The Hidden Chapters - 14

 

After Manoj left, silence settled between us like a curtain falling after a dramatic play. Sindhu picked up her cup of tea and took a slow sip, watching me with that familiar glint in her eyes—the one that always meant trouble. “The tea’s stronger today,” she said casually, but her smile was anything but. “Bit like you. You’re glowing, Bala. Something you want to share?”

I don’t know how to respond to Sindhu’s point and then Sindhu took my hand and led me to bedroom and she made me sit on bed and told me I can see change in your saree folding’s, no safety pins and there is change of bedsheet as well.

I tried to play dumb. “I was doing housework.”

Sindhu walked past me, then suddenly stopped mid-step, tilted her head, and slowly turned around with a raised eyebrow. Uh-oh. That look could mean only one thing—she had noticed something.

“Bala…” she said, drawing out my name like a teacher catching a student mid-mischief, “come here for a second.”

I gulped and took a cautious step toward her. “What’s up?”.

She leaned in slightly and inspected the pleats of my saree. “Tell me honestly—did you get into a wrestling match with your saree today? And I can also see change in the way you are walking, probably you might have stretched legs and she started laughing.

I blinked. “What?”

“These pleats,” she said, pointing at my waist, “they’re all over the place! There are extra folds here, some crooked ones there… and wait—are you telling me you used no safety pins?”

She began checking, almost playfully lifting the edge of the pallu. “Not even one pin, Bala. Not even the emergency one hidden in the petticoat knot. This saree has survived a storm, hasn’t it?”

Hmm. That’s not all. Is that a love bite on your neck? Wait… are there two more?”

I turned away instinctively, but it was too late.

“Well, well,” she teased, grinning ear to ear. “Someone had quite an afternoon.”

“They’re just… maybe mosquito bites,” I mumbled. Sindhu raised a brow and crossed her arms. “Sure. And maybe your blouse hook came undone because of aggressive mosquito attacks too?”

I looked at her, stunned. “How do you—?”

Sindhu pointed behind me. “Loose hook”. Looks like Manoj totally eaten you in my absence.

“Listen, Bala,” she said, her voice softening as she gently adjusted my pallu over my shoulder, “I tease because I love you !

She moved closer, reaching out to lightly touch the edge of my pallu. “You have become graceful, even when it’s uneven.”

Her fingers grazing the pleats and touching me across. She went to say as you have done something without my approval, you deserve punishment.

She studied me—eyes tracing from the half-tucked pallu to the messy pleats bunching around my waist, to the way I clutched the fabric a little too tightly. Then she reached out, almost lazily, and tugged on the edge of the saree.

“Do you even know how to wear this properly without me?” she asked, voice low. Not mocking. Just… dangerous.

“No,” I whispered. “I don’t.”

Her smile was slow, deliberate. She moved behind me now, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off her skin.

“Good,” she said. “Then let me remind you.”

Sindhu didn’t need to speak loudly or make a scene—she never did. Her power was in the way she looked, the deliberate pauses in her words, the way she used silence like a scalpel. And right now, as I  stood awkwardly in the room, my saree pleats halfway to disaster, Sindhu wielded her silence with devastating skill.

“I mean,” Sindhu said softly, circling me like a lioness stalking prey, “how daring do you have to be  like this?

I flushed a deep shade of red.

“I—I was in a hurry—”

“Shh,” Sindhu interrupted. “Let’s not embarrass yourself more with excuses. You didn’t ask me for help. You didn’t check the mirror. You didn’t even use pins. You… rebelled.”

She said the last word like it tasted strange in her mouth. She made stand in the middle of the room and gave me a feminine pose to stand for 10 mins.

In the mean time, Sindhu went to washroom and changed back to short and T-shirt in which she is more comfortable.

 

 After coming back from washroom Sindhu took her time now—rearranging my pleats properly, but with sharp little tugs that weren’t entirely gentle. She fixed my blouse hook and then reached behind me to tighten her petticoat string—not too hard, but enough to make me gasp.

“Loose knots, crooked folds, and not a pin in sight,” Sindhu murmured into ear, fingers brushing over the waist.

