Cheaters Read online

  Wife: But you have given me so much as well.

  Meera: All right, coming back to what I just asked you. Imagine a scenario where I am not there in your life. Suppose you had never got married. Then?

  Wife: I thought about it. I think I would have studied further and secured a job for myself. I wouldn’t have liked to be a burden on my father all my life.

  Meera: I like that. For the first time, I’ve seen a glimmer of independence in you.

  Wife: I always wanted to earn. I feel so happy to see the women in banks and other offices. I imagine myself in their place.

  Meera: Then why don’t you?

  Wife: I have always feared how you would react if I . . .

  Meera: The irony of the biggest manmade institution, marriage, is that a wife should rather hide her desires from her husband, fearing a backlash than tell him about them. And it is a bond for seven lives? Bounded, rather, for seven lives.

  Wife: While reading your last message a question occurred to me. May I ask?

  Meera: You don’t need my permission. Not for this or for anything.

  Wife: Thank you. I’m still getting used to this side of yours. Usually, you’re so different . . . In fact, the very fact that we are chatting is surprising. Has Meera got anything to do with this change?

  Meera: Maybe.

  Wife: Why couldn’t I do it? That too being a wife . . . Why couldn’t I change you?

  Meera: Maybe I haven’t changed totally. Maybe Meera only ignited a spark. The fire has to be started by the wife. By you.

  Wife: How?

  Meera: I’ll tell you in some time. But first you need to tell me what else would you have done other than taking up a job?

  Wife: Experience something I never have.

  Meera: Like?

  Wife: I don’t know how to say it.

  Meera: Just type it out. Don’t think too much.

  Wife: I want to experience what it is to ‘date’ a man. We never dated. We never got to know each other. We were shown photographs of each other. That’s all. Even after getting married we hardly got to know each other. When did we ever chat like this?

  Meera: So you want to date other men?

  Wife: If you were not there. I want to know if every man is the same. If every man thinks of, sees and treats women similarly. Do I feel different in different men’s company or is it the same? I read a book that discussed the concept of soulmates. Is it necessary to be someone’s domestic partner to qualify as his or her soulmate?

  Meera: I won’t be clichéd and say all men are same. Maybe it depends on luck.

  Wife: I don’t think I have ever felt lucky.

  There is a thoughtful pause. Both women know they are online but neither is typing.

  Meera: Do I satisfy you sexually? Be honest. I won’t judge you. Or be angry.

  There is another long pause; the wife is online.

  * * *

  5 a.m.

  Meera notices that the wife is typing, erasing, then typing again. This happens a few times. It makes her restless.

  Meera: What is it?

  The response time is shorter than Meera’s anticipation.

  Wife: Why is it that if a wife shows her sexual prowess on bed she too is labelled a whore?

  Meera: Have I done that?

  Wife: Many a time. I don’t blame you if you don’t remember since you were drunk. I don’t remember if we ever were intimate when you were sober. Even on our first night together you were drunk.

  Meera: Let me tell you, there’s no woman in this world who hasn’t been labelled a whore, either verbally or in a man’s mind. To treat women as filth is arousing for many men. Exceptions are always there but I’m afraid the generalization holds true.

  Wife: Does that mean you have never respected me?

  Meera: Think. Think hard. Then answer: what do you feel?

  Wife: No.

  Meera: Now answer my previous question. Do I satisfy you sexually?

  Wife: No.

  Meera: Have I ever?

  Wife: No.

  Meera: I don’t satisfy you sexually. I don’t respect you, and still you seek my validation, put me on a pedestal simply because I’m your husband?

  Wife: What other option do I have?

  Meera: Meera too didn’t have an option. If she had said the same thing to herself she would have been sold to that sheikh in Dubai. But you know what, it was only when she had no other option that she decided to run away, and she has never looked back on that decision. She is happy doing what she is because at the end of the day she is in a position to bring a smile on her daughter’s face. And this made her hopeful that a little bit of tomorrow is perhaps under her control.

