Indian Aunty Stories: Lucknow's Sunita and Her Tenant

Indian Aunty Stories often begin with a secret, and this one began with an overheard conversation. Sunita was carrying a tray of tea toward the courtyard when she stopped dead outside Vikram's door. Through the thin wood she heard his voice, low and laughing, telling his friend on the phone, "My landlady aunty is the most beautiful woman in this whole lane, and she has no idea." The tray trembled in Sunita's hands, and tea sloshed against the rim of the cups.

Sunita was forty-one years old. She owned a large old house in a quiet Lucknow lane, with a courtyard full of potted plants and a terrace that caught the evening breeze. Her husband worked in Delhi and came home only on weekends. On weekdays the house belonged to Sunita, her plants, her books, and her tenant Vikram, who rented the two rooms on the ground floor.

Vikram was twenty-seven. He worked in a bank in Hazratganj and had moved to Lucknow six months earlier. He was tall, polite, and always helped Sunita carry heavy pots and fix leaking taps. He called her "aunty" with respect, but lately his eyes lingered a second too long whenever she passed him in the courtyard in her cotton saree.

Sunita stood outside his door for a full minute, listening. "No, I am serious," Vikram was saying. "She smiles and the whole house lights up. I think about her when I should be working." Sunita's face went hot. She was forty-one, a married woman, a landlady. She should have walked away. Instead she stood there, her heart hammering, until Vikram said goodbye and the room went quiet.

She knocked softly and pushed the door open with the tray. "Tea," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. Vikram looked up, startled, then smiled. "Aunty, you should not have troubled yourself." Sunita set the tray down. "It is no trouble," she said. Their fingers brushed as he took a cup, and neither of them pulled away quickly.

That evening Sunita sat on the terrace alone, thinking. She had been a good wife for eighteen years. She had never once looked at another man. But Vikram's words had opened a door in her mind, and now she could not close it. She thought about his hands fixing her tap, his shoulders under his shirt, the way he said her name when he thought no one was listening.

The next morning Vikram found her watering the plants in the courtyard. "Aunty, let me help," he said, taking the watering can from her. His hand covered hers for a moment. Sunita looked up at him. "Vikram," she said quietly, "did you mean what you said on the phone yesterday?" Vikram froze. His face turned red. "You heard?" he whispered.

"I heard," Sunita said. "And I have not been able to stop thinking about it." Vikram set the watering can down slowly. "Aunty, I am sorry, I should not have..." Sunita put a finger to his lips. "Do not apologise for telling the truth," she said. The courtyard was empty. The morning sun fell across the potted tulsi plant.

Vikram took her hand in both of his. "Sunita," he said, dropping the word aunty for the first time, "I have wanted to say it to your face for months." Sunita's breath caught. No one had said her name like that in years. She stepped closer. Vikram leaned down and kissed her forehead, then her cheek, then, very gently, her lips.

The kiss was soft at first, almost shy. Then Sunita kissed him back with a hunger that surprised them both. Her arms went around his neck. His hands settled on her waist. The watering can lay forgotten on the courtyard stones. When they finally pulled apart, both of them were breathing hard.

"Inside," Sunita whispered. "Not here, where anyone can see." Vikram followed her into her part of the house. She closed the door and bolted it. The living room was cool and dim, with curtains drawn against the morning sun. Sunita turned to him. "Are you sure?" she asked. Vikram nodded. "I have never been more sure."

He kissed her again, slower this time, his hands sliding over her saree. Sunita helped him unwrap the pleats, her fingers trembling slightly. The saree pooled at her feet. She stood before him in her blouse and petticoat, and Vikram looked at her as if she were something precious. "You are beautiful," he said.

Sunita unbuttoned his shirt. She ran her hands over his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin. Vikram unhooked her blouse and let it fall. He cupped her breasts in his hands, gently, reverently, then bent his head to kiss them. Sunita gasped and threaded her fingers through his hair.

"Vikram, the bedroom," she whispered. He lifted her easily and carried her through the doorway. He laid her on the bed and knelt before her. He slid her petticoat down and kissed her thighs, one by one, moving slowly upward. Sunita arched her back and gripped the bedsheet.

