Desi Shots

  Mature content ahead 🟥   Hansika’s POV  "Jor se pair daba chhori, kuch seekha nahi hai kya?" Another day. Another taunt. Her voice—sharp and cold—cut through the silence of the early morning like a blade. I bit my lower lip and pressed my mother-in-law’s feet harder, trying not to flinch as the joints in my fingers ached.  The warm oil made her skin slick, but I kept massaging with both hands, slow and firm, just the way she demanded. She was seated on her old wooden chair, her eyes staring out into the courtyard like a queen surveying her empire. And me? I was the servant-wife, the bahu of the haveli, kneeling at her feet. In the past three days, I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve wiped the same floor, cooked endless meals, washed piles of clothes until my hands turned raw, and still, nothing seems enough.  Not a word of appreciation.  Not a hint of kindness. I smile weakly whenever she says something, though my heart feels heavier with each passing...

  Mature content ahead 🟥 Hansika’s POV "Halwa ache se bana. Sirf batein banani aati hai aur kuch nah," she snapped again, arms folded, her eyes scanning the kadhai as if searching for more flaws than sweetness. I kept stirring the halwa silently. The heavy steel spoon felt like a weapon in my bruised hands — a reminder of the night before. My legs were sore, aching with every step. My neck and arms had blue-red marks, still fresh from last night. A night that wasn’t soft, wasn’t gentle.  Morning barely broken when Mahendra shook me awake. "Uth ja. Aaj pehli rasoi hai teri, sab kuch time pe hona chahiye." I got up wordlessly. He, meanwhile, had curled back into bed like he hadn’t woken me at all. I had walked to the kitchen with slow steps. My back throbbed, and my head buzzed from the sleepless nights filled with loud rituals, heavy jewelry, unfamiliar faces, and endless instructions. All I wanted was sleep. But instead, I was chopping vegetables, boiling milk, ma...

Mature content ahead🟥   Hansika's pov  The village sky blushed with the colors of dusk as my wedding rituals went on in full swing.  The air smelled of marigold flowers and smoke from the havan. The entire courtyard of his house was lit with fairy lights and flickering diyas.  I sat quietly on the wooden chowki, dressed in a deep maroon lehenga embroidered with mirror work. The dupatta, edged with pearls, was pulled low over my face, covering even my trembling lips. Heavy gold jewelry weighed on my neck, ears, arms—each piece reminding me that I was no longer just a daughter, but someone’s bride now. Ma had been fussing around since morning, adjusting my dupatta every five minutes and wiping her eyes with the pallu of her saree when she thought no one was watching. My little brother stood behind me, confused, holding a packet of toffees in his hand, looking from me to the crowd, unsure why everyone was crying and laughing at the same time. Bauji stood at a corner, t...