Telugu original: Ampasayya Naveen
Translated by Rajeshwar Mittapalli

It was eight o’clock in the evening.

Vidyasagar had just returned from the office. In a fit of irritation, he flung his laptop onto the sofa and let out a long, tired sigh. From somewhere deep within the house came the faint sound of a television serial—Sumitra was watching, absorbed as ever, entirely unaware of his arrival. Or perhaps she had heard the door and chosen not to notice.

Would she ever look up and say with a hint of warmth, “You look weary—have a rest; I’ll bring you some hot coffee?” The thought now seemed absurd. From the moment he stepped inside until the moment he left again, she armed herself with words sharp enough to wound.

Theirs had been an arranged marriage. His parents, trusting a silver-tongued mediator, had called it an excellent match. Sumitra came from a respectable family; her father, an R.D.O., reputedly earned well. Her mother had died when she was about six, after which the father had remarried—an event that had filled the girl’s childhood with much quiet torment. The family was educated, cultivated, and, they said, of good moral standing.

When they went to see the bride, Vidyasagar had accompanied his parents and two sisters. Sumitra seemed modestly attractive—quiet, with a kind of composure that they mistook for grace. She held an M.A., spoke sensibly, and the match-maker, praising her intelligence, promised that she would make an ideal wife. His parents were convinced; the families agreed at once.

Sumitra’s father, pleased that a manager from a well-known multinational should seek his daughter’s hand, regarded the match as a stroke of luck. Vidyasagar himself saw no reason to object. For two or three months after the wedding, he tried earnestly to understand her. She kept her thoughts to herself, saying little beyond what was necessary. He assumed she was shy, perhaps adjusting to a new life, and would open up in time. But the reserve never lifted. She remained in her own self-contained world, never entering his—never inviting him into hers.

Lately, she had begun nursing strange suspicions for which he could find no cause. They spread through her mind like damp through a wall. Nothing he said or did could drive them out.

A voice startled him.

“Deep in thought, are you?”

He looked up. Sumitra stood before him with a cup of coffee, her expression unreadable.

“Oh—no, nothing of the sort,” he said, taking the cup from her hand.

“You’re thinking about something.”

“I told you—it’s nothing.”

“Or perhaps it’s something you don’t want to tell me.”

“There’s nothing I can’t tell you.”

“Then why sit here brooding as if the world has ended? You might at least have called, ‘Sumitra, make me some coffee.’”

“I was just about to—then you came in.” He forced a smile.

“You’ve been here half an hour. When did you plan to call me?”

“I thought you were asleep. Why disturb you?”

“No. You were lost in such deep thought that you forgot I existed.”

“How many times must I tell you there’s nothing wrong?”

“I know what you’re thinking.”

“If you already know, why ask?”

“Am I not entitled to ask? Perhaps I’m not. Only those close to you can claim that right—and I’m not among them.”

“Don’t talk nonsense. You’re my wife—who else would have that right?”

“I’m not your wife in that sense. Ask yourself who truly is. If I were, I’d know what’s going on inside you.”

“Why invent shadows where there are none? You excel at creating phantoms out of thin air. In that art, no woman can rival you.”

“Of course—no one understands women better than you, does he?” Her lips curled faintly. “If only your knowledge of women came with loyalty to the one you married.”

“Sumitra, every evening it’s the same! The moment I step inside, you begin again.”

“Yes, I begin again. How else would you show such expertise about women—unless you’d known a few too many of them?”

“Your imagination deserves a medal. Only you could turn a careless remark into a full-blown indictment.”

“Oh, how noble of you—to praise me while pitying yourself!”

“You seem determined to draw blood with every word. Tell me clearly, without mockery—what is it you want from me? If I can give it, I shall.”

“There’s nothing you can give. Some things are beyond asking.”

“And who are ‘those who ask,’ pray?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know.”

“I honestly don’t.”

“Poor thing! Like a cat drinking milk with its eyes closed, you think the world disappears when you shut your eyes.”

