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

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In the close darkness of Pathan's dormitory room, the memory of Devika's exposed navel glowed like a coal. Vishnu lay sprawled across the narrow bed, one arm flung over his eyes, while Pathan paced the three steps from door to window and back again, his movements tight with residual energy. The ceiling fan clicked through each rotation, stirring the hot air without cooling it, mixing the smell of unwashed laundry with the lingering sweetness of paan. Neither boy had spoken for several minutes, as if words might diminish what they had witnessed – that brief, forbidden glimpse of flesh, the shallow dimple at the center of Professor Menon's abdomen, exposed by the treacherous slip of her pallu.

"I can still see it," Vishnu finally said, his voice muffled behind his arm. "Perfect little hollow. Like someone pressed their thumb into wet clay."

Pathan stopped pacing, his silver tooth catching the weak light from the bedside lamp. "Better than in the films, right? Because it's real. Because it's her."

"I couldn't breathe," Vishnu admitted. "When she reached up to write on the board, and that pallu slipped..." He let the sentence hang, unfinished.

Pathan dropped onto the edge of the bed, the cheap frame groaning under their combined weight. "That's the thing about the uptight ones. They keep everything so hidden that when you get even a glimpse, it's like..." He made a gesture with his hands, fingers splaying outward. "Explosion."

Vishnu sat up, his back against the wall, knees drawn to his chest. "Do you think she knew? That we could see?"

"Who cares?" Pathan grinned. "The point is, we saw. And we'll see again." He reached for his phone, scrolling through the contacts with practiced flicks of his thumb. "Time to call our favorite professor."

The phone rang five times before Sharada answered, her voice tight with tension. "What do you want now?"

Pathan put it on speaker, holding it between them. "Just calling to say thank you, Professor. You did an excellent job today."

"Is this a joke to you?" Sharada's voice was low, strained. In the background, they could hear the clatter of dishes, the domestic sounds of an evening at home. "Do you have any idea what you made me do? The risk I took?"

"Risk?" Pathan's eyebrows rose. "All you did was help a colleague fix her saree after a little accident. Very thoughtful of you."

"I made a PhD-holding professor expose herself without her knowledge!" Sharada's voice rose, then abruptly dropped as if she'd remembered someone might overhear. "She's a decent woman. A professional. And you made me... you made me..."

"Made you what?" Pathan's voice hardened. "All we did was admire what was shown. You're the one who arranged it, Professor."

There was a pause, filled only with Sharada's uneven breathing. When she spoke again, her voice had a hollow quality. "What more do you want? I did what you asked. The photos—"

"Are safe," Pathan cut in smoothly. "For now. But we want more."

"More?"

"We want to see it again," Vishnu blurted out, leaning toward the phone. "Every day."

Pathan shot him a look – half amusement, half warning – but nodded. "My friend is right. Once isn't enough. We want you to make sure she wears her saree like that every day. Low enough that we can see that perfect little navel when she moves."

The silence on the other end was so complete they thought the call might have dropped. Then came a sound – not quite a sob, not quite a laugh, but something broken in between.

"This is insane," Sharada finally said. "I can't just... you don't understand. Today was a fluke. She was uncomfortable the entire time. She'll never agree to wear it that way again."

"Then convince her," Pathan said simply. "You're the psychology professor, aren't you? Use your expertise. Make her think it's her idea."

"Please," Sharada's voice cracked. "One last time. I'm begging you. Delete the photos, let this end. I have a family, a reputation—"

"So does she," Pathan interrupted, his voice silky. "And so does your librarian friend. Wouldn't it be a shame if his wife found out about your little... study sessions?"

Another silence, heavier this time. Vishnu's stomach twisted, an uncomfortable heat spreading through his chest that felt something like guilt. But when Pathan caught his eye, grinning, the feeling receded beneath a stronger current of anticipation.

"Fine," Sharada whispered, the word barely audible. "Fine. I'll... I'll try. But I can't promise anything. She's not stupid, she'll suspect something."

"You'll find a way," Pathan said, confidence radiating from every syllable. "Women listen to other women, right? Tell her she looks good. Tell her she's got a body worth showing off. Make her proud of what she's got."

"And if she refuses?"

"Then we'll be having a different conversation." Pathan's tone left no room for misinterpretation. "Tomorrow morning. Before her first class." He ended the call without waiting for a response.

Vishnu exhaled slowly, the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "She sounded... really upset."

Pathan shrugged, tossing his phone onto the nightstand. "She'll get over it. Besides, we're not asking her to do anything illegal. Just to help a friend dress more... confidently." He lay back on the bed, hands linked behind his head. "Tomorrow, we sit front row. Don't want to miss a second."

Vishnu nodded, trying to recapture the thrill from earlier, the electric jolt when Devika's saree had shifted. But Sharada's broken voice kept intruding, the desperate edge of her pleas. He pushed the thought away, focusing instead on the memory of that smooth expanse of skin, the perfect dimple at its center.

"Front row," he agreed, and tried not to think about anything else.

***
The staff room was quiet when Sharada arrived the next morning, only the economics lecturer dozing in the corner, a half-drunk cup of tea cooling at his elbow. She moved to her usual chair, arranging her papers with methodical precision, though her hands trembled slightly. She had barely slept, the conversation with Pathan playing on loop in her head, interspersed with images of her husband's face if he ever discovered her affair, of the principal's cold disappointment, of her children's confusion.

When Devika entered, Sharada nearly flinched. The younger woman looked fresh and composed in a mint-green saree with a thin silver border, dbangd in her usual conservative style – pleats neat, pallu covering her torso completely, no hint of midriff visible. Her hair was pulled back in a simple braid, a few strands escaping to frame her face. She looked, Sharada thought with a pang, exactly like what she was: a serious academic, a woman of dignity and restraint.

"Good morning," Devika said, setting her bag down on the adjacent chair. "You're in early."

Sharada forced a smile. "Couldn't sleep. Too much on my mind." It wasn't a lie, at least. "How about you? No trouble with the... saree situation yesterday?"

A flicker of embarrassment crossed Devika's face. "No, thankfully. Though I was uncomfortable all afternoon. It felt so... exposed." She lowered her voice. "I think some of the students noticed. Those two boys in the back – they kept staring."

This was her opening. Sharada took a breath, steadying herself. "Boys will stare no matter what," she said, her tone deliberately casual. "It's what they do. Especially at women like you."

"Women like me?" Devika looked puzzled.

"Beautiful women. Women with..." Sharada made a vague gesture that encompassed Devika's figure. "You know. Curves in the right places."

Devika blushed, the color rising from her neck to her cheeks in a slow tide. "I don't think—"

"Oh, come on," Sharada pressed, hating herself with each word. "You must know how lovely you are. That figure – most women would kill for it. I certainly would." She laughed, the sound brittle to her own ears. "When I helped you yesterday, I was actually a bit jealous. Your waist, your stomach – so flat and firm. Women with that kind of natural fitness should be proud to show it off, not hide it away."

Devika shook her head, but there was a hint of pleasure in her eyes, a softening around her mouth. "I come from a traditional family. We don't... reveal ourselves that way."

"Traditional?" Sharada scoffed. "Those are just old ideas from people who were probably jealous of your beauty. Times have changed. Even the most conservative actresses show a little midriff these days." She leaned closer, lowering her voice. "Besides, there's a difference between revealing yourself and simply wearing your clothes in a way that flatters your natural gifts."

Devika hesitated, fingers tracing the edge of her pallu. "You really think so?"

"Absolutely," Sharada said, forcing enthusiasm into her voice. "In fact, I could show you how to dbang your saree in a way that's still completely respectable but more... contemporary. More flattering to your figure."

She could see the doubt in Devika's eyes, warring with something else – curiosity, perhaps, or vanity. A sliver of hope that perhaps she wasn't only the serious academic, the proper wife, the obedient daughter.

