Fantasy Devika, a rich high class housewife, with angel heart

[prady12191]

-----------------

[prady12191]

--------------

[Fuckstar]

Hi Prady,

Why did you delete the previous updates of the story?

[Arul Pragasam]

Devika Nair or Devika Menon?

[prady12191]

----------------------

[prady12191]

-------------------------

[prady12191]

------------------

[prady12191]

-------------

[exbiixossip2]

hot update bro...

mast hai..

[exbiixossip2]

bas gif or pics nahin hai add kar diya kare

[Fuckstar]

Hi Prady,

How old is Devika Nair? How long has she been married to Radhakrishnan?

Also I wanted to point out that this story looks amazing but the last one was also very good. Still I don't understand why you stopped that story, deleted all the previous updates and gave it a fresh start.
Another thing please try not to over explain the weather or college ground, classroom tiles and all. This makes the update unnecessarily lengthy.....

Just my opinion although great story.....

[Lovepreet.saini]

Nice one

[prady12191]

Devika - The Begining

The silk of Devika's crimson saree caught the morning light filtering through her bedroom window, its gold border glimmering like a promise she wasn't sure she could keep. She folded it with practiced hands, laying it in her suitcase among the other carefully selected pieces of her life she would transport from Kerala to Pune. Her fingers lingered on the fabric, tracing the familiar pattern that reminded her of her mother's wedding saree – something old to accompany something new, this opportunity that was taking her far from the only home she had ever known.

The call from Pune University had come three weeks ago. Associate Professor position, Department of Biology. Her specialization in molecular genetics had finally yielded the fruit of advancement she'd been nurturing for years. The joy had bubbled up inside her like springwater, clear and sweet, until she remembered that accepting meant leaving behind the jasmine-scented air of her childhood home, the coconut palms that whispered secrets in the monsoon winds, and the familiar cadence of Malayalam that surrounded her like a lullaby.

Devika tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear and reached for her phone. Rajiv would be awake in Dubai by now. The screen lit up with his contact photo – three years old, from when he still smiled with his eyes. She pressed the call button and held her breath.

"Hello?" His voice came through distant, hollowed by poor connection or disinterest. She couldn't tell anymore.

"Rajiv, I wanted to update you about the position," she said, her voice carrying the lilt of her native Malayalam-accented English. "I'm leaving for Pune tomorrow."

"Hmm? Oh, yes. The teaching job." Papers rustled in the background. "That's good, Devika. Very good."

She waited for more – a question about her preparations, perhaps, or concern about her traveling alone. The silence stretched between them, a thin thread growing ever more tenuous.

"It's a significant move," she ventured. "First time I'll be living away from Kerala."

"You'll adapt. You're good at that." Something clattered on his end, followed by a muffled female voice asking a question. "Sorry, just a colleague with a report question."

Devika's fingers tightened around the phone. "The college has arranged an apartment for me. It's close to the campus."

"That's convenient." His voice carried the distracted tone she had grown accustomed to over the past year. "Listen, we're having a meeting in five minutes. Can we talk later?"

The familiar ache bloomed in her chest. "Of course. I just thought—"

"Great. I'll call when I can. Good luck with the move." A pause, then grudgingly: "I'm proud of you."

The call ended before she could respond. Devika stared at the dark screen, her reflection a ghostly overlay on the glass. The words "I'm proud of you" hung in the air, hollow as a dried gourd. Once, those words would have filled her with warmth. Now they felt like a perfunctory offering, something to placate rather than connect.

She set the phone down and returned to her packing, folding each saree with the precision that characterized her work in the laboratory. The methodical task calmed her, giving structure to the uncertainty that lay ahead. Kerala to Pune. Known to unknown. A husband who grew more distant with each passing month, despite the gold marriage chain that hung around her neck, a constant weight against her collarbone.

The woman's voice in the background of the call lingered in her mind. A colleague. Always a colleague. The doubt that had been germinating in the dark soil of their long-distance marriage sprouted another leaf.

"Professor Devika Nair," she said aloud to the empty room, testing how the title sounded in her own voice. At least in that, there was something solid to hold onto.

---

The train rocked gently as it cut through the changing landscape, carrying Devika farther from the verdant hills of Kerala into the drier terrain of the Deccan Plateau. She pressed her forehead against the window, watching as coconut groves gave way to scrubland, as though the earth itself was preparing her for transition.

The compartment smelled of stale curry and the sweet cardamom tea she had purchased from a vendor at the last station. Across from her, an elderly couple dozed, their heads tilted toward each other like quotation marks around an unspoken sentiment. Devika envied their easy proximity, the unconscious trust in their shared slumber.

Thirty-two years old and starting over. The thought carried both exhilaration and terror. Her doctoral research on cellular adaptation to environmental stressors seemed suddenly, ironically relevant to her own life. She had studied how cells transform to survive hostile conditions. Now she would do the same.

Night fell across the countryside like a silk shawl, transforming the window into a mirror. Devika studied her reflection – the dark eyes that her mother always said revealed too much, the gentle curve of her cheek, the slight furrow between her brows that had deepened over the past year. She looked like a woman on the precipice of something, though whether it was ascent or descent remained unclear.

Sleep came in fitful bursts, interrupted by the train's stops and the shuffle of passengers. By dawn, as the outskirts of Pune came into view, Devika felt wrung out, her body stiff and her mind foggy. She straightened her posture and rebraided her hair, securing it with practiced fingers. First impressions mattered. She would not arrive looking as displaced as she felt.

---

Pune assaulted her senses immediately. The station hummed with a chaotic energy that sent her heart racing – porters shouting over each other for business, food vendors calling out their offerings, the blare of announcements competing with the general din of humanity in motion. The air carried the tang of exhaust fumes mixed with cooking spices and something else – a bitter, acrid undertone that made her nose wrinkle.

As she maneuvered through the crowd, pulling her suitcase behind her, Devika became acutely aware of the stares following her. Her cream-colored Kerala saree with its simple gold border marked her as an outsider more clearly than any sign could have. Men's gazes lingered, some with curiosity, others with something that made her skin crawl. She tightened her grip on her luggage and quickened her pace.

Outside the station, the visual assault continued. Red-brown splashes marked walls and sidewalks – paan spittle, she realized with distaste. Groups of men lounged at corners, cigarettes dangling from lips, their conversation halting as she passed. One called out something in Marathi that she didn't understand, but the tone needed no translation. His companions laughed, eyes following her retreating form.

The auto-rickshaw driver overcharged her – she knew this without needing to ask – but she paid without argument, too exhausted to negotiate. As they wound through Pune's streets, the contrast with her hometown grew starker. Where Kerala had been a symphony of greens, Pune presented in dusty browns and grays, punctuated by the occasional bright sari or flowering tree that seemed almost defiant in its colorfulness.

"College area," the driver announced, gesturing vaguely as they entered a neighborhood with slightly wider streets and buildings that looked marginally more maintained. Students moved in clusters, their youthful energy a counterpoint to Devika's fatigue.

Her apartment building stood on a quiet side street – a three-story concrete structure with balconies too small to be useful but large enough to hang laundry. The driver helped her with her luggage, his earlier indifference softening slightly at her visible exhaustion.

"First time Pune?" he asked as she counted out the fare.

"Yes," she admitted. "First time away from Kerala, actually."

He nodded, a flicker of understanding crossing his weathered face. "Different here. Not bad, just different. You will see."

The apartment was spartan but clean – a living room that opened to a kitchenette, a bedroom barely large enough for the double bed it contained, and a bathroom with a temperamental-looking water heater. The walls were painted a pale yellow that had faded to the color of old paper. A small dining table with two chairs stood in one corner, its surface bearing the rings and scratches of previous occupants' lives.

Devika set her suitcase down and stood in the center of what was now her home, feeling the weight of silence pressing against her eardrums. She had never lived alone before – from her parents' home to her marriage, always surrounded by family. The solitude felt like a presence itself, watching her with curious eyes.

She unpacked methodically, arranging her sarees in the small wardrobe, placing her few personal items around the apartment in an attempt to mark it as her own. A framed photo of her parents on their thirtieth anniversary. A small brass Ganesha her mother had insisted she take for good fortune. Books that had been her companions through doctoral research and beyond.

