Rohan came back on Saturday evening.
Priya was in the kitchen when she heard the front door open and his voice calling out. "I'm home!" He dragged his suitcase inside, dropped it in the hallway, and walked into the kitchen. He looked tired, irritated, his shirt wrinkled, his face drawn. He barely glanced at her.
"Make me some tea," he said, walking past her to the living room. "The traffic was hell."
That was it. No hug. No "I missed you." No looking at her body, noticing how her n*****s pressed against her blouse, how her waist curved under her saree. Nothing.
Vikram was sitting on the sofa when Rohan walked in. Father and son exchanged greetings—brief, manly nods.
Priya turned back to the stove, her hands trembling slightly. She made the tea and served it. She made dinner and serve