“Enough sarcasm—say what you mean. Every day you wound me with these accusations until my mind is in knots. Let’s end this once and for all. Who are these people you mean?”

“Why act innocent? Even pretence has its limits.”

“Sumitra, don’t drive me mad. This fire of suspicion in your mind—it’s consuming both of us. Today it must end. The truth must come out.”

“Why expose it? Let it burn me from within. That will be punishment enough.” Her voice trembled as she fought to hold back tears.

“Oh no—there it is again, the tears. If suspicion stays buried, it grows like a weed until it chokes us. Bring it into the open—only then can we see whether there’s any truth. Otherwise, you’ll start believing your own fancies. That’s not merely unjust—it’s ruinous.”

“Indeed! Everything I do is wicked—everything a mistake. I’m not even human, am I? I’m a demon, a witch, a monster, sent into your life to torment you. Go on then—strangle me, rid yourself of me!” She stepped closer, her eyes wild.

The sudden fury in her tone—half hatred, half despair—robbed him of speech.

Was her anger truly at him, he wondered, or at herself? It seemed she detested something deep within her own heart, yet couldn’t name it, and so turned outward, mistaking him for her enemy. He reminded himself to stay calm—to resist answering rage with rage.

“Sumitra, please… calm down. Why this storm? What did I even say?”

At that moment, the doorbell rang sharply.

“Someone’s at the door,” said Sagar, grateful for the interruption.

He opened it to find his tenant from next door, Ravinder, smiling politely.

“Good evening, Mr?Ravinder. Back from the cinema, are you?”

“Yes, just now,” said Ravinder cheerfully. “We left our keys with you earlier—one of our relatives was meant to come while we were out.”

“Oh, was she?” said Sagar.

Sumitra fetched the keys and handed them over. “No one came.”

“She reached town but stayed with another relative instead,” said Ravinder. “She didn’t want to trouble you while we were away.”

“You seem to enjoy your films,” said Sagar lightly.

“Absolutely! My Neeraja can’t live without one every day,” said Ravinder, throwing an affectionate glance at his wife, who blushed and protested.

“It’s a lie! Today he dragged me along.”

“That’s another lie! In these three months of marriage, I’ve learnt that if I don’t take my queen to a park, a film, or shopping each day, she sulks. So I’ve given up resisting. Peace at home depends on her smile, you know.”

“Oh, do stop boasting and standing at the door,” said Neeraja, laughing. “Come inside.”

“At your service, my lady! My purpose in life is to follow your footsteps,” said Ravinder theatrically, unlocking the door.

She cuffed him playfully. “Quiet now!”

They went in together, still laughing.

That portion of the house belonged to Sagar. He had built the house himself recently, dividing it into two homes—one for himself, one for tenants. Watching the young couple vanish inside, he turned to Sumitra.

“They make one feel rather happy, don’t they?”

“Happy? Why would their happiness please you?”

“Just look at them—newly married, laughing as if the whole world were theirs.”

“You live in a world of dreams, Sagar. It’s late—where have they been until now?”

“They said they’d gone to see a film.”

“And when have you last taken me to a film? You don’t want your friends or colleagues to see me by your side, do you?”

“Why do you twist every word to hurt me? Haven’t I ever taken you out? Whenever I suggest a film, you refuse. You call them silly love stories and a waste of time. Come then—let’s go now, to the late show.”

She looked at him bitterly. “Trying to wipe away my tears with a burst of enthusiasm?”

“Newfound enthusiasm? What are you talking about?” His voice faltered, filled with quiet hurt.

From next door came Ravinder’s spirited singing: “What a pleasant night, what sweet delight…”

Sagar and Sumitra paused. Through the thin wall, they could hear the couple’s laughter and chatter drifting in.

“My dear Neeru,” Ravinder was saying next door, his voice bright and teasing. “How was the film?”