  Wife: But I can’t do that. Meera had to run away because she was going to be sold. If I do that, I will be a bad woman because you are my husband. You have given me a house, children; because of you I get food. If I run away, all fingers will point at me. Everyone’s. Even yours. I don’t know if Meera knows this but being a whore is still easier than being a wife.

  Meera: Just like Meera isn’t a whore only, you aren’t a wife only. These labels act as blinders. They deter us from seeing ourselves as we truly are. A woman is defined by the roles society ascribes to her. If a woman is successful at work and not at home, she isn’t excused. But if a man is even moderately successful at work, then it is assumed that his wife is lucky to have him. Cutting a long debate short, the more you care about those fingers, give a damn about them, the more will they seem in number. Think about yourself. Think about your kids. Do you want your daughters to study only till class X? To be married only to lose their virginity to a drunk husband? To be ill-treated in front her husband’s friends? To remain sexually dissatisfied and unaware of the pleasures that their own bodies can achieve?

  Wife: I’m confused. Is my husband asking me to rebel against him?

  Meera: Yes, I am. And now if you say Meera has fucked up my mind then it has probably happened for the better, I believe.

  Wife: What exactly should I do?

  Meera: The moment I’m home I want you to slap me first.

  Wife: What are you saying?

  Meera: Yes. You heard me, promise me that you’ll slap me.

  Wife: How can I?

  Meera: Tell me haven’t I slapped you yet?

  Wife: Yes, you have. Many times.

  Meera: Then you have to just do that to me when I’m home next. Don’t hit me in front of my kids. Just let me enter the bedroom. Then slap me hard. If I pretend to not be aware of this chat, then show your phone to me. And tell me on my face that you know everything about my whores. And if I don’t mend my ways, you will show the chat to everyone.

  Wife: My hands are shaking. Isn’t this some kind of . . . blackmail?

  Meera: This is what one needs to do when the rights one deserves aren’t given to one.

  Wife: Are you sure of what you are asking me to do?

  Meera: I’m not asking. This is what you are doing when we are in the bedroom after I come back from this tour.

  Wife: I don’t know what to say. Okay, I promise.

  Meera: Good. That’s like my wife.

  Wife: Really?

  Meera: Yes. Trust me, the harder you slap, the stronger will your hold be on our relationship.

  Wife: If I get to steer our relationship, I won’t let it hit any obstacle.

  Meera: I know that. But you also have to promise me that you will pursue a graduation course. Even if it’s through correspondence. You should still do something other than parenting. It is important to be independent.

  Wife: I feel so liberated suddenly. To be honest, I have never awaited your homecoming more eagerly. I’m happy I texted you tonight.

  Meera: Yes. Good that you texted.

  Wife: I have texted you earlier as well, during your other trips but you never responded. But today . . .

  Meera: It’s all because of that Meera.

  Wife: I think I like her.

  Meera: I thin
k I like her too. Don’t worry, not more than you.

  Wife: Hahaha! Thanks to our chatting, I didn’t even realize it’s almost morning now.

  Meera: Yes, it’s almost morning. Do make it count. Bye now.

  Wife: See you soon.

  * * *

  6 a.m.

  There is a beep. But it is her pimp. He wants to know if she is done. Meera responds: ‘Almost. Will be down in five minutes.’

  She glances at her client. He is still snoring. Meera deletes the messages exchanged with his wife in the past couple of hours and places the phone right where it was. She walks towards the huge window in the room. Her eyelids are heavy with sleep. But she still manages to smile at the view outside. She has never smiled after a night with a client. Everything is still outside. No chaos. Meera has a sudden urge to know what his wife looks like. She goes back to his phone and opens the photo gallery. The first few pictures are of her and a few other women—the pimp must have sent him for selection. She swipes one picture after another. After a series of pornographic photos, she finally comes across a photo of three children. One is around twelve years old, the other no more than five or six and the youngest doesn’t seem to be more than two. An ironical smile spreads on her face. All of them are girls. She hopes her client will one day understand how to respect women; he is the father of three after all. She swipes left. The next picture is that of her client and a woman wearing a heavy sari, her face half covered by the ghunghat. Meera magnifies the picture but the face isn’t visible. Only the outline of her nose and chin is there, which is enough for her to guess that she is beautiful. She is a bit on the heavy side but that’s not her problem, not a permanent one at least. Meera sighs. Her real problem is snoring away on the bed in the hotel. Meera hopes the wife welcomes him the way she has promised her. Deep within she knows that what she sensed in the wife are mere embers, but if fanned correctly, they can still burn the solid patriarchal house down. She doesn’t know if the wife will actually slap her husband. What will happen after that? Will she show some spirit and move out with the kids till the husband redeemed himself? She will never know. But she will always know that she convinced a woman to slap her own husband because it had been long overdue. A smile lights up her face.