No photos of Rajiv. She hadn't packed any.

---

[Fuckstar]

Please make up mind that what kind of story do you want to write..... This is the 4th time since you have changed the story and restarted it again..... And make Devika a bit younger..... 38 years is too much for a heroine.....

[prady12191]

The morning of her first day dawned bright and hot, the air already thick with humidity that promised a sweltering afternoon. Devika rose before her alarm, her body humming with nervous energy. She bathed in water that never quite reached the warmth she preferred, then stood before her wardrobe contemplating her choice of saree.

The deep blue Kanchipuram silk called to her – a gift from her mother when she earned her doctorate. Its border gleamed with intricate zari work, temples and peacocks rendered in gold thread that caught the light. Too ostentatious for a first day? Perhaps. But she needed the armor of beauty, the connection to home.

She dbangd the saree with practiced movements, pleating and tucking with precision, the muscle memory of years guiding her hands. Her mother's voice echoed in her mind – "A properly worn saree tells people who you are before you speak a word." The weight of the silk against her skin was comforting, a whisper of identity when everything else felt uncertain.

Her reflection showed Professor Devika Nair – composed, professional, the small bindi between her brows a perfect circle of vermilion, her hair swept into a neat bun at the nape of her neck. Only her eyes betrayed her, dark pools of apprehension that no amount of practiced confidence could disguise.

The college campus was a fifteen-minute walk from her apartment – another small mercy in this upheaval. The morning air carried the scent of jasmine from a vine climbing a nearby wall, a familiar note that steadied her breathing. Students streamed through the gates, their chatter creating a background hum that reminded her of data analytics – information being processed, connections forming and dissolving.

The administration building rose three stories, its architecture a blend of colonial influence and modern utilitarian design. Inside, a receptionist directed her to the Science Department on the second floor with a disinterested wave of her hand. Devika climbed the stairs, her heart keeping time with her footsteps, quickening as she approached the department office.

The door bore a nameplate: "Prof. S. Krishnamurthy, HOD – Biology Department." She smoothed her saree, took a steadying breath, and knocked.

"Come in, come in!" The voice from within carried an impatient edge.

She entered to find a man in his early fifties rising from behind a desk cluttered with papers and forgotten coffee cups. His remaining hair was gray and combed carefully over a prominent bald patch, his glasses gold-rimmed and sliding down his nose. What struck her immediately was the red stain at the corner of his mouth – paan juice that he had failed to wipe away – and the faint, sickly-sweet odor that accompanied it.

"Ah! You must be Dr. Nair. Welcome, welcome." He moved around the desk, his eyes performing a quick but thorough assessment that made her skin prickle. His gaze lingered on the curve where her saree blouse met her waist before returning to her face. "I am Seenu Krishnamurthy, Head of Department."

"Thank you for the opportunity, Professor Krishnamurthy." She kept her voice steady, professional, though her instinct was to step back from his advancing form. "I'm very pleased to join the faculty."

"Call me Seenu, please. We are all informal here." His smile revealed teeth stained from years of paan chewing, and his breath carried the distinctive aroma of betel nut and tobacco. "Such a pleasure to have someone of your caliber joining us. And from Kerala! Your reputation precedes you."

He gestured for her to sit, then perched on the edge of his desk rather than returning to his chair, a position that placed him uncomfortably close to her. "Your work on cellular adaptation to environmental stressors was most impressive. We rarely get such distinguished researchers interested in our humble institution."

"I was drawn to the department's focus on applied genetics," she said, keeping her gaze steady despite the discomfort crawling up her spine. "The opportunity to develop new research while teaching seemed ideal."

Seenu nodded, though something in his expression suggested her academic interests were not his primary concern. "You'll find our facilities adequate, though perhaps not what you're accustomed to. We make up for it in other ways – collegiality, community." He leaned slightly closer. "You're married, I see." His eyes flicked to the gold chain around her neck.

"Yes, my husband works in Dubai as a financial consultant." She kept her tone neutral, informational.

"Ah, so you're here alone." A statement, not a question. "That must be difficult. We must ensure you don't feel isolated."

Before she could respond, he glanced at his watch and straightened. "But let me show you to the staff room. Your colleagues are eager to meet you."

They walked down a corridor lined with classrooms, students parting before them like water around stones. Devika was acutely aware of Seenu's gaze on her back as she walked ahead of him, his eyes a physical weight between her shoulder blades.

"Our department has grown considerably in recent years," he said, his voice too close to her ear. "Though finding quality faculty is always a challenge. Most young people want corporate jobs these days – better pay, less responsibility."

The paan smell grew stronger as they walked, and Devika noticed dark red splashes on the floor near the walls – more evidence of the habit she found so distasteful. Her nose wrinkled involuntarily.

"Not a fan of paan, Dr. Nair?" Seenu asked, catching her expression. "It's quite the tradition here. Perhaps an acquired taste." He chuckled, a wet sound that made her spine stiffen.

"I'm simply not accustomed to it," she replied diplomatically.

The staff room door stood open, revealing a large space furnished with worn sofas and desks. Several men looked up as they entered, their conversations halting mid-sentence. Devika felt the weight of their collective gaze – evaluating, speculating, stripping away layers of her professional identity to focus on the woman beneath.

"Colleagues," Seenu announced with a proprietary air, "I present Dr. Devika Nair, our new Associate Professor of Molecular Biology. Dr. Nair comes to us from Kerala with an impressive research background."

The men rose, offering varying degrees of welcome. Most, Devika noted with growing discomfort, directed their attention to her saree-dbangd form rather than her face. One younger lecturer stared openly at the exposed midriff between her saree and blouse until an older colleague elbowed him.

"And here," Seenu continued, guiding Devika toward a corner where a woman sat marking papers, "is Professor Sharada Desai, our senior most faculty member and the department's institutional memory."

Sharada looked up, her sharp eyes taking in Devika through stylish glasses. Unlike the men, her assessment felt clinical rather than lecherous – no less invasive, but driven by different motivations. She was elegantly put together in a muted gray silk saree, her silver-streaked hair pulled into an immaculate bun, a single strand of pearls at her throat speaking of understated wealth.

"So you're the new blood," Sharada said, rising with fluid grace that belied her sixty-plus years. Her handshake was firm, her palm cool and dry against Devika's slightly damp one. "Sit with me. Let these men return to their important discussions of cricket scores."

The men laughed awkwardly, but dutifully drifted back to their previous positions. Seenu lingered, clearly reluctant to relinquish his claim on the new arrival.

"I'll leave you in capable hands, Dr. Nair," he finally said. "My door is always open should you need... anything at all." The pause was deliberate, laden with implication.

After he left, Sharada made a small sound of amused contempt. "Seenu has always fancied himself irresistible to new female faculty. You'll develop calluses to his attention soon enough."

Devika settled into the chair opposite Sharada, arranging her saree carefully. "Thank you for the welcome, Professor Desai."

"Sharada, please. We don't stand on ceremony here, despite what our esteemed HOD might prefer." She studied Devika with bird-like intensity. "Kerala to Pune is quite the cultural shift. What brings you so far from home?"

"The position itself," Devika replied. "The opportunity to establish new research while teaching."

"Hmm." Sharada's expression suggested she found this answer incomplete. "And your family? They supported this move?"

"My parents still live in Kerala. They're both retired teachers."

"And the husband whose chain you wear? He didn't mind you relocating alone?"

The directness of the question caught Devika off guard. "He works in Dubai. We're accustomed to separation."

Something flickered in Sharada's eyes – recognition, perhaps, or calculation. "Accustomed to, but not necessarily comfortable with, I imagine." She leaned forward slightly. "Marriage and career rarely follow parallel paths for women in our field. One must often choose which to nurture."

The observation hit uncomfortably close to the doubts that had plagued Devika's sleepless nights. Before she could formulate a response, Sharada continued.

"You'll find Pune different from Kerala in ways both obvious and subtle. The students here are... less disciplined than you might be accustomed to. The men, as you've already witnessed, are less subtle in their appreciation." She gestured toward the male faculty members, who occasionally glanced in their direction. "But there are compensations. Freedom has its own flavor."

