The morning sun spills through the slatted windows of Kamini Desai's modest government quarter, a perk of her husband's clerkship that brought them to this sleepy Indian town barely a month ago. The air hums with the faint scent of jasmine and the promise of a sweltering day, stirring a restless energy in Kamini's chest. She stands in her bedroom, her skin still damp from a cool morning bath, a thin cotton towel clinging to her like a lover's whisper, accentuating her full breasts, cinched waist, and rounded hips. Her dark hair, heavy with water, falls in wet tendrils against her neck, framing the elegant lines of her 33-year-old form—a woman caught between the quiet routine of her childless marriage and a stirring, forbidden undercurrent. The mirror before her reflects a restless beauty, her eyes betraying a hunger she hasn't yet named. As she reaches for her robe, a shadow flickers at the window, stealing her breath. A boy, young but bold, his eyes wide with unguarded desire, stares through the glass, his gaze drinking in her barely veiled silhouette. Their eyes lock for a fleeting heartbeat, a jolt of shock and an unbidden thrill tightening her chest, before he bolts into the morning's haze. Her heart pounds, indignation mingling with a strange heat as she recognizes his face, though his name escapes her—a lanky 12th-grader from the sprawling household just 30 meters away, belonging to the family of her new friend, Aisha Ansari.
Kamini's thoughts drift to Aisha, whose warm smiles have become a lifeline in this unfamiliar town. Aisha, five years older and six months pregnant with her third child, embodies a quiet piety, her body always shrouded in a hijab and burkha that reveal only her face, her dark eyes warm yet guarded. Not a strand of her hair is ever seen, a restriction Kamini has questioned during their tea-soaked conversations. Aisha's answers, soft but fervent, paint a picture of Nadeem Ansari, her husband—a patriarch whose conservative, almost oppressive views demand such modesty, casting women as keepers of honor and bearers of lineage. Yet, Aisha's voice softens with loyalty, confessing that Nadeem's love fulfills her every desire, a veiled reference to the primal needs he satisfies with a vigor that leaves her content. “None of us three wives ever have cause to complain,” she once murmured, her cheeks flushing as she spoke of Nadeem's ability to keep them all sated, their acceptance of his rigid rules a testament to his magnetic hold. The words had stirred Kamini, her curiosity tinged with unease, drawing her deeper into the enigma of a household pulsing with eight children and three devoted women.
The memory sharpens Kamini's unease as she recalls how her friendship with Aisha deepened. One afternoon, confessing her boredom in the quiet of her childless home, Kamini found Aisha's solution immediate: tutor her young sons. Kamini agreed, refusing any talk of fees, her heart warmed by the laughter of Aisha's boys. But just days ago, an evening visit shifted the air. Nadeem himself appeared at her doorstep to collect the children, his presence a storm of authority. His long, white 10-inch beard, free of a mustache, and short, cropped hair framed a face both stern and arresting, his eyes piercing through her. Discussing the tutoring, he pressed her to accept payment, but his words soon turned barbed. “A woman like you, still childless?” he mused, his voice low, a smirk hinting at his own potent fertility. His gaze lingered on her saree, its delicate folds too revealing for his taste, suggesting she cover herself more for the sake of his daughters. “Women are meant to bear, to nurture,” he said, his regressive mindset laid bare, casting her husband's quiet manhood in a derogatory shadow. Though Kamini had glimpsed his image in Aisha's home, seeing Nadeem in the flesh—his commanding frame filling her doorway—sparked a tremor of fear, laced with a forbidden curiosity that now battles her indignation at the boy's intrusion.