  Her phone beeps. Her train of thought pauses. She checks the message. It’s the pimp again.

  ‘How much longer? Any problem?’

  ‘No, no. Coming down,’ she replies.

  Meera wastes no time in taking off her bathrobe, wearing her dress and leaving.. This isn’t the first time that she is leaving a five-star hotel at dawn. But for the first time, she is leaving one feeling a dawn within her as well.

  Weekends

  First Weekend

  It has been three years since Kratika and Devang got married. A dreamy romance on social media; a dreamier wedding in their hometown, Bhopal. They stay and work at Bengaluru. Kratika (twenty-eight) works for an international tours and travel company as a customer relationship officer while Devang (thirty) works as a team lead in a call centre. They are good with their savings; their future is planned. They want to first buy a 2BHK flat and then plan for a child. That is why Devang didn’t stop Kratika from working a year and a half after their wedding. Kratika used to work before getting married. The first year was their honeymoon period. From the second year onwards, Devang realized that it was important for one partner to earn and the other to save. So Kratika took up a job again. But neither knew that work would keep them from seeing each other all week. Their timings didn’t match. Kratika would leave at nine in the morning and come back around eight. Devang would leave at five in the evening and come home around six in the morning. When he was at home, she was still asleep. When she came back, there was no one at home. The couple only had the weekend to spend with each other. But there too was a dilemma. Should they have lunch or dinner outside, party with their friends lest they were labelled social outcasts, or go shopping, finish pending household chores, or have sex? And if everything fell into place, someone from Bhopal was always visiting them for at least a week, or for two weekends, to be more specific.

  After stalling sex for a long time, the couple finally found a weekend to spend solely with each other and no distractions around. Kratika bought vanilla candles and some sexy lingerie, and even got a bikini wax done. Sex was always about the ambience for her. Devang, on the other hand, had a collection of her favourite flavoured condoms and also brought her favourite male perfume online. They were ready for the night. But an hour into the foreplay, Devang couldn’t get it up.

  ‘What’s happening?’ a worried Kratika asked.

  ‘I don’t know. It was all right yesterday evening,’ a panicked Devang said, looking at his limp penis. Never before did he have to wait for an erection for this long. Kratika used her hands, her mouth and whatever tricks she knew but to no avail. Frustrated, she gave up. Devang didn’t know what to say or do. They had been waiting for this night for a long time. He was busy staring at his penis, as if a good look could make it stand up, when Kratika asked, ‘May I ask you something?’

  She has never used that phrase before, Devang thought. He nodded.

  ‘Are you bored of me?’

  ‘Are you mad? No!’

  ‘This has never happened before,’ she said, pointing towards his flaccid penis.

  ‘Of course, it hasn’t.’

  ‘In fact, there were times when you would get a boner just looking at me.’

  It sounded like an accusation, which was followed by an awkward silence. Devang looked at her furtively. While he was hoping for some magic, Kratika was wondering if they had enough tricks left for any magic. The realization was so sudden that she went blank. What if it was true: Devang had actually become bored of her?

  ‘You said it was working fine yesterday evening,’ she said. Devang had instantly regretted after saying it earlier but was hoping she wouldn’t catch it. But he forgot she was his wife. He had heard from his friends, on a lighter note though, that the moment a woman became a wife, god granted her extra sensitivity towards anything her husband said.

  ‘Hmm,’ Devang mumbled.

  ‘Were you watching porn?’