"Freedom?" Devika repeated, uncertain of Sharada's meaning.

The older woman's smile contained secrets. "Distance creates space for growth, Dr. Nair. Away from the watchful eyes of family and community, one can explore aspects of oneself previously kept dormant." She patted Devika's hand, her fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary. "We should have tea sometime. I know all the finest places in Pune – the real Pune, not just the university bubble."

Devika found herself nodding, drawn to Sharada's confidence despite an instinctive wariness. "I'd like that. It would be good to have a guide."

"Excellent." Sharada's smile deepened. "I think we'll become fast friends, you and I. Every transplant needs someone to help them take root in new soil."

As faculty members began filtering in for the morning meeting, Devika felt herself suspended between worlds – Kerala behind her, Pune unfolding before her, and these new colleagues circling like curious fish around a foreign object in their waters. Seenu watched her from across the room, his gaze a persistent pressure. Sharada observed her reactions with analytical interest.

The weight of the marriage chain around her neck seemed suddenly heavier, a tether to a connection growing more tenuous by the day. For the first time, Devika wondered if distance might indeed create not just space for growth, but space for fundamental change – cellular adaptation at its most profound.

[prady12191]

Please make up mind that what kind of story do you want to write..... This is the 4th time since you have changed the story and restarted it again..... And make Devika a bit younger..... 38 years is too much for a heroine.....

corrected

[prady12191]

The corridor outside the Science Department reeked of cheap cologne and forbidden substances, a pungent cocktail that seemed to cling to Vishnu Patil's leather jacket despite the morning heat. He leaned against the wall, a cigarette dangling from his lips, as Pathan Khan scrolled through his phone with the casual disinterest of someone who knew his future required no academic credentials. The students flowing past gave them a wide berth, eyes averted – not from fear exactly, but from the instinctive recognition that these two operated by different rules than the rest of the university population.

"Got three new clients from the Engineering block," Vishnu muttered, flicking ash onto the polished floor. "First-years. Rich kids with daddy's money burning holes in their pockets."

Pathan's lips curled into a smirk, his thumbs still dancing across his phone screen. "How much did you charge them?"



"Double the usual. Told them it was premium quality, imported from Manali." Vishnu chuckled, the sound low and rough. "It's the same shit we always sell, but these idiots wouldn't know good ganja if it slapped them in the face."

"Smart business." Pathan finally looked up, dark eyes gleaming with amusement. "Speaking of business, that video we took at Rajesh's party last month? The one with those two girls from Commerce?"

Vishnu straightened, suddenly interested. "What about it?"



"Uploaded it to our private channel yesterday. Already got twenty-five subscriptions." Pathan turned his phone to show Vishnu the screen. "Five thousand each. Not bad for one night's work."

Vishnu's eyes narrowed as he studied the numbers. "Did you blur their faces like I told you? Last thing we need is—"

"Relax, yaar. I'm not an amateur." Pathan swiped the screen, revealing a thumbnail of a video with strategically pixelated areas. "Besides, they were so drunk they probably don't remember half of it. And if they come asking questions..." His smile hardened. "Well, my father knows people."

The unspoken threat hung between them, a shared understanding of the protection their status afforded them. Vishnu nodded, satisfied. The conversation lulled as a group of giggling first-year girls passed by, their eyes darting toward the two men before quickly looking away, their whispers growing louder once they thought they were out of earshot.

"Did you see them?" Pathan chuckled. "Always the same. They act scared, but they're curious. They want a taste of danger."


"Speaking of taste—" Vishnu began, but his words died in his throat as the corridor suddenly seemed to still.

She moved like water flowing over smooth stones, graceful and purposeful. The woman's deep blue saree caught the fluorescent lights, the gold border shimmering with each step. Her face—set in serious lines of concentration—bore the distinct features of South Indian beauty: large, expressive eyes framed by arched brows, high cheekbones, and full lips pressed into a determined line. Her hair was pulled back into a severe bun, not a strand out of place, the traditional styling only enhancing the elegant curve of her neck.

"Holy shit," Pathan breathed, his phone forgotten in his suddenly slack grip. "Who is that?"

Vishnu couldn't answer. His cigarette hung from his bottom lip, the ash growing dangerously long as he stared. She wasn't young—maybe early thirties—but her beauty carried the weight of maturity, like aged wine compared to the sweet juice of the college girls they usually pursued. Her figure, modestly dbangd in silk, nonetheless revealed curves that made his mouth go dry.

As she passed them, the scent of jasmine and sandalwood drifted in her wake, a stark contrast to the harsh smells that typically permeated the corridor. Her eyes flicked briefly in their direction, a moment of acknowledgment without interest, before returning to her path forward.

"Did you see how she looked at us?" Pathan whispered, though she was already several meters away.

"She didn't look at us, bhenchod," Vishnu muttered, finally remembering to tap his cigarette. "She looked through us."

"No woman looks through me," Pathan replied, his voice hardening with wounded pride. He straightened his designer shirt, a movement that reminded Vishnu of a peacock ruffling its feathers. "Who is she? I've never seen her before."

Vishnu was already scanning the corridor for a familiar face. He spotted Anand from their class, a nervous, bespectacled boy who somehow always knew the latest campus gossip despite barely speaking to anyone.

"Anand!" Vishnu called, his voice causing the smaller student to jump visibly. "Come here."

Anand approached with the reluctance of prey approaching a predator, clutching his books to his chest like a shield. "Y-yes, Vishnu?"

"That woman who just walked by. The one in the blue saree. Who is she?"

Anand's eyes widened in recognition. "Oh! That's the new professor. Dr. Devika Nair. She's from Kerala. Just joined yesterday. She's supposed to teach us Biology this semester."

Pathan's eyebrows shot up, and he exchanged a look with Vishnu that contained equal parts surprise and delight.

"Biology, huh?" A slow smile spread across Pathan's face. "I think I might actually attend class for once."

"Is she married?" Vishnu asked, ignoring Anand's increasingly uncomfortable expression.

"I think so. I heard she wears a marriage chain, but her husband is abroad or something." Anand shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "Professor Krishnamurthy introduced her at the department meeting yesterday."

"Interesting." Vishnu took a final drag from his cigarette before grinding it under his heel. "Very interesting."

"Can I... can I go now?" Anand asked, already inching away.

Pathan waved him off dismissively, turning back to Vishnu with a predatory gleam in his eyes. "A beautiful woman, far from home, husband conveniently out of the picture. This semester just got a lot more entertaining."

"Don't get ahead of yourself," Vishnu cautioned, though his own mind was racing with similar thoughts. "Let's see what she's like first."

"I'm telling you, these South Indian women..." Pathan's voice dropped lower, a mixture of crude stereotypes and vulgar speculation spilling from his lips as they began walking toward the classroom. "Under all that conservative clothing and proper behavior, they're just waiting for someone to—"

"Save it for after class," Vishnu cut in as they approached the Biology laboratory. "I want to see if Dr. Devika Nair lives up to her first impression."

The laboratory was already half-full when they entered, students settling into their usual groups. Vishnu noted with satisfaction that the two seats at the back corner were still unoccupied – their traditional territory, respected by the rest of the class through unspoken agreement. They slouched into the chairs, Pathan immediately sprawling his legs into the aisle while Vishnu leaned back, balancing the chair on its rear legs.

The chatter in the room died down as Dr. Nair entered, carrying a stack of papers and a worn leather satchel. Up close, she was even more striking. The fluorescent lights caught the subtle flecks of gray at her temples, and Vishnu found himself fascinated by the contrast of the silver against her otherwise jet-black hair. Her movements were precise as she arranged her materials on the desk, each gesture economical and purposeful.

"Good morning," she began, her voice carrying a melodic lilt that marked her as non-native to Maharashtra. "I am Dr. Devika Nair, your new Associate Professor for Molecular Biology. I've recently joined the faculty from Kerala, where I completed my doctoral research on cellular adaptation to environmental stressors."



She paused, her eyes scanning the room, taking in the various faces before her. When her gaze passed over Vishnu and Pathan, he felt a strange tightening in his chest, as though he'd been caught doing something shameful. The feeling was unfamiliar and quickly replaced by his usual bravado.