"I don't know..." Devika began.

"Just let me show you," Sharada pressed. "If you don't like it, you can change it back. No harm done."

After a moment's hesitation, Devika nodded. "Alright. But nothing too... revealing."

Sharada stood, gesturing toward the door. "Let's go to the washroom. More space there."

The women's washroom was empty, the morning sun casting long rectangles of light across the tiled floor. Sharada checked each stall before returning to where Devika waited, uncertain, by the mirror.

"It's simple," Sharada said, her voice steadier than she felt. "Just a small adjustment to the height of the dbang. It will accentuate your waist more, that's all."

She guided Devika through unwinding the pallu, then loosening the pleats at the waist. With practiced hands, she rearranged the fabric, dbanging it lower on Devika's hips than it had been before – not dramatically lower, but enough that when Devika moved, the edge of the saree would dip below her navel, revealing that small, perfect hollow.

"See?" Sharada said, stepping back to let Devika examine herself in the mirror. "Still completely decent. The pallu covers everything. But now the proportions are more flattering – it makes your waist look even smaller, your hips more feminine."

Devika turned sideways, studying her reflection with a mixture of doubt and fascination. The saree now sat just below her hip bones, the pleats falling in elegant lines that emphasized the curve of her waist, the subtle flare of her hips. When she moved, there was a flash of skin at her midriff, quickly covered by the pallu but undeniably there.

"I don't know," she said, voice hesitant. "It feels... dangerous."

"Dangerous?" Sharada laughed, the sound forced. "It's just a saree, Devika. Women have been wearing them this way for centuries. It's actually more traditional, in some ways."

"Maybe, but I—"

"You look beautiful," Sharada cut in, hating the desperation in her own voice. "Truly elegant. The way the fabric dbangs now, it shows what a perfect figure you have." She reached out, adjusting the pallu across Devika's shoulder. "I'm actually jealous, to be honest."

She pinched Devika's hip playfully, a gesture of feminine camaraderie that made her stomach turn. "So slender! Where do you hide all those dosas you eat at lunch?"

Devika laughed despite herself, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. "You really think it looks alright?"

"More than alright," Sharada assured her, relief flooding through her veins. "It looks perfect. Trust me."

Neither woman noticed the small red light of the CCTV camera in the corridor outside, its lens focused on the washroom door. In the security office, Seenu sat transfixed, his breath coming in short, uneven gasps as he watched the women emerge.

The mint-green of Devika's saree was a shock of color on the black-and-white monitor, the fabric now arranged in a way that sent a jolt of heat through him. He couldn't see details – the camera's resolution was too poor for that – but he could see the change in how she moved, more conscious of her body, one hand occasionally moving to adjust the pallu where it threatened to slip.

Seenu's hand moved to his lap, pressing against his arousal. The thrill was doubled now by the knowledge that this was deliberate – not an accident, but a choice. Devika had chosen to wear her saree this way, to reveal more of herself.

His fantasy shifted, became more focused. In his mind, she was doing it for him – each adjustment of the pallu a silent invitation, each glimpse of midriff a promise.

"Devika," he moaned, the name a prayer on his lips as his hand moved rhythmically beneath the desk.

***

The biology classroom was already half-full when Devika entered, students shuffling into their seats with the resigned air of the chronically under-caffeinated. As promised, Pathan and Vishnu had claimed spots in the front row, their postures identical studies in forced casualness. Both looked up at her entrance, their gazes tracking her movement with predatory focus.

Devika felt their eyes like physical pressure, cataloging each step as she made her way to the desk. The saree felt different – lighter, somehow, as if the lower dbang had altered not just its appearance but its weight. She was acutely conscious of the way the fabric shifted with each movement, the occasional brush of air against her midriff when the pallu slipped minutely out of place.

She set her books down, straightening to face the class. "Good morning, everyone. Today we'll be discussing cellular transport mechanisms."

Her voice was steady, professional, but beneath it ran a current of heightened awareness. She could see Pathan leaning toward Vishnu, whispering something that made the other boy's mouth twitch into a half-smile. Both had their eyes fixed not on her face but lower, where the pallu dbangd across her torso.

She turned to write on the board, stretching up to reach the top portion. The movement caused the pallu to shift, exposing a sliver of skin at her waist. She felt rather than saw their attention sharpen, the sudden stillness in their postures.

"The plasma membrane," she continued, determined to ignore them, "regulates what enters and exits the cell through various mechanisms."

Pathan's voice, though pitched low, carried to her ears. "Just like her saree regulates what we get to see. Up, down, up, down."

Vishnu snickered, then quickly composed his face when Devika turned to face them.

"Is there something you'd like to share with the class, Mr. Khan?" she asked, her tone clipped.

"Just commenting on the elegant movement of cellular transport, ma'am," Pathan replied, his smile insolent. "The way things slip in and out."

A flush crept up Devika's neck, not of embarrassment but anger. She knew exactly what he was doing, what they both were doing. The whispers, the stares, the double entendres – it was a game to them, and somehow she had become the playing field.

For a moment, she considered calling them out directly. But what would she say? That she suspected they were objectifying her? That she felt their eyes on her body like unwanted hands? The thought of voicing it, of making it real in the classroom air, was unbearable.

Instead, she straightened her spine, adjusted her pallu with deliberate precision, and continued the lesson. "As I was saying, the cell membrane is selectively permeable. It allows certain substances to pass through while blocking others."

She moved around the desk, determined to reclaim the space, to assert her authority through movement. As she walked, she felt the saree shift with each step, the lower edge occasionally dipping to reveal the curve of her hip, the slight protrusion of her hip bone, the shadow where her waist met her pelvis.

Pathan and Vishnu tracked her like hunters, their eyes never leaving that vulnerable strip of skin at her midriff. When she turned, she caught Vishnu's expression – a mixture of fascination and hunger that made her skin crawl.

"The cell uses various proteins to control this process," she continued, voice hardening. "It maintains its integrity through constant vigilance."

She looked directly at them as she said it, a warning wrapped in scientific language. Pathan merely smiled, silver tooth gleaming, while Vishnu had the grace to look momentarily abashed.

When the bell finally rang, signaling the end of class, Devika felt a rush of relief so intense it was almost dizzying. The students gathered their books, the room filling with the scbang of chairs and the murmur of conversation. Pathan lingered, adjusting his bag with deliberate slowness, his eyes never leaving her.

"Excellent lesson, Professor," he said, voice pitched just for her ears. "Very... revealing."

She met his gaze, refusing to look away first. "I suggest you focus on the content, Mr. Khan, not the delivery."

His smile widened. "But the delivery is so... captivating." His eyes dropped to her waist, then back to her face. "Same time tomorrow?"

Before she could respond, he turned and sauntered out, Vishnu trailing in his wake like a shadow. Devika stood perfectly still, waiting until the last student had left before allowing her shoulders to slump, her hand moving automatically to adjust the saree, pulling it higher on her waist.

The anger came in waves, mixed with something else – a complicated emotion she couldn't quite name. She had felt their eyes on her, had known exactly what they were thinking, what they were seeing. And yet, beneath the discomfort and the indignation, there had been something else. A tiny, treacherous part of her that had responded to being seen not as the serious academic, the proper wife, but simply as a woman with a body worth looking at.

She shook her head, dispelling the thought. It was wrong, all of it. The way they looked at her, the things they whispered. And tomorrow, she would make sure they had nothing to see. She would wear her saree the old way – high, secure, impenetrable.

But as she gathered her papers, a small voice in the back of her mind wondered if perhaps Sharada had been right. Perhaps there was a difference between revealing herself and simply wearing her clothes in a way that flattered her natural gifts.

The thought lingered, unwelcome but persistent, as she left the classroom and headed toward the staff room, her steps measured, her spine straight, her mind already rehearsing what she would say to Sharada when they met for lunch.

