The next morning, Geetanjali woke up earlier than usual, the soft light of dawn filtering through the window curtains. Her phone was still in her hand from last night — she had fallen asleep smiling at their chat. Without overthinking it this time, she opened the messages and typed quickly.
Geetanjali: Good morning, Arahan. Hope you slept well. Thank you for last night's talk… It made me smile before sleeping.
She hit send, heart fluttering a little, then got up to start her day, sweeping the courtyard, watering the tulsi plant, and helping her mother-in-law with breakfast. Arahan's reply came while she was making chai.
Arahan: Good morning, Bhabhi! Slept great. You too? Any plans for today?
They exchanged a few light messages: she told him about the festival sweets she planned to make, and he joked about how he always burned his attempts at laddoos. The conversation was short and sweet, which brightened her morning before she got busy with chores. She put the phone away with a small, secret smile.
The day passed normally, but as night fell again, the restlessness returned. Lying in bed, the fan whirring overhead, Geetanjali felt the familiar heat pooling low in her belly.
Memories of Arahan's body against hers on the bike, his fingers brushing her skin during measurements, his low voice in the kitchen, they flooded back stronger than before.
Her hand drifted down her stomach almost on its own, fingertips grazing the edge of her petticoat. She stopped herself, clenching her thighs together, breathing hard.
No. She was married. This was wrong.
But the ache didn't fade. She picked up her phone instead, opened his chat, and started typing.
Geetanjali: Arahan, are you awake? Can't sleep tonight.
Arahan: Yeah, I'm here. Everything okay, Bhabhi?
Geetanjali: Just… thinking too much. The house feels so quiet again.
Arahan: I get it. Want to talk?
She hesitated, then let the words flow, complaining about her husband.
Geetanjali: My husband… he's always so busy over there. Calls once in a while, sends money, but never really here when I need him. A woman needs more than just money, you know?
Arahan: I understand. It must be hard being alone like this.
Geetanjali: Very hard. Sometimes I feel like a garden left without care. My husband is busy somewhere far away, and my forest is becoming dry… he doesn't come to water it anymore. It's been so long since anyone tended to it properly. Everything just… withers.
She stared at the screen after sending that, cheeks burning.
It was indirect, wrapped in metaphor like village women sometimes spoke of their needs, the "forest" meaning her neglected body, the "watering" a clear stand-in for sex, for the intimacy she craved. She didn't say it outright, but the meaning hung heavy between the lines.
Arahan took a moment to reply.
Arahan: That sounds really lonely, Bhabhi. A garden needs attention to bloom… someone who comes regularly, who knows how to care for it right. It's not fair when it's left dry for so long.
Geetanjali: Exactly. I keep waiting, but nothing changes. I just… want someone to notice how thirsty it is. To give it what it needs before it's too late.
Arahan: Anyone would be lucky to take care of a garden like yours. It deserves to be looked after properly… watered deep, every time it needs it.
Her breath caught. The words were still veiled, but the heat in them was unmistakable. She felt a fresh rush of wetness between her thighs, her nipples tightening under her night blouse. She typed back slowly, fingers trembling.
Geetanjali: Sometimes I wonder if anyone would even want to… after so long without rain.
Arahan: Trust me, Bhabhi… any man who sees how beautiful that garden is would want to. He'd make sure it never stays dry again.
They kept talking like that, complaints about her husband's absence turning into shared metaphors about neglect, thirst, care. The subtext grew thicker with every message. Geetanjali's body hummed with need; she pressed her thighs together harder, resisting the urge to touch herself while his words lit her up.
Eventually, around 1 a.m., she sent one last message.
Geetanjali: Thank you for listening again. You make the nights less lonely.
Arahan: Anytime, Bhabhi. Sleep well. Dream of rain.
She set the phone down, heart racing, body on fire. She fantasises how had his voice in them, his hands, his words. She fell asleep aching, confused, and more alive than she had felt in a year.
They continued chatting late into the night over the next few days, always starting with innocent topics, village news, festival preparations, and funny stories. But Geetanjali grew bolder with each conversation. She stayed wrapped in metaphors, careful never to cross into outright words, yet the meaning became clearer, hotter, more insistent.
Geetanjali: Sometimes the soil gets so cracked from no rain… even the strongest roots can't hold water anymore. I wonder if anyone would notice how parched it is before it's too late.
Arahan: A good gardener always notices, Bhabhi. He'd dig deep, pour slowly at first, then let it soak in until every part is drenched. He wouldn't stop until the ground was soft and blooming again.
Geetanjali: And if the garden has been waiting a long time… would he be gentle, or would he flood it all at once?
Arahan: Gentle at the start, to ease the thirst. Then deeper, stronger, until the garden trembles and drinks every drop. He'd make sure it never feels dry again.
Each exchange left her breathless, thighs pressed together under the sheet, pulse racing between her legs.
She never touched herself during the chats, but afterward, lying in the dark, the metaphors turned into vivid pictures: Arahan's hands parting her saree, his mouth on her skin, his body filling her completely.
She controlled it, barely whispering "no" to herself like a mantra, but the ache only grew.