"Before we begin our syllabus, I thought it might be beneficial for us to get acquainted," she continued. "So I'd like each of you to introduce yourself briefly – your name, your academic interests, and perhaps something about why you chose biology as your field of study."

A collective groan rippled through the class, quickly stifled when Devika raised an eyebrow. She pointed to a student in the front row, and the introductions began.

As the ritual moved through the rows, Vishnu observed Dr. Nair's reactions. She nodded encouragingly at each student, occasionally asking a follow-up question that revealed she was genuinely listening. It was a stark contrast to most professors who went through such exercises mechanically, already forgetting each name as they moved to the next student.

When the introductions reached Pathan, he straightened in his seat, smoothing his hair back with one hand in a practiced gesture that Vishnu had seen him use countless times when approaching women at parties.

"I am Pathan Khan," he announced, his voice deliberately deeper than usual. "My family runs several businesses in Pune. My academic interests..." He paused, a rehearsed hesitation. "I find the study of human biology particularly fascinating, especially..." His eyes fixed on Devika with unmistakable intent, "...reproductive systems."



A few snickers rippled through the class. Vishnu watched Dr. Nair's reaction carefully. Her expression remained neutral, though he thought he detected a slight tightening around her eyes.

"And why did you choose biology, Mr. Khan?" she asked, her tone professional but cooler than it had been with the previous students.

Pathan's smile widened. "I believe understanding the body is essential to living a... fulfilled life."
More snickers, louder this time. Dr. Nair's posture stiffened slightly, but she maintained her composure.

"I see. Thank you for your candor." She moved her gaze to Vishnu. "And you?"

Vishnu felt an unexpected urge to distance himself from Pathan's crude approach. "Vishnu Patil," he said simply. "My family recently invested in pharmaceutical manufacturing, so I'm here to learn the scientific side of the business." It wasn't entirely untrue – his father had indeed purchased shares in a pharmaceutical company, though Vishnu had no real interest in it.

"An applied approach," Dr. Nair nodded. "Any particular area of pharmaceuticals that interests you?"

The question caught him off guard. Most professors never bothered with follow-ups for him, assuming (correctly) that his academic interests were minimal. "I, uh, haven't decided yet. Probably something profitable."

This earned a genuine laugh from several classmates, and to his surprise, a small smile from Dr. Nair as well. The smile transformed her face, softening the professional mask and revealing a warmth that made Vishnu sit up straighter.

"Honesty is appreciated, Mr. Patil. Though I hope by the end of this course, you might find value in biology beyond just its profit potential."

With the introductions complete, Dr. Nair launched into an overview of the semester's curriculum. Her teaching style was engaging – she spoke with passion about molecular structures and cellular functions, making connections to real-world applications that even Vishnu found himself following with unexpected interest.

"The cell membrane," she explained, drawing a quick diagram on the whiteboard, "isn't simply a barrier. It's a sophisticated filter, constantly making decisions about what to allow in and what to keep out. It adapts to its environment, strengthening against threats, remaining permeable to nutrients."

Her hands moved as she spoke, graceful gestures that emphasized her points. The gold bangles on her wrist clinked softly, a delicate counterpoint to her authoritative voice.

Pathan leaned close to Vishnu's ear. "I'd like to test the permeability of her membrane," he whispered, his breath hot and reeking of paan.

Vishnu elbowed him hard in the ribs, not because he was offended by the crudeness – he'd said worse himself on many occasions – but because he was actually trying to listen. Something about the way Dr. Nair explained complex concepts made them seem accessible, almost intuitive.

"...which brings us to the concept of osmotic pressure," she continued, unaware of the exchange. "Can anyone explain why a cell might rupture when placed in a hypotonic solution?"

Several hands went up, none belonging to either Vishnu or Pathan. Dr. Nair called on a girl in the second row, who gave a textbook-perfect answer. Vishnu found himself watching Dr. Nair's face as she listened – the slight nod, the approving smile, the way her eyes lit up at a particularly insightful comment.

"Excellent explanation, Ms. Sharma. Now, let's consider the reverse scenario..."

The class continued this way, with Dr. Nair alternating between lecture and discussion. Vishnu noticed that she had a habit of tucking stray hairs behind her ear when she was thinking, a small, human gesture that contrasted with her otherwise polished presentation. Once, when she bent to retrieve a dropped marker, the silk of her saree pulled taut across her hips for a brief moment before she straightened, adjusting the fabric with practiced hands.

Pathan noticed too. His eyes never left her figure, tracking her movements around the classroom with the focused attention of a predator. Occasionally he would scribble something in his notebook and slide it toward Vishnu – crude drawings and cruder comments that would have made even their male friends uncomfortable.

As the class neared its end, Dr. Nair assigned reading for the next session and invited questions. The genuine interest she showed in student queries was another departure from what Vishnu was accustomed to. Most professors treated questions as annoyances to be dispatched as quickly as possible, but she engaged thoughtfully with each one, building on students' curiosity rather than shutting it down.

When the bell finally rang, there was none of the usual mad rush for the door. Students gathered their belongings at a normal pace, several lingering to ask Dr. Nair additional questions. Vishnu and Pathan remained in their seats, observing.

"I never thought I'd say this," Pathan muttered, "but I might actually read the textbook for once."

"You won't read shit," Vishnu replied, knowing his friend too well. "You'll just come to class to stare at her ass."

Pathan grinned, not bothering to deny it. "Can you blame me? Did you see how that saree hugs her curves? And those eyes, man. I bet she's wild beneath all that proper professor exterior."

Vishnu said nothing, watching as Dr. Nair patiently explained something to a student, her hands moving in those same graceful gestures that had captured his attention throughout the lecture. There was something compelling about her that went beyond physical attraction, though he wasn't about to admit that to Pathan.

"I'm telling you," Pathan continued as they finally rose to leave, "these Kerala women are like pressure cookers – all that heat contained under a tight lid. They just need someone to release the valve." He made an obscene gesture with his hand.

"You're disgusting," Vishnu said, though he laughed. "Besides, she's way out of your league. Did you see how she looked at you when you made that comment about 'reproductive systems'? She saw right through your bullshit."

"It's all part of the game," Pathan insisted as they stepped into the corridor. "First, you make them notice you, even if it's negative. Then you switch tactics, show them you can be serious. The contrast intrigues them."

"Is that what you call it? Because from where I was sitting, she looked more disgusted than intrigued."

They continued down the hallway, their voices echoing off the walls as they discussed Dr. Nair in increasingly explicit terms. Other students gave them a wide berth, as usual, but Vishnu noticed several disapproving glances thrown their way – particularly from female classmates who had overheard their comments.

"Bet you fifty thousand rupees I can get her to go out with me before the end of the semester," Pathan declared as they pushed through the doors to the courtyard.

Vishnu snorted. "You're delusional. She's married."

"Married to some guy in Dubai who probably hasn't touched her in months." Pathan tapped his temple. "Trust me, I know these things. Women have needs."

"Whatever, man." Vishnu lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply. The image of Dr. Nair explaining cellular adaptation lingered in his mind, her voice clear and passionate. For a brief moment, he felt an unfamiliar twinge of something like respect, quickly buried beneath the weight of his usual cynicism. "May the best man win."

Pathan grinned, misinterpreting Vishnu's words as acceptance of competition rather than dismissal. "That would be me, my friend. That would be me."

They settled onto their usual bench beneath a banyan tree, the smoke from Vishnu's cigarette curling upward through the humid air. In the distance, through the open windows of the Science building, they could see Dr. Devika Nair gathering her materials, unaware of the predatory eyes tracking her movements, unaware of the crude wager just made with her dignity as the prize.

[prady12191]

Pathan's lighter clicked three times before the flame caught, illuminating the hollow beneath the stairwell where he and Vishnu had taken refuge from the afternoon supervision rounds. The smoke from his cigarette curled up into the dusty air, dissipating into the smell of chalk and sweat that permeated the college's forgotten corners. His silver tooth caught the dim light as he exhaled, eyes narrowed in concentration. Beside him, Vishnu traced patterns in the dust with his shoe, both of them replaying the way Professor Devika's saree had clung to her curves as she wrote formulas on the whiteboard that morning.

