Chapter 4: Under the Lamplight

4

The lamp’s glow was like a stage.

The whole world shrank to that small circle of light. The rest of us—mountains, trees, even me—became just shadows, silent witnesses.

Uncle Nilesh lay at the centre, and Meera leaned in, her laughter ringing out, bold and open, like the women at Holi after a glass of bhang. Their shadows moved together in the lamplight, as if their hearts beat in the same rhythm.

The curious, innocent Meera from earlier was gone—now she was wild, passionate, reckless.

I’d never seen a woman so uninhibited. I forgot why I’d even come.

So, beauty could really make your heart race and face flush.

My face burned with embarrassment and something else I couldn’t name. I felt like I shouldn’t be watching, but couldn’t turn away.

So, a rich man could enjoy such pleasures.

That old saying rang in my ears: "Paise wale log kuch bhi kar sakte hain."

I stared, not wanting to miss a second.

My body was rooted to the spot, hidden behind the bushes, barely breathing.

I don’t know how long it lasted. Eventually, Uncle Nilesh and Meera slowed down, lying side by side in the grass, holding hands and gazing at the stars.

Their voices were soft, blending with the wind. Meera whispered something, and he laughed—a sound I hadn’t heard from him in years.

As they watched, their feelings deepened. Meera nestled on Uncle Nilesh’s shoulder.

Only then did I realise my whole body was stiff—lying there so long, my legs were numb.

I rolled over onto my back in the grass too, the Milky Way exploding above me.

The sky was alive with stars, a sight that city people paid thousands to see but one I’d taken for granted all my life.

I’d grown up here—the wildness of the land, the harshness of life.

Even in my dreams, I only dared hope for a wife who wasn’t crippled or simple-minded. I remembered Ma’s words—“Beta, a good woman is worth more than gold”—and wondered if she’d ever imagine such nights on the mountain.

Ma used to pray to Santoshi Maa every Friday, asking for a good match for me, someone strong enough to carry water from the well and wise enough to keep the kitchen running.

And here I’d just witnessed, with my own eyes, how men and women could blend together like that.

I closed my eyes, listening to the insects and the wind, when suddenly I thought of Ritu again.

She hadn’t come back to the village. Was she still in the tent?

I turned to look at Uncle Nilesh. The two were still snuggled together.

Those two turns had shifted me a metre to the side, and now something near the tent came into view.

I crawled a little farther and finally saw clearly:

Ritu was sitting right behind Meera, wrapped in a sleeping bag, just watching Uncle Nilesh and Meera.

The light caught her face—expressionless, eyes fixed, as if she wasn’t really there at all. The chains glinted in the lamplight, but she didn’t move.

My nerves snapped.

I almost gasped aloud, but clamped my hand over my mouth just in time. My heart hammered so loudly I was afraid they would hear.

What kind of three-way relationship was this?

Meera leaned into Uncle Nilesh under the stars, while Ritu just sat quietly watching?

In our village, even talking alone with a man was scandalous. This—this was beyond anything I’d imagined.

I tried to steady my breath, but it felt like my blood was boiling.

Right.

I looked again—Ritu’s sleeping bag wasn’t tightly wrapped.

She was still wearing the same stockings I’d seen during the day, the chain still on her ankle.

Had she always dressed like this?

I thought I understood—it was Uncle Nilesh who made her dress like this.

They were all Uncle Nilesh’s toys. This was what he liked.

The words of the old men echoed in my mind: “Ek ameer aadmi ka kya bharosa? Usko jo chahiye, le lega.”

On nights like this, there were still three women staying at my house.

He liked them young and cute, liked mixed-race models, liked those dripping with gold chains, liked mature, alluring women.

In the flickering light, I saw their faces—Meera’s laughter, Ritu’s emptiness, the others waiting at my house. Each one different, each one chosen.

Uncle Nilesh called for deliveries at Mushroom Point, and I was the delivery man.

The words tasted bitter in my mouth. I was just a link in this strange chain.