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The satisfaction coiled in Vishnu's chest like a well-fed snake, lazy and content yet still dangerous. Three days had passed since Professor Devika had begun wearing her saree slightly lower, and each glimpse of her navel—that perfect dimple of flesh when she reached for the top of the whiteboard or bent to retrieve a fallen marker—sent electricity racing through his veins. Beside him on the college steps, Pathan's silver tooth caught the morning sun as he grinned, both of them tracking Devika's progress across the courtyard, the wind occasionally pressing the silk of her teal saree against her curves, revealing the subtle contours they had come to obsess over.



"There she goes," Pathan murmured, eyes fixed on Devika's retreating form. "Did you see how the wind caught her pallu just now? For a second, right there..." He made a circular motion with his finger, indicating the spot on his own abdomen.



Vishnu nodded, swallowing hard. "I saw."



"She's getting comfortable with it," Pathan said, his voice carrying the silky confidence that had seduced numerous first-year girls. "Sharada did better than I expected. Making her think it's fashionable, more flattering to her figure—genius."



"She still adjusts it, though." Vishnu watched as Devika disappeared into the Science building. "Every time it slips, she fixes it right away. Like she's ashamed."



Pathan chuckled, the sound low and dangerous. "That's the best part. The conflict. You can see it in her eyes—part of her likes the attention, but she's fighting it." He pulled out his silver paan case, extracting a carefully folded betel leaf. "Those are the ones who are most fun when they finally break."



Vishnu felt the familiar twist in his gut—part guilt, part arousal—that had become his constant companion since they'd begun this game. He accepted the paan Pathan offered, the sharp taste flooding his mouth with bitter sweetness.



Their conversation paused as a junior lecturer approached, clutching a stack of papers. The man was thin and nervous, perpetually hunched as if expecting a blow. He stopped several paces from them, clearly reluctant to come closer.



"The notice," he said, holding out a sheet. "For all third-year students. Practical assignments begin next week."



Pathan took the paper with exaggerated slowness, enjoying the lecturer's discomfort. "What's this about?"



"Biology practicals. One teacher assigned to two students for the semester project. Very important for final grades." The lecturer backed away as soon as Pathan had the paper, eager to escape their presence.



Vishnu leaned over to read the notice, the paan juice staining his lips red. "Dedicated teachers for practical training... pairs of students... assigned by department head..." His voice trailed off as the implications dawned on him.



Pathan's eyes widened, then narrowed with predatory focus. "One teacher. Two students." He folded the notice carefully, tucking it into his pocket. "Dedicated time alone with our favorite professor."



"If we can get assigned to her," Vishnu cautioned.



"When," Pathan corrected. "Not if. When." He stood, straightening his designer shirt with a practiced gesture. "Time to pay our friend Seenu a visit."



"You think he'll do it? Assign us to her?"



Pathan's smile was all teeth, the silver incisor gleaming. "He doesn't have a choice. Not with what his father owes my family. And what we know about his little... viewing habits."



They made their way across campus, students instinctively parting before them like water around stones. The administrative building stood three stories tall, its colonial architecture incongruous against the more modern structures surrounding it. The corridor to the department offices smelled of chalk dust and stale coffee, the fluorescent lights casting everyone in a sickly pallor.



Seenu's office door was slightly ajar, the frosted glass panel displaying his name and title in peeling gold letters. From inside came the sound of papers being shuffled and a chair creaking under weight. Pathan knocked once, perfunctorily, then pushed the door open without waiting for a response.



Professor Krishnamurthy looked up, his expression shifting from irritation to barely concealed fear as he recognized his visitors. The paan stain at the corner of his mouth seemed fresher than usual, a smear of crimson against his sallow skin.



"Ah, Mr. Khan, Mr. Patil." His voice strained for authority but achieved only a weak imitation. "I'm rather busy with the practical assignments now, so perhaps—"



"That's exactly why we're here, sir." Pathan closed the door behind them, the soft click somehow menacing. "The practical assignments."



Vishnu moved to the window, casually drawing the blinds halfway, dimming the already muted light. The gesture wasn't lost on Seenu, whose fingers began to tap nervously on his desktop.



"The assignments are being made based on academic performance and faculty availability," Seenu said, reaching for a folder as if to prove his point. "The system is quite structured, I'm afraid."



Pathan approached the desk, placing his palms flat on its surface and leaning forward. "Systems can be flexible, Professor. Especially for students with... special circumstances."



"I don't understand what you're suggesting," Seenu replied, though his darting eyes betrayed his understanding perfectly.



"We want Professor Menon," Vishnu said bluntly, turning from the window. "As our practical instructor."



Seenu's face paled beneath its perpetual sheen of sweat. "That's... that's not possible. Dr. Nair is already being assigned to—"



"Reassign them," Pathan interrupted, his voice dropping to a dangerous purr. "It's a simple administrative adjustment. Nothing worth losing sleep over."



"But the schedules are almost finalized. And she's new, still adjusting to our system. I can't just—"



"How's your father, Professor?" Vishnu cut in, his tone conversational but loaded with meaning. "Still having trouble with those loan payments to Pathan's family's finance company?"



The blood drained completely from Seenu's face. "That's a private matter."



"Nothing's private anymore, sir," Pathan said, straightening up. "Not your father's debts. Not your little sessions in the security office, watching the CCTV feeds from outside the women's washroom." He smiled, the expression never reaching his eyes. "We have a mutual friend in campus security. He tells us interesting things."



Seenu's mouth opened and closed silently, like a fish pulled suddenly from water. His hand trembled as he reached for his cup of tea, sloshing the lukewarm liquid onto his papers.



"I could arrange for you to have Chemistry practical with Professor Joshi," he offered weakly. "He's excellent, very knowledgeable—"



"We don't want Professor Joshi," Vishnu said, circling the desk until he stood directly behind Seenu's chair. He placed his hands on the older man's shoulders, feeling him flinch beneath the touch. "We want Professor Menon. No one else."



"She's... conservative," Seenu protested, his voice barely above a whisper. "Very traditional. If she suspects any... impropriety..."



Pathan laughed, the sound echoing harshly in the small office. "Impropriety? We're model students, sir. We just want to learn." He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Besides, I think you'd rather worry about her discovering your... viewing habits than any imagined impropriety on our part."



Seenu's shoulders slumped in defeat. The three men remained frozen in tableau for several heartbeats—Vishnu standing behind the chair, hands still resting on Seenu's shoulders; Pathan leaning across the desk, his face inches from the professor's; Seenu caught between them, diminished and cornered.



"I'll do it," he finally said. "I'll assign her to you. But please..." His voice cracked slightly. "She's a decent woman. Don't..."



"Don't what, Professor?" Pathan's voice was silky. "We just want to learn biology from her. That's all. Nothing against her wishes."



"Nothing against her wishes," Vishnu echoed, finally removing his hands from Seenu's shoulders. The professor visibly relaxed, though his eyes remained wary.



"Tomorrow morning," Pathan said, moving toward the door. "Make the announcement in the lab. All students present. We want to see her face when she finds out."



Seenu nodded, defeated. "Tomorrow morning."



As they left the office, Vishnu felt that familiar twist in his gut again—the guilt that never quite disappeared, always simmering beneath the excitement and anticipation. But when Pathan clapped him on the shoulder, grinning with triumph, the feeling receded, buried beneath the thrill of their victory.



"Tomorrow," Pathan said, "we begin the real game."



---



The biology laboratory hummed with nervous energy the following morning. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, highlighting dust motes dancing in the air and glinting off the stainless steel surfaces of microscopes and dissection trays. Students clustered in small groups, voices pitched low in speculation about the practical assignments. At the front of the room, the faculty members stood in a loose semicircle, their expressions ranging from boredom to mild interest as Seenu shuffled papers at the demonstration table.