"I can't concentrate in her class," Vishnu confessed, his voice low and rough at the edges. "Yesterday, she bent over to pick up that marker, and I forgot my own name."

Pathan nodded, taking another drag. "We need a strategy. A proper plan." His voice had the calm certainty of someone who had charmed his way out of multiple suspensions. "Women like her don't just fall into your lap."

"She's married," Vishnu reminded him, though the observation lacked conviction.

"Married to a ghost," Pathan replied. "Have you seen him? Has anyone? For all we know, he's some banker in Dubai who hasn't touched her in months." He tapped ash onto the floor. "Women have needs, Vishu. Even professors with PhDs."

The heat pressed in around them, thick and unrelenting. Through a small window near the ceiling, they could see a sliver of the quadrangle where students moved in lazy patterns between classes. Vishnu closed his eyes, imagining Devika in her cream-and-maroon saree, the way her voice carried across the laboratory, both soft and sharp at once.

"So what's the plan?" Vishnu asked, turning to face his friend. "We can't just walk up to her and say, 'Excuse me, ma'am, but we'd like to corrupt you.'"

Pathan's laugh was smoke and silver. "No, but we can make her notice us. Make her see us as men, not just students." He crushed his cigarette beneath his shoe. "First, we excel in her class. Show her we're not just slackers. Women like her respect intelligence."

"And after that?"

"Then we create situations. Opportunities for conversation outside of class. Maybe offer to help her carry books, or stay after to clean the lab equipment." Pathan's eyes gleamed with calculation. "Trust me, Vishu. I've studied women since I was twelve. They all want the same thing—to feel special, to feel seen."

Vishnu nodded, not entirely convinced but willing to follow Pathan's lead, as he always had.

"Tomorrow," Pathan said, standing up and brushing dust from his jeans, "we become model students."

The next day, they arrived early to Biology lab, having actually completed the assigned reading—a first in their academic careers. Vishnu had even shaved and put on a clean shirt, a pale blue button-down his mother had bought him for his cousin's wedding. Pathan wore a pressed white shirt and had slicked his hair back with extra gel, the scent of which mixed uneasily with the formaldehyde lingering in the lab air.

Devika arrived five minutes after the bell, a stack of papers balanced against her hip, her hair braided more severely than usual. Today's saree was a deep forest green with a thin gold border, dbangd with the same meticulous precision that characterized everything she did. She paused when she saw them, clearly surprised to find students already seated and ready.

"Good morning," she said, setting her papers on the desk. "You're... eager today."

"We completed the reading, ma'am," Pathan announced, his voice pitched to carry just the right note of enthusiasm. "Chapter four on cellular respiration. Fascinating stuff."

A flicker of suspicion crossed Devika's face, but she nodded. "I'm glad to hear it. Perhaps you can explain the Krebs cycle to the class when they arrive."

Pathan's smile faltered. He hadn't expected to be called upon so directly, having skimmed rather than truly read the chapter. "Ah, yes. The Krebs cycle. Definitely... cycles."

Vishnu jumped in. "It's about energy production, right, ma'am? The conversion of, um, food into ATP." He'd stayed up until 2 a.m. watching YouTube videos on the topic, determined not to embarrass himself.

Devika raised an eyebrow. "That's a very simplified version, Mr. Patil, but essentially correct." She turned to the whiteboard, and Pathan shot Vishnu a grateful look.

As class began and other students trickled in, Pathan and Vishnu competed to answer questions, their hands shooting up for even the most basic inquiries. Pathan managed to cobble together a semi-coherent explanation of cellular respiration, while Vishnu correctly identified all the parts of a mitochondrion on the projected diagram.

But their newfound academic enthusiasm wasn't having the desired effect. Devika acknowledged their answers with professional politeness, but there was no spark of interest, no moment of connection. If anything, she seemed more guarded than usual, her explanations shorter, her movements more contained.

By the end of class, both boys were deflated. As they packed up their notebooks, Pathan muttered, "Plan B. We need to catch her attention outside the classroom."

"How?" Vishnu asked, watching Devika erase the board with quick, precise strokes.

"You'll see. Meet me at the lab tomorrow, fifteen minutes before class."

The next day found them hovering outside the biology lab well before anyone else would arrive. Pathan carried a small bouquet of marigolds, stolen from the campus garden. "You take these," he instructed Vishnu, "and leave them on her desk with a note."

"What note?" Vishnu asked, suddenly panicked.

Pathan produced a folded piece of paper from his pocket. "I wrote it for you. It says, 'Your teaching inspires us. Thank you for opening our minds to the wonders of biology.' Signed, 'Your dedicated students.'"

"That's... actually not terrible," Vishnu admitted, taking the note and flowers.

"I told you, I understand women," Pathan replied with a wink. "Now hurry, before anyone sees."

Vishnu slipped into the empty lab, placed the flowers and note on Devika's desk, and rejoined Pathan in the corridor. They waited around the corner, peering occasionally to see if she had arrived.

When Devika finally appeared, she entered the lab, then emerged moments later with the flowers in one hand and the note in the other. Her expression was troubled as she looked up and down the corridor. Then, with a sigh, she walked directly to the rubbish bin at the end of the hall and dropped both items in.

"Fuck," Pathan whispered, watching their offering disappear. "She didn't even keep them."

Vishnu felt a twist of embarrassment in his gut. "Maybe anonymous gifts are too creepy."

"Or maybe we need to be bolder," Pathan replied, though his usual confidence had dimmed.

Their third attempt was Vishnu's idea. He had noticed that Devika always carried a heavy bag of books and papers between her classes. "We offer to help her, show her we're gentlemen," he suggested.

The opportunity came two days later, as they spotted her struggling with an armful of lab manuals while trying to unlock her office door. They approached casually, Pathan leading the way.

"Let us help you with those, ma'am," he offered, reaching for the stack before she could respond.

Devika stepped back, clutching the manuals closer. "That's not necessary, thank you."

"It's no trouble," Vishnu insisted, moving to take her bag. "We were heading this way anyway."

She fixed them with a look that froze them in place. "Mr. Khan, Mr. Patil, I appreciate the sudden interest in being helpful, but I'm perfectly capable of carrying my own materials." Her voice was polite but firm, leaving no room for argument. "If you're genuinely interested in assisting, you might consider actually completing your lab reports on time."

With that, she managed to unlock her door, step inside, and close it behind her, all while maintaining her grip on the manuals. Through the frosted glass, they could see her shadow moving away from them.

Pathan cursed under his breath. "This isn't working. She's too... professional."

Vishnu leaned against the wall, deflated. "Maybe we should give up. Find some first-year girls who are easier to impress."

"No," Pathan replied, a stubborn edge to his voice. "I don't give up. We just need leverage, something that changes the game."

But after three failures, both boys retreated to lick their wounds. The weekend arrived with no new plan in sight, their conversations turning to other matters—the upcoming cricket match, a new shipment of weed from Karad, the flash drives still unsold in Pathan's drawer.

Sunday found them at the Satara market, not for any particular purpose but because the college dormitories became unbearable in the afternoon heat. The market was a maze of narrow lanes crowded with vendors selling everything from brass cooking pots to fake Nike shoes. The air smelled of frying jalebi and incense, punctuated by the calls of hawkers and the occasional bleat of a goat tethered to a post.

Vishnu paused at a stall selling bootleg DVDs, flipping through titles while Pathan haggled with a man selling knockoff sunglasses. The crowd parted momentarily, and through the gap, Vishnu spotted a familiar figure across the way—Professor Sharada, her grey-streaked hair tucked into a simple bun, wearing a plain cotton saree in muted blue.

"Pathan," he hissed, grabbing his friend's arm. "Look who's there."

Pathan squinted through the crowd. "The psychology witch? What about her?"

"She's not alone."

Beside Sharada stood a thin, stooped man with sparse white hair and thick glasses that magnified his eyes to owlish proportions. He wore a faded brown kurta and loose cotton pants, the uniform of academic poverty. His hand rested lightly on the small of Sharada's back as they examined a display of metal cooking spoons.

"Isn't that the librarian?" Pathan asked, moving closer for a better look. "The one who's always sleeping behind the reference desk?"

