's not done—useless girl."

Priya stood, tea mug still warm in her grip, and met Shanti's eyes for a beat too long. A spark flared in her—a scream, a shove, something she didn't let loose. She turned back to the sink, jaw tight, mind buzzing. One day, maybe. One day she'd stop choking it down.!