Chapter 1: Perfume & Shame

The night my wife's swollen feet kept her awake, I was tangled in Neha's perfume and my own shame, miles away in the office.

The office was dead silent except for the flicker of a tired tube light and the distant honking of a rickshaw somewhere below. The city’s noise faded; even the chai’s taste lingered in my mouth, sharp and bittersweet. Maybe it was the loneliness, maybe the endless humidity pressing against my skin, but what happened with Neha felt as sudden and inevitable as the first burst of monsoon rain on burning concrete.

I kept telling myself it was just a moment of weakness.

Like any other man with something to hide, I convinced myself that this was just a slip—a private shame that could be washed away with the next sunrise. I lingered at the office door before going home, shoes in my hand, ears straining for my mother-in-law’s footsteps. In the flat’s dim light, I hesitated before brushing my fingers against the tulsi on the balcony, whispering a silent apology I didn’t fully mean. But the guilt clung to me, stubborn as the aftertaste of strong filter coffee.

But these things—once they happen, they never stay as just one mistake. It’s either never, or it’s endless.

Here, people say: once a paan stain gets on your shirt, no matter how much Surf Excel you use, the mark won’t fade. I learned that the hard way—my one mistake stuck, refusing to be scrubbed away by prayers or rituals.

I lasted only three days before I lost control again…

I tried, truly I did. God knows. I came home, forced down Priya’s simple dal-chawal, and pretended to follow the news headlines with her, playing the part of the dutiful husband. But my mind kept floating back to Neha’s perfume—something sharp, almost exotic, nothing like the warm haldi and coconut oil scent of home. Three days. That’s all the strength I had.