Durai’s Forbidden Cravings

As the doorbell rang, Subhadra hurried to the front door. The moment she unlatched it, Raja Durai stood on their doorstep, his face brightening instantly with a predatory eagerness. He had arrived unannounced, his mind convinced that Krishna would be away, leaving Subhadra deliciously alone. His first visit to their new home was a calculated gamble, fuelled by a single, illicit hope.

“Durai Ayya,” Subhadra greeted, her voice warm, though a faint ripple of unease stirred within her at his unexpected appearance. “Ahh.! Please come in.” As she stepped aside to allow him entry, Krishna emerged from the kitchen, pulling his shirt on. Durai’s face instantly fell, his eager smile replaced by a flicker of keen disappointment. His heart sank, his plans for a private encounter dashed.

“Ah, Krishna!” Durai boomed, stretching his smile wider, trying hard not to let his eyes linger too long on Subhadra. “I was just in the city for some temple business, and thought I’d drop by to invite you both early.”

He paused, his gaze subtly sweeping over Subhadra, her standing figure, caught in side view, was a wicked feast.  The blouse was stuffed full with heavy and obscene swell of her melon boobie, its side-flesh bulging like it might burst through the silk at any moment. Just beneath, the side view of her belly protruded in a soft, doughy mound, the saree pleats tugged low around her pudgy waist so that the creamy bulge of soft flesh oozed over the waistline shamelessly, making the pleats look like they were being swallowed by her flesh.

Krishna too greeted him, “Welcome, Ayya! Please make yourself comfortable.” As he sat on the sofa, Subhadra offered Durai a gentle smile and turned gracefully toward the kitchen. Durai’s eyes followed, drawn like a magnet. The heavy sway of her pumpkin buttocks under the tight drape of the saree made his breath hitch. Each step sent those fleshy mounds bouncing in a slow, obscene rhythm, the saree clinging and sliding over their juicy curves as if mocking his thirst. The raunchy jiggle of her ass and swishing with every sway, left Durai’s mouth dry.

“As I was saying, Krishna…” Durai continued, forcing a jovial tone, “it’s our temple’s hundredth anniversary, so it will be a grand 21-day celebration! You both must come, from the very beginning. We’re planning special events, pujas, and even a new chariot procession. It will be quite the spectacle, full of ancient traditions and vibrant community spirit.” He detailed the elaborate plans for the festival, trying to sound genuinely enthusiastic.

Krishna nodded. “That’s wonderful news, Ayya. We wouldn’t miss it for anything.” Durai offered a smile but barely registered the words.  He wasn’t just waiting for coffee. He was waiting for that moment, the one he had imagined since the second he arrived. He knew how it usually happened. As Subhadra bent forward to place the tray, her saree would inevitably slip away from her tummy, and then her creamy belly and her deep round navel would come into view, that he had caught only fleeting glimpses of before.

Subhadra carried the coffee tray in both hands, her walk unhurried, hips swaying with an effortless grace. Durai’s eyes locked onto her like a man starving. She approached and bent just a little enough to serve him the cup, enough to bring her closer. His eyes dropped, expecting the saree to shift like it always did, to slip off that plump tummy and reveal what he craved.

But what actually happened was, Subhadra didn’t bend much instead, she leaned forward only slightly, just enough to hand him the cup. She placed her left hand casually over the pallu across her belly, holding it in place. As it was effortless, but it drove him mad. Her fingers pressed into the soft curve of her own waist as she shielded herself, and somehow, even the act of covering became unbearably sexy. The pallu placed snug against her stomach, outlining the plump shape he wanted to see, teasing the softness he couldn’t see.

As she handed him the cup with her right hand, Durai took the cup slowly, his fingers brushing hers for just a second longer than needed. But the moment he truly wanted had already slipped away. Subhadra then sat onto the sofa beside Krishna, she smiled faintly, listening as the two men spoke, but the sheer closeness of her presence was a torment for Durai. The act of sitting pushed her belly outward in a soft, creamy bulge, the plump flesh spilling gently over her waistline. The saree hugged her tummy, shaping her plump belly into soft folds that deepened as she breathed. With every rise and fall of her breath, those folds shifted, teasing like waves of butter that melted and re-formed before his hungry eyes.