Devika stood slightly apart from her colleagues, her posture perfectly upright, her maroon saree dbangd impeccably. After several days of wearing it in the lower style Sharada had suggested, she had reverted to her original, more conservative dbang—high on the waist, pallu securely covering her torso. The change had not gone unnoticed by Vishnu and Pathan, who leaned against the back wall, disappointment evident in their postures.



"Attention, please," Seenu called, his voice stronger than it had been in his office but still carrying an undercurrent of strain. "We will now announce the practical assignments for this semester. Each pair of students will be assigned to one faculty member for dedicated instruction and guidance."



He began reading from his list, matching students to teachers with mechanical efficiency. Each announcement was met with murmurs and occasional groans from the students affected. The faculty remained impassive, accustomed to the process.



"Vishnu Patil and Pathan Khan," Seenu called, his voice hitching slightly. "You will be assigned to Dr. Devika Nair for advanced cellular biology practicals."



A ripple of surprised whispers spread through the room. Vishnu watched Devika's reaction carefully. Her expression remained neutral, but he caught the slight stiffening of her shoulders, the almost imperceptible narrowing of her eyes. She knew their reputation, had experienced their attention firsthand. This assignment was clearly unwelcome news.



"Dr. Nair, please meet with your students to discuss scheduling," Seenu continued, not meeting her gaze. "Mr. Patil, Mr. Khan, please step forward."



Vishnu and Pathan pushed off from the wall, moving through the crowd of students with deliberate slowness. They stopped before Devika, close enough that she had to tilt her head slightly to maintain eye contact.



"Professor," Pathan said, his voice a study in false respect. "We look forward to learning from you."



Devika's gaze was cool, assessing. "I expect punctuality and preparation, Mr. Khan. This is not a social arrangement."



"Of course not," Vishnu added, his tone mimicking Pathan's deference. "We're very serious about... biology."



Something flickered in Devika's eyes—recognition of the subtle emphasis, perhaps, or awareness of the game being played—but her expression remained professional. "We'll begin tomorrow afternoon. Three o'clock. Don't be late."



Seenu cleared his throat loudly, drawing everyone's attention back to the front. "These assignments are final and will remain in place until the end of the semester. No changes will be permitted except in cases of extreme emergency." His eyes skittered away from Devika's searching gaze. "That is all for today. Faculty, please ensure your students understand the project requirements before our next session."



The crowd began to disperse, students and teachers forming small clusters to discuss schedules and expectations. Devika turned away from Vishnu and Pathan without another word, moving purposefully toward Seenu, who was hastily gathering his papers as if preparing for a quick escape.



"This is going better than I expected," Pathan murmured, watching her go. "Did you see her face? She knows exactly what's happening."



Vishnu nodded, though he wasn't sure if Pathan's assessment was accurate. Devika's reaction had been controlled, difficult to read. Was it fear? Resignation? Or something else entirely—something that might prove dangerous to their plans?



They left the laboratory, lingering in the corridor just long enough to see Devika approach Seenu, her posture rigid with what appeared to be suppressed anger. The department head's response was inaudible but accompanied by placating gestures, his hands raised as if in surrender.



"She's going to his office," Vishnu observed as the two faculty members exited the lab. "Probably to complain."



Pathan's smile was unconcerned. "Let her. Seenu knows which side his bread is buttered on."



---



"This is completely unacceptable." Devika's voice was controlled but vibrating with tension as she stood before Seenu's desk. She had followed him directly from the laboratory, unwilling to let the matter rest even overnight. "You've assigned me the two most problematic students in the department."



Seenu sank into his chair, looking older and more worn than he had just an hour before. "They specifically requested you, Dr. Nair. They admire your teaching methods."



"They admire nothing about my teaching," Devika replied flatly. "They spend each class staring at my... at me, not at the material. Surely you've noticed their behavior."



"Boys will be boys," Seenu offered weakly, then flinched at Devika's expression. "What I mean is, young men sometimes lack... focus. They need guidance, structure."



"They need discipline and boundaries, which I doubt I can provide in a one-to-two teaching scenario." Devika placed her palms on the desk, unconsciously mirroring Pathan's stance from the day before. "Reassign them. Please."



Seenu's eyes darted around the room, landing anywhere but on Devika's face. "I can't. The assignments are final, as I announced."



"Why?" Devika pressed. "What's so special about these two that they can't be reassigned?"



Something in Seenu seemed to collapse inward, a structure giving way under too much pressure. He looked up at her, his expression suddenly naked with a mixture of fear and resignation.



"They need someone like you," he said, his voice soft. "Someone... decent. Moral. Their parents are wealthy but absent. Too busy with business to raise their sons properly. The boys have had every material advantage but no real guidance." He leaned forward, finding a narrative that might convince her. "You could be a positive influence, Dr. Nair. Show them there's more to life than money and... and physical pleasures."



Devika's expression softened slightly, though suspicion still lingered in her eyes. "Are you saying I should view this as some sort of... redemptive opportunity?"



"Precisely," Seenu seized on this, relief evident in his voice. "A chance to make a real difference in their lives. To be more than just a teacher—a mentor, a guide."



"I don't know..." Devika's resolve was weakening, he could see it. The appeal to her sense of duty, her natural empathy, was working.



"Give it a chance," Seenu urged. "Just a few sessions. If it becomes truly untenable, we can revisit the arrangement." This was a lie, he knew—Pathan and Vishnu would never allow a reassignment—but it served its purpose.



Devika straightened, adjusting her pallu with a gesture that had become habitual. "Very well. I'll try. But I want it on record that I objected to this assignment."



"Of course, of course," Seenu nodded eagerly. "I appreciate your professionalism, Dr. Nair. Truly."



As she turned to leave, Seenu felt a wave of shame wash over him. He had manipulated her, used her own goodness against her. The weight of it settled in his chest, an uncomfortable heat that he recognized as guilt.



But what choice did he have? The alternative—exposure, humiliation, financial ruin for his family—was unthinkable.



He watched her leave, her posture still perfectly straight, her dignity intact despite everything. How long would that last, he wondered, under the focused attention of Vishnu and Pathan? How long before they broke through her composure, as they had broken through his?



The thought should have troubled him more than it did. Instead, beneath the guilt, he felt a flicker of something darker—anticipation. Tomorrow at three o'clock, they would be alone with her in the laboratory. And whatever happened, he would be partly responsible.



He reached for his paan case, needing the familiar ritual to steady his nerves. Outside his window, the afternoon sun cast long shadows across the campus, marking the slow but inevitable passage of time toward tomorrow.

[prady12191]

Morning light filtered through the window of Devika's apartment as she stood before the mirror, adjusting her saree with deliberate precision. Today, the crimson cotton fabric was dbangd high around her waist, the pleats neat and conservative, the pallu securely covering her torso and dbangd over her shoulder with not an inch of midriff exposed. Her fingers trembled slightly as she secured the final fold with a safety pin—a small act of armor against the afternoon that awaited her.



"Three o'clock," she whispered to her reflection, the time hanging between them like a sentence. Her eyes, usually bright with academic curiosity, were shadowed with apprehension. The practical class with Vishnu and Pathan loomed in her mind, a dark cloud hovering over the day's otherwise clear sky.



Devika gathered her materials—textbooks, lecture notes, a folder of practical guidelines—and slipped them into her worn leather bag, the same one she'd carried since her PhD days. The familiar weight against her hip provided a small comfort as she locked her apartment door behind her.



The college campus hummed with mid-morning activity as she arrived. Students lounged on benches or hurried between buildings, their voices creating a steady murmur beneath the rustling leaves. Devika kept her eyes forward, her posture rigid as she navigated the familiar pathways to the Science building. The weight of glances—real or imagined—prickled against her skin with each step.



