It was a Tuesday afternoon in November. Rahul was working from home due to a server migration issue at the office.
At 2:00 PM, Priya walked into the living room holding a cloth shopping bag.
"I am going to the Big Bazaar," she said. "We are out of rice and detergent."
Rahul looked up from his laptop. "Okay. How long will you be?"
"About two hours. The billing queue is always long on Tuesdays," she replied.
After the front door clicked shut, Rahul went back to work. Thirty minutes later, his pen ran out of ink. He needed to write down a server IP address quickly. He walked into their bedroom and opened the small drawer on Priya's side of the bedside table, where she usually kept loose stationery.
He moved aside a hairbrush and a packet of bindis. Underneath lay a small, red notebook. He recognized it; she had bought it at a local stationery shop a month ago.
He paused. His hand hovered over it.
It's her private diary, he thought. I shouldn't open it. It's an invasion of privacy. What if she's written about how much she dislikes me?
He stood there for five minutes, staring at the red cover. The silence in the apartment amplified his curiosity. He justified it to himself. Just a quick glance. Just to see if she's happy.
He picked it up, sat on the edge of the bed, and opened it to the middle.
The handwriting was neat, blue ink on lined paper. He read the entry dated two days ago:
Sunday.
I am so bored I could scream. His parents called today. Again. Asking when we are having a child. I smiled and lied. I hate this mangalsutra. I hate pretending to be a demure bahu.
I want control. I don't want to be the one waiting at home. When we have sex, it's pathetic. He just finishes and sleeps. He doesn't know that I close my eyes and imagine I have him tied up. I want to be the one on top. I want to order him around.
Last night at the restaurant, that young waiter was staring at me. He was attractive. Bold. Rahul didn't even notice; he was too busy looking at his phone. If I had the courage, if I had the power I want, I wouldn't just complain. I would make Rahul go to that waiter. I would make Rahul invite him here. I want to sit on the bed with another man, having a romantic evening, and I want Rahul to sit in the corner of the room on the floor. I want him to watch. I want him to know he is beneath me.
Rahul stopped breathing for a second. He read the paragraph again. And then a third time.
His hands began to shake slightly. It wasn't anger. A massive, overwhelming wave of relief and arousal washed over him.
She wants to control me, he thought, his heart hammering in his chest. She wants to cuckold me. She is dominant.
He closed the diary carefully and put it exactly back where he found it, replacing the hairbrush and the bindis on top. He walked back to his laptop, but he couldn't type. He stared at the screen. The heavy burden he had carried for years felt like it was cracking open. He didn't have to hide anymore. The strict, demanding woman he had fantasized about was living in his house.
He checked his watch. 3:15 PM. He waited.
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