The moving truck groaned to a halt on the dusty street between the main wings of Gokuldham Society. Suyash watched from his seventh-floor balcony. A glass of iced tea, pulled from a YouTube ad for a luxury resort, sweated in his hand.
Vibhuti Narayan Mishra. Anita Mishra. The bickering, scheming, strangely endearing couple from Bhabiji Ghar Par Hain.
But memory was a pale shadow compared to reality.
The woman who stepped out of the battered Ambassador car was not the attractive, confident Anita he remembered from the show. She was devastation in human form.
Her crimson sari seemed to drink the afternoon sunlight and throw it back as something darker and hungrier. It was tied with an intentional precision bordering on provocation. The pallu draped over one shoulder, and the blouse beneath was a dare. Backless. Plunging. It was held together by a single string at the nape of her neck and what seemed like pure willpower at her waist.
The sari sat so low on her hips that Suyash could see the gentle swell of her lower belly, the taut curve of her waist, and the shadowed indentation where her hip met her thigh. With every step she took, the fabric shifted, threatening—and promising—to reveal more.
Anita Mishra looked up.
Not at the building. Not at the society's curious onlookers. At him.
Her eyes found his balcony with the unerring instinct of a predator scenting prey. They were dark, kohl-rimmed, and impossibly direct. She held his gaze for three heartbeats—one, two, three—and then her painted lips curved into the slowest, most deliberate smile Suyash had ever seen.
It was not a friendly smile.
It was an appraisal. A challenge. A promise wrapped in a warning.
Then, as if the moment had never happened, she turned away and began directing the movers with sharp, efficient gestures. The spell broke. Suyash exhaled.
So that's Anita Mishra.
His fingers tingled again. He clenched them into fists.
The evening brought the expected welcome committee. Despite its flaws, Gokuldham Society took neighborly obligations seriously. As secretary, Bhide had organized a small gathering in the courtyard to welcome the residents of the newly renovated wing next door. Chairs had been arranged. Komal, whose low-cut blouse drew nearly as much attention as the snacks, grumbled as she distributed tea and pakoras.
Vibhuti Narayan Mishra stood at the center of it all, basking in the attention like a sunflower tracking a flattering light source.
"Then the director said, 'Vibhuti, this role was written for you!' But, of course, I had to decline. The character lacked gravitas." He adjusted his gaudy gold chain and puffed out his chest. "I am an artist, not a performing monkey."
Taarak Mehta nodded with exaggerated seriousness. Jethalal, standing nearby, seemed far more interested in the pakoras and Anita than in the conversation. Popatlal eyed Anita with a mixture of awe and profound tragedy, lamenting once again that all the beautiful women in the world were already married.
And Anita...
Suyash kept his distance, leaning against a pillar near the compound gate. He was dressed simply in a white linen shirt and dark trousers, deliberately understated. In this world of heightened sensuality, restraint was its own statement.
Anita had changed into a different sari for the evening. This one was midnight blue, shot through with silver thread that caught the fading light. The blouse was still backless. The sari was still tied low. The effect was no less devastating.
She moved through the crowd with practiced ease, accepting compliments and deflecting questions. Her laughter was a rich, throaty sound that made every man within earshot straighten up unconsciously. But her eyes kept drifting.
To him.
Suyash felt each glance as if it were a physical touch. The power hummed beneath his skin, responding to the spike in his pulse and the heat pooling in his lower belly. He breathed slowly and deliberately; the meditation techniques he had practiced had become second nature.
"She's testing you. Everyone in this world tests you. That's the nature of this reality."
"Quite a woman, isn't she?"
Babita's voice came from his left. She had materialized beside him with the silent grace of someone accustomed to moving unseen—or appearing exactly when she wanted.
Suyash didn't startle. "She certainly knows how to make an entrance."
Babita's smile was knowing and a little sharp. She wore a pale pink sari tonight, more modest than her usual attire, but the fabric was so sheer that it might as well have been painted on. The outline of her figure was clearly visible through the thin material.
"I saw her looking at you." Her hand found his arm, her fingers tracing a lazy pattern. "The way a woman looks at a meal she intends to devour."