Vishnu nodded slowly. "Raghavan or something. Must be sixty if he's a day."

They watched as Sharada laughed at something the old man said, her head tilting back, her hand coming to rest on his forearm with casual intimacy. The librarian leaned in to whisper something in her ear, and she swatted at him playfully, the gesture unmistakably affectionate.

"That's not how you act with a colleague," Pathan observed, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Look at how close they're standing."

As if to confirm his suspicion, the librarian's hand slid from Sharada's back to her waist, drawing her closer as they moved to the next stall. She didn't pull away.

"Holy shit," Vishnu breathed. "Isn't she married? I've seen her husband at college functions—that big guy with the mustache who works for the railways."

Pathan's face split into a grin, the silver tooth catching the sunlight. "Oh, this is good. This is very good." He pulled out his phone, opening the camera app. "Get closer. I want clear evidence."

They wove through the crowd, keeping their distance but angling for a better view. The couple had stopped at a fruit vendor's stall, and the old librarian was selecting pomegranates, holding each up to the light before handing them to Sharada, who placed them in her basket. Their movements had the easy synchronicity of long practice.

Pathan raised his phone, framing the shot. He waited until the librarian leaned in to say something to Sharada, his lips close to her ear, her expression softening into something that could only be described as tender. Click. He took three more in quick succession, capturing the moment the old man's hand came to rest on Sharada's hip, the way she leaned into his touch rather than away from it.

"Got it," Pathan whispered, reviewing the photos with satisfaction. "Clear as day."

"What are you going to do with those?" Vishnu asked, suddenly uneasy.

Pathan's smile was all predator. "Remember what I said about leverage? I think we just found some." He scrolled through his phone. "We need her number."

"Why would we have her number?"

"The staff directory," Pathan reminded him. "Remember when we stole a copy from the admin office to prank-call Professor Seenu?"

Recognition dawned on Vishnu's face. "It's in your locker."

"Let's go."

They retreated from the market, careful not to be spotted by Sharada or her companion. The walk back to campus was quick, fueled by the thrill of discovery and possibility. In Pathan's dormitory room, they found the dog-eared staff directory buried under a pile of papers and empty cigarette packs.

"Sharada Kulkarni," Pathan read, running his finger down the list. "Here it is." He punched the number into his phone, then selected the clearest of the photos and hit send.

They waited, watching the screen until the message showed as delivered, then read. Seconds later, Pathan's phone buzzed with an incoming call.

"Put it on speaker," Vishnu urged, leaning in close.

Pathan answered, his voice deliberately casual. "Hello?"

"Who is this?" Sharada's voice was tight with tension. "How did you get this picture? Who are you?"

"Professor Sharada," Pathan replied smoothly. "This is Pathan Khan, from third-year commerce. My friend Vishnu Patil is with me. We happened to be at the market today and saw something... interesting."

There was a pause, then a sharp intake of breath. "You were spying on me? Taking photos without permission? This is harassment. I'm going to report this to the disciplinary committee immediately."

"That would be unwise," Pathan countered, his tone hardening. "Especially since we have more photos. Very clear ones. The kind that might interest your husband. Or the college administration. Fraternization between staff members is against college policy, isn't it?"
The silence on the other end of the line was thick with fear.

"What do you want?" Sharada finally asked, her voice barely audible. "Money? Is that it?"

Pathan laughed. "We don't need your money, Professor. We have a different kind of assistance in mind."

"What kind of assistance?" The wariness in her tone was palpable.

Vishnu leaned closer to the phone. "It's about Professor Devika. The new biology teacher."

"Devika?" Sharada's confusion was evident. "What about her?"

"We like her," Pathan stated simply. "And we want you to help us get closer to her."

Another pause, longer this time. "She's a married woman. And a faculty member. This is absurd and inappropriate. She's not some—"

"We know she's married," Pathan cut in. "Just like you're married. But that doesn't seem to stop you from enjoying the company of the college librarian, does it?"

Sharada's breath caught. "You don't understand. My situation is—"

"We don't need to understand," Pathan interrupted again. "We just need your help. You're friends with her, aren't you? She trusts you."

"She's a decent woman," Sharada protested. "Conservative, traditional. She wouldn't—"

"That's where you come in," Vishnu interjected, finding his voice. "You can change her mind. Open her up to... new experiences."

"You want me to what? Corrupt her? Push her toward you?" The horror in Sharada's voice was genuine. "She's my friend. I won't do that to her."

Pathan's voice dropped, becoming silky and dangerous. "Then maybe your husband would like to see these photos. Or Principal Dixit. I'm sure they'd be very interested to know what you do on your Sundays."

"You wouldn't." But her tone suggested she knew they would.

"We would," Vishnu confirmed, surprising himself with his own boldness. "Unless you help us."

"What exactly do you expect me to do?" Sharada asked, defeat creeping into her voice.
Pathan smiled at Vishnu, triumphant. "Talk to her about us. Plant the seed. Make her see us as men, not just students. Tell her stories, get her thinking about... possibilities."

"You want me to sexualize you to her? That's disgusting."
"We want you to open her mind," Pathan corrected. "She's lonely here, anyone can see that. Her husband is thousands of kilometers away. She needs connection, just like you do with your librarian."

Sharada's voice trembled slightly. "This isn't the same thing at all."

"Isn't it?" Vishnu asked, gaining confidence from Pathan's success. "You found someone who makes you happy, even if society would disapprove. We're just asking for the same chance."

"She won't be interested," Sharada insisted. "She's not that kind of woman."

"Every woman is that kind of woman with the right approach," Pathan replied, his certainty absolute. "You just need to plant the seed. Make her curious. The rest will happen naturally."

There was a long silence, broken only by Sharada's uneven breathing. "And if I refuse?"

Pathan's finger hovered over the screen, ready to forward the photos. "Then these go to everyone in your contact list. Starting with your husband."

Another pause, then a sigh that carried the weight of surrender. "Fine. I'll... talk to her. But I won't promise anything beyond that. And if you ever try to blackmail me again—"

"We won't need to," Pathan assured her. "As long as you hold up your end. Start tomorrow. Find a way to bring us up in conversation. Make her curious about us."

"This is wrong," Sharada said, her voice small.

"So is cheating on your husband with the college librarian," Vishnu retorted. "We all have our vices, Professor. Some are just more hidden than others."

After they hung up, Vishnu stared at the phone, an uncomfortable heat spreading through his chest—guilt, he realized, mixed with excitement.

"You think she'll actually do it?" he asked.

Pathan nodded, slipping the phone back into his pocket. "She has no choice. She loves that old man—you could see it in her face. She won't risk losing him, or her reputation."

"And if Devika finds out what we're doing?"

"She won't," Pathan said with certainty. "Not until it's too late. By then, she'll be too invested to care."

Vishnu wasn't convinced, but the image of Devika in her forest-green saree, the memory of her voice explaining cellular division—it was enough to quiet the voice of conscience. He leaned back on Pathan's bed, staring at the ceiling fan that turned lazy circles in the afternoon heat.

"We're really doing this," he said, more to himself than to Pathan.

"We are," Pathan confirmed, his silver tooth flashing as he smiled. "And by this time next month, Professor Devika will be seeing us very differently."

Outside, the sun began its slow descent, casting long shadows across the campus. In the distance, temple bells rang for evening aarti, the sound carrying on the warm breeze. Vishnu closed his eyes, imagining Devika's face, the soft curve of her mouth as she spoke his name—not as a student, but as a man.

[prady12191]

The morning air in the staff room felt thick with conspiracy, clinging to Sarada's skin like the damp of monsoon. She checked her phone for the third time in as many minutes, Pathan's message burning into her retinas with each glance: "8:30. Back gate. Come alone." Her fingers trembled as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, the weight of yesterday's confrontation still pressing down on her shoulders like wet concrete, hardening into something permanent and inescapable.

She slipped out through the service entrance, where the groundskeeper's tools leaned against the wall like tired sentinels. The back gate was little more than a rusted afterthought in the compound wall, partially hidden by an overgrowth of bougainvillea whose thorns had torn at the sleeves of a generation of smokers seeking privacy. Pathan was already there, one shoulder pressed against the wall, scrolling through his phone with practiced indifference.

