Chapter 2: Guilt, Shame, and Secrets

That night, I couldn’t sleep. The ceiling fan hummed above, its blades making shadows flicker on the wall from the streetlight outside. Somewhere in the lane, a dog barked, and a scooter sputtered by. My mind kept circling the same shameful memory.

Again and again, I replayed the image of Ritu struggling beneath me, her voice caught, unable to speak—her whimpering desperate, her perfume slightly different, her body tensed in a way Neha’s never did.

I squeezed my eyes shut, guilt flooding me in waves. Every time I tried to think of something else, the image crept back—vivid, persistent, like a stain that wouldn’t wash away.

Turning over, I cursed myself. “Beta, thoda control kar, na!” I punched my pillow, sighing in frustration. My conscience wouldn’t let up.

I should be planning how to avoid embarrassment next time. My mind ran through excuses, half-wishing the ground would swallow me if Ritu ever told Neha.

And above all, Neha must never find out. She loves her sister more than anything. If she learned I’d kissed Ritu—even by mistake—a breakup would be certain.

I remembered how Neha always saved the best piece of rasgulla for Ritu at family dinners. She’d never forgive something like this.

Luckily, Ritu hadn’t shown up these last few days. Judging by Neha’s behaviour, they hadn’t talked much.

Every day, I watched Neha for the tiniest sign of suspicion. Thankfully, she seemed normal—joking about her boss, asking what sabzi I wanted for dinner.

As long as no one brought it up, maybe it would pass. I clung to that hope, like a child clutching a kite string on Makar Sankranti, praying it wouldn’t snap.

Finally, I felt a bit relieved. I let out a long breath, staring at the ceiling. Maybe it was just a nightmare. Maybe life could go back to normal.

I saw Ritu a few more times after that. She acted completely normal with me, as if nothing had happened. She smiled, chatted, even joked about my terrible chai-making skills—no awkwardness at all.

That was for the best. It was just a misunderstanding, and the fault was mine. Her willingness to let it go was a blessing.

I promised myself to never let my guard down again. Never mind the face, always check for the mole!

Today, Neha got off work early. As soon as I opened the door, I caught the sharp scent of whisky mixed with vanilla body spray. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, cheeks flushed—she was clearly drunk.

"Where did you go? Why did you drink so much?" I steadied her as she nearly tripped on the doormat, glancing at the neighbours’ doors, worried about colony gossip.

"Office party. So annoying." She slurred, rolling her eyes in that classic Neha way, missing the shoe rack completely as she kicked off her sandals.

She mumbled something and collapsed against me, dazed. Her hair was mussed, one earring missing, the smell of tandoori smoke and cheap perfume clinging to her.

I carried her to the bedroom and quickly checked the door to make sure it was locked, still anxious about nosy neighbours.

In the kitchen, I made her honey water, the steel spoon clinking against the glass. The scent of naphthalene balls wafted from the cupboard as I rummaged for a clean tumbler, remembering my mother’s home remedies.

She gulped the honey water down, then suddenly wrapped her arms around my neck, her breath warm on my cheek, and transferred the honey water from her mouth to mine. I nearly dropped the cup in shock. She giggled, her arms tightening around my neck.

"Arrey, stop it, yaar." I tried to pull away, half-laughing, half-scolding, but she grinned wickedly, refusing to let go.

I told her to get some rest, but she clung to me, her fingers digging into my kurta, refusing to listen. "At the office party, everyone was in pairs, touching each other while eating. I was the only one alone."

Her voice trembled—more hurt than angry. I could almost picture the noisy office, everyone arm in arm, and Neha feeling out of place.

"Where did you eat… and who was touching whom?" I tried to keep my tone light, but my heart ached for her. Her hands moved with drunken confidence, seeking comfort, sliding from my waist to my back.

Her palms were soft, a little clammy—the way they always were when she was nervous. Her touch sent shivers through me, my breath quickening.

She giggled again, eyes half-closed, swaying as I steadied her. The TV played an old Bollywood song in the living room, the melody drifting in. The smell of alcohol mixed with her perfume was intoxicating.

Looking at her flushed cheeks and teasing hands, I couldn’t hold back—I kissed her fiercely. In that moment, the world shrank to just the two of us, the only sound our mingled breath and the thudding of my heart.

We fooled around for a long time, both drenched in sweat. I went to shower, the mirror fogging up as water trickled down my back. No matter how much I scrubbed, I couldn’t shake a strange sense of unease.

When I came back, I saw her alluring back, hair falling over bare shoulders. A chill shot up my spine. Something felt wrong. My heart skipped a beat. I stared, panic rising. My voice barely a whisper: "Are you Ritu or Neha?"