Chapter 1: The Unwritten Rules of Desire

Years ago, I used a side account to flirt with a married female colleague at the office.

To be honest, I can still feel that schoolboy thrill—mischief bubbling in my stomach. Hiding behind my screen in our noisy open office, with keyboards clacking and the chai-wala shouting 'Chai garam!' from the street below, I’d sneak those messages—half-ashamed, half-excited—to a woman who was totally forbidden territory.

She agreed to meet, but like a fool, I slipped up. Exposed myself—pakda gaya, bilkul rangey haath. She caught me face-to-face.

For a second, everything froze, just like those dramatic moments in a Hindi serial. Even the ancient fan above us made one last 'thak-thak' before stopping. My heart thudded louder than the rickshaw horns outside, palms turning clammy. The sticky air pressed in, judging me along with the walls.

Honestly, I just wanted the earth to open up and swallow me.

My mind raced—maybe I could laugh it off, say it was a prank? But when she looked at me, one eyebrow raised, disappointment all over her face, I just blurted out everything. Words tumbled out, no filter—full confession, as if Amma had caught me breaking her favourite teacup.

1

My first job landed me in an office with two beautiful female colleagues.

Even now, I remember that first day—nervous excitement, clutching my lunch dabba, trying to act confident as I entered the sunlit room. Every corner of the institute buzzed with ambition—the old peon shouting for attendance, the strong smell of filter coffee from the canteen.

Meera, thirty, single, sweet-faced and stunning, but sharper than a fresh blade.

She had that full South Indian charm—dusky skin, big expressive eyes, and a laugh that echoed down the corridor. Everyone called her Meera Akka, no matter their age. But beneath her playful teasing, she always kept one eye on the bigger game, never missing a thing.

I met Meera in a cycling group during my post-grad third year. She was the fastest, always cheering, always leading. When I was job-hunting, she pointed me to this design institute in Pune, even coached me for the interview. Around her, I always felt a mix of gratitude and unease.

Then there was Ananya—thirty-five, refined, tall and graceful. Her long legs in heels swayed with every step, catching everyone’s attention.

Ananya Didi, as we all called her, had a poise that made even the boss lower his voice. Fridays meant crisp cotton sarees, bindis matching perfectly. When she entered a meeting, the whole room straightened up.

Rumour was, her husband co-founded a tech company in Bengaluru, and they had a nine-year-old son. She lived in a fancy bungalow in Koregaon Park.

Our office WhatsApp group buzzed about her—her son’s art projects, family group pings, her always juggling work and home.

She was the family type—mature, intellectual, always composed. Her desk overflowed with her son’s drawings and Tupperware snacks. No matter how late she stayed, she never missed her son’s school function or her husband’s birthday. It was like she carried her whole home in her giant tote bag.

If Meera and Ananya had anything in common, it was that they were both strong-willed—and total gossip lovers.

Some afternoons, over chai and Marie biscuits, they’d huddle in the pantry, voices low but eyes sparkling, dissecting everything from office politics to Bollywood scandals.

Me? I was a rookie, a nobody in their eyes—bossed around from the word go.

My job was simple: keep your head down, finish work, say yes to all errands. Unofficial chai-wala, spreadsheet-fixer, and, sometimes, their favourite punching bag.

At first, I kept my best behaviour—never even let an indecent thought cross my mind.

Amma had drilled it in: ‘Beta, eyes and hands to yourself, especially in a new job.’ So I’d nod, smile, and never linger too long in anyone’s good books.

Between xerox duty and chasing the peon for extra stationery, there was no space for hormones. My only guilty pleasure was sneaking a peek at Meera Akka’s WhatsApp status or Ananya Didi’s family vacation photos.

But in their eyes, I was definitely up to something with the other one.

One time, I caught them giggling over chai, sneaking glances at me. That’s when I realised—innocent or not, office gossip finds you.

Maybe because I got along with both, misunderstandings were guaranteed.

You know the drill—say good morning to both, you’re playing double game. Ignore one, you’re a snob. Either way, I was trapped.

Meera and Ananya were rivals—openly competing for the deputy position in our department.

The tension was thick—every meeting a tug of war. Even old Mr. Kale, our boss, handed out projects like he was defusing a bomb.

Both tried to win me over, but I dared not pick sides. I tiptoed around, hoping to keep the peace.

Meera brought me homemade lemon rice; Ananya helped with my reports. I accepted both, always making sure no one saw me leaning either way. My life was a circus act, balancing on a tightrope.

Meera was a polished egoist—helpful only if it suited her, always with one eye on the scoreboard.

I learnt quickly: say thank you, then mind your own business.

Ananya was an icy beauty—quick-tempered, not easy to approach.

She’d look at you over her glasses and freeze your insides. But make her laugh, and for a moment, her whole face would soften—a rare, secret smile.