“How many times have I told you not to call me ‘Neeru’ or ‘Paru’? You’re ruining my name! I won’t speak to you at all,” Neeraja replied, half in jest.

“Oh, such a temper! Look at those lips—pouting like rosebuds. And those eyes, flaring like torchlight beneath a full moon! Even in anger, your face glows like a summer blossom in flame. My dear Neeru—sorry, Neeraja—how can a man stay quiet before such beauty?”

“Please stop your poetry for a while. You’ll make me blush myself into the floor,” she said, laughing.

“Do you know how beautiful you are when you blush? Like a new hibiscus bloom—or like the red western sky at sundown.”

“You’re suffocating me with words, Ravinder. Have mercy!” she cried, giggling uncontrollably.

“How can I stop? Your beauty’s a mine that never runs out. I’m a thirsty man, and the more I drink, the thirstier I get. Now, tell me—how was the film at least?”

“You want to talk about the film? It was dreadful.”

“Dreadful? Impossible. It can’t have been as dreadful as my face.”

“Worse! Like your face on a bad day!” she cried.

“What! That hideous film compared to your face, which sits above all beauty in creation? That’s unforgivable.”

“Enough!” she howled with laughter. “You must have been a poet in some former birth. Why are you staring at me like that—as if you’d devour me alive? Like that villain in the film, glaring at the heroine when she hadn’t a stitch on. You remind me of a college lecturer I once had. He used to look at me exactly like that. I thought he was in love with me.”

“Who was he? Where is this fellow now? Tell me his name, and I’ll drag him here, wherever he hides in the three worlds,” said Ravinder, pretending to roar like a villain.

“That laugh! You sound exactly like that actor. Honestly, the villain was more handsome than the hero. His build, that fine moustache… quite something. Yours looks rather like his. You should act in films yourself—play villains.”

“Me, a villain? Never! Women swoon over this moustache. Only yesterday a young lady, seeing it glittering with jasmine oil, nearly fainted with delight.”

“And fell at your feet, did she?” said Neeraja, clutching her stomach with laughter.

“She did! Begged me to accept her as a humble servant!”

“I’ll pass out if you don’t stop now. Come on, I’ll serve dinner.”

“Dinner alone, Neeru? What of the other feast—youth and loveliness?”

“Yes, yes, poor man,” she said merrily, “that hunger’s the greater.”

The sound of their laughter faded toward the kitchen.

Vidyasagar turned away from the wall, a faint smile passing across his face. “The affection between them, that ease—it’s charming,” he murmured. “And yet I can’t help fearing how such warmth might change with time.”

“Why must you always anticipate disaster?” Sumitra asked coldly.

“I was only thinking aloud. No deeper meaning.”

“People don’t talk without a reason. There’s always something behind it.”

“Then tell me what lies behind mine.”

“How would I know what secret thoughts you keep?”

“Secrets again! What secrets could I possibly have from you?”

“There are many.”

He sighed. “There you go again. You seem determined to strip me of every shred of peace. Your suspicions have turned our home into a prison.”

“Yes, a prison—you said it yourself. But don’t forget I’m the captive, not you.”

“Enough!” His restraint finally broke. “You’re no human at all—some fiend has taken hold of you.”

“Yes—possessed, that’s it!” she shouted. “Any woman with pride would be, seeing the husband she trusted behave as you do.”

“What have I done that’s ‘despicable,’ as you put it? Tell me, or by heaven, I’ll—”

“You want the truth? You claim to have married me before hundreds of witnesses, yet you lock me within four walls while you spend your days with other women who catch your fancy. You come home with a face like a man entering a dungeon, sit in silence, full of thoughts that belong elsewhere. You speak to me as if to a stranger. You remember those women, not your wife. Isn’t that despicable?”

“Sumitra!” he cried. “How vilely you twist things! Do you imagine I’m cavorting with every woman I meet? What proof have you for these absurd beliefs? Show me one scrap of evidence!”