Durai could hardly bear it. That rich, cream-colored skin looked soft enough to sink his teeth into, to press his lips against until he drowned in its warmth. And then his eyes caught the faintest shadow where the pallu dipped against her navel. Hidden within the folds of her sexy belly, it appeared as a shy, horizontal slit, almost like a secret smile meant only for him. The sight stabbed through him with a memory of Usha’s horizontally elongated navel but Subhadra’s was different, deeper, riper, waiting to be revealed. His chest ached with the wild urge to peel away her pallu and bury his face in that buttery mound, to lose himself in the sweetness of her folds and the dark depth of her thoppul.

Krishna’s talk of rituals barely reached him. His head swam only with visions of Subhadra gasping, her belly trembling as he feasted. And then, like a cruel interruption, the skies roared. Thunder cracked, and rain slammed against the windows.

“Oh, no!” Subhadra exclaimed from the living room. “My laundry! Krishna’s t-shirts and towels are out on the line!”

“Go, Subha!” Krishna urged. “I’ll go check the upstairs room, my new shop plans are near the window, and they might get wet.” Krishna took his time, making sure his papers and plans were safe, giving Durai more time to observe Subhadra.

The rain was coming down in sheets, and Subhadra flung open the door and rushed out into the downpour. The instant the rain hit her she drenched in seconds, the saree hugged her plump fleshy curves, revealing every lush contour.

As she reached the clothesline, she twisted and bent, straining to unclip a heavy, wet t-shirt billowing in the wind. In that desperate, acrobatic reach, the waist line of the saree slipped further down, revealing a breathtakingly expanse of her creamy lower belly. Durai’s eyes, fixed on her from the doorway, her deep round huge navel, a shadowed vortex, was now perfectly exposed, framed by the subtle swell of her pudgy fat. Rainwater made it glisten, turning unbearably sexy. It was a raw, electrifying vision that stole his breath.

Subhadra rushed back to the porch, soaked and breathless, laughing at her own state. “Oh my, look at me!” she exclaimed smilingly. As she entered the living room, stepping onto the carpet, the heavy, water-laden saree, now plastered to her voluptuous form, created a sensual drama. Each step was a subtle sway, making the wet fabric cling even more tightly.

She chuckled breathlessly, droplets flying as she shook her head. “I’m absolutely drenched!” she pouted, wringing water from her hair. Unaware of Durai’s presence, she turned slightly. As she did, the drenched pallu clung to her creamy belly as if it would never leave, peeled away in a teasing sway. For a heart-stopping moment, directly at Durai’s eye-level, her entire plush, glistening belly was revealed. And there, at its mesmerizing center, her deep, rain-kissed navel gleamed sexily.

Durai stood utterly transfixed, his jaw slack, a raw, animalistic gasp catching in his throat. He barely registered her light hearted comment about being drenched. He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly bone-dry.

As Subhadra continued to wring out her hair, completely oblivious to his lust-filled gaze, she turned and headed towards the bedroom to change into dry clothes. As she walked away, Durai’s eyes involuntarily dropped, tracing the movement of her plump ass rising and bouncing with every hurried step. A dark, primal urge pulsed to follow her, to seize this opportunity. But just then, Krishna’s footsteps echoed on the stairs as he descended, his presence a cold, jarring splash on Durai’s burning lust.

“Ah, the rain stopped just in time,” Krishna said cheerfully, entering the living room. “The papers are safe. Did you manage to get the clothes?” Subhadra, now safely in the bedroom, called out, “Yes, most of them!” Krishna turned to Durai. “So, Ayya, about this 21-day festival. That’s quite an undertaking for the hundredth anniversary. I imagine there’s a lot of planning involved, not just the pujas, but arrangements for the chariots…” Krishna continued, genuinely engaged in the conversation, seemingly oblivious to the lingering tension from Subhadra’s dramatic entrance. Both spoke for a few minutes, and the rain outside completely ceased, the sun beginning to peek through the clouds. However, within Durai’s mind, the storm of desire still raged, undiminished by the quiet of the morning.

Finally, the conversation drew to a close. “Thank you for stopping by, Ayya,” Krishna said, extending his hand. “We’ll be sure to mark our calendars for the festival. It sounds like a truly grand celebration, especially for the hundredth year.”