  ‘No . . .’ Devang said softly, turning over the words in his mind that he was about to say.

  ‘Then?’

  ‘There is this . . . this woman . . . in my office.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Priyanka.’

  ‘You like her?’

  ‘It’s not like I like her but . . .’

  ‘But your penis does.’ Kratika was curt.

  ‘Look, it was one of those moments. Meant nothing. Really.’

  ‘I understand,’ she said.

  ‘You do?’

  ‘I meant I understand how Priyanka must have felt if she saw you.’

  ‘I don’t think she did. But what do you mean?’

  ‘Leave it.’

  ‘No, tell me.’

  ‘Okay, there is this guy in my office. Swastik.’

  Devang felt his heart hammering against his ribs.

  ‘I think he lusts for me.’

  Kratika never minced her words unlike Devang. He wasn’t interested in what another man thought of his wife. At twenty-eight, Kratika was a head-turner. She had a supple, clear skin, lustrous hair, expressive eyes and a naturally curvaceous figure; Devang knew it would only be natural for any man to look at her twice. What he was interested to know was what Kratika thought of Swastik.

  ‘The way your thing starts working after seeing Priyanka, his does after seeing me,’ she said. There was a hint of amusement in her voice.

  ‘What about you?’

  Kratika turned to stare at Devang and said, ‘What about me?’

  ‘Do you like him?’ Devang asked, shivering at the thought.

  ‘I have never thought about him. Firstly, he is four years younger to me. All right, he is handsome and well-dressed most of the time. You know how much I adore well-dressed men, right? That�
�s about it.’ Kratika moved her hand and casually hit something. She looked down. Devang too followed her sight. He had a raging hard-on. Neither said it but they knew they had found a remedy to make Devang’s penis erect and to spice up their boring sex life.

  * * *

  Second Weekend

  When couples are done exploring each other’s bodies a little too much, it’s time to explore their minds. The mind has something exciting to offer every time. If you are fishing hard for it, that is.

  Devang and Kratika understood this when they tried to have sex the previous weekend. And although Kratika hadn’t told him much about Swastik, Devang could still feel all the blood rushing down south. Neither had waited for another weekend to arrive so desperately. They told each other they would narrate their fantasies to fish out the requisite arousal for themselves.

  ‘Let me go first,’ Devang said.

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Sure.’

  They were lying naked on bed. Their phones were switched off and the lights were dimmed. Devang began talking.

  Devang’s Fantasy

  ‘Priyanka is one of those people whom you suddenly notice one day, even though she may have been working with you for a long time. Let’s suppose there is an office party at some pub. Usually Priyanka wears Indian outfits but that night, she wears a little black dress. She looks drop dead gorgeous. Those natural curls of her, the long eyelashes, the innocuous eyes and the dimpled smile. I just realized, I have noticed a lot about her. She is also shy. So I’m the one who goes up to her in the party. She isn’t holding any drink. I ask why. She doesn’t drink. I’m assuming this because she doesn’t look like she drinks. I suggest she should have a breezer at least. She thinks for a few seconds and says okay. I find the way her lips part to gulp down the drink very arousing. The way we have to lean towards each other, shout words into the each other’s ears because of the loud music, fills my head with amorous thoughts. I tell her the crowd, the music, the noise is getting to me. If only we could go out and talk. She looks around and nods. I finish my beer; she finishes her breezer quickly. We navigate our way through the crowd at the disc. I am behind her and put an arm around her shoulder to help her walk through the crowd. For once, I place my hand on her waist. She doesn’t complain, as if it is a normal gesture. We get out of the pub. There’s a chill in the air. I ask her if she is feeling cold. She nods. I suggest we sit inside my car and talk. She agrees. We walk towards the parking lot in silence. With such a steep sexual tension between us, silence is our best foreplay. We sit inside my car. I don’t know what to say. She smiles awkwardly and I do the same. I switch on the FM channel. I am about to change the station when she tries to switch on the heater. Our fingers touch accidentally. We look at each other and the next moment Priyanka’s lips are on mine. And then . . . and then . . .’