Then Diwali drew near. The village buzzed with preparations: lights strung on houses, sweets being made, firecrackers stocked. Geetanjali's stitched blouse and petticoat were ready at the tailor's shop in town, and she needed a few last-minute festival items, diyas, rangoli colors, mithai ingredients, and new bangles.
She called Arahan in the afternoon, voice soft but steady.
"Arahan… I need to pick up my blouse and petticoat from the tailor, and get some Diwali things from the market. Could you take me again?"
Arahan's reply was immediate. "Of course, Bhabhi. I'll be there in half an hour."
When he arrived, Geetanjali stepped out wearing a simple yet elegant green cotton saree, low-waisted, pallu draped loosely, midriff bare as always. She smiled at him, a little less shy this time.
As she swung her leg over the bike, it felt completely natural. She slid forward until her body molded to his: thighs gripping his hips snugly, full breasts flattening warmly against his back, bare stomach pressing into the small of his back, arms wrapping around his waist with hands resting low on his abdomen. Her chin almost rested on his shoulder; every breath she took brushed warm air against his neck.
Arahan started the bike slowly. The ride to town was longer than the local market trips, giving her plenty of time to savor it.
Every bump in the dirt road sent delicious jolts through her, her nipples rubbing against his shirt with each vibration, her core clenching involuntarily as her thighs squeezed tighter around him.
She let herself enjoy it fully this time: no pretending it was accidental, no pulling back. She leaned in closer on curves, fingers flexing against his stomach, feeling the hard ridges of muscle under her palms.
A soft sigh escaped her lips against his ear once or twice, too quiet for words but loud enough for him to feel.
Arahan kept his focus on the road, but she could sense the change in him, his breathing deeper, shoulders slightly tenser, the way he adjusted his grip on the handlebars when she pressed harder during a rough patch.
The entire ride felt like an extended, silent tease. Geetanjali closed her eyes for moments at a time, letting the fantasy play: him pulling over, turning to face her, hands sliding under her saree while she straddled him on the bike itself.
The thought made her wetter, her body humming with need by the time the market came into view.
They reached town just as the evening lights began to flicker on for pre-Diwali crowds.
They reached the town market just as the evening lights started twinkling for pre-Diwali crowds. The air was thick with the smell of fresh marigolds, incense, firecrackers, and frying jalebis.
Arahan parked the bike in a familiar shady spot, and Geetanjali slid off reluctantly, her body still humming from the ride.
This time, shopping felt different, intimate, almost domestic. Arahan walked beside her, carrying the heavier bags without being asked, stepping in to bargain when prices climbed too high, holding the items she pointed to so she could inspect them properly.
It felt exactly like she had come with her husband: someone who knew what she needed, who cared enough to make sure she got the best deal, who stayed close without making it obvious.
They bought diyas, small clay ones for the rangoli, plus a few fancy electric ones for the veranda, packets of rangoli colors in bright reds, yellows, and greens, new bangles that clinked softly in a paper bag, a box of assorted mithai for guests, and fresh marigold garlands for the door. At every stall, Arahan's presence changed the dynamic.
When they stopped at a juice stall for fresh sugarcane juice to beat the evening heat, the vendor grinned as he handed over the tall glasses.
"Madam, your husband is very good at bargaining," he said with a wink, nodding toward Arahan who had just talked the price down by ten rupees. "He took care of everything today, lucky woman!"
Geetanjali's cheeks warmed instantly. She glanced at Arahan, who gave a small, modest smile and didn't correct the assumption. She didn't either.
The words landed like a secret thrill in her chest 'your husband… took care of everything… lucky woman'. For a moment, she let herself pretend it was true: that this strong, attentive man beside her was hers, that he belonged in her home, in her bed, watering her neglected garden night after night.
At the bangle stall, when the shopkeeper saw Arahan helping her try on a set of red and gold glass bangles, he chuckled.
"Bhaisahab cares a lot for you, madam. Most husbands just stand and wait, he's choosing colors that match your saree perfectly."
Geetanjali laughed softly, sliding the bangles onto her wrist while stealing glances at Arahan. The praise felt good. Each compliment fed the fantasy she had been nurturing: him as her husband, not just a helpful neighbor. She felt pleased, desired, cared for in a way her real husband hadn't made her feel in years.
Finally, they reached the tailor shop. The blouse and petticoat were ready, the maroon silk saree now perfectly stitched to fit her curves. The tailor handed over the neatly folded pieces with a satisfied nod.
"Fitting will be perfect, madam. Your friend helped with measurements last time," he said to Arahan.
Geetanjali's heart skipped again. She paid quickly, avoiding Arahan's eyes for a second, but the warmth stayed on her skin.
With everything done, they headed back to the bike as the market lights glowed brighter against the darkening sky.
Geetanjali tied the new bags securely to the rear carrier, then climbed on behind him, sliding forward even more naturally this time, pressing her body fully against his without a hint of hesitation.
Her breasts crushed warmly against his back, thighs gripping his hips, arms wrapping low around his waist, one hand resting daringly close to his belt buckle.