In the relative safety of the staff room, Devika allowed herself a small sigh of relief. The space was half-empty, most faculty members already engaged in morning classes. She set her bag down at her designated desk, unloading her materials with methodical care.



"Good morning, Devika!" Sharada's voice cut through the quiet, bright and sharp as broken glass. She approached with her usual confident stride, a mug of tea steaming in her hand. "You're looking... different today."



Devika glanced up, offering a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Good morning."



Sharada settled into the chair beside Devika's desk, her gaze traveling over the high dbang of Devika's saree with unmistakable disapproval. "What happened to the new style? It suited you so well."



"I thought this would be more appropriate," Devika replied, arranging her papers with careful attention. "Especially given the practical assignments announced yesterday."



"Practical assignments?" Sharada's eyebrows rose with practiced curiosity. "Oh, did you get a difficult batch?"



Devika's hands stilled. "Vishnu Patil and Pathan Khan."



A flicker of something—concern? alarm?—crossed Sharada's face before she smoothed it away with a sympathetic smile. "Ah, I see. They have quite the reputation, don't they?"



"That's putting it mildly." Devika lowered her voice, though the staff room remained largely empty. "I requested a reassignment, but Professor Krishnamurthy refused. Said it was all finalized."



"And so you're... what? Trying to make yourself invisible?" Sharada gestured to Devika's conservatively dbangd saree. "Hiding behind yards of fabric?"



Devika felt heat rise to her cheeks. "I'm simply dressing professionally."



"You were dressing professionally before." Sharada leaned closer, her voice dropping to a confidential whisper. "Listen to me, Devika. I've been teaching here for years. I know these types of boys. If you suddenly change your appearance, they'll sense weakness. They'll know they've affected you."



A cold knot formed in Devika's stomach. "What are you suggesting?"



"Consistency," Sharada replied simply. "Don't let them see that they've rattled you. The moment they realize they have power over your choices—even something as simple as how you dbang your saree—they'll push for more."



Devika's fingers found the edge of her pallu, twisting the fabric anxiously. "But the way I was wearing it... it seemed to encourage their attention."



"Their attention was already there," Sharada countered. "At least with the lower dbang, you appeared confident, in control of your own image. Now you look... frightened."



"I'm not frightened," Devika protested, though the tremor in her voice betrayed her. "I'm just trying to minimize distractions."



Sharada sipped her tea, studying Devika over the rim of her mug. "Tell me honestly. Would you have changed your style if any other students had been assigned to you?"



The question hung between them, unanswerable. Devika's silence was answer enough.



"Exactly," Sharada said softly. "You're letting them dictate your choices already. That's dangerous ground, Devika."



"But what should I do?" The question escaped before Devika could contain it, raw with vulnerability.



"Be consistent. Be confident. Don't show fear." Sharada set her mug down with a decisive clink. "And for heaven's sake, wear your saree the way you've been wearing it all week. The moment you change in response to them, you hand them a victory."



Devika considered this, weighing Sharada's words against her own instincts. There was logic to the argument, even if it led to a conclusion that made her uncomfortable.



"I don't know..."



"Trust me," Sharada pressed, reaching out to squeeze Devika's hand. "I've seen what happens when young male students sense vulnerability in a female professor. It never ends well."



The weight of those words settled heavily on Devika's shoulders. She glanced at the clock on the wall—just past ten. Five hours until the practical class.



"Fine," she conceded finally. "You're probably right."



Relief flooded Sharada's features. "Good. The washroom is empty now if you want to adjust before your morning lecture."



Devika gathered her saree and a small bag of safety pins. "I'll be back in a few minutes."



In the privacy of the faculty washroom, Devika stood before the mirror once again. With practiced movements, she unpinned her saree, loosening the fabric around her waist. The pleats fell lower, revealing a sliver of skin between the saree and her blouse. She adjusted the pallu, dbanging it more loosely across her torso, allowing the weight of the fabric to create a more relaxed silhouette.



Her reflection stared back at her, transformed yet familiar. The woman in the mirror looked confident, modern, stylish—but Devika felt exposed, vulnerable. She smoothed a hand over the fabric, feeling the cool silk against her palm.



"Consistency," she murmured to herself, echoing Sharada's advice. "Don't show fear."



When she returned to the staff room, Sharada's approving nod carried a weight that Devika couldn't quite define. But there was no time to dwell on it—her morning lecture awaited, and after that, hours of anticipation before the practical class that she both dreaded and, now, was determined to face with composure.



---



The biology laboratory was bathed in afternoon sunlight when Devika arrived at quarter to three. She moved deliberately around the space, setting up three workstations with microscopes, slides, petri dishes, and various instruments for the day's experiments. Each movement was precise, controlled—a choreography of preparation that helped steady her nerves.



At exactly three o'clock, a knock sounded at the door. Devika straightened, smoothed her saree—lower on her waist than she would have preferred, but consistent with the past week's style—and called, "Enter."



Vishnu and Pathan stepped into the laboratory, their expressions carefully collegeed into polite interest that didn't quite mask the gleam in their eyes as they took in Devika's appearance. They carried notebooks and pens, props in the performance of dedicated students.



"Good afternoon, Professor," Pathan greeted, his voice smooth as silk. "We're looking forward to today's practical session."



"As am I," Devika replied, her tone crisp and professional. "Please take your places at the workstations. We have several important experiments to cover today."



They moved to the benches she had prepared, setting down their materials with deliberate care. Devika remained standing at the front demonstration table, creating physical distance between herself and the students.



"Before we begin, I'd like to establish some ground rules for our sessions," she said, meeting their gazes directly. "I expect complete focus on the material, thorough documentation of your observations, and professional behavior at all times. These practical sessions constitute a significant portion of your final grade."



"Of course, Professor," Vishnu nodded, his expression earnest. "We're very serious about improving our understanding of biology."



"Good," Devika replied, ignoring the subtle emphasis he placed on the word 'biology.' "Let's begin with introductions. I know we've been in lecture together, but for these more intimate sessions, it's important we understand each other's backgrounds and goals."



She watched their reactions carefully, noting the slight widening of Pathan's eyes at the word 'intimate'—an unfortunate choice on her part, but she pressed on.



"I'm Dr. Devika Nair. I completed my PhD in cellular biology at Chennai University, specializing in membrane transport mechanisms. Before joining this institution, I conducted research on cellular adaptations to environmental stressors." She paused, then added, "Now, tell me about yourselves. Mr. Khan, you may begin."



Pathan leaned forward slightly, his forearms resting on the workbench. "I'm Pathan Khan, from Pune. My family is in the finance business. I'm interested in biology because..." he paused, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, "I find the study of living systems fascinating. Especially the way different organisms respond to various... stimuli."



Devika nodded stiffly, then turned to Vishnu. "And you, Mr. Patil?"



"Vishnu Patil," he said, his voice deeper than Pathan's, rougher around the edges. "My family recently established themselves in agribusiness. I'm particularly interested in understanding biological processes that could be applied to agricultural improvements." The lie rolled smoothly off his tongue, practiced and plausible.



"Thank you," Devika said, picking up a set of instruction sheets from her desk. "Today we'll be examining cellular structures using various staining techniques, followed by a pipetting accuracy exercise that will be essential for next week's experiments."



She distributed the papers, careful to maintain distance as she placed them on the edge of each workbench. "Please read through the procedures while I prepare the slides."



As Devika turned to the supply cabinet, she felt their eyes following her movements. The awareness prickled across her skin, raising goosebumps despite the warm laboratory air. She gathered the necessary materials, her movements deliberate and efficient.



"For our first experiment," she began, returning to the demonstration table, "we'll be examining epithelial cells using methylene blue staining. This technique allows us to visualize cellular structures that would otherwise be transparent under the microscope."



