At 10:30 AM, I conducted a full pantry inventory. A family of seven consumed a massive amount of food. I drafted a meticulous grocery list. Before leaving, I had to approach Maji (my MIL), who was lounging in the sunroom, filing her nails.
"Maji," I said softly, eyes lowered to her manicured toes. "I need the grocery allowance for the week."
She looked up, inspecting my attire. "Make sure the tomatoes are firm this time, Damad. Last week they were too soft. Here is four thousand rupees. Bring me the change and the receipts." She handed me the cash. I tucked it into my designer clutch.
Walking through the bustling local vegetable market in full bridal-level makeup, a low-cut blouse exposing my enormous 38DD breasts, heavy jewelry, and 6-inch stilettos was an exercise in public humiliation that I had grown to secretly crave. The vendors stared. Men whispered. Women gave me side-eyes. My masculine face, painted so fiercely feminine, confused and captivated them. I ignored them all, keeping my eyes demurely lowered as I haggled for bhindi (okra), fresh paneer, and mangoes. The heavy cloth bags dug into my wrists, pressing my stacked bangles into my skin, but I maintained my elegant, swaying walk back to the waiting car.
I returned home by noon, only to find the living room occupied. Babuji (FIL) had invited three of his retired friends over unannounced.
"Ah, there is my Damad," Babuji boomed as I entered, laden with bags, sweating slightly under my heavy makeup. "Rahul, we need fresh samosas and adrak chai immediately."
"Ji, Babuji," I whispered. I rushed to the kitchen, abandoning the groceries on the counter. My feet throbbed in the stilettos, but I couldn't stop. I quickly prepared the potato filling, folded the pastries, and deep-fried them to a golden crisp.
I carried the heavy silver tray into the living room. Babuji's friends openly stared at my chest and my bright red lips as I bent over deeply to serve them, ensuring I kept my eyes firmly on the Persian rug. The humiliation of being a former CEO serving snacks to retired men while dressed as a heavily heavily augmented woman was intoxicating.
"Your wife has trained him well, Prakash," one of the men chuckled.
"Indeed," Babuji replied proudly. "He makes a wonderful housewife."
After they were served, I retreated to the kitchen to begin the massive task of cooking a full Indian lunch: Bhindi Masala, Dal Tadka, perfectly round rotis, and jeera rice. While the dal simmered, I finally took my one meal of the day. From the refrigerator, I pulled out the Tupperware containing Ananya's leftover dinner from the night before—a bit of cold chicken and half a roti. I stood by the kitchen island, eating it silently in my heels, savoring the taste because it belonged to her.
Discussion (2)
Great story, if you could add how and why he accepted this role it will be great
Thank you. I am kind of against the idea on how and why my characters accept their role. I feel its good if users imagine themselves why it happened, we all have our own background stories, i want everyone to feel they are part of the story where they are living their best life, and they can imaging their own background on how they reached there. But if people think they want me to add background of these characters I will add it. Let me know. Thank you again for your comment, really appreciate it.