Ten
Vikrant
‘Ouch. This ladder’s wobbly,’ Anika said three hours later, trying to reach one end of the living room ceiling. She held a colorful dupatta-scarf in one hand and had sellotape bits stuck on her nose.
She turned and stretched on her toes. Managed to brace the dupatta on the ceiling and stuck the sellotape, so it stayed in place. The sari rode low on her hip, so her waist was in profile, the belly button glistening with sweat.
My mouth actually watered as I saw it. I closed my eyes and prayed to all the gods for forbearance. Watching Anika move about in that silly sexy excuse of a sari and be so cheerful and enthusiastic was heartbreaking.
And arousing.
And driving me slowly insane.
‘That looks pretty no, Sagar?’
She turned again and beamed at Sagar, the teenager who was wearing a slightly hangdog expression. The boy had probably never seen a woman be so openly uninhibited and still jock about.
Anika had made Sagar and me do all the sweeping and mopping while she laid out the decoration plans and went about turning the living room into a mini-Ganpati altar. We had done as she asked because it was best to not argue with the woman in charge.
It was turning out beautifully well – the soft, chiffon dupattas (hers with a few borrowed from Smita) gave the whole place a diffused rainbow-like feeling. The mandal – altar - itself was two wooden planks decorated with the traditional rangolis (designs made from color powder) that my wife insisted on doing herself.
It touched my heart to see her struggle with the fine powder used to make the rangolis.
Finally, she’d given up and called my aunt to create them.
A few hours of hard and creative work later, and we were almost done with all the decorations, apart from arranging the visitor’s silver puja plate.
***
Anika climbed down the ladder cautiously, holding the pleats of her sari in one hand and the stepladder continued to wobble.
Without being aware of it, I moved forward and caught the stand of the ladder. Steadied it. ‘Careful, Ani,’ I husked out. For extra measure, I placed a hand on her leg and steadied her too. The sari slithered around my touch, and I wanted to slide it up further. Reveal her shapely calf and then go all the way up till I reached…
‘Thanks, Vik.’ Her soft words broke my teenage horny boy fantasy.
She got down without further incident and smiled up at me. ‘I was sure I’d stumble and fall and hit my head.’
‘I wouldn’t let that happen,’ I said. ‘Not ever.’
Staring at her moving lips, like a man possessed. There was a tiny drop of sweat at the corner of her lip. I wondered what she’d do if I leaned in and licked at it. Maybe she wouldn’t totally murder me…
‘I wouldn’t blame you if you did,’ she said softly.
I gripped the edge of the ladder, and she moved closer. Then she touched my shirt, and I went a little dizzy. Anika was touching me voluntarily.
‘You dropped food on the shirt,’ she said, just as softly as before.
‘Yeah.’ God, I sounded drunk .
Anika tugged at the fabric once. ‘When will you ever learn to eat without spilling things, weirdo?’
I caught her hand, my intention very, very clear in my expression. ‘Never.’
My wife’s lips parted. And a little sound escaped her. A sort of ‘oh’. As if she had never heard the word before.
But she was staring at my lips too. And that gave me courage. Courage to tug at her hand and bring her one inch closer so I could….
‘Vikrant, where’s the tea powder?’ My mother yelled from the kitchen.
Anika’s eyes slid in the direction of the voice. She untangled herself and stepped back. The shutters back on her expressive face.
I could have cursed the air blue with disappointment.
Aai had the worst timing ever!
‘I’ll help her,’ Anika murmured.
I shook my head. ‘No. You don’t know where the tea is. I’ll show her.’ The kitchen was new to Anika and besides, she probably was being polite. She didn’t want to spend alone time with my mother.
Incredibly, hurt shadowed her eyes before she wiped her face clean. She turned back to the ladder and hefted it. ‘I’ll finish here with Sagar. You can have your chai and then go for a bath before you leave with the men to collect the statue.’
‘You could come too,’ I offered.
The tradition in the Pandit household was that the men picked up the statue from the statue creator whose family lived four streets away and had been supplying us with the idol for generations, right from King Shivaji’s times. And the three times Anika had come home for Chathurthi with me, she’d insisted on wanting to join the menfolk in picking up the idol.
I always refused her because of what my family would say, especially my mother.
‘It’s okay. It’s not my place, remember?’ She took the ladder away with a small, biting smile.
I could only watch her hips sway in the damned sari.
And curse everything in sight, including myself and past mistakes.