She demonstrated the procedure, applying a drop of stain to a prepared slide, then carefully placing a cover slip to avoid air bubbles. Throughout her explanation, Vishnu and Pathan maintained expressions of studious attention, nodding at appropriate intervals and occasionally jotting notes.



"Now you try," Devika instructed, gesturing to the materials at their stations. "Remember to handle the cover slips carefully—they're extremely fragile."



She watched as they attempted to replicate her demonstration, noting Vishnu's deliberately clumsy handling of the pipette.



"No, not like that," she corrected, moving toward his workstation. "You're applying too much pressure."



Standing beside him, Devika demonstrated the proper technique again, acutely aware of his proximity. "Hold it lightly between your thumb and forefinger, like this."



Vishnu's hand brushed against hers as he reached for the pipette. "Like this, Professor?" His fingers fumbled, almost dropping the instrument.



"Here," Devika said, her professional instincts overriding her discomfort. She guided his hand, adjusting his grip on the pipette. "Gentle pressure, just enough to draw up the stain."



She felt his breath against her arm, warm and deliberately slow. The moment stretched longer than necessary before she stepped back, putting distance between them again.



"Now you try, Mr. Khan," she said, moving to Pathan's workstation.



Pathan's attempt was equally poor, though his errors were different—he pretended to struggle with the cover slip placement, creating air bubbles that would render the slide unreadable.



"You need to lower it gradually, from one edge," Devika explained, reaching across to demonstrate. The movement brought her closer to him than she would have liked, the edge of her saree pallu brushing against his arm. She felt him shift slightly, moving into the contact rather than away from it.



"I see," he murmured, his voice lower than necessary for the quiet laboratory. "It's all in the technique, isn't it?"



Devika stepped back quickly, returning to the demonstration table. "Once your slides are prepared, adjust your microscopes to the lowest magnification first, then gradually increase to higher power."



She watched as they bent over their microscopes, appearing to focus on the task. After several moments, Vishnu looked up with a frown.



"I can't seem to find anything, Professor. The field is just blue."



Devika suppressed a sigh. Were they truly this incompetent, or was this part of their game? Either possibility was troubling.



"Let me check," she said, approaching his station again. She leaned over to look through the eyepiece, aware of Vishnu's gaze on her as she adjusted her position. The microscope was completely out of focus, the field a blur of indistinct color.



"You haven't adjusted the focus at all," she observed, straightening. "Try the coarse adjustment knob first, then fine-tune with the smaller knob."



"Could you show me?" Vishnu asked, his expression the perfect picture of academic struggle.



Devika hesitated, then leaned over again to demonstrate. She was acutely conscious of how the position caused her saree to pull slightly across her hips, how the pallu slipped a fraction from her shoulder as she bent to the eyepiece.



"There," she said, adjusting the focus until cellular structures became visible. "Now you can see the cell membranes and nuclei clearly. Try to count the visible cells in this field and record your observations."



She moved to check Pathan's progress, finding him with similar difficulties. The pattern repeated—she would demonstrate, he would watch, not the microscope but her, his attention fixed on the curve of her neck as she bent to the eyepiece, the sliver of skin exposed at her waist as she reached to adjust the fine focus.



The air in the laboratory grew heavier, charged with an uncomfortable tension that had nothing to do with academic struggle. Devika maintained her professional demeanor through sheer force of will, directing them through the observations and notes they should be taking.



"For our next experiment," she said, returning to the safety of the demonstration table, "we'll practice precise volume measurements using micropipettes. This skill is essential for many biological procedures, including DNA extraction and protein analysis."



She demonstrated the proper technique for handling the delicate instruments, explaining the importance of accuracy in scientific measurements. "Even a small error can significantly impact your results, so precision is crucial."



As expected, both students struggled with the pipetting exercises. Devika moved between their stations, correcting their grips, demonstrating the proper angle for tip insertion, guiding their hands through the motions of aspiration and dispensing. Each interaction brought unwanted proximity, moments where their fingers would "accidentally" brush against hers, where Pathan would lean too close as she explained a concept, his shoulder pressing against her arm.



During one such demonstration, as Devika guided Vishnu's hand through a pipetting motion, she felt his gaze fixed not on the instrument but on the dbang of her saree across her torso. The weight of his attention was almost physical, a pressure against her skin that made her want to wrap the fabric tighter around herself.



"You need to maintain a consistent pressure," she instructed, her voice betraying none of her discomfort. "Too much force and you'll draw up excess liquid; too little and your measurement will be inaccurate."



"It's difficult to get the feel for it," Vishnu replied, his voice pitched low. "Your hands make it look so easy, Professor. They're very... skilled."



Devika withdrew her hand from the demonstration, stepping back. "Practice will improve your technique. Try the exercise again while I check Mr. Khan's progress."



Moving to Pathan's station, she found him struggling with similar "difficulties." As she leaned forward to demonstrate once more, she caught the subtle inhale as he breathed in her scent—sandalwood and jasmine from the soap she used that morning, layered with the subtle musk of nervous perspiration.



"Like this," she said, guiding his hand through the motion. "Smooth and controlled."



"Smooth and controlled," Pathan echoed, his voice carrying a hint of amusement that made Devika's skin crawl. "I'll remember that, Professor."



Throughout the two-hour session, the pattern continued—demonstrations requiring physical proximity, explanations delivered over bent heads, corrections that necessitated standing beside them as they pretended to struggle with basic techniques. With each interaction, Devika felt their attention like a tangible thing, sliding over her form, lingering on the exposed skin at her waist when she reached for equipment on high shelves, noting the way her saree shifted as she moved between stations.



At one point, as she bent to retrieve a dropped cover slip, she heard a sharp intake of breath behind her. Straightening quickly, she turned to find both Vishnu and Pathan watching her, their expressions a mixture of appreciation and something darker, more predatory.



"Is there a problem, gentlemen?" she asked, her voice steady despite the flush creeping up her neck.



"No problem at all, Professor," Pathan replied smoothly. "We were just admiring your... attention to detail."



The final experiment involved recording observations of cellular division phases. As they worked, Devika noticed both students making repeated "adjustments" to their microscopes, necessitating her assistance. Each time she approached, they would shift in their seats, creating situations where she had to lean across them to access the adjustment knobs, where her saree would brush against their arms or shoulders, where the pallu would slip slightly from her shoulder as she bent to the eyepiece.



By the time five o'clock approached, marking the end of the practical session, Devika felt emotionally exhausted. She had maintained her professional composure throughout, correcting techniques, explaining concepts, guiding their observations—all while acutely aware of their gaze following every movement, noting every adjustment of her saree, every momentary exposure of skin as she reached or bent or demonstrated.



"That concludes today's practical," she announced, returning to the demonstration table. "Please clean your workstations and prepare a summary of your observations for our next session."



Vishnu and Pathan cleaned their areas with unexpected thoroughness, their movements unhurried as they gathered their materials. Devika busied herself with organizing her notes, avoiding their gaze as they completed their tasks.



"Same time next week, Professor?" Pathan asked as they prepared to leave, his tone innocent but his eyes anything but.



"Yes," Devika replied, not looking up from her papers. "Please review chapters seven and eight before our next session. We'll be covering membrane transport mechanisms."



"We'll be thoroughly prepared," Vishnu promised, lingering by the door. "Thank you for your... hands-on guidance today. It was most illuminating."



Only when the door closed behind them did Devika allow her shoulders to slump, releasing the tension she had been carrying for the past two hours. She sank into her chair, staring at the now-empty laboratory, replaying moments from the session—the brushing of fingers, the leaning of shoulders, the weighted gazes that seemed to peel away layers of fabric and propriety.



She had survived the first practical, maintained her professionalism throughout. But three more months of weekly sessions stretched before her like a dark tunnel, with no reassignment possible according to Seenu's announcement.