His tongue found her pussy and she cried out softly. He licked her slowly, teasing her, then faster, until her hips were rising off the bed. "Vikram, please," she begged. He slipped a finger inside her while his tongue kept working, and Sunita's body tightened around him.

She pulled him up and pushed him back onto the bed. She unzipped his trousers and took his hard cock in her hand. She stroked it slowly, watching his face. Then she took it into her mouth, her tongue swirling around the tip. Vikram groaned and gripped the sheets. "Sunita, you will kill me," he whispered.

She climbed over him and guided him inside her. The feeling made them both gasp. She moved slowly at first, savouring it, then faster, her breasts swaying above him. Vikram held her hips and thrust up to meet her. The bed creaked beneath them. Sunita threw her head back and moaned his name.

"Harder," she whispered. Vikram rolled her over and took control, driving into her deeply. Each thrust sent a shudder through her body. Her nails dug into his back. Her legs wrapped around his waist. The room filled with the sound of their breathing and the rhythmic slap of skin.

Sunita came with a cry that she muffled against his shoulder. Her body clenched around him again and again. Vikram thrust a few more times and came inside her with a groan. They collapsed together, sweating, tangled in the sheets, laughing softly in disbelief.

"I am forty-one," Sunita said, staring at the ceiling. "And I have never felt like this." Vikram kissed her shoulder. "Age is just a number, Sunita. You are the most desirable woman I have ever known." She turned and kissed him. "Then do not stop," she said.

That afternoon, while the lane was quiet, they made love again in the kitchen, Sunita bent over the counter, Vikram behind her, her saree bunched around her waist. It was quick and urgent and wonderful. Afterwards she cooked lunch with flushed cheeks, and Vikram ate every bite as if it were a feast.

In the following days, a new rhythm settled over the house. In the mornings Vikram left for the bank with a smile. In the evenings he came home to Sunita's cooking. And at night, after the lane grew quiet, he slipped into her room, and they explored each other like two people who had waited their whole lives for this.

One evening on the terrace, under the stars, Sunita lay in Vikram's arms. "What happens when my husband comes home on Friday?" she asked. Vikram was quiet for a moment. "Then we wait for Monday," he said. Sunita laughed. "You are a wicked boy." "Only for you," he said, and kissed her.

Friday came, and Sunita played the perfect wife. Her husband noticed nothing. He praised her cooking, asked about the house, and fell asleep early. Sunita lay awake beside him, thinking of Vikram sleeping just a few rooms away, and of Monday, when the house would be theirs again.

Monday morning, the moment her husband's taxi left, Sunita ran to Vikram's door. He opened it, laughing, and pulled her inside. They did not even make it to the bed. They made love against the door, then on the floor, then finally, breathless, on his narrow bed, like two teenagers who could not wait another second.

Weeks passed. The neighbours noticed nothing, except that Sunita seemed happier, younger, somehow glowing. The plants in her courtyard bloomed better than ever. Vikram fixed everything in the house with new enthusiasm. The secret lived between them, warm and safe, in the old Lucknow house.

One rainy evening, the power went out in the lane. Sunita lit candles all over the house. Vikram came to her room with a candle of his own. In the flickering light, they made love slowly, as if they had all the time in the world. The candlelight played across Sunita's skin, and Vikram kissed every shadow it made. Afterwards they sat on the terrace, watching the rain, wrapped in a single blanket.

Another time, Sunita surprised Vikram by waiting for him in his own rooms, wearing nothing but a thin nightdress. He came home tired from the bank and found her there, smiling. His tiredness vanished in a moment. He lifted her onto his desk, scattering papers, and took her there among his files and books. They laughed afterwards, picking up the papers from the floor, and Sunita helped him put his desk back in order.

On Sunita's birthday, Vikram cooked for her for the first time. It was a simple meal, slightly burnt at the edges, but Sunita said it was the best food she had ever eaten. After dinner, he gave her a small silver anklet. She wore it that night and nothing else, and danced for him slowly in the bedroom, laughing at her own shyness, until he pulled her down onto the bed.

One night Vikram said, "Sunita, I want to stay here forever. Not as a tenant." Sunita smiled and touched his face. "Then stay," she said. "The house has many rooms, and my heart has room for you." Vikram kissed her hand. "I overheard myself into trouble once," he said. "Best trouble of my life," Sunita whispered, and pulled him close.