“I can show you a thousand. You think I haven’t seen the way you look at that girl next door, Neeraja? The way you fawn over that red-faced maid Balamma—‘Bala, Bala,’ as if she’s your pet canary? Everyone in town whispers that you take your P.A., Sunita, to clubs and cinemas. And as if that’s not enough, you’re secretly giving money to Kausalya, the vegetable-seller. Need any more proof?”

He stared at her. “My God. For weeks, I’ve sensed some hidden tension in you, but I never dreamt it would explode in this filth. Neeraja—a sister to me! Balamma—the maid? Kausalya, who sells greens at the gate? And you throw my name among them all? You’ve sunk past all reason. Listening to this fills me with disgust for my own life.”

“Yes—disgust! I feel it too,” she cried, trembling. “Every word from you pierces me like a blade. The pain doesn’t stop. Perhaps if I throw myself into a fire, this torment will end—for both of us.”

“But I haven’t tormented you, Sumitra. You’re tormenting yourself, lost in invention. Not one of your accusations contains a grain of truth—on my conscience, I swear it. The day you realise how mistaken you are, you won’t forgive yourself—but that day will come.”

“You call everything ‘mistaken’ and think it ends there! These aren’t fancies I heard from someone else—I saw them with my own eyes!”

“What did you see? Me looking once or twice at Neeraja next door? Is a man forbidden to look at anyone now? Sharing coffee once with Sunita—does that make me a criminal? Laughing with Balamma when she drops something—does that mean I’m flirting? Paying back an old debt to Kausalya—was that indecent too? You twist every ordinary moment into a drama of betrayal. You wound my heart with your tongue daily, as though pain were your sport.”

“Yes, a game for you!” she cried. “You think I don’t see how you amuse yourself—smiling at other women to make me cry? You chose that couple deliberately, didn’t you? When that portion of the house was vacant, you told me your friend would take it, and you brought that woman here—to live next door. Why them? Why not anyone else? Because you wanted to torture me, that’s why! You love watching me burn with jealousy.”

“You devil! Stop before you shame us both! If those words reached their ears, they’d leave tomorrow. They’re honourable people, and you’d drag their names into filth. The truth is, you can’t bear seeing their happiness. In your frustration, you’d destroy what you can’t possess. To live tied to such madness is worse than death.” He struck his forehead with his hand.

“Yes—death! Why hesitate to kill me? Chop me in pieces, feed me to the crows. Sate your thirst with my blood.”

He stared at her wild eyes. “I should—but my sense of decency restrains me.” He turned to leave, but she barred his way.

“Don’t worry,” she said in a fierce whisper. “I’ll free you myself. This demon in your house will turn to ash before your eyes.”

She dashed into the kitchen. He followed in alarm. She had turned the gas on and seized a lighter. He sprang forward, wrenched it from her hand, and shut the valve.

“Leave me!” she cried. “Let me die. Then you’ll have peace.”

“If you blow up that cylinder, we’ll both die! Do you want to kill me too?”

“No. Even a sinner like me knows a wife’s duty. She may die—but she must save her husband.”

She broke down, clinging to him, sobbing until she could hardly breathe.

He guided her gently back to the bedroom. “There now—it was all a bad dream. Try to sleep.”

“Bring me a sleeping pill. I won’t sleep otherwise.”

He fetched the medicine. Years earlier, when she’d complained to the doctor of sleepless nights and strange dreams, she’d been told to take an Alprazolam tablet before bed. Often, even that failed to quiet her; she’d wake trembling, whispering of nightmares she wouldn’t describe.

“Eat something first,” said Sagar, holding out the tablet.

“I’m not hungry. I cooked for you—eat yourself. One tablet won’t do. Bring two.”

“The doctor said one.”

“I’ve taken two before. Nothing happened. If I take only one, the nightmares return. That man with the moustache comes again.”

He hesitated, then fetched another. She swallowed both, lay down, and within half an hour drifted into sleep.