Durai managed a strained smile, forcing himself to nod. “Yes, yes, it will be. I… I look forward to seeing you both there.” He stood, his movements stiff, as if his body were resisting leaving the space Subhadra had so recently occupied. He walked out the door, as Raja Durai drove his car away from Krishna and Subhadra’s home, his mind, far from calming, throbbed with an unbearable frustration and burning desire. Every curve, every glistening surface of Subhadra’s wet, voluptuous form from moments ago played on an endless loop behind his eyes. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel. The thought of her deep, round, huge navel, shimmering with rainwater, was an obsession, a dark vortex consuming his every thought.

The sun was beginning to dip towards the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple. The day had cooled after the earlier downpour, leaving a fresh, earthy scent in the air. Raja Durai’s car hummed along the familiar village roads. His destination initially set for Anjana’s house his usual escape for illicit pleasures.

But just as his lips curled into a sly grin, a sharp memory struck, Anjana and her husband had gone to their daughter’s college, and would only return this evening. Frustrated, Durai closed his eyes for a moment, letting his mind flicker through his secret ‘navel list.’ Tch… Yamuna? Her waist… soft like butter, the way she squirms between fighting and giving in… damn, that belly of hers melts so sweet under my fingers. But no… I was there just last week. Can’t risk being caught.

Sukanya? Mmm… that thoppul, perfect for pamparam play. The way she begged me not to, while i spun the pamparam, but her body always betrayed her, her stomach quivering, telling me to sink my tongue in. If only she were here. But she had gone to her mother’s place…

Radha? Svelte and sexy, such a neat, tight thoppul. Not much flesh, no folds to squeeze, but sexy in its own way… No… what I need is fullness. Plump, fleshy waist, a deep navel that can swallow my finger whole, a belly that squirms and moans under my tongue. That’s the woman I want under me now.

He drove aimlessly, the steering wheel tight in his grip, his mind restless with hunger. Near the junction, his eyes caught sight of Gopal—Pankajam Maami’s husband walking into the temple. A sudden rush of wicked joy surged through him. “Ah… there goes Gopal into the temple. So Maami must be alone now… How could I have forgotten her? Last time, that old mother-in-law stood guard and ruined my desire. But today? Today the house is hers alone.

Pankajam maami was a Brahmin lady, wife of Balu, the respected astrologer of the village. She was the very picture of modesty and tradition, always wrapped in her madisar, her hair oiled and neatly tied, her voice gentle and courteous. She was a loving mother of two, her life revolving around her home, her kitchen, and her husband’s reputation.

Her Brahmin upbringing in the agraharam rich with ghee, dhal, and butter, had ripened her body into fair, plump softness.  Her heavy breasts strained against her blouse and her huge, bubbly buttocks swayed like ripened fruits under the folds of her madisar. Though she had a figure almost as ample as Subhadra’s, the contrast was striking, Pankajam maami modestly draped her madisar above her navel, but to Durai that very restraint made her all the more irresistible. What soft, fair plumpness her belly must hold, what deep, juicy thoppul lay hidden just beneath those madisar folds?

Maami had always seemed untouchable, but Durai had been patient, waiting for the perfect crack in her modest world. That chance had come when her husband Balu, the respected astrologer, fell into his trap. Durai had hired an astrologer with heavy bribes, making him charge less from villagers. Actually Balu had borrowed money for his new house and he paid monthly the interest without fail. But this made his income began to dwindle. The monthly interest soon slipped, and Durai seized the weakness like a predator. With cold cunning, he approached Pankajam Maami, offering financial relief in exchange for one forbidden gift her ‘Thoppul’.

Balu was never a man of navel plays and Pankajam Maami, bound by her orthodox ways, had never once let another man lay a hand on her. So when Durai made his demand, she was shocked to her core. But with no escape, cornered by his trap, she reluctantly agrees to allow him enjoy her midriff.

From that day, Durai ordered her to drape her madisar below the navel. Pankajam, who had always kept it high in modesty, had no choice to lower it. Maami had a fluffy plump paunch belly. She herself thought it was not modest, that it spoiled her look. But once exposed, that thoppai became her mark. Her blouse hugging her full breasts above, her madisar hugging her wide hips below, and in between, that fleshy belly with its thick, chubby thoppul drew every eye. Behind her back, whispers began as ‘thoppai thoppul Maami’.

Raja Durai eased his car to a stop near Pankajam’s house, his eyes lighting up as he spotted her two children leaving for the temple. A thrill ran through him, Maami would be completely alone. He stepped inside quietly, and there she was, just finishing her pooja. The glow of the lamp kissed her face, her jasmine-scented hair and fresh kumkum making her look like a goddess.

