Khalid – a Muslim brassware vendor
The rain hammered Lucknow’s rusty tin roofs like impatient fists as Khalid dragged Vidya into a crumbling lodge room. He shoved her onto the damp mattress, tearing her cheap salwar kameez without ceremony. “Muslim whore now,” he growled, biting her nipple hard enough to draw blood as he thrust into her still-sore cunt. Vidya cried out not in protest, but raw relief arching into his brutal rhythm. He fucked her face-down into mildewed sheets, spanking her pale ass crimson before flipping her over and cumming thick ropes across her trembling belly. “Clean it,” he ordered, shoving his softening cock against her lips. She sucked him clean, tasting salt and betrayal.
Khalid married her three days later under a flickering neon sign at the Qazi’s office. No henna, no feast just his calloused grip bruising her wrist as she mumbled Arabic vows she didn’t understand. That night, in their one-room shack near the tannery, he pinned her against the peeling wall. “Show me how Brahmin wives suck,” he taunted, unzipping his jeans. Vidya knelt on the gritty floor, taking his full length down her throat until tears streamed. He came explosively, flooding her mouth, making her swallow every bitter drop. “Good panditani,” he smirked, wiping himself on her hair.
Months bled into the tannery’s acrid stench. Khalid’s hands grew rougher slapping her when dinner cooled, fucking her raw against the chipped sink while neighbors’ radios blared prayers. Vidya learned to time her orgasms to his thrusts, biting her lip bloody to muffle cries as he pounded her cervix. One monsoon night, drunk on cheap daru, he mounted her sleeping form, splitting her thighs wide. “Take it, slut,” he slurred, ramming into her dry. The pain tore a scream from her throat a sound that startled even Khalid. He froze, cock buried deep, staring at the terror in her eyes like a stranger.
Morning revealed the blood staining the pallet. Khalid wordlessly tossed her a stained rag. Vidya washed between her legs at the communal tap, icy water stinging torn flesh. The tannery women whispered, eyes sharp as knives. When Khalid dragged her to bed that night, his touch was almost gentle fingers tracing the bite marks on her neck, his cock sliding slow into her still-tender cunt. “Mine,” he murmured against her ear, pumping deep as rain drummed the roof. Vidya clenched around him, gasping, shame and pleasure twisting into one relentless knot as he flooded her womb yet again. Outside, Lucknow drowned in the downpour.
He bought her cheap henna the next market day a garish crimson paste. Khalid gripped her wrist, painting clumsy flowers up her arm. “Cover the bruises,” he grunted. Vidya stared at the drying stains, the jagged patterns mirroring the cracks in her world. That evening, he shoved her to her knees before his friends. “Show them,” he ordered, unzipping. Her throat clenched around his cock, tears burning as she sucked him hard, the men’s laughter thick with daru breath. Khalid came down her throat, rough fingers twisting in her hair. “Good,” he rasped, wiping her mouth with his sleeve. The henna smeared like blood.
Months blurred into the tannery’s acid reek. Khalid’s fists became routine a slap for overcooked rice, a punch for looking at the tailor’s son. Vidya learned to numb herself, eyes fixed on the peeling calendar as he rutted into her from behind, grunting prayers against her shoulder. She bled often now, the sharp copper scent mingling with wet leather. One dawn, vomiting into the gutter, she counted missed cycles. Khalid found her retching. His calloused palm pressed flat against her belly. “Hmph,” was all he said, tossing her a stale roti. Hope withered cold as stone.
comic? Bhabhi ji ghar par hai
The tannery foreman cornered her by vats of soaking hides. “Extra rupees,” he hissed, shoving thick fingers under her kameez, groping her tender breast. “Keep quiet.” Vidya froze, Khalid’s scent still clinging to her skin. Before she could react, Khalid’s shadow filled the doorway eyes dark as tar pits. He grabbed the foreman’s throat, slamming him into dye-stained walls. “Mine,” Khalid snarled, bloodying his knuckles on the man’s face. He dragged Vidya home, threw her onto the pallet, and ripped her clothes open. His teeth sank into her thigh, possessive, as he plunged inside her. Vidya moaned a sound like breaking glass as Lucknow’s call to prayer echoed through their shattered window.