He watched her for a long time, convinced he would never fathom her in this lifetime. Then he went to the kitchen, ate a few mouthfuls, returned, and lay beside her. Sleep refused to come.

When Vidyasagar awoke the next morning, Sumitra was already up. The fragrance of coffee filled the house. She moved briskly through her tasks as though the night’s turmoil had never happened.

She brought him a cup. After shaving and glancing through the morning paper, he dressed for the office.

While running the razor across his jaw, his thoughts drifted once more to the neighbours. Had Ravinder and Neeraja heard Sumitra’s outburst last night? If they had, would they leave today? He doubted it. Their air-conditioned room, sealed against the world, would have kept out every sound.

Still, something about Sumitra’s nightmare troubled him. She often said a moustached man chased her in her dreams, a stranger she feared yet somehow knew. Ravinder, of course, had that thick moustache. Could it be he whom her sleeping mind conjured?

He remembered her once asking, early in their marriage, “Why don’t you grow a moustache?”

“Do you like them?” he had asked.

“No,” she’d said quickly, her eyes darting away.

He rinsed the last trace of foam from his chin, pushed the thought aside, and went to breakfast. Sumitra laid out steaming idlis and coconut chutney. She ate nothing herself but stood nearby, silent. When he finished, she asked mildly, “Will you be coming home for lunch?”

“If office work isn’t heavy, I might. I’ll call and let you know.”

She nodded, and he left, the car humming away into the bright morning.

~*~

His office occupied the third floor of a grey five-storey building. He parked in the basement and went upstairs. Staff were just arriving, exchanging polite greetings.

That day, he could not settle to anything. His mind dragged him back to Sumitra, her strained face, her trembling hands. She had comforts enough but no peace. Would she ever be normal again?

A tap on the door interrupted his thoughts.

“Good morning, Sagar! What’s got you so pensive?”

It was Pradeep, his closest friend, a college lecturer in psychology.

“Pradeep! Come in. No lectures today?”

He flung himself into the chair opposite. “None. There’s been a row between juniors and seniors—ragging complaints, strikes, the principal panicking. He’s declared a holiday. On my way home, I thought I’d look in on you.”

“You chose a bad day to visit,” said Sagar. His smile was hollow.

Pradeep looked closely at him. “You’re pale, man. Have you slept at all?”

“Not last night. Not many nights, actually. My life’s become wretched, Pradeep.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Everything. I hardly know where to begin.”

“Then start anywhere. If you can’t speak to me, who else have you got?”

Sagar hesitated, then said, “You know Sunita, my P.A.?”

“Of course. Sensible girl. Always cheerful. To tell you the truth, half the reason I dropped by was to catch a glimpse of her,” said Pradeep with a grin.

“I’m in no mood for jokes. Sunita’s on leave today. Rumours are flying around the office linking me with her. People are starting to resent me.”

“I’m not surprised,” said Pradeep. “Sunita’s attractive, friendly, and you’re not exactly unhandsome yourself. That’s enough for gossip?mongers.”

“But there’s nothing between us beyond work. And yet they whisper. I can’t fathom why others find pleasure in poisoning lives over fantasies.”

“You really can’t? Think of it this way.” Pradeep leaned back, comfortable on his topic. “When someone succeeds or enjoys a freedom others secretly want, envy takes hold. People bury their own impulses under respectability. Then they lash out at anyone who seems to live out the desires they’ve suppressed. It’s their way of pretending they’re moral and others corrupt. Freud would call it projection.”

“I see fragments of truth in that,” said Sagar slowly. “Talking of this reminds me—there’s something worse happening at home.”

“Tell me.”

“My house has turned into a battlefield. Sumitra and I quarrel daily. She’s developed the most dreadful suspicions—mad, baseless things.”

“What sort of suspicions?”

“That every woman I speak to or even notice is my mistress. According to her, I’ve filled the town with them.”

Pradeep frowned. “Since when?”

