The Mobile Repairing Boy: Chapter 2

Chapter 2: A Flood beneath Sindoor

Later that evening, the home was calm. Her husband, Yogesh, took Aryan out to get school textbooks.

Meenal was finally alone.

Softly closing the bedroom door, she leaned against it and slow breath. The afternoon's incident lay thick in her chest, like velvet-wrapped shame.

What had he said?

"Sometimes your phone isn't the only thing requiring repair."

She shook her head, attempting to ignore his comments, but they resonated--seductive, arrogant, and infuriating.

Nevertheless, they ignited something, she was well aware. Slowly slipping out of her saree, she folded it with her shaking hands. She saw herself in the bathroom mirror. Hair sticking to her temples, hot cheeks, and eyes clouded with something she couldn't identify.

On the table lay her phone. She looked at it like a ticking bomb. The memory of the picture: her parted lips, the exposed blouse, the curvature of her waist. The look in his eyes.

The way he speaks. The unvarnished shame... and the awful, unrelenting heat that came after. She set on the bed's edge. Her hands shaking.

This was not right. She was a wife, a mother. Yet she felt ache inside her.

Slow and unsure, one hand slid down. She gasped.

She nibbled her bottom lip. "Stop it, Meenal," she said softly, nearly praying.

Her fingers, however, disobeyed. Ashamed of the yearning blossoming under her belly, she moved slowly, almost in a trance.

The recollection of Irfan's words, his lingering gaze, drove her beyond the threshold of thought and into feeling.

The heat radiated. She started to breathe erratically. Her legs twisted.

Then came the front door's sound creaking open. Panicking, she yanked the blanket over herself just as her husband walked into the room.

Carrying a plastic bag with notes and pencils, he appeared tired. Her cheeks were still on fire, so she smiled back with effort.

He didn't notice it. But within her, something had already started to split open--and Meenal was aware that what transpired in Irfan's store was not over. It had only just started.

She had gotten no message and it was unnecessary. She knew she had to go to his store today to pick up her repaired mobile. She was a bit nervous but she had told herself that it was a normal transaction. She would enter, grab the phone, and depart. No talking. No indulgence.

⸻

Next morning.

The kitchen filled with the clatter of spoons and the soft crackle of toasting bread. Aryan sat at the dining table, legs swinging beneath him, scowling at the burnt edge of his toast.

"Mumma, this tastes like charcoal," he muttered with theatrical disgust, pushing his plate away.

Meenal let out a distracted laugh, pulling the plate back. "Charcoal, huh? Since when are you a food critic? Eat it quietly, or make your own next time."

Aryan grinned, satisfied at getting a rise out of her, and took a reluctant bite. She handed him the jam, her fingers pausing as they brushed the glass jar. For a fleeting moment, her eyes lost focus--something about the stickiness, the quiet warmth of the morning, the way her own fingertips lingered--she felt that same strange echo from last night stir again.

She blinked it away, turning back to the kitchen counter.

It was time for his school bus. She held his hand as they walked toward the stop. When the bus arrived, she helped him climb aboard.

As she is back home, she remembered to go to mobile shop to collect her mobile.

She was a bit nervous and excitement.

Her saree was draped with unusual precision. The maroon blouse clung tighter than it should have; the neckline cut just a little deeper. Her waist pleats clung to her like a secret.

The mirror posed the question she was attempting to avoid:

"Who are you dressing for?"

By evening, the clouds had started to grumble once more. Though the rain hadn't begun, the air was thick.

With fast heart beats, Meenal entered Irfan's shop.

He was alone. "Madam ji," he said with same mischievous smile, "You came, as promised."

Eyes on the counter, she nodded sharply. But she sensed it--the gradual tug of his gaze over her body, like scanning her body.

"You changed your perfume," he remarked.

She gasped.

"Jasmine?" he asked, grinning weakly. "Sharp." Feminine. Hazardous. Like a secret yearning to be found."

"I only came for the phone," she responded, attempting to control her voice.

"I understand. That's my job. I repair what is damaged."

He tapped the phone softly with his fingertips. "But some things... not designed to be repaired, but to feel."

She froze. Her gaze shot up to him.

His tone remained casual as he leaned in somewhat.

"Madam ji, your browsing history--it was really... eye-opening."

She felt her stomach sink.

"What?", she whispered.

"I wasn't searching for it. Sometimes, though, the truth shows itself."

His eyes shone.

"Those late-night stories you read. The ones concerning lonely housewives. Sarees coming undone. Forbidden touching."

She tightened her jaw. "You had no right to..."

"I didn't touch anything private," he answered, lifting his palms in feigned innocence. But, what is about curiosity? It hangs in the air. Similar to jasmine."

"You read my browsing history." Her voice broke.

He laughed. "Just glimpsed. But sufficient to know... you enjoy stories where the lady is older than boy, dignified. She attempts to resist, but he sees her, makes her feel and ultimately she surrenders."

She steps back horrified. A pulse throbbed treacherously between her legs.

He gently asked, "You believe you're in those stories?"

"You see yourself in that saree, bending to grab something, sensing someone behind you observing. You picture him younger. More bold."

Her breath shuddered out. She despised him for noticing her. She loathed herself more--for being visible.

"You don't know me," she continued, her voice shaking.

"I know how you held your blouse neckline down today. I know how your thighs pressed together when I mentioned jasmine."

Cheeks burning, she turned away. He did not follow. He simply let the silence prevail.

"I'm married," she murmured, more to herself than to him.

He responded softly, "I know. You wear it wonderfully. But even sindoor," he said, narrowing his eyes, "can't dam a river once it floods."

She grabbed the mobile. Their fingers brushed--too long. Neither of them retreated.

The clouds at last broke outside. Rain pounded the ground.

Inside her, something else broke.

⸻

Meenal lay in bed, eyes open in the dark, the phone lying on her stomach.

She opened the browser. The titles flashed back at her like open doors. She pressed.

It began as reading; her breath was already shallow and her chest rising with every line.

The words didn't only talk to her; they owned her. Draped in a saree, the slightly older woman was losing her dignity in a dark room... The younger man, bold and aware of where to gaze and touch...

It was no more fantasy. It was a tight knot inside her made of memory, fantasy, and remorse.

She squeezed her thighs together. The sensation of her nightgown still clinging to her legs was suddenly electric.

Her body throbbed with a suffering, just yearning. She waited--barely breathing--until she heard Yogesh finish brushing and slide into bed next to her.

Then, gradually, she turned to him, her hand brushing his chest.

He awoke, astonished. He mumbled, "Hmm? Are you alright?"

Her hand crept down. A little confused and a little entertained, he turned completely toward her.

"Now? What has gotten into you?"

She remained silent. Her kiss was ravenous and deep. Her body glided over his with a gentle eagerness she had not showed in years. She directed his hands to the appropriate locations.

Her whispers were urgent, breathy. As though she were pursuing something within her, something that had begun in that small shop with a young man, who knew too much.

As her body arched, stiff, unyielding, Yogesh groaned quietly. Her climax was a fierce, abrupt jolt that left her shivering and gasping into his shoulder.

Catching his breath, he chuckled. "Wow! That was... surprising."

Not looking at him, she lay there with her chest still heaving. He kissed her forehead.

"Haven't you been reading those spicy stories again?"

Turning her face to him, she let her lips curl a little.

She said softly, "Maybe. Perhaps I'm just finding the ones always intended for me."