The air in the old haveli room was thick with the scent of sandalwood incense and warm mustard oil. A single brass lamp flickered on the low teak table, casting long shadows across the red sandstone floor. Shamim sat cross-legged on the cotton mattress, back straight, chin lifted. Her maroon chiffon saree had already been unpinned and folded to one side; only the deep-navy velvet blouse remained, sleeves pushed high, the tiny gold buttons at the wrist undone.
Rohan knelt in front of her, sleeves of his kurta rolled to the elbows, a small copper bowl of steaming water between them. In it floated a new razor, a badger-hair brush, and a cake of almond-scented shaving soap the colour of old ivory.
“You’re really doing this,” he said, voice low, almost reverent.
Shamim’s gaze never left his face. “I said I would. Tonight.”
She had let her hair grow long again after the last time—past the shoulder blades, thick, blue-black waves that smelled faintly of jasmine oil even now. Rohan reached out slowly, as though touching something fragile and dangerous at the same time. His fingers sank into the heavy mass, lifted it away from her neck, and gathered it high on her crown. A single wooden comb appeared in his other hand. He began to part and section, working with the same deliberate care he used when he traced her collarbones with his tongue.
Each pass of the comb pulled a tiny, involuntary sigh from her lips.
When the top knot was secure, he took the scissors—long, sharp, barber’s shears—and paused, letting her see the open blades catch the lamplight.
“Last chance to keep the mane,” he murmured.
Shamim answered by tilting her head forward, offering the nape like a sacrifice.
The first snip sounded obscenely loud in the quiet room. A long rope of hair slid down her back, heavy as wet silk, and pooled on the mattress behind her. Another snip. Another. The weight disappeared in stages—shoulders suddenly bare, neck suddenly cool, the vulnerable skin behind her ears exposed to the night air for the first time in years.
When only stubble remained on her scalp, Rohan set the scissors aside. His breathing had changed; shallower, rougher. He dipped the brush, worked it against the soap until thick white lather bloomed, then began to paint her head.
Slow circles. Methodical. The bristles dragged across her sensitive scalp, raising gooseflesh that raced down her spine and tightened her nipples against the velvet. Shamim’s eyes fluttered closed. Every swirl of the brush felt like a tongue—broad, warm, insistent.
He lathered twice, letting the foam sit, letting the heat open her pores. Then the razor.
The first stroke was glacial. A long, smooth path from forehead to crown. The blade hissed faintly against skin; the lather peeled away in a perfect ribbon, revealing gleaming, naked scalp beneath. Rohan exhaled through his nose, hard, as though the sight punched the air out of him.
“Look at me,” he said.
Shamim opened her eyes. His pupils were blown wide. The second stroke followed—temple to temple, crossing the first in a pale X. Each pass exposed more of her. The curve of her skull, the faint blue veins beneath the skin, the small beauty mark just above her left ear that no one but him had ever seen uncovered.
Halfway through he paused to rinse the razor. When he returned, he leaned in so close she could feel the heat radiating from his chest. The next stroke went behind her ear, slow enough that she felt every millimetre of steel gliding over skin. A droplet of water—or perhaps foam—slid down the side of her neck and disappeared into the valley between her breasts. Rohan followed it with his eyes, then with his free hand: thumb tracing the path, spreading the wetness, pressing just hard enough to make her arch.
“You’re shaking,” he whispered.
“I know.”
When the head was finished—smooth as river stone, shining under the lamp—he set the razor down and reached for the smaller bowl he had prepared earlier. Fresh hot water, a drop of clove oil, a clean towel warmed on the copper chafing dish.
He wiped her scalp tenderly, almost religiously, then leaned in and pressed his lips to the centre of her crown. Open-mouthed. Lingering. The heat of his tongue against newly bare skin made Shamim gasp—sharp, helpless.
But he wasn’t done.
He guided her arms up, high, elbows bent, palms cradled behind her head. The motion lifted her breasts, pulled the blouse taut across them. Her underarms were already raised, offered, the soft dark hair there still untouched.
Rohan repeated the ritual.
Lather first—thick, warm, fragrant. He worked the brush in slow spirals until every hair was coated, until Shamim’s breathing turned ragged and her thighs pressed together beneath the saree petticoat.
The razor returned.
One careful stroke under the left arm—wrist to ribcage—then another, and another, until the skin was satin-smooth and glistening. He blew softly across the newly naked hollow; the cool stream of air made her whimper. The right side received the same unhurried worship. By the time he finished, Shamim’s arms trembled from holding the position, her nipples visible through the damp velvet, her pulse hammering visibly in her throat.
Rohan set the tools aside.
He didn’t speak. Instead he lowered her arms, pulled her forward by the waist until she straddled his lap on the mattress. His hands slid up—palms cupping her bare scalp, thumbs stroking the impossibly smooth curve behind her ears—then down again, tracing the freshly shaved hollows under her arms, feeling the heat and the faint tremor still running through her.
When he finally kissed her it was slow, filthy, consuming—tongue sliding against hers while his fingers kept mapping the new landscape of her body: naked head, naked underarms, naked vulnerability.
Shamim broke the kiss only long enough to whisper against his mouth,
“Touch me everywhere else now… while I’m still this bare.”
Rohan smiled—dark, hungry—and obeyed.