“It began, I think, when Ravinder and his wife moved into the adjoining portion of our house. They married recently—charming people. Ravinder’s a good friend. His wife, Neeraja, is open and lively. I sometimes chat with her when we meet outside. That alone was enough. Sumitra accused me of having an affair with her. She’s even shouted such things loud enough for them to hear! I can hardly bear the shame. She also suspects my P.A., Sunita, and our servant Balamma, even the vegetable woman who sells greens at the gate. Her imagination knows no limits.”

Pradeep was silent for a while. Then he said gently, “This seems to be a deep psychological condition. Tell me something—was she like this when you first married?”

“She was reserved then too—quiet, distant. Never quite transparent. I’d say something lightly, and she’d twist it. Once I mentioned I liked the delicate figures Bapu draws, and she said, ‘So you dislike me because I’m not thin!’ I told her she wasn’t even plump. She replied, ‘You’re only saying that to please me.’”

Pradeep smiled faintly. “There you are. Insecurity runs deep in her. But carry on.”

“Lately I’ve begun to think along the lines you just spoke of,” Sagar said hesitantly. “When we hate something violently, perhaps it’s because we secretly desire it. I believe Sumitra’s behaviour stems from exactly that.”

Pradeep raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”

“She’s taken a fancy to Ravinder—the man next door. She doesn’t know it herself. That hidden attraction disgusts her, and the disgust turns outward—onto me. She despises herself but believes she despises me. It explains everything.”

“And what makes you sure she’s drawn to him?”

Sagar leaned forward. “Before they moved in, she once asked me, ‘Why don’t you grow a moustache? Why always clean-shaven?’ Ravinder’s thick, shining moustache suits his face splendidly. You see the connection? The man in her dreams—the one with the moustache who chases her—surely that’s him!”

Pradeep pondered for a moment, then nodded slowly. “It fits. But listen to me, Sagar—don’t turn this into a grudge against her. These urges work beneath consciousness. If you treat her with anger, she’ll break. You must help her see what’s happening gently, not accuse her of it.”

“And how am I supposed to make her see?”

“With patience. Preferably with a psychoanalyst’s help.”

“She’ll never agree. Once I suggested seeing a psychiatrist, she flew into a rage, shouting that I’d called her insane.”

“Then it must be handled with tact. Don’t confront her with talk of Ravinder. She’d take it as an insult to her virtue. You could tell her that such feelings aren’t sinful—that they occur in every human heart. Once she understands herself as part of nature, not apart from it, the torment will lessen.”

Sagar rubbed his eyes. “Thank you, Pradeep. Talking to you clarifies more than all my brooding. I’ll try patience and affection—no provocation this time.”

“Exactly. The worst thing now would be a quarrel that touches her pride. Wounded honour drives women to desperate extremes.”

Sagar nodded. “Right. No more losing my temper.”

“Good. I hope you’ll soon find peace at home,” said Pradeep, rising.

After his friend had gone, Sagar sat silent for a long time, the hum of office corridors faint and remote beyond his door.

~*~

That evening, around seven, he parked the car under the portico and went inside. Sumitra sat in the drawing room watching television.

“You’re home early,” she said at once, her tone edged with mockery.

He ignored it. “Is it such a crime to come home early? Let’s go to Vengal Rao Park for a while. It’s pleasant this time of evening.”

“Why this sudden kindness to a wretch like me?” she said. “Do I even deserve to sit beside you in public? Or is it your Sunita who’s to occupy that honour?”

“Sumitra, for heaven’s sake, stop speaking like this. Can’t we talk sensibly for once?”

“I’m only asking. Did Sunita come to the office today?”

“Forget Sunita. There’s nothing between us beyond office work. Get that nonsense out of your head. A change of air will do us good. Staring at these four walls all day makes anyone miserable. Come on—get ready. I’ll freshen up meanwhile.”

“Ah, so now I’m the woman who stares at walls and imagines things. Every word you say stabs me. You’ve begun to insult me with such sweet calm that I hardly notice the poison at first.”