"Jealous?"
"Curious." She leaned closer, her warmth pressing against his bicep. "You collect women like some men collect watches, Suyash. I'm simply wondering if you have room on your wrist for another."
Before he could respond, Anita's voice cut through the evening air.
"And who is this mysterious man hiding in the shadows?"
She had crossed the compound without either of them noticing. Up close, she was even more striking. Her skin had the warm glow of someone who understood lighting and angles—the actor's wife who was deeply comfortable in her own beauty. Her lips were painted a rich wine color. Now that he could see her eyes properly, he noticed they were a deep brown with flecks of gold.
She was looking at him as if he were the only interesting thing in the entire society.
Babita's hand tightened on his arm, then released. "Anita, this is Suyash. Our newest resident. Suyash, this is Anita Mishra. She and her husband just moved into the new wing."
"Husband." Anita repeated the word with a slight twist of her lips. "Yes, Vibhuti is over there, telling anyone who will listen about his 'illustrious' career." She extended her hand. "A pleasure, Suyash."
Her grip was firm and her skin was warm. She held on a beat longer than necessary.
"Likewise." He kept his voice neutral and pleasant. "Welcome to Gokuldham."
"Thank you." Her eyes swept shamelessly over his face, shoulders, chest, and lower body. "I have a feeling I'm going to love it here."
Babita cleared her throat delicately. "I should check on the tea. Jethalal tends to hoard the good cups."
She drifted away, but not before shooting Suyash a look that clearly said, 'We'll discuss this later.'
Anita watched her go, then turned back to Suyash with a raised eyebrow. "Pretty little thing, Yours?"
"A neighbor."
"Mm." She stepped closer, close enough that he could smell her perfume—something spicy, exotic, and utterly intoxicating. "In this society, I suspect that word carries a great deal of flexibility."
Suyash said nothing. He had learned that silence was often the most powerful response.
Anita's smile widened. "I like you already. Most men either stammer or leer. You simply observe." She tilted her head and studied him. "What do you observe about me, Suyash?"
Dangerous question. Dangerous woman.
"That you're accustomed to being the center of attention. You find your husband's delusions of grandeur amusing rather than irritating. And that you're already calculating how to navigate this new social landscape to your advantage."
Her eyes flickered with genuine surprise, then delight. "And?"
"And that you're standing very close to a man you just met, in full view of your husband and a dozen gossiping neighbors, because you want to see how I'll react."
Anita laughed—a full, rich sound that drew several glances. Vibhuti, who was in the middle of telling an anecdote about a "crucial" role in a butter commercial, looked over with a frown.
"You are interesting." She took a step back, but her gaze remained locked with his. "We should get to know each other better, Suyash. I have a feeling you're exactly what this boring little society has been missing."
She turned and walked back toward her husband, her hips swaying with a deliberate, mesmerizing rhythm. Her backless blouse revealed the elegant line of her spine and the subtle play of muscle beneath her smooth skin. The saree clung to the generous curve of her backside.
Suyash's fingers tingled so intensely that they went numb.
He looked down. His hand was halfway through his phone screen, the tips of his fingers disappearing into a shopping app he hadn't opened on purpose. On the display, an ad for a luxury watch was frozen mid-animation.
Damn.
He pulled his hand back and flexed his fingers until the sensation returned. The power was getting harder to control. Each new woman, each surge of desire, and each moment of temptation thinned and made the barrier between him and the digital world more permeable.
He needed to be more careful.
But when Anita Mishra glanced back over her shoulder and met his eyes one final time—a look that promised nothing and suggested everything—Suyash wondered if being careful was even possible in this world.
Later that night, alone in his apartment, Suyash sat in the dark.
The television was off. His phone lay face down on the coffee table. He hadn't pulled anything from any screen for hours, letting the power settle and his control reassert itself.
But his mind kept returning to crimson sarees, backless blouses, and kohl-rimmed eyes.
His fingers tingled.
He closed his eyes and began to meditate.
"Control. Discipline. The power feeds on desire. Master the desire; master the power."
It was going to be a very long night.