Vidya’s belly swelled taut beneath cheap cotton saris. Khalid traced the curve nightly, fingers lingering on stretch marks like battle scars. One monsoon evening, he pressed her against the damp wall, hiking her sari up her hips. His cock slid into her from behind, slow and deep, filling the sore, heavy ache. “Allah’s gift,” he grunted, thrusting harder as thunder shook the tin roof. Vidya clutched her belly, crying out as her climax ripped through her sharp and sudden her nails scraping peeling paint. Khalid spilled inside her, hot and urgent, his palm splayed over her womb. “My seed,” he breathed against her neck. Rainwater dripped onto their tangled feet.
The tannery women’s whispers grew louder “Brahmin bitch,” “Muslim bastard.” Khalid brought home henna again, staining her soles crimson. “Walk barefoot,” he ordered. At the market, stares followed her hennaed feet and swollen belly. A vegetable seller spat near her toes. “Traitor.” Vidya clutched her jute bag, Khalid’s cum still leaking warm between her thighs from dawn’s rutting. She bought bitter gourd, fingers trembling. Behind sacks of rice, Khalid watched, polishing a brass hookah. His smirk promised retribution. Vidya hurried home, henna bleeding crimson into Lucknow’s grimy puddles.
Labor pains seized her at midnight clawing, vicious. Khalid paced the shack like a caged animal, ignoring her whimpers. When her waters broke, staining the pallet, he grabbed her jaw. “Push,” he commanded, kneeling between her spread legs. Blood slicked her thighs as she bore down, screaming into his calloused palm. The baby slid out a boy, wailing. Khalid cut the cord with his knife, wiped the infant with Vidya’s torn dupatta. He placed the squalling bundle on her chest. “Hussain,” he named him, pressing a rough kiss to Vidya’s sweat-soaked forehead. Outside, dawn bled red over the tannery’s smokestacks.
Khalid sold his brass stall the next week. “No son of mine breathes tannery poison,” he declared, renting a clean room near the mosque. Fridays found him washing carefully at the courtyard tap, scrubbing dye from his knuckles before prayers. He’d return with dates for Vidya, placing them silently beside Hussain’s cradle. One evening, Vidya winced as Hussain nursed her nipple cracked. Khalid rose without a word, returning with almond oil. He warmed it between his palms, massaging her breast gently, his touch surprisingly tender. “Allah provides,” he murmured, avoiding her startled gaze.
He began studying the Quran under Maulvi Sahab’s patient guidance, his brow furrowed in concentration. When Hussain cried during lessons, Khalid would scoop him up, rocking him softly against his shoulder as he recited verses in a low, rhythmic hum. Vidya watched, stirring lentils on the stove Khalid’s roughened finger tracing Arabic script while Hussain gummed his thumb. The scent of cumin mingled with old paper and milk. Once, she dropped a pot; it clattered loudly. Khalid didn’t flinch. “Broken?” he asked, eyes still on the page. “Only clay,” she whispered. He nodded. “Replace it tomorrow.” No fist. No curse.
Ramadan arrived. Khalid woke before dawn to prepare sehri, rolling parathas himself so Vidya could rest. At iftar, he served her first sweet vermicelli dripping with milk. “Eat,” he urged, pushing the bowl closer. Moonlight silvered the courtyard where they broke fast. Hussain slept in Vidya’s lap, Khalid’s hand resting lightly on the boy’s back. The muezzin’s call echoed pure, clear notes piercing the warm night. Khalid’s thumb brushed Vidya’s wrist where henna had once hidden bruises. “Shukran,” he said quietly. Not for the food. For the peace. Her throat tightened. She looked down, tears spotting Hussain’s tiny fist.
