While writing The Approved Affair, my mind constantly snagged on one specific, undeniable complication: the family. For all the intoxicating liberation that Aarti and Aditya experienced, they were still a couple living in a traditional Indian structure in the heart of Bangalore. As an author piecing together their reality from my quiet desk in Montreal, the logistics fascinated and terrified me.
I couldn't help myself. I interrogated Aarti endlessly during our calls. "What about Aditya's parents?" I asked. "You live in a society where elders miss nothing. Doesn't your mother-in-law or father-in-law question your absences?"
Aarti laughed softly. "My father-in-law is a man of strict routine, and my mother-in-law manages the household with an eagle eye. They know everything that happens in our Bangalore home. But because my relationship with Girish was entirely long-distance, we only met once or twice a year. The distance was actually our greatest shield. I didn't have to explain sudden afternoon absences or weird schedule changes. When I did leave, it was always for a major, meticulously planned event."
I pressed further. "But what about your son? Kids are incredibly perceptive. What happens when you go on those rare trips to see Girish?"
"Our son knows we go on trips," Aarti answered smoothly. "But because they only happened once or twice a year, he never doubted a thing. Most of the time, my in-laws and our son didn't have a clue that Girish was involved. We always had a watertight plan. Aditya is the one who excitedly tells them that Mummy is going on a wellness retreat or a work conference. Because Aditya handles the narrative with such casual joy, no one ever questions it."
She paused, a small, nostalgic smile touching her lips. "There were even times, when our son was younger, that we took him with us. Even then, we never let him know Girish was on the trip. During the day, we were just a normal family on vacation. I would only meet Girish during the night time, behind closed doors, while our son was safely asleep. And when we return home, the tension and desire between Aditya and me are undeniable, but to him, it just looks like his parents are profoundly in love."
"True freedom means mastering your boundaries. Aarti and Aditya didn't just protect their private passion. They fiercely protected the innocence of their home."
As an observer, my own viewpoint on this kind of relationship structure is mixed with awe and a profound awareness of the risks. Consensual Non-Monogamy (CNM) is like walking a tightrope without a net. One slipped schedule, one accidental text message, or one momentary lapse in judgment could invite catastrophic collateral damage into a child's life, especially in a traditional Indian society that would offer no grace or understanding.
Yet, I find myself deeply praising the sheer maturity with which Aarti and Aditya raised their child. They never allowed the intoxicating rush of their private awakening to erode their primary duty as parents. It takes a monumental level of emotional discipline to partition your soul like that—to be wild and untethered in the shadows, while providing a stable, utterly normal foundation in the light. It proved to me that their arrangement was never reckless. It was painstakingly and intentionally managed.
Have you ever had to hide a massive part of yourself to protect the structure of your family? If this emotional tightrope act resonates with you, I would deeply appreciate it if you left an honest review of The Approved Affair on Amazon.