Outside the laboratory window, afternoon light was fading, casting long shadows across the campus grounds. In the corridor, she could hear the receding footsteps of Vishnu and Pathan, punctuated by low laughter that echoed against the walls. The sound followed her as she gathered her materials, a haunting reminder that this was only the beginning.

[prady12191]

The second practical session with Vishnu and Pathan had gone better than Devika had expected. As she made her way across the campus grounds toward the apartment complex where she lived, the afternoon sun warm against her skin, she found herself wondering if perhaps she had overreacted after their first meeting. The boys had been attentive today, their questions relevant, their hands steady as they manipulated the pipettes without the fumbling "accidents" that had marked their previous session. She adjusted her saree slightly, the fabric now sitting comfortably lower on her waist—a style she was gradually becoming accustomed to despite her initial misgivings.



"Perhaps Sharada was right," she murmured to herself, stepping through the gates of Ramlal Apartments. "Maybe consistency was all that was needed."



At the security booth near the entrance, the old guard straightened as she approached. Ramlal was well into his sixties, his hair a shock of white against weathered brown skin, his uniform hanging loose on a frame that had once been broader. He snapped to attention with exaggerated formality, offering Devika a salute that bordered on theatrical.



"Good evening, Madam Professor," he called, his voice carrying across the courtyard.



Devika nodded in acknowledgment, the barest hint of a smile touching her lips—the same distracted courtesy she extended to him each day without really seeing him. Her mind was already upstairs in her apartment, mentally cataloging the practical notes she needed to review before her next class.



What she didn't see was how Ramlal's eyes followed her across the courtyard, lingering on the sway of her hips, the glimpse of skin visible between her saree and blouse when she took the stairs. His gaze had the practiced stealth of a man who had spent decades watching women without being caught—a predator camouflaged by age and position.



Since Devika had moved into the complex three months ago, Ramlal had observed her transformation with increasing interest. At first, she had been the picture of conservative propriety—her sarees dbangd high on her waist, pallu securely covering her torso, her manner reserved and professional. But over the past week, something had changed. The hemline of her saree had dropped, revealing a sliver of smooth skin at her waist. The pallu dbangd more loosely across her chest. Small changes, perhaps imperceptible to most, but Ramlal had been watching women for far too long to miss such details.



"What changed you, Professor?" he whispered to himself as she disappeared up the stairwell. "What made you start showing that pretty skin?"



In the small, sweltering security booth, surrounded by monitors showing grainy feeds from the building's security cameras, Ramlal indulged in fantasies that would have disgusted Devika had she known of them. In his mind, she wore her saree even lower, just for him. In his mind, she knew he was watching and welcomed it. The reality—that she barely registered his existence beyond the most perfunctory acknowledgment—was a detail his fantasies conveniently erased.



Later that night, in the cramped bathroom attached to the security office, Ramlal would replay these images as his gnarled hand moved mechanically, bringing him a moment's relief from desires that age had failed to diminish. Afterward, he would feel the familiar blend of satisfaction and shame, washing his hands with extra soap as if to cleanse away more than just physical evidence.



---



Saturday arrived with a drowsy warmth that seemed to slow the very air in Devika's apartment. With no classes to teach, she allowed herself the luxury of sleeping past six, rising only when the sun was well established in the sky. Even without the need to leave her apartment, she dbangd herself in a saree—a comfortable cotton in shades of turquoise and gold—the fabric sitting low on her waist as had become her habit, even in private.



Sharada's voice echoed in her mind: "Consistency. Be consistent."



The advice had proven surprisingly effective. After the tense first practical session with Vishnu and Pathan, Devika had maintained the lower dbang style Sharada had suggested, refusing to show any change in response to their attention. And strangely, their behavior had seemed to improve. The second session had been almost... normal. Their eyes still followed her movements, of course, but the deliberate fumbling, the "accidental" brushes of fingers against hers, the exaggerated need for her physical assistance—all had diminished significantly.



"They just needed clear boundaries," Devika told her reflection as she adjusted the pleats of her saree. The woman in the mirror looked confident, professional—a far cry from the nervous newcomer who had arrived in Pune three months ago.



With a cup of ginger tea in hand, Devika settled onto her small balcony, enjoying the relative quiet of a weekend morning. Her thoughts drifted to her husband, Anand, working in Dubai, the distance between them measured not just in kilometers but in growing silences during their weekly calls. When had they last had a real conversation? Not just the exchange of practical information—bills paid, schedules managed, relatives greeted—but an actual sharing of thoughts, feelings, desires?



On impulse, she retrieved her phone from the coffee table and opened the camera app. The screen reflected her image—hair loosely braided over one shoulder, minimal makeup enhancing her natural features, the turquoise saree bringing out the warmth in her complexion. She adjusted her position, ensuring that the morning light fell favorably on her face, and snapped a photo.



She studied the result critically. It was nice, but something was missing. Turning slightly to capture her profile, she took another, then another from a different angle. In each, the lower dbang of her saree was visible, the style that had become her new normal over the past week.



"He should see how I've been dressing for work," she murmured, selecting the best photos and sending them to Anand with a simple message: "Missing you this morning."



The response came faster than she expected. Her phone buzzed with an incoming call, Anand's name flashing on the screen. She answered with a smile in her voice.



"That was quick. Did my photos wake you up?"



There was a brief silence on the other end, then Anand's voice, tight with an emotion she couldn't immediately identify.



"What are you wearing, Devika?"



The question caught her off guard. "What do you mean? It's just a saree."



"It's how you're wearing it," he replied, his words clipped. "Since when do you dbang your saree so low? I can see your stomach in these photos."



Devika felt a flush of embarrassment, followed quickly by defensiveness. "It's the style here among professional women. Sharada—my colleague—suggested it might help me appear more confident, less... provincial."



"Provincial?" Anand's voice rose slightly. "Is that what our culture is to you now? Something provincial to be shed for the sake of appearing 'confident'?"



"That's not what I meant," Devika protested, pacing the length of her small living room. "It's just a slight adjustment to how I dbang my saree. It's not like I'm wearing something inappropriate."



"By whose standards?" Anand demanded. "Not by the standards we were raised with. Not by what your parents would consider appropriate."



"I'm not in Kerala anymore," Devika replied, her own voice rising to match his. "I'm a professional woman establishing myself in a new city. I need to adapt—"



"Adapt? Is that what you call it?" The accusation in his tone was unmistakable now. "Or are you trying to attract attention while I'm away?"



The words landed like a physical blow. Devika stopped pacing, her free hand clutching the edge of the dining table for support.



"What are you implying?" she asked, her voice dangerously quiet.



"I'm not implying anything," Anand replied. "I'm asking directly. Are you dressing this way to attract men's attention?"



"How dare you?" The heat in Devika's chest expanded, flooding her face, her throat tight with indignation. "I love my profession. I am respected for my mind, my research, my teaching abilities. The last thing I want is to attract attention for my appearance."



"Then why change how you dress? Why suddenly show more skin?"



"It's not about showing skin! It's about appearing confident, about not looking like I just stepped off the boat from some backward village!" The words spilled out before she could consider them, a reflection of insecurities she hadn't fully acknowledged even to herself.



There was a pause on the line, then a sound that froze Devika's blood—a soft, feminine laugh in the background, followed by a murmured comment she couldn't make out. Anand's response was muffled, as if he had covered the mouthpiece, but the feminine voice responded again, clearer this time.



"Just tell her you have to go, Anu. We're getting late."



Devika's fingers tightened around her phone until her knuckles whitened. "Who is that? Who's there with you, Anand?"



"No one," he replied too quickly. "Just the television."



"Don't lie to me!" The words burst from her with surprising force. "I heard a woman. Who is she? And why is she calling you 'Anu'?"