I felt bit humiliated. “You’ve forgotten your place, haven’t you?”

“I… maybe,” just whispered. “Let’s fix that.”. 

Without waiting, Sindhu sat down on the edge of the bed and gestured sharply. "Tuck your pleats again—and bring the pallu to your waist."

Awkwardly, I obeyed. The petticoat was now clearly visible, and the pallu fell in a careless angle across my chest, forming what looked like a percentage sign. It exposed more than I was comfortable with.

“Leave it like that,” Sindhu instructed, her eyes steady. “Let it explore you.”

Then, with a wave toward the cluttered cupboard, she said, "Now take out everything. Every single piece."

I hesitated, then began removing the clothes, one item at a time. The cupboard was a mess, a chaotic pile of sarees, blouses, and petticoats. Sindhu’s voice cut in sharply.

"Not like that! Pull everything out and dump it on the bed."

I obeyed. A growing pile of fabrics formed before us.

"Fold each item properly. Start with the petticoats."

There were so many dozens in varied colors and fabrics. I reached for the first petticoat., the fabric soft in my hands, almost instinctively hugging it to my chest. It felt comforting.

But Sindhu gave me no pause. “Don’t pause. Fold it like I showed you.”

I obeyed.  I began again, struggling to align the seams and edges just right. My fingers fumbled with the unfamiliar task, but under Sindhu’s watchful gaze, I had no choice but to learn. One petticoat. Then another. Then another. With each one, I felt myself shrinking—not in shame, but in submission. And somewhere, beneath it all, a strange calm settled in the space between her silence and my effort.

The folded petticoats slowly began to form a neat stack beside the cupboard. My arms ached from the unfamiliar motion, but I didn’t dare stop.

Sloppy,” she said. Her voice with unmistakable disapproval. “Pick that one up again

I looked down. The fourth petticoat I had folded—it was a little uneven.

She stood now, moving closer. “Hold it out.”

I did. She took it from me, unfolded it completely, and let it fall to the floor with quiet disdain.

“Again. This time, with respect.”

As I bent to pick up the fabric, I felt her hand trace lightly down the bare curve of my back—slow, unhurried, and entirely possessive. I froze. My breath hitched.

“You feel that?” she whispered near my neck. “That’s what discipline looks like. Clean folds. Straight lines. Not this… mess.”

She stepped away again. I continued folding. The pallu still hung off my chest, more suggestion than garment, and my blouse had begun to shift from the constant motion. The string of my petticoat had loosened slightly—but I didn’t dare reach back to adjust it.

Sindhu noticed. Of course she did.

“Fix your pallu.”

I reached instinctively to drape it back over my shoulder.

“No,” she said. “Not to cover. Tighten it. Let it frame you—don’t hide behind it.”

I did as told, pulling the pallu closer, wrapping it tightly across my chest. It only seemed to emphasize the shape beneath it.

She watched with an unreadable expression, then said, “Take out all the sarees now. Lay them flat. No crumples.”

I turned to the shelf again and began pulling down the sarees. Silk, chiffon, cotton—all in a riot of colors. I spread them out on the bed, one by one, smoothing them with my palms. The motion itself began to feel ritualistic—like I was offering something up.

Sindhu circled behind me, her footsteps soft on the floor. Suddenly, her hand was at my waist again—this time firmer. She tugged the petticoat string once more, tighter than before. A small gasp escaped me.

“That’s better,” she murmured. “I want to see effort. Not laziness dressed up in fear.”

My pulse hammered in my throat. Her proximity was maddening—the sharp edges of her tone, the deliberate brush of her fingers, the way she kept control not by yelling but by making me want to obey.

As I bent over the bed, straightening a deep maroon silk saree, she leaned in.

“Now you’re starting to understand and follow,” she said.

I swallowed hard. “Yes, Sindhu.”

A smile curved her lips. “Good girl.”

The maroon silk slid through my hands like water, each fold sharper than the last. The first few sarees had tested me—my patience, my coordination, my pride. But now something had clicked. The movements had become muscle memory. A crease here, a turn there. I started to find rhythm in the repetition, calm in the control.

I didn’t know whether I was doing it well—or simply well enough for her.