Unseen Gazes

The first time I noticed it, I wasn’t supposed to be looking.

I was on my terrace, fixing the water tank pipe. A simple job. A Sunday chore. The sun was a white-hot coin pressed against the sky, and the air smelled of fried fish from the Sharma household and the damp earth of the potted tulsi plants that lined every balcony in our society.

My society. A neat grid of identical white-washed houses with red-tiled roofs and small gardens where bougainvillea grew wild. A place where every family had been here for three generations, where everyone knew everyone’s business but pretended they didn’t. A pocket of old Delhi that had somehow survived the city’s rush toward glass towers and neon malls. We were a colony of tradition, bound by unspoken rules and the daily rhythm of temple bells and evening gossip.

And I was the odd one out. The bachelor. The lone man in a sea of families.

I’m twenty-eight. I work from home as a graphic designer, which means I’m always around. Always visible. Always available for a cup of chai, a quick favor, a chat about the rising price of vegetables. The women here call me “beta” and “bhaiya” and sometimes just “you” with a smile that says they’ve known me since I was a snot-nosed kid stealing mangoes from their trees.

But I’m not a kid anymore.

And they know it.

So there I was, on the terrace, wrench in hand, sweat dripping down my back. The pipe was old, rusted at the joint. I had to put my weight into it, one foot braced against the parapet wall. That’s when I saw her.

Neelam Bhabhi. My next-door neighbor.

She was on her terrace too, hanging clothes. A simple act. Mundane. But the way she moved made it something else. She bent to pick a wet sari from the basket, and her blouse rode up. A flash of skin. The curve of her lower back. She straightened, and the fabric of her saree clung to her hips like a second skin.

She was wearing a pale yellow cotton saree, the kind that’s almost transparent when the light hits it right. Her blouse was deep green, cut low at the back. Her hair was wet, freshly washed, falling in dark waves past her shoulders.

I looked away. I always looked away.

But the pipe needed fixing. And my eyes kept drifting back.

She saw me. Of course she saw me. Her hands paused on the clothesline. She smiled, that slow, knowing smile that had been driving me crazy for the last two years.

“Arre, Chotu,” she called out. “Pipe theek kar rahe ho?”

Chotu. Little one. A nickname from childhood that I’d never managed to shake. It was affectionate. It was also a reminder of my place. I was the younger brother. The one who could be teased, scolded, and indulged in equal measure.

“Haan, Bhabhi,” I said. “Raat ko leak ho raha tha.”

“Haan, humne bhi suna tha. Tapak tapak. Bahut aawaz aati thi.”

She said it casually, but her eyes held mine a beat too long. Then she turned back to her clothes, and I went back to my pipe. The wrench slipped. I cursed under my breath.

That was the pattern. A glance. A smile. A word that meant nothing and everything. And then I’d go back to my empty house, my silent dinner, my bed that felt too big for one person.

I finished the pipe. I washed my hands. I went downstairs.

The society was quiet now. The lunch hour. Everyone inside, curtains drawn against the heat. I could hear the faint hum of air conditioners, the clatter of dishes, a television playing an old film song. Normal sounds. Safe sounds.

I was about to unlock my door when I heard her voice.

“Chotu! Chai pee loge?”

Neelam Bhabhi was standing at her doorstep, one hand on the doorframe, the other holding a steel cup. She was smiling. She was always smiling.

“Aaiye na,” she said. “Abhi banayi hai.”

I should have said no. I should have made an excuse. I had work. I had a headache. I had anything.

But I didn’t.

I walked over.

Her house smelled like her. Like jasmine oil and cardamom and something warm and floral that I could never identify. The living room was neat, the sofa covered in a white cotton sheet, the TV playing a cooking show on mute. She gestured for me to sit.

“Aaram se betho,” she said. “Main leke aati hoon.”

She disappeared into the kitchen. I sat on the edge of the sofa, hands on my knees, trying not to look like I was waiting for something. The clock on the wall ticked. A ceiling fan circled lazily overhead.

She came back with two cups of chai. The steam curled up, carrying the scent of ginger and cardamom. She set the cups on the table and sat down next to me. Closer than she needed to.

“Kaisa hai tu?” she asked.

“Theek hoon, Bhabhi. Aap batao?”

“Hum to theek hain. Par tu akela akela kyun rehta hai? Shadi kyun nahi karta?”

The question again. The one every auntie in the society asked, but from Neelam Bhabhi, it felt different. More pointed. More personal.

“Abhi time nahi hai,” I said.

“Time nahi hai? Ya koi pasand nahi aayi?”

She was looking at me now, her head tilted, a strand of hair falling across her cheek. Her eyes were dark, almost black, and they held a glint that made my throat dry.

“Pasand to hai,” I said. “Par…”

“Par kya?”