"You're late," he said without looking up. The screen's blue glow painted his face in sickly light, hollowing his cheeks and hardening the angles of his jaw.

"I had to sign the attendance register." Sarada's voice was pitched low, defensive. She adjusted her dupatta, pulling it tighter across her chest as if it might shield her from what was coming. "What more do you want? I agreed to help you already."

Pathan finally looked up, his eyes dark and flat as river stones. "We want to see Devika's navel. Today."

Sarada blinked, the absurdity of the request momentarily eclipsing her fear. "Her what?"

"Don't play dumb," Pathan said, sliding his phone into his pocket. "Her navel. The south Indian women, they have a thing about it, right? Always hiding it. Makes a man curious." His smile was slow, practiced. "We want to see it. And you're going to make it happen."

"This is ridiculous," Sarada hissed. "You can't possibly—"

"I can." Pathan's hand shot out, gripping her wrist. Not hard enough to bruise, just enough to remind her who had the power. "Remember your little library friend? Remember his hand on yours? Remember how easily I could destroy you?"

The air between them seemed to thin. Sarada looked down at his fingers encircling her wrist, then back up at his face. His expression hadn't changed, but something in his eyes had—a flicker of something almost hungry.

"How am I supposed to make her show her navel?" Sarada's voice cracked slightly. "She's not going to just—she's conservative, traditional. She barely shows her ankles."

"That's your problem," Pathan said, releasing her wrist. "Be creative. Spill something on her. Create a situation where she has to adjust her saree. I don't care how, but it needs to happen today. In the third period. Biology 101."

"And if I can't?"

Pathan's smile widened. "Then you'll find out exactly how fast rumors travel in this college. And how eager the principal is to maintain our institution's... moral standards."

Sarada rubbed her wrist, feeling the ghost of his grip. "Fine," she whispered. "I'll try."

"Don't try. Do it." He leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear. "And remember, we'll be watching. So make it good."

He pushed off from the wall and walked away, leaving her alone with the bougainvillea and the heavy knowledge that she had sunk even lower than she thought possible.

***

The staff room was empty when Sarada returned, save for a junior lecturer dozing behind yesterday's newspaper. She sank into her chair, mind racing. How does one engineer the exposure of another woman's body? The thought made her sick, a greasy nausea coating her tongue.

She pulled out her day planner, flipping through it as if the answer might be hidden in its pages. She and Devika had adjacent free periods before the third class. Usually, they took tea together in the staff room—a ritual of small talk and professional commiseration that had become one of the few bright spots in Sarada's increasingly compromised days.

The water dispenser sat in the corner, its plastic belly half-full. Sarada stared at it, an idea forming. It wasn't elegant, but it might work—a simple accident, a moment of clumsiness, and then an offer of help that would solve one problem while creating another.

The shame of it burned in her chest, but when she thought of the alternative—the photo, the whispers, the inevitable meeting with the principal—she steeled herself. Better Devika's minor embarrassment than her own complete ruin.

She practiced her apology in her head, over and over, until the words lost all meaning.

**
At eleven-thirty, Devika swept into the staff room, a stack of lab reports balanced in the crook of her arm. Her maroon saree—the one with the thin gold border that caught the light at just the right angle—was dbangd with her usual precision: pleats falling in perfect accordion lines, pallu elegantly covering her torso, the border a sharp edge against the dark fabric.

"These first-years will be the death of me," she said by way of greeting, setting the reports down with a sigh. "One of them labeled the diagram of a paramecium as 'the thing with the hair.'"

Sarada managed a laugh, though it felt hollowed out. "Welcome to Satara. Where education comes to die a slow death."

Devika smiled, the kind of smile that started in her eyes and worked its way down. "At least they're trying. That's more than I can say for some of the other classes."

"Vishnu and Pathan's batch?" Sarada asked, carefully casual.

A shadow crossed Devika's face. "Among others. Though those two..." She shook her head. "There's something about the way they look at me. Like I'm a specimen under their microscope."

The irony wasn't lost on Sarada. She looked away, unable to meet Devika's eyes. "Men always look. It's what they do."

"I suppose." Devika moved to the cupboard, retrieving her mug—a chipped ceramic thing with "World's Best Teacher" printed on it, a gift from her Chennai students. "Tea?"

"Please." Sarada watched as Devika filled the electric kettle, her movements precise and economical. Now was the moment—a simple brush past, a stumble, an "accidental" collision—but something in her hesitated.

Devika looked up, catching her stare. "Are you alright? You seem... distracted."

"Just tired," Sarada lied. She stood, crossing to the water dispenser. "Let me get some water while we wait for the kettle."

She filled a cup slowly, watching Devika out of the corner of her eye. The younger woman was arranging tea bags, her back half-turned. Sarada took a deep breath, steeled herself, and started back toward the table, deliberately taking a path that would bring her close to Devika.

The collision was awkward, a half-step too calculated to be truly accidental. The water splashed across Devika's midsection, darkening the maroon fabric in an irregular blotch that spread quickly, soaking through to the petticoat beneath.

"Oh God, I'm so sorry!" Sarada's apology was genuine, if not for the reasons Devika might assume. "I wasn't looking—"

Devika gasped, jumping back, her hands flying to the wet fabric. "It's okay, it's just—" She looked down at the spreading stain, dismay crossing her features. "Oh no."

"I'm so sorry," Sarada repeated, already grabbing tissues from the nearby box. "Here, let me help—"

"It's fine, really." Devika dabbed at the fabric, but the damage was done. The water had soaked through, leaving a dark patch that ran from just below her waist to mid-thigh. "I just don't know how I can teach like this. Everyone will see."

Sarada paused, as if considering. "I could help you readjust it," she offered. "I'm pretty good at dbanging sarees. We could rearrange it so the wet part isn't visible."

Devika looked uncertain. "I don't know..."

"It's either that or change completely, and I know you don't have a spare saree here." Sarada pressed, sensing her opportunity. "Let me help. We can go to the washroom, and I'll fix it for you."

After a moment's hesitation, Devika nodded. "Alright. Thank you."

The women's washroom was mercifully empty, its fluorescent light casting everything in an unflattering greenish tinge. Devika stood awkwardly in front of the streaked mirror, the wet patch on her saree now cold against her skin.

"We'll need to undo it completely and redape," Sarada said, her voice echoing slightly against the tiled walls. "The wet part needs to be hidden in the pleats at the back."

Devika nodded, reluctantly unraveling her carefully arranged pallu. The fabric fell away, revealing the fitted blouse beneath, its maroon fabric clinging to the curve of her breasts and the hollow of her spine. She unwound the outer layer of the saree, leaving only the petticoat and the remaining length of fabric.

Sarada worked quickly, her fingers deft from years of practice. She gathered the fabric, tucking and folding with deliberate precision. But as she arranged the pleats, she subtly adjusted the height, dbanging the saree lower on Devika's waist than it had been before.

"I think that's a bit too low," Devika said, noticing the change. The waistline of the saree now sat a good two inches below her navel, exposing a sliver of skin above the petticoat.

"Trust me," Sarada said, continuing her work. "If it's higher, the wet patch will show. This way, it's completely hidden in the back pleats." She finished tucking the pleats into the waistband, then moved to arrange the pallu. "I'll make sure the pallu covers everything in front."

She dbangd the pallu across Devika's torso, making sure it covered the exposed midriff. But she arranged it loosely, knowing that the slightest movement—especially reaching up—would cause it to shift.

Devika examined herself in the mirror, tugging at the pallu to secure it better. "It feels... exposed," she said, frowning slightly. "Are you sure this is right?"

"It's fine," Sarada assured her, guilt twisting in her stomach. "The pallu covers everything. Just be careful not to move too suddenly, and it will stay in place."

Devika adjusted it once more, then sighed. "I suppose it will have to do. Thank you for helping." She smiled, the kind of trusting smile that made Sarada want to confess everything, to warn her.

Instead, she said, "What are friends for?"

They left the washroom together, neither noticing the small red light of the CCTV camera mounted in the corner of the corridor outside, its lens pivoting slightly to follow their movement.