One rainy evening, after Ananya left, only Meera and I remained.

It was just past eight. Outside, the monsoon pelted the windows; the institute was deserted. The cleaning aunty had finished sweeping, the corridors echoing emptiness.

Meera quietly shut the door, covered her mouth, and giggled, “Arrey, just now, Didi Ananya sat across from you with her legs crossed. From your angle, everything was open. Dekha kya?”

Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. She nudged my arm, eyebrows dancing. Heat crept up my neck—I became painfully aware of the silence.

Ananya had dressed lightly today, but I didn’t comment—just shook my head, eyes down.

I stared at my shoes, pretending to search my bag. My heart hammered, praying she’d drop it.

Meera pouted, unconvinced: “Don’t act so seedha-saadha, Arjun! Didi Ananya definitely likes you. Where did you two disappear last time?”

She leaned back, arms crossed, as if she was the principal and I was a naughty schoolboy. Her eyes sparkled with mischief—and maybe a touch of jealousy.

I denied it outright: “Didi, please don’t talk bakwaas. If I tried anything, Ananya’s husband would chop me up!”

I made a knife gesture to my throat, forcing a laugh. Meera rolled her eyes, clearly enjoying my discomfort.

She giggled, poking my arm: “You used to be a player, flirting with me and the other cycling girls. You had guts, yaar.”

Her bangles jingled as she shifted, teasing but maybe testing too.

I blushed, scratched my head, and mumbled, “Back then I was new, just chatted with whoever. If someone liked me, I tried dating. Bas.”

I tried to sound cool, but my voice betrayed me. I fiddled with my bag’s Velcro, not meeting her eyes.

Meera spat, “Besharam.”

She said it with mock disgust, but there was a half-smile—maybe remembering the old days fondly.

I kept my answers meek, not daring to give her any masala for the next gossip round.

I knew her type—hesitate even a little, and the whole office would buzz with rumours.

If you ever heard whispers in the pantry, you could bet Meera had started it. Amma always said: ‘Keep your words short and your secrets shorter.’

Honestly, I never liked women like her, so I kept my distance.

I made sure our chats were in the open, never risking a private moment. Office walls have ears—and Meera’s were the sharpest.

Suddenly, Meera leaned in, whispering: “Arjun, from what I see, you could totally land Ananya Didi. Why not try your luck with a mature woman, haan?”

Her breath was warm on my cheek. I froze—half-embarrassed, half-shocked. The ceiling fan above us clattered, making the silence louder.

I stared at her, tongue-tied.

My face burned, as if my pants had been pulled down in public. I mumbled something, desperate to change the topic, but Meera just watched, eyes glinting.

On Ananya’s side, she suspected something was up between Meera and me.

Her sharp glances whenever I so much as said hi to Meera told their own story. She’d purse her lips, pretending to be lost in work, but I could sense a storm brewing.

After all, I got this job because of Meera’s referral—no secret there.

During chai breaks, seniors would wink and ask, “Arjun, is Meera Akka your rakhi sister or kuch aur?” I’d laugh, but I knew how fast gossip spread.

Once, Meera returned from a trip and brought Mysore Pak for Ananya and me.

She always brought local sweets, wrapped in shiny cellophane with a note.

I was deep in work, left the sweet untouched on my desk.

Buried in a deadline, I barely looked up. The box sat by my mouse, unopened.

At noon, Meera slapped her forehead: “Arey, I forgot to bring something for someone in the next department… Arjun, you like reading, na? I’ll trade you a book for your gift!”

She rushed over, dupatta flying, eyes bright with her usual scheming.

Before I could answer, she snatched my gift and gave it away, leaving a dusty old reference book in its place.

She barely waited for my response, shoving the faded paperback into my hands as she disappeared. The Mysore Pak, meanwhile, vanished into another department.

After Meera left, Ananya walked over, frowning. “Arjun, I’m not gossiping, but you definitely have something going on with Meera.”

She stood arms folded, tone low but loaded. Even trying to act casual, I sensed she was annoyed—maybe even hurt.

I stammered, “What? Where’d you get that idea?”

I nearly dropped the book, words tumbling out in a rush.

Ananya said, “Meera’s behaviour is way off. Why would she take back a gift she gave you and hand it to someone else? She’d only do that if you’re an insider. The small things give you away.”

She tapped her finger on my desk, each word precise, like a court case. For a moment, I wondered if she was right—maybe I was missing something.

I protested: “Meera’s just being disrespectful.”

I threw up my hands, forcing a laugh, but inside I was boiling. That sweet I hadn’t even tasted had now landed me in trouble.

The office really is a jungle—sometimes I just went speechless.

Some days, I felt like the main character in a daily soap, tangled in misunderstandings and silent wars. All I wanted was to survive my probation with my sanity intact.