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Authors: Amulya Malladi
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if he took her right here, on the conference table?
Shobha clenched her thighs together under her sleek black skirt and smiled politely. “It has been a long week,” she said.
“You work too hard,” Vladimir said, stretching out. His jean-clad legs were long, and his polo shirt fit across his chest nicely. He was off the cover of one of those novels you walked past in the supermarket paperback book aisle.
Shobha sighed. God, she had sex on her mind. What would people think if they knew that prim and proper Shobha Veturi was lusting after an ex-Soviet macho man while her sister's wrists were still bloody?
“Maybe we can go to Le Papillon for lunch?” Vladimir said, looking at his watch. “Maybe you can have a glass of wine? Relax a little?”
Shobha was tempted. A cozy French restaurant, an interested Ukrainian, things could be worse. But she was no fool. Vladimir worked for her. Wine at lunch would be fine on an occasional Friday afternoon, but Vladimir was suggesting more. Maybe a brief wine-inspired interlude on the way back from the restaurant? Oh, but that was tempting.
“I can't. I have to leave early today
and
there is so much to do. I'll just pick up a sandwich from the cafeteria. But rain check, okay?” she said with a smile and left the conference room and the object of her lascivious thoughts behind.
This spurt of lust was new. It was a fresh feeling and something she dwelled on for considerably long periods of time. She never felt this way about Girish. Maybe a long time ago, in the beginning of their marriage, there was curiosity, the need to discover what lay behind the man in the suit, the stern glasses and the professorial face. Now the curiosity was satisfied and she was disappointed. She was thirty-two years old, stuck in a marriage to a boring professor, and bogged down by a strict moral code she forced upon herself. She was frustrated and dissatisfied with her life, her marriage, and her husband.
Oh, she could have an extramarital affair or two, what would Girish know and frankly speaking, Shobha didn't think he'd even care. Their relationship was now beyond repair. There had been hope, but after her uterine surgery, things, as they say, went to pot. Now there was nothing left to salvage. If they were not Indian, they would've gotten a divorce, but they were Indian and they were brainwashed. Shobha didn't believe in divorce or in extramarital affairs.
She didn't want to be like her grandmother. Vasu was a wonderful, kind, loving person, but Shobha knew that in Vasu's family and social circles she was looked down upon for being a divorcee and the kind of woman who had an affair with a married man. Granted, the married man she had an affair with couldn't leave his wife because of societal pressure. Granted that the “affair” had been going on for more than thirty years before he passed away. But the stigma, the bad reputation, no, Shobha thought, as she violently shook her head to remove Vladimir's image from her mind's eye, that just wouldn't do.
She was a respectable woman. Everyone knew that Shobha Veturi could do no wrong. She was an example of the perfect Indian woman living in the United States. She'd heard how other mothers talked about her.
“That Shobha Veturi, smart girl,
nahi.
Had an arranged marriage, but still kept her last name.
Pukka
mix of East and West. And she's doing so well in her career. Making her parents proud.”
And when one sister was praised, the other was disgraced.
“Oh and that Devi, no
sharam
that girl has, no shame. Did you hear? Kissing some
kallu,
some black man, in front of Pasand,
cheechee.
Poor Avi and Saroj, how embarrassing for them,
nahi.
Why can't she be more like her older sister?”
Shobha was not going to topple her image of perfection because she wanted to spend a sweaty afternoon with an accented Ukrainian.
Temptation remained, though, like the aftertaste of a good wine.
She knew jealousy prompted her to ridicule Devi's lifestyle. Devi
Shobha clenched her thighs together under her sleek black skirt and smiled politely. “It has been a long week,” she said.
“You work too hard,” Vladimir said, stretching out. His jean-clad legs were long, and his polo shirt fit across his chest nicely. He was off the cover of one of those novels you walked past in the supermarket paperback book aisle.
Shobha sighed. God, she had sex on her mind. What would people think if they knew that prim and proper Shobha Veturi was lusting after an ex-Soviet macho man while her sister's wrists were still bloody?
“Maybe we can go to Le Papillon for lunch?” Vladimir said, looking at his watch. “Maybe you can have a glass of wine? Relax a little?”
Shobha was tempted. A cozy French restaurant, an interested Ukrainian, things could be worse. But she was no fool. Vladimir worked for her. Wine at lunch would be fine on an occasional Friday afternoon, but Vladimir was suggesting more. Maybe a brief wine-inspired interlude on the way back from the restaurant? Oh, but that was tempting.
“I can't. I have to leave early today
and
there is so much to do. I'll just pick up a sandwich from the cafeteria. But rain check, okay?” she said with a smile and left the conference room and the object of her lascivious thoughts behind.
This spurt of lust was new. It was a fresh feeling and something she dwelled on for considerably long periods of time. She never felt this way about Girish. Maybe a long time ago, in the beginning of their marriage, there was curiosity, the need to discover what lay behind the man in the suit, the stern glasses and the professorial face. Now the curiosity was satisfied and she was disappointed. She was thirty-two years old, stuck in a marriage to a boring professor, and bogged down by a strict moral code she forced upon herself. She was frustrated and dissatisfied with her life, her marriage, and her husband.
Oh, she could have an extramarital affair or two, what would Girish know and frankly speaking, Shobha didn't think he'd even care. Their relationship was now beyond repair. There had been hope, but after her uterine surgery, things, as they say, went to pot. Now there was nothing left to salvage. If they were not Indian, they would've gotten a divorce, but they were Indian and they were brainwashed. Shobha didn't believe in divorce or in extramarital affairs.
She didn't want to be like her grandmother. Vasu was a wonderful, kind, loving person, but Shobha knew that in Vasu's family and social circles she was looked down upon for being a divorcee and the kind of woman who had an affair with a married man. Granted, the married man she had an affair with couldn't leave his wife because of societal pressure. Granted that the “affair” had been going on for more than thirty years before he passed away. But the stigma, the bad reputation, no, Shobha thought, as she violently shook her head to remove Vladimir's image from her mind's eye, that just wouldn't do.
She was a respectable woman. Everyone knew that Shobha Veturi could do no wrong. She was an example of the perfect Indian woman living in the United States. She'd heard how other mothers talked about her.
“That Shobha Veturi, smart girl,
nahi.
Had an arranged marriage, but still kept her last name.
Pukka
mix of East and West. And she's doing so well in her career. Making her parents proud.”
And when one sister was praised, the other was disgraced.
“Oh and that Devi, no
sharam
that girl has, no shame. Did you hear? Kissing some
kallu,
some black man, in front of Pasand,
cheechee.
Poor Avi and Saroj, how embarrassing for them,
nahi.
Why can't she be more like her older sister?”
Shobha was not going to topple her image of perfection because she wanted to spend a sweaty afternoon with an accented Ukrainian.
Temptation remained, though, like the aftertaste of a good wine.
She knew jealousy prompted her to ridicule Devi's lifestyle. Devi
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