He began praying five times daily, the ritual washing a quiet anchor in their days. After Fajr prayers, Khalid would kneel beside Vidya as she nursed Hussain. One morning, he pressed a small velvet box into her palm gold earrings shaped like crescent moons. “For Eid,” he murmured. Hussain gurgled, milk dribbling down his chin. Khalid caught it with his thumb, smiling faintly. Vidya fastened the earrings, their weight cool against her skin. When neighbors visited, Khalid served tea proudly, his palm hovering protectively behind Vidya’s shoulder as she rocked Hussain. No leers. No taunts. Just steady warmth.
At the mosque school, Khalid enrolled Hussain himself. He stood patiently in line, holding Vidya’s elbow as dusty children jostled past. “Our son will read the Quran before he walks,” Khalid vowed, fingers tracing the admission form. Later, he bought Vidya green silk for Eid no stains, no hidden cuts. The shopkeeper wrapped it carefully. Khalid paid without haggling, slipping an extra note for the man’s ailing wife. Outside, sunlight glinted off the brass hookah he’d polished that morning. “For you,” he said, handing Vidya the package. His knuckles, once bloodied, were clean.
One humid evening, Vidya burned the rice. She braced for shouts, fists clenched around the ladle. Khalid lifted the scorched pot, sniffed it, and set it aside. “We’ll have kebab tonight,” he decided, wiping her flour-dusted cheek with his thumb. At the bazaar, he bought her rose sherbet, pressing the cold glass into her hands. They walked home slowly, Hussain asleep against Khalid’s shoulder. Fireflies blinked in the alleys. Khalid paused beneath a neem tree, its scent sharp in the dusk. “Allah is merciful,” he said, not looking at her. Vidya’s fingers brushed his calloused, gentle. The sherbet tasted like forgiveness. Sweet. Cool. Flowing deep.
Ramadan’s moon hung low when Khalid woke her for sehri. Dates softened in milk, parathas golden-crisp. He’d laid the meal himself no clatter, no demands. Vidya ate silently, watching him pray by the window. Dawn light etched his profile: softened jaw, closed eyes. After Fajr, he lifted Hussain from the cradle. “He smiled,” Khalid murmured, wonder threading his voice. The baby’s fist curled around his father’s finger. Khalid pressed his lips to Hussain’s forehead a benediction. Vidya touched the crescent moons in her ears. Metal warmed by skin. Faith worn daily. Khalid’s old rage had cooled to this: patient hands, prayers at dawn, the scent of cardamom rising with the sun.
Eid morning, Khalid returned from the mosque with saffron milk. Vidya wore the green silk, its sheen catching lamplight. Khalid paused in the doorway, jasmine garland in hand. “Mashallah,” he breathed, draping it over her braid. His fingers trembled a ghost of violence surrendered. They visited Maulvi Sahab, Hussain in embroidered white. Khalid knelt, placing the boy before the Quran. “Read,” he urged softly. Vidya watched her husband’s rough palm cradle their son’s small back. The Arabic verses flowed Khalid’s voice steady, Hussain’s babble weaving through. Outside, the tannery’s stench had faded. Only incense and milk remained. Khalid’s transformation wasn’t thunder. It was this: quiet devotion, roots sinking deep into peace.
Monsoon rains lashed Lucknow when Hussain took his first steps staggering toward Khalid’s outstretched arms. Vidya laughed, the sound bright as shattered glass. Khalid caught the boy, lifting him high. Rainwater streaked the window, blurring the tannery’s distant smoke. Khalid turned, Hussain giggling against his chest, and met Vidya’s gaze. No smirk. No challenge. Just a nod firm, certain. Hers. The storm drowned the city’s noise, leaving only their breath, the drumming rain, and the solid warmth of Khalid’s hand finding hers in the dim room. Faith had remade them both: not in fire, but in this relentless, drenching calm.