She leaned forward. Her saree slipped. Not much. Just an inch. But it was enough. I could see the curve of her shoulder, the strap of her blouse.

“Par vo shayad mujhe pasand nahi karti,” I finished.

She laughed. A soft, musical sound that made my chest ache.

“Kaunsi ladki hai jo tujhe pasand nahi karegi? Tu itna achha hai. Itna seedha. Koi bhi ladki khush-kismat hogi jo tujhe paaye.”

She said it like she meant it. Like she was talking about someone else. But her eyes never left mine.

I took a sip of chai. It was too hot. It burned my tongue. I didn’t care.

“Bhabhi, aapke pati ji kahan hain?”

“Office gaye hain. Shaam tak aayenge.”

She said it casually, but there was a weight to the words. An invitation. Or a warning. I couldn’t tell which.

We sat in silence for a moment. The clock ticked. The fan circled. The chai cooled in my hands.

Then she stood up.

“Chalo, main aur chai leke aati hoon.”

She walked to the kitchen, and I watched her go. The sway of her hips. The way her saree clung to her curves. The way she paused at the doorway, looked back over her shoulder, and smiled.

I should have left. I should have made an excuse and walked out the door.

But I didn’t.

She came back with the chai. This time, she sat even closer. Her thigh brushed against mine. She didn’t move away.

“Bhabhi,” I said. My voice was hoarse.

“Haan?”

“Aap…”

“Kya?”

She was looking at me. Waiting. Her lips were parted. Her breath was warm.

I couldn’t say it. I couldn’t form the words.

She reached out and touched my hand. Her fingers were cool against my skin.

“Chotu,” she said. “Tu tension mat le. Sab theek hai.”

But nothing was theek. Nothing had been theek since I’d moved into this society, since I’d first seen her, since I’d first felt this pull that I couldn’t explain and couldn’t resist.

I pulled my hand away.

“Bhabhi, main chalta hoon.”

“Itni jaldi? Chai to pee lo.”

“Nahi, Bhabhi. Kaam hai.”

I stood up. She stood up too. She was close, too close. I could smell her perfume. I could see the pulse beating in her throat.

“Kal aana,” she said. “Phir se chai banayenge.”

I nodded. I couldn’t speak.

I walked out of her house, and the door clicked shut behind me. The air outside felt cooler, cleaner. I stood on the path, breathing hard, trying to steady my hands.

That was the first time.

It wouldn’t be the last.

---

The next day, I tried to avoid her. I stayed inside, worked on a project, ordered food online. But by evening, the walls were closing in. My apartment felt like a cage. I needed air.

I stepped out onto the balcony. The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. The society was coming alive. Kids playing cricket in the street. A group of aunties gossiping near the temple. The smell of rotis cooking on tandoors.

And there she was.

Neelam Bhabhi, standing on her balcony, watering her plants. She was wearing a blue saree today. Dark blue, like the night sky. Her blouse was white, and the pallu was draped loosely over her shoulder, almost slipping off.

She saw me. She smiled.

“Chotu! Aaj kaam nahi kiya?”

“Kiya, Bhabhi. Bas thoda fresh ho raha hoon.”

“Achha. Main bhi yahi kar rahi hoon. Bahut garmi hai.”

She poured water into a pot, and as she leaned forward, her saree slipped. Just a little. But enough that I could see the curve of her breast, the edge of her blouse.

She didn’t fix it.

She looked at me, and her smile widened.

“Kal chai nahi pi thi,” she said. “Aaj aaoge?”

I should have said no.

“Haan, Bhabhi. Aaunga.”

She nodded, satisfied, and turned back to her plants. I stood on my balcony, watching her, feeling the heat rise in my chest.

That evening, I went to her house again. Her husband was home this time. A tall, thin man with a kind face and a booming laugh. He greeted me warmly, offered me a drink, asked about my work. We talked for an hour about cricket and politics and the rising cost of living.

Neelam Bhabhi served us dinner. She moved around the table, refilling our plates, pouring water. Every time she leaned over, her saree gaped. Every time she bent down, her blouse rode up. Her husband didn’t notice. He was too busy talking.

But I noticed.

And she knew I noticed.

She caught my eye once, twice, three times. Each time, she smiled. A small, secret smile that said we shared something he didn’t know about.

I left early that night. I couldn’t stay.

---

The next day, I went to the market. I needed groceries, milk, bread. The usual things.

The market was crowded, as always. Stalls piled high with vegetables, the air thick with the smell of spices and exhaust fumes. I moved through the crowd, trying to get my shopping done quickly.

That’s when I saw her.

Shalini Bhabhi. From house number 12. She was standing at a vegetable stall, haggling with the vendor over the price of tomatoes. She was wearing a green salwar kameez, the dupatta slipping off her shoulder. Her hair was pulled back in a bun, and a few strands had escaped, framing her face.

