They reached Geetanjali's house as the sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the quiet village lane. Arahan slowed the bike to a stop in front of the modest but well-kept courtyard.
The house was typical of a respectable middle-class village family: single-story, painted white with blue trim around the windows, a small veranda with a wooden charpoy and two plastic chairs, a tulsi plant in a red clay pot near the entrance, and a neat little kitchen garden at the side with curry leaves, coriander, and a few chili plants.
The front door was open, a thin cotton curtain fluttering in the breeze. It looked clean, lived-in, and peaceful — nothing flashy, but comfortable and cared for.
Arahan stopped the bike and helped Geetanjali down. She untied the jute bag from the rear carrier, while he helped her.
This was the first time Arahan had ever stepped inside her house after her wedding. He followed her through the veranda into the main room.
The interior was simple: a tiled floor, walls with faded family photos and a framed picture of a deity, a wooden almirah in one corner, a small TV on a stand, and a couple of woven mats rolled up against the wall. A faint smell of incense and cooked dal lingered in the air.
From the inner room, an older woman's voice called out.
"Geetanjali, is that you?"
"Yes, Amma," Geetanjali replied, raising her voice slightly. She glanced back at Arahan with a small smile. "Arahan gave me a lift to the market today. He helped with everything, bargaining, carrying the bags. I got back so easily."
Her mother-in-law appeared in the doorway, a frail woman in her late sixties, wearing a simple cotton saree, hair tied in a neat bun. She looked Arahan over with polite curiosity and nodded approvingly.
"That's good, beta. Thank you for helping her," she said to Arahan. "These days the market is too crowded for an old woman like me to go."
Arahan dipped his head respectfully. "No problem, Amma. It was on my way."
Geetanjali disappeared into the kitchen for a moment and returned with a steel glass of cold water and a small steel plate of homemade namkeen, crunchy murmura mixed with peanuts and sev. She set it on the low wooden table in front of him.
Arahan sat on the edge of the charpoy and drank the water slowly. It was chilled from the earthen pot, refreshing after the dusty ride. As he sipped, he spoke casually.
"Bhabhi, if you ever need to go to the market again, or anywhere else, just call me. I'm usually free in the afternoons after school. No trouble at all."
Geetanjali nodded, her cheeks still faintly flushed from the ride and the sun. "Thank you, Arahan. I'll remember that."
She took out her phone, opened the contacts, and looked at him expectantly. Arahan recited his number slowly; she typed it in, saved it under "Arahan," then showed him the screen to confirm.
After finishing the water and a few bites of the snack, Arahan stood up. "I should head home now. It's getting late."
Geetanjali walked him to the gate. "Thank you again… for everything today."
He gave her a small smile, started the bike, and rode off down the lane, the engine sound fading into the evening.
---
That night, Geetanjali lay on her bed in the darkened room, the ceiling fan turning lazily overhead.
The house was quiet except for the distant barking of a dog and the occasional chirp of crickets.
Her body felt restless, hot despite the fan. Every time she closed her eyes, she remembered the solid feel of Arahan's broad shoulders against her breasts on the ride home, the way his muscles shifted under her palms, the heat of his back seeping through his shirt, the way her thighs had gripped his hips so tightly. It made her pulse race in places she tried to ignore.
She picked up her phone and called her husband. The line connected after a few rings. (How, don't find the logic. Still there are few apps.)
"I miss you," she said softly. "When are you coming home? Even for a few days?"
His voice was tired, apologetic. "Geeta, I told you… the project is extended. I can't take leave until next year. I'm sorry."
She whispered goodbye and hung up, staring at the ceiling. Sadness settled over her like a heavy blanket. Then, unbidden, her mind drifted.
How different it would be if her husband were like Arahan, someone who stayed home, took her to the market, carried her bags, laughed with her, and then, when they returned… took her to bed and claimed her the way she needed to be claimed.
The thought made her thighs press together involuntarily. She imagined Arahan's strong hands on her waist, lifting her saree, pressing her against the wall of this very room, his mouth on her neck while he thrust deep and hard. How big would he be? Thick enough to stretch her, fill her completely, make her forget the emptiness of the past year.
She gasped softly at the image, then quickly shook her head. No. She was a married woman. These thoughts were wrong, sinful. She turned onto her side, pulled the sheet up to her chin, and tried to sleep.
But in the midnight silence, the fantasies crept back. How good it would feel to be Arahan's wife, to wake up beside him every morning, to feel his weight on her at night, to moan his name without guilt.
