Loneliness

The afternoon heat clung to Priya like a second skin, thick and unyielding as she scrubbed the kitchen floor. Her sari—faded green, patched at the hem—stuck to her hairy legs, the coarse hair flattened with sweat.

Shanti hovered near the doorway, her voice a rasp over the slosh of the rag. "Missed a spot—look at that filth. Can't even clean right." Priya's hands stilled for a beat, knuckles whitening, but she kept scrubbing, the tile cold against her knees. Shanti muttered something about "lazy wives" before shuffling off to nap with Gopal, their snores soon rattling through the house.

Silence fell, heavy and rare. Priya stood, back aching, and wiped her brow with the sari's pallu.

She glanced at the clock—four-thirty. The vegetable bin was near empty; Shanti would screech if dinner was late. She grabbed a jute bag and slipped out, the rusty gate creaking shut behind her. Bapu Bazaar was a short walk, but the streets thrummed with Diwali chaos—hawkers shouting over piles of marigolds, lanterns swaying in the breeze, firecrackers popping sharp and sudden. The air smelled of oil and dust, kids darting past with sticky hands, their laughter a world away from hers.

She moved through the crowd, head down, haggling quietly for brinjals and tomatoes. A vendor—a squat man with a paan-stained grin—eyed her too long as her shawl slipped, baring her arm, the dark hair stark against her pale skin.

"Fresh ones, ma'am," he said, pushing a basket forward, but his gaze lingered. Priya tugged the shawl back, unflinching, and handed over a crumpled ten-rupee note. She didn't care who stared—Anil didn't see her, so why should they matter? The bag grew heavy, her sandals slapping the dirt as she turned home, the bazaar's noise fading into a dull roar.

Back in the house, the kitchen was a furnace, the stove hissing as she chopped brinjals for baingan bharta. Anil's chair sat empty at the table, mocking her as she stirred the pot, the smoky scent mixing with a stale whiff of his tobacco—days old, clinging to the walls.

Shanti shuffled in, peering at the food. "He's not back yet," she said, more to herself than Priya. "Gambling again, wasting what little we have."

Priya nodded, silent, her spoon scraping the pan. Anil wasn't there—just a ghost in the debts piling up, the empty bed, the life she dragged through. Shanti retreated, muttering about curses, leaving Priya alone with the heat and the hiss.

Night crept in, the in-laws asleep, their snores a dull rhythm. Priya locked the kitchen door and slipped into the bathroom, the air cooler there, tiles slick under her feet. She shut the door halfway, a crack of light spilling in, and let her sari fall. The mirror was smudged, but she faced it anyway—her body bare, heavy, untouched. Her thighs, thick and hairy, brushed together; her bush, a dark tangle, glistened with sweat; her breasts sagged a little, nipples dark and soft. She ran a hand over her belly, then lower, fingers grazing the curls. A touch—not for pleasure—but to feel something, anything. Her breath hitched, eyes stinging, and she stopped, hands falling limp. Tears pricked, but she blinked them back, staring at the stranger in the glass.

The phone buzzed in her pocket as she dressed—a text from Neha, late and random: "Finished that lehenga—bride's thrilled!"

Priya sank onto the cot, thumbs slow on the Nokia's keys. "Good for you. Shanti's on about Anil's debts again. He's not here—haven't seen him in days."

She sent it, no filter, no plea. Neha's reply came fast, distracted: "He's a fool. Got a new order—talk soon!"

Priya stared at the screen, typing, "Doesn't matter," then erased it. She didn't need comfort, didn't expect it.

Gopal's cough hacked through the wall, rough and wet, pulling her from the phone. Anil wasn't there to hear it, wasn't there for anything. Priya stood, crossing to the bathroom window, its blinds shut tight. She stared at the dark slats, fists clenching at her sides—nails biting into her palms, a quiet fury building. How long could she have to live this life?