When she turned, her eyes widened. Raja Durai stood there, blocking her path. Pankajam Maami gasped, a small, choked sound of pure, unadulterated fear. She knew what he was about to do. He had come for her. His eyes, flickered to her cute thoppai, now made more prominent by the low hip madisar, and then to the subtle indentation of her navel.

“Durai Ayya… no… please… I must go, my husband will come any moment…” Maami folded her hands, whispering in fear. Durai’s grin cut across his face, sharp and cruel. He had seen Balu at the temple, safe until nightfall. He leaned closer, his voice curling around her like poison.

“Oh, my sweet Pankajam… lies don’t suit you. Your husband is still at the temple, isn’t he?” Before she could take another breath, his hand dug hard into her belly, his fingers squeezed the plump flesh that bulged above the madisar’s tight wrap.

AAEEEHHHH…. ! making her scream out in shock. But Durai was relentless. With a sudden growl, he bent, his arms snaking low around her thick thighs. In one sweep he lifted her, her plump pumpkin ass bulging against his hold as the madisar clung and shifted.

She kicked weakly, her bangles clinking, her bosom trembling. He strode into the bedroom, and with a rough thud, he threw her onto the bed. The mattress dipped under her weight, her juicy curves spilling against the sheets. Before she could catch her breath, his fingers were already tugging at her pallu, peeling it away with a greedy hunger,

Durai’s eyes gleamed as he sat astride her waist, his fingers dug into the soft roll of her belly, squeezing until the flesh bulged between his fingers and shook.

He let out a shameless laugh, “Hey Maami… looks like you’ve given up on housework, your belly has grown plumpy and spilling out more than the last time. All that ghee, butter, and dhal have melted into this fat, juicy thoppai. Haa… haa… haa…”

Pankajam turned her face away, her cheeks burning crimson. Her lips trembled as shame and helplessness washed over her. Durai then pressed her paunch from both sides,, gathering her belly flesh and squeezing it together until the flesh swelled up around her navel. That made her thoppul look impossibly deep like a secret tunnel carved into her body, dark and sinful, waiting to swallow him. He could not resist another second. With a hungry growl, he bent down and pressed his mouth to her thoppul. “Sluuurp… sluuurp… sluuurp…”

His tongue plunged into the hollow, lapping and swirling, the wet sounds filling the room. Spit mixed with her warmth, dripping down her belly as he sucked greedily. Pankajam gasped, “AAAHHH…. NOO… NOOO”

Shame screamed in her mind, yet her belly quivered under every lick. ‘Chee… chee… I’m an orthodox housewife… and I’m letting him do this to my thoppul… ohhh…’

Durai’s wrinkled face roamed over her soft belly, enjoying the buttery feel of her whole belly. “Ufff… feels like butter melting on my face, I wonder how many are to ravage this sultry navel you’re flashing, with that madisar draped so disgustingly low” he said, voice muffled.

Her trembling hand reached to push him away, but stopped halfway, fingers curling helplessly on the sheets instead, voice cracking with shame. “Aiyyyooo, Ayya… noooo… pleaseee… chee… I am a devoted housewife, not such a woman…” Durai only chuckled, squeezing two big handfuls of her waist until the flesh bulged between his fingers.

“Not such a woman? Then why is this belly shivering like butter in my hands, Maami?” He bent and smacked a noisy kiss on her navel. “Mmmmwaahhh!” The sound echoed, wet and obscene. “Ahhhhhh… nooo… cheeee…” she whimpered, arching despite herself.

Durai’s moustache brushed her skin as his tongue probed deep, slurping inside her navel again and again. “Slurrrppppp… sluuuurppppp… hahh, Pankajam, your thoppul is thirstier than me.”

He lifted his face, her navel glistening, and spoke to it directly, eyes glinting with mischief. “What’s this, thoppul? Your Maami mouth is saying no, no… but you… you are opening wide for me, sucking my tongue, smooching my lips. Tell me, who is the liar? You or her?”

A sob tore from Pankajam’s throat, her palms covering her face. “Cheee… don’t talk like that… ayyyooo…”

While Durai was lost in the intoxicating depths of Maami’s navel, his mind couldn’t help but drift back to the vivid, haunting image of Subhadra’s creamy, wet belly and her deep, quivering navel that had unfolded so tantalizingly in front of his face just a few hours before. Which ignited a feral hunger in him, turning him into a madman possessed. With a guttural growl, he lunged at Pankajam’s creamy midriff, kissing her fiercely, his tongue lapping at her flesh before his teeth sank in, biting hard into her tender belly.