She was beautiful. They were all beautiful.

She saw me and waved.

“Chotu! Idhar aao. Batao, aaj kal dikhte nahi ho?”

I walked over. “Kaam mein busy hoon, Bhabhi.”

“Kaam? Ya koi aur busy hai?”

She winked. I felt my face heat up.

“Bas aise hi,” I said.

“Achha. Chalo, mere saath chalo. Ghar tak chod do.”

She paid for her vegetables and handed me her bag. I carried it for her as we walked back to the society. She walked close to me, her shoulder brushing against mine.

“Tumhari Neelam Bhabhi se milte ho aaj kal?” she asked.

“Kabhi kabhi,” I said.

“Haan. Vo to bahut milti hai tumse. Sab kehte hain.”

There was a edge to her voice. Jealousy? Or just curiosity?

“Bas, chai peene ke liye bulati hain,” I said.

“Haan, chai. Aur kuch nahi?”

She looked at me, her eyes sharp. I didn’t answer.

We reached her house. She took the bag from me and smiled.

“Shukriya, Chotu. Kabhi mere ghar bhi aana. Main bhi achhi chai banati hoon.”

“Zaroor, Bhabhi.”

She went inside, and I stood there for a moment, feeling the weight of her words.

---

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about Neelam Bhabhi, Shalini Bhabhi, all of them. The way they looked at me. The way they touched me. The way they said my name.

It was a game. I knew it was a game. But I didn’t know the rules.

I got up and went to the kitchen for water. The house was silent. The street was silent. Even the dogs were quiet.

I was standing at the window, drinking water, when I saw movement outside. A shadow, moving across the street.

It was Neelam Bhabhi.

She was walking toward the temple, a small cloth bag in her hand. She was wearing a white nightgown, thin and loose. The moonlight filtered through it, showing the outline of her body.

She stopped at the temple gate. She turned and looked at my house. At my window. At me.

She raised her hand. A small wave.

Then she disappeared inside the temple.

I stood there, heart pounding, water glass forgotten in my hand.

What was she doing? Why was she out at this hour? And why had she looked at me?

I didn’t sleep that night.

---

The next morning, I was at the chai stall near the society gate. The old man who ran it, Ramu, knew me well. He poured me a cup without asking.

“Aaj kal bahut soch mein ho, beta,” he said.

“Haan, Ramu bhai. Thoda.”

“Ladkiyon ka soch rahe ho?”

I almost choked on my chai. “Kya?”

He laughed, a wheezing sound. “Main andha nahi hoon. Dekhta hoon. Sab dekhta hoon.”

“Kya dekhte ho?”

“Vo sab. Bhabhiyaan. Tumhari taraf dekhna. Tumhara unki taraf dekhna. Sab pata hai mujhe.”

I set down the cup. “Ramu bhai, aap kya keh rahe ho?”

“Main kuch nahi keh raha. Bas itna keh raha hoon ki dhyan rakhna. Yeh society chhoti hai. Sab ko sab pata hai.”

He walked away, leaving me with my chai and my thoughts.

I finished my chai and went back to my house. But I couldn’t focus. The words echoed in my head. Sab pata hai.

Did everyone know? Did they know what I felt? What I wanted?

I was sitting at my desk, staring at a blank screen, when there was a knock at the door.

I opened it.

Neelam Bhabhi was standing there. She was wearing a red saree today. Bright, bold red. Her blouse was black, and the pallu was draped in a way that showed off her midriff. Her navel was visible, a small, perfect circle.

“Chotu,” she said. “Mera TV kharab ho gaya hai. Dekh doge?”

“Bhabhi, main TV theek karna nahi jaanta.”

“Koshish to kar sakte ho. Aao na.”

She took my hand and pulled me toward her house. Her grip was warm, firm. I followed her like a dog on a leash.

Her house was empty. Her husband was at work. The TV was on, playing a soap opera. It wasn’t broken.

“Bhabhi, TV to theek hai,” I said.

“Haan. Main ne jhooth bola.”

She turned to face me. Her eyes were dark, intense.

“Tumse baat karni thi,” she said.

“Kya baat?”

She stepped closer. I stepped back. My back hit the wall.

“Tum mujhe pasand karte ho, na?”

My heart stopped. “Bhabhi…”

“Sach bolo. Pasand karte ho?”

I couldn’t lie. “Haan.”

She smiled. A slow, triumphant smile.

“Main bhi tumhe pasand karti hoon.”

She reached up and touched my face. Her fingers were warm, soft.

“Tumse kuch kehna hai,” she said. “Par pehle, ek kaam karo.”

“Kya?”

“Mera pallu theek karo. Gir raha hai.”

