Chapter 1: Sunstroke and Stubbornness

I marched right in and started unbuttoning his kurta, scolding him like only a Delhi wife can—half threatening, half teasing. His eyes darted to the ceiling fan, cheeks tinged pink, but not a single word escaped his lips.

The living room smelled faintly of agarbatti from the morning puja, and the buzz of a distant autorickshaw drifted through the jaali window. My kurta clung to my back with sweat, but this man, my own husband, was still holed up inside, refusing to budge. Kabir was as stubborn as an old Delhi donkey—no matter what I said, he wouldn't set foot outside. Not even to fetch the post or buy milk from the corner shop. So, what to do? I marched in, determination in every step, and stripped him of his clothes with a mischief only an Indian wife can muster—half scolding, half cajoling. His eyes darted to the ceiling fan, cheeks tinged pink, but not a single word escaped his lips.

Today, the sun is blazing. Speaking of blazing, husband, your... you know.

Outside, the hawkers shouted about mangoes and the neighbour’s pressure cooker hissed in the background. I peered into the verandah, mopped my brow, and looked at Kabir’s figure slouched on the old sofa. Really, today’s garmi was too much—even the ceiling fan was protesting with a loud whir. “Aaj toh suraj bilkul aag baras raha hai,” I muttered, meaningfully glancing at Kabir’s waist. “Husband, your… you know.” My words hung in the air, playful as a filmi heroine’s wink.

He sulked in the bathroom, so I barged in.

Every Indian home knows the bathroom is a sacred place for sulking—half privacy, half escape. Kabir shut himself in there, not answering my knocks. So what else? I barged in, the hinges squeaking in protest. I caught him sitting on the closed commode, staring at the floor as if waiting for it to give him answers. He fiddled with his wedding ring, tapping his foot against the tile—a nervous energy only Indian men have when avoiding confrontation. “Arrey, Kabir! How long you’ll sit here? Come out, yaar, the chai is getting cold.”

"Kabir, what are you doing in there—growing a tail? By the way, speaking of long..."

Kabir gave me a glare, but I just grinned. "Kabir, what are you doing in there—growing a tail? By the way, speaking of long…" I trailed off, letting my tone carry the innuendo. His ears turned a shade redder than the sindoor on my forehead.

He went on a hunger strike, so I slipped my hand under his shirt.

I glanced at the untouched plate of dal-chawal, then at his hunched shoulders, and sighed—men in this house could out-stubborn any buffalo. It’s not unknown for Indian men to refuse food when they’re upset—my father did it, my brother did it, and now my husband. But I wasn’t about to let him fade away like an old ghost. So while he sulked on the bed, I slid my hand under his shirt, fingers tracing the hard lines of his stomach. The old wall clock ticked, matching the rhythm of my boldness.

"If you don’t eat, your abs will shrink. Speaking of muscles, let me have a feel..."

I teased him, “If you don’t eat, your abs will vanish. Then who will show off at the next family wedding, hmm? Speaking of muscles, let me just have a feel…” My hand pressed softly, the mood both playful and full of unspoken warmth. The aroma of tadka dal wafted from the kitchen, mixing with my laughter.

Later—

I accidentally discovered he was actually the villain, and I scrambled to run away.

Who knew he’d catch me, tears streaming down his face, peeling off his own clothes one by one.

"Wife, I won’t say no to you anymore. My clothes are only for you to take off. Do you want sweet talk or naughty talk?"

My escape was a full-on Bollywood chase—running down the stairs, slippers flapping, only for him to catch me by the wrist, tears shining on his cheeks, hands trembling as he unbuttoned his shirt. For a second, I saw not the villain, but a boy lost in a Diwali crowd, searching for someone to hold his hand. “Wife, I won’t say no to you again. Only you can take these off. Bas, bolo, want sweet talk or full-on naughty?” His vulnerability cracked me open—so rare, so raw, that my heart skipped a beat.

Bullet Comments:

[Forcing someone with autism to talk dirty in bed—now that’s something else.]

[Who else noticed that the villain’s first solo shopping trip was to buy ultra-thin Moods?]

Maasi’s DP flashed on my screen, but her forwarded jokes had nothing on the drama in my head. I wanted to snap back at the voices in my head, but Kabir’s eyes held me hostage.