Dressing quickly, Kamini chooses a saree that drapes elegantly over her curves, its soft cotton whispering against her skin, though Nadeem's words about modesty echo in her mind. She walks the 30 meters to Aisha's sprawling home, her steps heavy with resolve. The morning heat presses against her, amplifying her unease. At the door, Aisha greets her, her burkha framing a face etched with concern as Kamini recounts the boy's ogling through her window. “He was staring at me, Aisha,” Kamini says, her voice trembling with indignation, “watching me in my own bedroom.” Aisha's eyes widen, her hand resting on her pregnant belly. The boy, she explains, isn't home, but she calls for Fatima, his mother and Nadeem's first wife. Fatima, older and sterner, her own burkha a shield of tradition, listens as Kamini repeats her complaint, her cheeks flushing with the memory of the boy's hungry gaze. “He's from my side,” Fatima says, her voice firm but apologetic. “I'll scold him when he returns.” Aisha nods, promising to address it with Nadeem, but the conversation yields no immediate resolution. Kamini returns home empty-handed, her heart a tangle of frustration and lingering unease, the boy's intrusion a violation that stirs the forbidden pulse Nadeem's presence first awakened.
That evening, as the sky burns amber, a forceful knock jolts Kamini from her thoughts. She opens her door to find Nadeem, 57 years old, his towering frame filling the threshold, a storm of authority in human form. His 10-inch beard, streaked with white as age begins to claim it, sways with each deliberate step, his short, cropped hair framing a face both stern and magnetic. He drags his son by the ear, the lanky boy's head bowed, eyes glistening with shame. “Apologize!” Nadeem's voice is a low growl, resonating through the small room, sending a shiver down Kamini's spine. The boy stammers, his voice barely audible, but Nadeem's hand cracks across his face—two, three, four sharp slaps, each a thunderclap that tightens the air. “You dare look at her? She's your mother, you stupid brat!” he roars, his eyes flashing with fury. Kamini's breath catches, shock rippling through her—why does he claim her as his wife? Her body betrays her with a flush at his raw dominance, the intensity of his protectiveness stirring something deep within her. Pity surges for the boy, his cheeks red from the blows. “Does anyone hit their child so harshly?” she cries, her hand shooting out to grasp Nadeem's wrist, the contact a jolt of electricity, his skin warm and unyielding under her fingers. “Please, Nadeem ji, I've forgiven him. You don't need to do this for me,” she urges, her voice trembling as she tells the boy to go home. The boy scrambles away, leaving the room charged with a dangerous intimacy.
Nadeem's eyes lock onto hers, dark and unrelenting. “If anyone dares stare at my wife,” he says, his voice low and deliberate, “be it my own blood or another's, I'll make them regret it.” The word “wife” hits Kamini like a shockwave, his claim on her unmistakable yet veiled in intensity. Her heart races, confusion swirling as she holds his wrist, pleading, “Please, forgive him. There's no need for this.” Nadeem jerks his wrist free, and Kamini, caught off balance, stumbles forward, falling into his arms. His hands catch her, one sliding to her hip, fingers grazing the curve of her saree-clad form. “If your husband won't protect you,” he murmurs, his breath hot against her ear, “someone must.” His hand moves lower, boldly groping her buttocks, a possessive touch that sends a tremor through her. For a moment, Kamini feels helpless, her body frozen, not stopping him as his fingers press into her flesh. The air thickens, his face inching closer, lips grazing toward hers in a daring move to claim a kiss. She snaps back to her senses, squirming away, her voice shaking. “Nadeem ji, please stop. I'm not your wife—this is wrong.” Nadeem clenches his fist, his gaze burning into her for a tense few seconds. “Not for long,” he says, his voice a low, menacing promise, a threat laced with seduction that declares his intent to claim her as his fourth wife. He turns on his heels and strides out, the door slamming behind him. Kamini stands frozen, her fingers tracing where his hands lingered, her mind a whirlwind of confusion. How should she feel about Nadeem's audacity, his possessive fire? His desire to make her his fourth wife burns clear, a forbidden pull that tests her loyalty to her husband. What future awaits Kamini in this tangle of desire and decorum? Will she resist the charm of the fourth, or let it consume her? Step into her skin and shape her fate.
Open for discussion in private.