He sighed. “I didn’t mean you in particular. If you felt hurt, forgive me. Please, get ready.”

“Forgive you? Wives hardly ever do that. But how grand of a clever man like you to seek pardon from a lunatic like me!”

“Oh dear God,” he muttered. “Even apologies offend you. Well, shall we go or not?”

“I’m not going anywhere. Leave me to my walls.”

“Please, Sumitra. Let’s go for a film instead—the second show. Did you see how happily Ravinder and Neeraja went last night?”

“You think everything they do is wonderful. When you like something, it glows; when you don’t, it rots.”

“Who said I don’t like you?”

“Must you even ask?”

He looked at her helplessly. “Forget it then. Tell me where you’d like to go—I’ll take you anywhere.”

“At last! After years, you remember I might have likes and dislikes of my own.”

“I’ve asked before; you never answered. Let’s just take a drive somewhere. Wear that blue silk saree you wore on our wedding day—you’ll look divine.”

“This sudden devotion—what’s it for? Think I don’t know which goddess you really adore?”

“The only woman who could ever be divine to me is you, Sumitra. Believe that. Let’s not quarrel tonight. It’s getting late—come, have a change.”

“You’re bursting with enthusiasm, aren’t you? Because your Sunita’s coming to the film, is she?”

He turned away, exasperated. “No matter how patient I am, you twist it into deceit.”

“Why pretend affection you don’t feel?”

“Because I thought you still had a heart,” he said sharply.

The sharpness jolted him. He told himself to hold his temper.

“Heart! You forget I’m not even human, remember?” She laughed bitterly. “A ghost, a fiend! Go on—strangle this demon and move in with your Sunitas and Neerajas.”

“Stop it. Those women belong to respectable families. It’s disgraceful to talk about them that way.”

“Oh, respectable—because you say so. But if I criticise you, that’s immoral. Men write the rules, don’t they?”

He clenched his fists. “Sumitra, I know now why you keep tormenting me. Why these endless accusations, this madness. I know.”

“What do you mean? Tell me.”

He hesitated. Pradeep’s warning echoed in his mind: Don’t confront her. Not yet.

“It’s nothing. Forget I spoke.”

“No, don’t hide it. If you don’t tell me, I’ll die this instant.” She stepped forward, urgency blazing in her eyes. “Tell me! Whatever it is!”

He could see her panic rising. If he refused to speak, she might indeed harm herself. He found himself trapped.

“All right,” he said quietly. “I’ll tell you. But listen calmly. You’ve done nothing wrong. You—without realising—developed a certain feeling. Because of that, you hate yourself, and that hatred you turn on me.”

“What feeling? Speak plainly!”

“A desire,” he said, lowering his voice. “You don’t know it, but you’ve grown drawn to Ravinder next door. You hate yourself for it and punish yourself—and me.”

She froze. Her face went white, eyes wide with horror.

“What did you say? That I, I have a desire for him?” Her voice rose to a shriek. “So I’m a whore now, am I? A woman fit for ashes? Then let it be ashes!”

Before he could move, she dashed for the kitchen. He stumbled after her, catching his foot on a stool, crashing to the floor.

She seized a tin of kerosene. “I brought it yesterday,” she cried. “I knew the day would come.”

“Sumitra—no!” he shouted.

Flames flared as she struck the match. In an instant, fire roared around her like a cloak.

“Sumitra!” he screamed. But his legs refused to obey him; pain shot through his ankle. He watched helplessly as the woman he had married dissolved in fire.

For a few seconds, the sight held him paralysed. The blaze filled the kitchen, the air thick with the acrid stench of burning flesh and cloth. He dragged himself forward on one knee, desperate to reach her, but the heat forced him back. Her cries tore through the house—then broke, then ceased.

By the time he managed to smother part of the flames with a blanket, it was too late. The fierce orange glow had collapsed into a dull red heap. A shape lay on the floor, scarcely recognisable.