“Ohhh! Uhnnhh! Please… mmhh!” Pankajam’s cries spilled out, shaky and raw, her body twisting as waves of pain and pleasure crashed together. Each rough bite left her pale skin glowing red, her hips jerking with every sharp sting that melted into a dark, needy thrill. “Ahh! No… Ayyyoohhh! Ohhh!” she moaned wildly, pushing at him weakly, her hands flying to hide her flushed face in a mix of shame and surrender behind them.

Suddenly the room fell into an eerie silence, and confusion clouded her mind, Why? Why had he stopped? Her fingers trembled, about to part from her face, when a sudden, cold drip landed right in the center of her navel. Her eyes flew open in shock, “Hanhh…!”  A gasp escaping her lips as she realized what he was doing. Gingelly oil, slick and cool, pooled in the deep hollow of her thoppul, sending a shiver through her plump, fleshy frame.

Her wide eyes locked onto Durai’s, evil smile as he tilted a small bowl, letting more oil trickle into her navel until it overflowed slightly, the excess sliding down her soft belly rolls like teasing fingers.

“No, Durai Ayya, please…” she pleaded, her voice trembling. “I am a chaste housewife… don’t ruin me again!” Her hands hovered near her midriff, wanting to push him away but frozen by the fear of what was to come. Her cheeks burned and eyes darting away, unable to meet his eyes.

Durai’s lips curled into a sneer, “Oh, Maami, stop with the drama, this thoppul of yours is begging for it. Why are you spoiling my mood?” He climbed onto the bed, and carelessly tossed his dhoti and underwear aside. Her heart pounded as Durai leaned closer, his gaze fixed on the glistening pool of oil in her navel. “Such a juicy thoppul, so deep, so plump… just waiting for me.” Pankajam’s eyes widened in horror, her body tensing as she realized his intent. “Aiyyooo… no, Ayya… not that… pleaseee!” she whimpered, her voice barely above a whisper. But Durai only laughed, a deep, humiliating chuckle that echoed in the room.

“Look at you, Maami, blushing like a virgin lady, your poor husband Balu, clueless that his orthodox wife is lying here under me, to offer her sacred thoppul for me to fuck.” His voice low and dripping with arrogance. Pankajam sobbed “Chee… please, don’t say such things… my family… my honor…” she choked out.

Durai’s grin widened, reveling in her embarrassment. “That’s it, Maami, squirm for me. Your thoppul is already begging for my peni*s”. He then positioned himself and with a low, guttural groan, Durai pushed forward, sliding his stubby pen*s into the slick, oily depths of her navel. “AAAYYYYO…! OOUUUUHHH!!!” Maami screamed

“Ufff… yes, Maami, feel that? Your thoppul is swallowing my whole thing, greedy and tight,” he growled, thrusting gently at first, watching her belly ripple with each movement, the oil sloshing softly. Pankajam squeezed her eyes shut in shame, her cheeks aflame with humiliation. “AAAHHHH… ohhh, nooo… aiyyooo, nooooo…” she moaned, her voice a sultry whisper laced with resistance, but her body arched subtly, pressing her navel deeper onto him.

Durai’s hands roamed upward, his rough palms cupping the heavy breasts over her blouse. He squeezed them hard, feeling the soft flesh spill between his fingers, the thin fabric straining against her hardened nipples. “Mmm, these big, ripe melons, Maami… so heavy, so perfect,” he groaned, kneading them with possessive intensity.

“AAAHHHH… HAAAYYYOOO… no, Ayya, not my breasts… chee, stop…!” Pankajam moaned, her voice a heady mix of defiance and unwilling desire. The dual assault overwhelmed her: the slick, invasive plunge into her thoppul sending waves of dark ecstasy radiating outward, while his fingers tormented her sensitive nipples, igniting a fire in her chest that merged with the heat pooling in her lower belly.

Durai leaned over her, his breath hot against her ear as he thrust his hips grinding against her soft paunch, the wet slaps of oil and flesh filling the room. “Feel that, Maami? Your thoppul is sucking my co*k like it was made for it,” he whispered huskily, his thumbs circling her nipples, pinching them to make her cry out louder. He varied his rhythm—slow, teasing glides that made the oil slosh lewdly, followed by quick, forceful pumps that sent ripples through her fleshy belly, the sounds obscene and intoxicating.