***

In the security office, tucked away in a forgotten corner of the administration building, Seenu sat alone, his eyes fixed on the bank of monitors that displayed feeds from around the campus. Most showed empty corridors, students lounging in the courtyard, a cleaner mopping listlessly at the entrance to the library.

But one screen had captured his complete attention: the corridor outside the women's washroom, where Devika and Sarada had just emerged. He had been doing his usual scan of the monitors when movement caught his eye—Devika, her saree partially undone, being ushered into the washroom by Sarada.

Something in their body language had made him pause, his finger hovering over the button to switch to the next feed. Instead, he had leaned closer, watching the closed door with a focus that bordered on obsession.
Now, seeing them emerge, he noticed the change immediately. Devika's saree sat lower on her hips, the pallu arranged in a way that seemed deliberate yet precarious. As she walked, there was a moment—just a flash—when the fabric shifted, revealing a glimpse of smooth brown skin at her midriff.

Seenu felt a jolt of heat spread through him, pooling in his groin. His hand moved unconsciously to his lap, pressing against the sudden tightness in his trousers.

"What are they doing?" he muttered to himself, eyes never leaving the screen. The camera followed Devika as she walked down the corridor, the saree's new arrangement creating an occasional gap between the pallu and the lower dbang. Each time it happened, Seenu's breath caught.

He had always found Devika attractive—her quiet dignity, the way she carried herself with such careful reserve—but seeing her like this, partially undone, was something else entirely. It felt forbidden, private, a side of her not meant for public consumption.

His hand moved rhythmically now, rubbing against his erection through the fabric of his pants. The guilt was there, a distant buzz at the back of his mind, but it was drowned out by the heady rush of voyeuristic pleasure.

What had happened in that washroom? Why had Sarada helped her rearrange her saree? And why had they dbangd it so much lower than Devika's usual conservative style?

These questions floated through Seenu's mind, but they were secondary to the visual feast before him. When Devika disappeared from the camera's view, he quickly switched to another feed, following her progress toward the biology wing.

He would have to investigate this later, he decided. For now, he would watch. Just watch.

***

The biology classroom was half-full when Devika entered, her steps more careful than usual. The students closest to the door looked up, a ripple of attention spreading as they noticed their teacher's entrance. At the back of the room, as always, sat Vishnu and Pathan, their chairs tilted at identical angles of studied indifference.

Devika made her way to the front, painfully aware of the saree's unfamiliar dbang. The fabric felt loose, threatening to shift with each step. She kept one hand pressed to her waist, holding the pallu in place.

Pathan nudged Vishnu, their heads bending together in conspiratorial proximity. Between them, a small silver container of paan glinted in the fluorescent light. Their mouths were already stained a faint red, lips glossy with betel juice.

"Check it out," Pathan whispered, his voice barely audible above the classroom chatter. "Something's different."

Vishnu's eyes narrowed, tracking Devika's movement. "The saree's tied differently," he murmured back. "Lower. But she's covering it with the pallu."

"Fuck," Pathan hissed, disappointment edging his voice. "Sarada said she'd make it happen. If that pallu stays where it is, we won't see shit."

Devika reached her desk, setting down her notes with deliberate care. She felt exposed, vulnerable, as if she were wearing someone else's skin. The saree's lower dbang left her feeling like a stranger in her own body, the unfamiliar sensation of air against her normally covered midriff a constant reminder of her discomfort.

"Good afternoon, class," she began, voice steady despite her unease. "Today we'll be continuing with cell membrane structure and function."

She turned to the whiteboard, picking up a marker. As she raised her arm to write, the motion caused the pallu to shift, sliding sideways across her torso. For a brief moment—no more than a second or two—the fabric parted, revealing a sliver of her midriff and the shallow indentation of her navel.

At the back of the room, Vishnu's breath caught. The paan paused halfway to his mouth, forgotten. Beside him, Pathan went perfectly still, eyes widening.

"Holy fuck," Pathan breathed, the words barely a vibration against Vishnu's ear. "Did you see that?"

Vishnu couldn't speak. His throat had gone dry, the bitter-sweet taste of paan suddenly ashy on his tongue. That glimpse—that tiny, fleeting glimpse—had been like a match struck in a dark room, illuminating possibilities he hadn't dared imagine.

Devika, unaware of the exposure, continued writing on the board. The pallu had settled back into place, but the damage was done. The memory of that exposed skin burned in the boys' retinas like an afterimage.

"It's deeper than I thought," Pathan murmured, the words sticky with paan juice. "Perfect little dimple, like it was made for a man's tongue."

Vishnu shifted in his seat, discomfort and arousal warring for dominance. "Shut up," he muttered, but there was no force behind it.

"Sarada came through," Pathan continued, eyes never leaving Devika's form. "Now we just need her to reach up again."

As if hearing his wish, Devika moved to the upper portion of the whiteboard, stretching to write a new heading. This time, the shift in the pallu was more pronounced. It slipped aside, revealing not just her navel but a few inches of smooth, taut skin above and below it. The exposure lasted several seconds before she lowered her arm, the fabric falling back into place.

Pathan's hand gripped Vishnu's thigh under the desk, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. "Fuck me," he breathed. "Did you see how tight it is? Like a little mouth, man. So fucking perfect."

Vishnu couldn't respond. His entire body felt electrified, every nerve ending raw and hyper-aware. He had seen women's navels before—in movies, in magazines, in the occasional flash of skin when a girl's crop top rode up. But this was different. This was Devika—proper, conservative, untouchable Devika—whose body had been a subject of speculation but never confirmation.

"I bet it tastes like cinnamon," Pathan whispered, his voice thick with lust. "South Indian women, they're always wearing that powder, that fragrance. I bet if you put your tongue right in that little hole, it would taste like spice."

"Jesus, stop," Vishnu muttered, but his eyes were fixed on Devika, waiting for the next revelation.

"You think her husband licks it?" Pathan continued, relentless. "Or maybe he's never even seen it. Maybe we're the first men to see that perfect little dip in her stomach."

The thought sent a jolt of heat through Vishnu's body. He shifted again, trying to ease the pressure of his jeans against his growing erection.

"We need to thank Sarada," Pathan said, slipping another piece of paan into his mouth. The red juice stained his lips like fresh blood. "She did better than I expected. Getting her to tie the saree so low—that was genius."

Vishnu nodded, not trusting himself to speak. His mind was a mess of images: Devika's navel, the smooth expanse of her stomach, the subtle curve where her waist met her hip. He imagined tracing that curve with his fingertips, following it down to where the saree sat low on her pelvis.

"I'm going to dream about that little dimple tonight," Pathan whispered, his voice dropping even lower. "Imagine getting to press your thumb right into it, feeling how warm and soft it is."

Vishnu closed his eyes briefly, trying to regain control. When he opened them, Devika was looking directly at them, her expression unreadable. For a terrifying moment, he thought she had heard them, but then she continued her lecture, turning back to the board.

"This is just the beginning," Pathan said, confidence returning to his voice. "Next time, we'll see more. Maybe even get her alone, see if she's as proper up close as she pretends to be."

Vishnu didn't answer. He watched as Devika wrote another equation on the board, her arm stretching up, the pallu shifting once again to reveal that perfect indent of flesh. Each glimpse felt like a secret, stolen moment that belonged only to those who were watching closely enough to catch it.

In the corner of the classroom, a ceiling fan turned lazy circles, pushing the humid air around without cooling it. The smell of chalk dust and paan mixed with the faint scent of Devika's jasmine perfume, creating an atmosphere that felt both academic and strangely intimate.

Pathan leaned closer, his mouth nearly touching Vishnu's ear. "I bet when she's naked, that navel looks even deeper. Like a well you could fall into."

Vishnu swallowed hard, trying to focus on the lecture, on the diagrams of cell membranes and protein channels, on anything but the persistent image of Devika's exposed midriff.

But each time she reached up, each time the pallu shifted, his eyes were drawn back to that small, perfect hollow in her stomach—a private place made briefly, tantalizingly public.

And in that moment, watching her unaware, he felt a power that was both intoxicating and shameful. It was the power of seeing without being seen, of knowing something private about someone who would be mortified if they knew.

It was the power that Pathan had promised him, the first sweet taste of what was to come.

[prady12191]