He sank beside it, choking on the smoke, weeping without sound.

Neighbours rushed in, alarmed by the noise and smell. Ravinder broke open the still-hot door with a hammer. Neeraja screamed and turned away. They carried what was left of Sumitra to the hospital, but the doctor merely glanced once at her and shook his head.

“She was gone the moment the fire caught,” he said quietly.

~*~

The next few hours passed like fragments of an unending nightmare. Police questions, forms to sign, the cold metallic note of official sympathy—all blurred together. When at last he returned home, dawn was stealing through the curtains, staining the walls the colour of ash.

He walked through the silent rooms: the overturned stool, the tin of kerosene, half a cup of coffee on the table. A smell of something scorched clung to everything—the memory of a life.

He sat on the edge of the bed where she had lain each night after their quarrels, her pillow still bearing the faint trace of perfume. The stillness pressed on him until he thought it would crush him.

By evening, the house was filled with grieving relatives, whispering neighbours, and a priest muttering verses. The rituals went on automatically; his mind remained vacant. When the body, wrapped and garlanded, was carried out to the waiting ambulance, he followed numbly behind.

The flames at the cremation ground roared skyward. In their twisting light, he saw again her face—not distorted by rage this time, but calm, almost tender, as it had been before madness seized her. Though the heat drove everyone back, he stood until the last embers dulled to grey.

~*~

Days later, the house felt impossibly large. Every corner hinted at her voice. He no longer switched on the television. Instead, he would sit near the window and listen to the faint laughter from next door—Ravinder and Neeraja, still in their early, joyful marriage.

That laughter no longer stirred jealousy in him, only a slow, unbearable sadness.

He sometimes thought of what Pradeep had said—that hidden desires, unacknowledged, could twist and destroy a person. He wondered if Sumitra’s death had been punishment or release. Or perhaps simply the final proof that none of them—neither she, nor he, nor Ravinder—had ever truly understood what love demanded.

At the office, colleagues spoke softly in his presence. Sunita, back from leave, avoided his eyes. Pradeep visited one evening, but Sagar remained withdrawn, answering in monosyllables.

“She was ill, Sagar,” said Pradeep gently. “Don’t let guilt devour you. There are depths in the mind we cannot master.”

Sagar made no reply. He stared at the framed photograph on the table—the two of them on their wedding day, garlands bright, faces uncertain. He remembered her question from long ago: ‘Why don’t you grow a moustache?’

He reached up, touching his clean-shaven chin with faint surprise, as if the gesture itself might summon her ghost. Outside, twilight had turned the sky the colour of cold iron. Somewhere across the courtyard, Neeraja began to sing a film tune.

Her voice drifted through the half-open window—light, tremulous, alive. He listened without moving until the final note faded into darkness.

Then he rose, walked to the mirror above the dressing table, and looked into it.

The reflection stared back—tired eyes, unshaven jaw, a face he hardly recognised. For an instant, the blurred outline behind his own seemed to tremble—a woman’s shape, hair unbound, eyes full of reproach.

He blinked. The image was gone.

A gust of wind from the open window rattled the curtains. The room settled into silence once more.

He switched off the light.

---

“Image and Reflection” (titled in Telugu as “Bimbam – PratiBimbam”) by Ampasayya Naveen was published in the Telugu edition of The Sunday Indian in December?2009.

Translated into English by Rajeshwar Mittapalli.

Ampasayya Naveen is an accomplished author and Sahitya Akademi laureate who has to his credit more than 30 novels and 100 short stories in Telugu. The most well-known of his novels are Ampasayya, Antasravanti, Kalarekhalu, and Premaku Avali Teeram. He is a pioneer of the stream-of-consciousness mode of writing in Telugu. His fictional works have been widely translated, including into English. In recognition of his contribution to Telugu fiction, apart from the Sahitya Akademi Award, he was conferred at least two honorary doctorates by universities.