She clenched her fists under the pillow and forced the thoughts away again.
A few days passed.
Each night the pattern repeated. The moment she lay down, Arahan's face appeared in her mind, his knowing smile, his steady hands on the handlebars, the way he had looked at her when she asked him to remove the bag.
The fantasies grew more vivid: him pinning her to the bed, spreading her legs, entering her slowly at first, then harder, faster, until she was trembling and crying out. She would touch herself briefly, fingers slipping between her thighs, then stop in shame, whispering apologies to the empty room.
She controlled the thoughts as best she could. But every night they returned, stronger, hotter, harder to push away.
---
A few more days passed, and Geetanjali managed to keep her thoughts in check, mostly.
She focused on household routines, helped her mother-in-law, and avoided thinking too much about Arahan. But the fantasies still slipped in during quiet moments, making her body ache with unmet need.
Then her ration supplies ran out completely, and with the upcoming festival (Diwali preparations were starting), she needed a new saree — something festive, elegant, to wear for the celebrations.
Going alone to the bigger market in town felt overwhelming; the crowds, the bargaining, the carrying. Without thinking twice, she picked up her phone and dialed Arahan's number.
He answered on the second ring.
"Hello, Arahan? It's Geetanjali. My ration is finished, and I need to buy a new saree for the festival. Could you... take me to the market today?"
Arahan paused for just a second, then replied calmly, "Of course, Bhabhi. I'll come right now. Wait for me at your gate."
Hearing his voice, the steady, willing, Geetanjali felt an unexpected rush of happiness bloom in her chest. She smiled to herself, cheeks warming, as she hung up.
Arahan arrived soon after, the familiar rumble of his bike echoing down the lane. Geetanjali stepped out quickly, adjusting her saree pallu but lifting her ghoonghat just enough to show her face when she saw him.
He parked and smiled politely. "Ready, Bhabhi?"
She nodded, heart beating a little faster. This time, as she approached the bike, she didn't hesitate. She swung her leg over and settled astride behind him, but closer than before.
She slid forward deliberately until there was no space left: her thighs hugged his hips tightly, her full breasts pressed flush against his broad back, nipples already sensitive from the anticipation and the thin fabric of her blouse.
Her bare midriff touched the small of his back, warm skin meeting his shirt. Her arms wrapped around his waist fully, hands resting low on his stomach, fingers splayed naturally.
Arahan felt the difference instantly, the deliberate press, the heat, the way her body molded to his without any pretense of distance. He took a slow breath, started the bike, and pulled onto the road.
The ride to the market was longer this time, the town market was farther than the local one. But every bump, every curve amplified the contact.
Her breasts crushed against him with each jolt, sending sparks through both of them. Geetanjali's breath quickened against his neck; she didn't pull away, didn't pretend it was accidental. Her fingers occasionally flexed against his stomach, brushing lower than necessary.
Arahan kept his eyes on the road, but his voice came back low over the engine wind, "Comfortable today, Bhabhi?"
She leaned in closer, lips almost brushing his ear, "Yes... very comfortable."
The market arrived too soon for her.
They reached the larger town market, buzzing with festival shoppers. Arahan parked the bike and walked with Geetanjali as she quickly picked up the ration essentials, rice, dal, oil, spices, sugar, bargaining where she could, but mostly letting Arahan step in when the prices felt too high. He carried the heavy bags without complaint, his presence making the errands feel lighter and more enjoyable.
With the ration done, they headed to the saree cloth shops at the far end of the market, rows of small stores with colorful fabrics hanging from ceilings, draped over tables, and stacked in neat piles.
The air smelled of new cotton and dye. Geetanjali browsed intently, running her fingers over silk, georgette, and chiffon, holding up one after another against herself in front of a small mirror.
Red for festivity, green for luck, blue with gold zari, nothing quite felt perfect. She tried to decide, but after twenty minutes of searching, she sighed in frustration.
"I can't choose," she admitted softly, glancing at Arahan. "Everything looks good, but not right."
Arahan stepped closer, scanning the shelves. His eyes landed on a rich maroon silk saree with intricate gold zari work, elegant but not too flashy, perfect for Diwali. He lifted it gently and held it up to her.
"Try this one, Bhabhi. The color suits you... warm, like you."
Geetanjali took it, draping it over her shoulder in front of the mirror. The deep maroon glowed against her skin, the gold threads catching the light. She turned slightly, and a small smile spread across her face.
"Yes... this is beautiful. I like it."
She bought the saree fabric and matching blouse piece, Arahan helping negotiate the final price down a bit.