Her pallu was perfectly in place. But I reached up anyway. I touched the fabric, adjusted it over her shoulder. My fingers brushed against her skin. She shivered.

“Bas itna?” she whispered.

“Aur kya chahiye?”

She didn’t answer. She just looked at me, her lips parted, her breath warm on my face.

And then she kissed me.

It was soft at first. Gentle. A question. Then it deepened. Became urgent. Her hands tangled in my hair. My hands found her waist.

We broke apart, gasping.

“Bhabhi,” I said. “Aapke pati…”

“Unhe pata hai,” she said.

I froze. “Kya?”

“Unhe pata hai. Maine unhe bataya hai. Vo kehte hain ki jo tumhe achha lage, vo karo.”

I couldn’t process it. “Vo… vo theek hain?”

“Haan. Vo theek hain. Hum dono theek hain.”

She took my hand and led me to the bedroom.

I won’t describe what happened next. Some things are private. Some things are meant to stay between two people.

But I will say this: it changed everything.

---

After that day, everything was different.

Neelam Bhabhi and I had an arrangement. Her husband knew. He didn’t mind. In fact, he seemed relieved. Like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders.

But it wasn’t just Neelam Bhabhi.

Word spread. I don’t know how. Maybe she told them. Maybe they figured it out. But one by one, the other bhabhiyan started approaching me.

Shalini Bhabhi was next. She came to my house one evening, carrying a plate of sweets.

“Neelam ne bataya,” she said. “Mujhe bhi chahiye.”

Then came Priya Bhabhi. Then Anjali Bhabhi. Then Meera Bhabhi. Then Kavita Bhabhi.

Six of them. Six women, all married, all living in the same society. All of them wanting the same thing.

I became their secret. Their shared secret.

We had rules. No one outside the group could know. No one could see. We met in different houses, at different times. We were careful. Always careful.

But the game changed.

It started with Neelam Bhabhi. She wanted to be seen. Not by everyone. Just by me. She would stand at her window, naked, knowing I was watching from mine. She would walk around her house in nothing but a thin saree, the fabric clinging to her wet skin after a bath.

Then Shalini Bhabhi started doing it too. She would sunbathe on her terrace, wearing only a bikini, knowing I could see her from my window.

Then Priya Bhabhi. She would leave her curtains open while she changed, knowing I was watching.

They were showing off. For me. For each other. It became a competition. Who could be bolder. Who could be more daring.

And I was the audience.

I won’t pretend I didn’t enjoy it. I did. I loved it. The thrill of watching them, knowing they wanted me to watch. The danger of getting caught. The secret we all shared.

But it wasn’t enough.

They wanted more.

---

One evening, Neelam Bhabhi called me to her house. All six of them were there. They were sitting in a circle, drinking chai, laughing. When I walked in, they fell silent.

“Betho, Chotu,” Neelam Bhabhi said.

I sat down. The air was thick with tension.

“Humne kuch socha hai,” she said.

“Kya?”

“Hum chahte hain ki tum humein dekho. Sab ko. Ek saath.”

I stared at her. “Yahan? Abhi?”

“Nahi. Kal raat. Society ke park mein. Raat ke 12 baje. Sab log so jayenge. Tab.”

“Bhabhi, yeh bahut risky hai.”

“Haan. Par humein maza aata hai.”

She smiled. The others smiled too.

I looked at each of them. Their faces. Their bodies. The desire in their eyes.

“Theek hai,” I said. “Main aaunga.”

---

The next night, I waited until midnight. The society was dark. Silent. I slipped out of my house and walked to the park.

It was a small park. A few benches. A swing set. A slide. The moonlight filtered through the trees, casting long shadows.

They were already there.

All six of them. Standing in a circle, wearing only sarees. Thin, transparent sarees. The moonlight shone through the fabric, revealing everything.

Neelam Bhabhi stepped forward.

“Hum taiyar hain,” she said. “Kya tum taiyar ho?”

I nodded.

She reached up and let her saree fall to the ground.

The others did the same.

And then they began to dance.

Slow, sensual movements. Their bodies glistening in the moonlight. Their hips swaying. Their hands tracing patterns in the air.

I watched. I couldn’t look away.

This was what they wanted. To be seen. To be desired. To be worshipped.

And I worshipped them.

The night stretched on. Time lost meaning. There was only the moonlight, the shadows, and the six women moving like spirits in the dark.

When it was over, they dressed and left, one by one. Neelam Bhabhi was the last.

“Achha laga?” she asked.

“Haan.”

“Kal phir. Is baar, hum tumhe bhi dikhayenge.”

She kissed me and walked away.

I stood alone in the park, the moonlight on my skin, the memory of their bodies burned into my mind.

I knew this couldn’t last. I knew it would end badly. But I didn’t care.

I was theirs. And they were mine.

And that was all that mattered.