Pankajam bit her lip, feeling the unmistakable heat building in her lower belly, a familiar, sensation that signaled the approach of an unwanted orgasm. She clenched her muscles, desperately trying to suppress it, her mind screaming in resistance to not to give this vile man the satisfaction of making her cum beneath him, Oh no, this heat in my belly… it’s coming again. I can’t let it happen. Not for him. Chee, why does it feel good? It’s like fire spreading from my navel to everywhere. No, fight it, Pankajam! Don’t cum, don’t let your body win… Her breaths came in short, ragged gasps, her plump body trembling as she squeezed her eyes shut, willing the pleasure away, but the slick oil and his relentless rhythm made it harder, her inner walls pulsing with need she hated to admit.

Durai, sensing her struggle, laughed mockingly, his breath hot against her skin as he leaned closer. “What’s this, Maami? Imagine if Balu could see you now, his modest wife, writhing under me, her sacred navel fucked” His humiliating words stung, making her cheeks burn even hotter, but they only fueled the dark fire within her, her body trembling as the pleasure built despite her efforts.

Sweat beading on his brow as he struggled to maintain the rhythm. “AAHhhh Thoppul Sugammm… ahh thoppullll” he grunted, pushing harder, his thrusts becoming more erratic and forceful, slamming into her oily navel with renewed determination.

But poor Pankajam’s suppression starts failing as the orgasmic sensations overwhelmed her, the slick friction, the humiliating taunts, the relentless squeezing of her breasts.She held on as long as she could, her moans turning into desperate whimpers, But his deep, punishing thrusts pushed her over the edge. With a loud, broken groan—“AAAHHHHH…!!! AMMMAHHHH… ohhh, nooo…!”

Maami cummed hard beneath him, her belly quivered wildly, her hips bucking up involuntarily, the orgasm ripping through her like a storm, leaving her gasping and limp. Her face, usually so modest and composed, twisted into a sexy, sultry bliss.

Durai’s eyes locked onto her face of vulnerable expression as she came undone beneath him. His thrusting slower now to savor the sight. Pankajam Maami’s brows knitting in a sexy frown, her lips biting down, a fresh flush spreading across her cheeks.

The sight of her surrender igniting his own release. With few, powerful thrust into her deep, quivering navel, he grunted loudly—“AHHHHH…. THOPPULLL… THOPPULLLL…!”—his cummed inside her thoppul, mixing with the gingelly oil in a sinful, overflowing pool that spilled over her trembling belly. He ground against her a moment longer, emptying every last drop, the warmth filling her navel completely, trickling down her sides as he panted, savoring the mess he’d made.

His eyes gleamed with a wicked satisfaction as he gazed down at Pankajam, “Ohhh, Maami, that was so damn hot, I crave to see that lust-filled face of yours again, moaning and writhing for more!” Pankajam’s heart sank, she turned her face away, her cheeks burning a deep crimson, unable to meet his leering gaze. Durai’s evil grin widened as he saw the agony on her face. “You will, Maami… you will,” he said in a low, chilling voice

With a smug look, he slid off the bed, grabbing his dhoti from the floor. He started wrapping it around himself. Pankajam sat up slowly, her body a mess her madisar twisted, her blouse wrinkled, her belly still wet with oil and his sin.

Durai adjusted his dhoti, smoothing it out, and gave her one last mocking look and slipped out the back door, leaving Pankajam alone in the suffocating silence of the room. As Durai stepped outside, still smirking, he didn’t notice Anjana watching him. She had just returned to the village,

The sight of Durai coming out of Balu’s house sent a shock through her as she already saw Balu and his children at the temple on her way. A fear twisting in her stomach. ‘No… not Pankajam too…’ she thought, her breath catching as she remembered her own dark moments with Durai, how he’d forced her to give in to his twisted desires with her navel. The idea that Pankajam, the sweet, pure, the perfect Brahmin wife might be caught in his trap made her feel sick and scared, but also connected to her pain. Balu and the kids are at the temple… Pankajam was alone. Oh no, what has he done to her?

She wanted to run to Pankajam but stopped herself ‘Not now… she’s probably a mess. I’ll talk to her later, when she’s ready’ Anjana walked away, determined to help Pankajam face this nightmare later.