Grandmother, Who, Me?

Grandmother, Who, Me?

Chapter 29: The Itch and the Call

Lakshmi’s POV (Satish)

I sneezed hard outside the back door, the dust from the courtyard rising into my face. The yellow cotton saree shifted with the sudden movement, the pallu slipping off my shoulder the way it always did when I wasn’t careful. I pulled it back into place out of pure habit and stepped inside.

The moment the door closed behind me the familiar itch started between my legs.

Damn this panty.

The simple cotton one I had put on that morning was already damp from the constant low heat of the village afternoon and from the residual slickness that never fully left me anymore. The fabric rubbed against the soft outer lips with every step, catching slightly on the thick pubic hair Jessica had given me. I walked straight to the small washing area, muttering under my breath.

In the plastic basin my worn clothes from yesterday waited. I reached in without thinking and lifted the used panty. The soft, intimate scent rose immediately, my own skin, faint musk, the trace of rose talc, and underneath it the unmistakable smell of a body that had been taken the night before. I stood there holding it for a few seconds longer than necessary, the same way Rajan sometimes did when he thought I wasn’t looking.

Then the question that had been circling for weeks returned, heavier than before.

How did it come to this?

What started as one silly night in an old housecoat to make my pregnant wife laugh had become this: a married woman living in a quiet village house, wearing a thali that never came off, cooking for a man who used to beg, spreading her legs for him every single night so the machine inside her would stay quiet for another day. One full month had passed since Shreya packed our bags and sent us away in that cab. Thirty days of anklets, of toe rings that still cut, of neighbours calling me “Lakshmi Amma” with easy familiarity. Thirty days of serving food first to my “husband,” of sitting on the veranda making small talk about monsoon and grandchildren that did not exist yet, of feeling the heavy breasts pull and the wide hips sway with every movement.

Shreya still called sometimes. Her voice on the phone was bright and slightly formal, the way a typical daughter-in-law speaks to her mother-in-law.

“Attai, did you eat properly today? Don’t stand too long in the kitchen. The baby is fine. I’ll visit when I can.”

She never asked if I wanted to come back. She never mentioned Jessica or reversal. She spoke as if this village life was simply the next natural chapter.

I was still a woman in every angle the world could see. The body did not care what I remembered. The voice did not care. The documents did not care. I kept looking for ideas, some gap in the paperwork, some way to reach Jessica, some moment of weakness in Shreya, but nothing solid appeared. The clear twenty-four-hour windows I bought each night were spent thinking in circles that always ended at the same wall.

Night came again, the same as the thirty nights before it.

Rajan was already on the cot when I finished washing the vessels. I stood at the edge of the bed in my nighty, the thali resting against my bare chest, and felt the familiar, resigned tightness in my stomach. Because it had become daily, the act itself had started to need small variations just to keep the override working properly. Different positions. Longer. Deeper. Sometimes I had to guide him, tell him where to finish, how long to stay inside. The clinical necessity made it worse somehow.

I climbed onto the cot, turned onto my hands and knees the way the manual preferred, and closed my eyes.

He took me slowly at first, then harder. The wooden frame creaked. My heavy breasts swung with every thrust. The anklets chimed weakly. When he finally emptied himself deep enough to satisfy the system, I stayed in that position for the required forty seconds, forehead pressed to the pillow, counting silently until the last of the heat drained out of the circuitry.

Afterwards we slept the same way we always did, his arm heavy across my waist, my back against his chest, the smell of sex and sweat settling over both of us.

I was half-asleep when the phone on the low wooden shelf began to ring.

Shreya’s voice came through clear and almost cheerful.

“MIL… come back tomorrow. I have a surprise for you.”

The line went dead.

Outside, a dog barked once. Inside the dark room, Rajan’s breathing stayed deep and even against my neck. I lay still, the thali warm between my breasts, and felt the first cold trickle of dread mix with the faintest, most dangerous spark of hope.

Tomorrow.

A surprise.