Chapter 9: Tandoori and Temptation

Tandoori.

It tasted like college nights—plastic chairs wobbling at the dhaba, smoky aroma in the air, the world reduced to laughter and burnt edges. I hadn’t had it in ages; it was the flavour of freedom.

That night, I devoured naan and paneer with both hands, butter dripping down my wrists. Amit watched, half-horrified, half-amused, as I demolished plate after plate.

He tried to make conversation, but I waved him off, mouth full. "Let me finish eating first. Can I get more paneer?"

He obliged, signaling the waiter. His lawyerly poise faded as he dabbed his forehead, unsure whether to laugh or worry.

Only when I was finally full did I look up. I wiped my hands, smiled, and said, “Mr. Amit, thanks for the meal.”

He smiled back. “Does Arjun know his wife doesn’t get enough to eat at home?”

My hand froze mid-wipe. “Actually, the reason I don’t get enough to eat at home is partly thanks to Mr. Amit.” My voice had a bite, sarcasm sharp as lemon.

Everyone at home knew Arjun only gave me ₹10,000 a month—cold rotis, watered-down dal, good stuff always reserved for him. My food, clothes, necessities—always the cheapest.

I stood to leave, tossing my bag over my shoulder, ready to disappear into the night.

Amit followed, calling, “Meera, Arjun doesn’t trust you at all, does he? Have you ever thought about being with someone else? Like me.”

The absurdity made me laugh out loud. Out of sight, I rolled my eyes. “Sab paise waale ek jaise hi hote hain.”

But Amit’s next words stopped me. “I can give you a lakh a month.”

The audacity! Sometimes, I wondered if all these rich boys had lost touch with reality.