"This is ridiculous," Anand snapped, his voice hardening. "You're changing yourself completely, dressing like someone I don't recognize, and you have the audacity to question me?"



"Answer me!" Devika demanded, tears of anger blurring her vision. "Are you with someone else? Is that why you're so quick to accuse me of trying to attract men? Because you're projecting your own guilt?"



"I'm not going to dignify that with a response," Anand replied, his tone glacial. "When you're ready to have a rational conversation, call me back. Until then, maybe reflect on why you've decided our cultural values are suddenly too 'provincial' for you."



"Don't you dare hang up on me," Devika began, but the line was already dead, the screen showing the call duration—three minutes and forty-seven seconds of destruction.



She stared at the phone in her hand, tears now flowing freely down her cheeks. The betrayal felt physical, a knife twist in her stomach. The woman's voice played on repeat in her mind—casual, intimate, using a nickname Devika herself rarely used for her husband.



"Bastard," she whispered, sinking onto the sofa. "Hypocritical bastard."



The doorbell's shrill ring cut through her spiraling thoughts, jarring her back to her immediate surroundings. She wiped hastily at her tears, checking her reflection in the hallway mirror before approaching the door. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her cheeks flushed, but there was nothing to be done about it now.



She opened the door to find Ramlal standing there, a medium-sized cardboard package cradled in his arms. His eyes performed their usual inventory of her appearance, lingering a moment too long on the exposed skin at her waist before traveling up to her face.



"Parcel for you, Madam Professor," he announced, holding out the package. "It came while you were at college yesterday, but you weren't home when I brought it then."



Devika reached for the package, noticing immediately that one corner was crushed, the cardboard torn to reveal the contents—books, from the look of it, their covers visible through the damaged packaging.



"What happened to this?" she demanded, examining the torn corner more closely. Her anger at Anand, still fresh and raw, found a new target in the damaged parcel and the old man's lascivious gaze.



"It came like this," Ramlal replied, shrugging. "Delivery boy was in a hurry, just dropped it and left. I signed for it to make sure it didn't get stolen."



Something in his casual dismissal of the damage, combined with the way his eyes kept dropping to her waist, snapped the last thread of Devika's composure. These were research books she had ordered weeks ago, expensive imports she had been waiting for impatiently.



"You're lying," she accused, her voice tight with fury. "This was damaged after delivery. Did you open it to see what was inside?"



Ramlal's eyes widened with alarm. "No, Madam, never! I would not—"



"Don't lie to me!" The same words she had hurled at Anand now found a new target. "I've seen how you look at me every day. You think I don't notice? You think because I smile politely, I don't see where your eyes go?"



The old man took a step back, genuine fear flickering across his weathered features. "Please, Madam, I only brought your package—"



"And damaged it in the process!" Devika's hand moved of its own accord, a sharp crack as her palm connected with Ramlal's cheek. The sound seemed to echo in the narrow corridor, followed by a silence so complete she could hear her own ragged breathing.



Ramlal stood frozen, one hand rising slowly to touch the reddening mark on his face, his eyes wide with shock and humiliation. Devika herself was equally stunned, staring at her hand as if it belonged to someone else.



"Get out," she whispered, clutching the damaged package to her chest. "Just go."



The old man backed away, trembling slightly, his usual obsequious manner replaced by genuine fear. "I'm sorry, Madam. The package was already damaged, I swear on my mother's—"



"I said go!" Devika's voice rose again, and Ramlal retreated hastily, nearly stumbling in his haste to reach the stairwell.



She closed the door with shaking hands, then leaned against it, sliding slowly to the floor as the reality of what she had done crashed over her. She had struck an old man—a man her father's age—over a damaged package. She, who had never raised a hand in violence to anyone in her thirty-two years.



The package lay forgotten beside her as she buried her face in her hands, fresh tears leaking between her fingers. What was happening to her? This wasn't who she was—this angry, violent woman lashing out at an elderly security guard, suspicious of her husband, changing her appearance to fit in.



"This is his fault," she whispered, trying to shift the weight of guilt to Anand's absent shoulders. If he hadn't accused her, hadn't been with another woman, hadn't provoked her anger in the first place...



But the justification rang hollow. Ramlal's shocked expression, the red mark on his leathery cheek—these were her doing, not Anand's. She had lost control, allowed her frustration and hurt to spill over onto an easy target.



Devika wrapped her arms around her knees, making herself small against the door as if trying to physically contain the shame expanding within her chest. An uncomfortable heat spread through her body, settling in her stomach—a sensation she recognized as guilt in its purest form.



Outside, the sounds of the apartment complex continued unabated—children playing in the courtyard, a pressure cooker's whistle from a neighboring flat, a car horn from the street below. Life proceeded normally while Devika sat frozen in the aftermath of her outburst, wondering how she had traveled so far from the woman she thought herself to be.



The damaged books, her husband's betrayal, Vishnu and Pathan's predatory attention, Sharada's ambiguous advice, Ramlal's lascivious gaze—all of it swirled together in a toxic mixture that threatened to drown her. She was adrift in a city that wasn't hers, playing roles she hadn't chosen, losing pieces of herself with each compromise.



"I need to call my mother," she whispered, reaching for her phone, then stopping. What would she say? How could she explain any of this to her traditional, devout mother in Kerala? The very thought made her curl tighter into herself, alone with her shame and confusion in an apartment that still didn't feel like home.

[prady12191]

The morning arrived with a weight that settled over Devika like a damp cloth, heavy and suffocating. Sleep had offered little escape from the memory of her palm connecting with Ramlal's weathered cheek, the sound echoing in her mind throughout the restless night. She dressed mechanically, her fingers fumbling with the familiar folds of her saree as if they belonged to someone else—someone capable of striking an old man over a damaged package, someone she didn't recognize in the hollow-eyed reflection staring back from her mirror.



Outside her apartment building, the day progressed with cruel normalcy—children darting to college with lunch boxes swinging, office workers striding purposefully toward bus stops, vendors arranging their wares with practiced efficiency. Devika moved through this tableau like a ghost, her thoughts anchored to yesterday's moment of violence rather than the lecture notes in her bag.



As she approached the college gates, a voice called out behind her.



"Madam! Professor Madam!"



Devika turned to find a young man in a courier company uniform jogging toward her, his face flushed with exertion. He clutched a clipboard in one hand, waving it as if to ensure she wouldn't disappear before he reached her.



"Are you Professor Devika Nair?" he asked, breathing heavily as he came to a stop before her.



She nodded, confusion momentarily displacing her guilt.



"Thank goodness I found you." He wiped sweat from his brow with his sleeve. "I've been trying to locate you since yesterday. I wanted to apologize personally about your package."



"My package?" Devika repeated, the words taking a moment to penetrate the fog of her distraction.



"Yes, ma'am. The books you ordered." He gestured vaguely with his clipboard. "The corner was damaged during sorting at our facility. I should have noted it on the delivery form, but I was running behind schedule and—" He shook his head, clearly embarrassed. "It was unprofessional of me. My supervisor insisted I find you and apologize properly."



Devika stared at him, the implications of his words slowly crystallizing in her mind. If the package had arrived damaged...



"The security guard signed for it," she said, her voice barely audible over the street noise. "He told me it was damaged during delivery."



"It was damaged before delivery, ma'am." The courier adjusted his cap nervously. "But I should have made that clear. If there's any issue with the contents, our company will handle the replacement process. I have the forms here—"



"No," Devika interrupted, raising a hand to stop him. "The books are fine. Just... thank you for telling me."



The young man nodded, clearly relieved to have completed his mission, and retreated with a series of small bows. Devika watched him go, a new heaviness settling in her chest—a different kind of guilt, sharper and more immediate than before.



Ramlal had told the truth. The package had been damaged before it reached him. And she had struck him, accused him of lying, humiliated him in his workplace.



The biology department corridor seemed longer than usual as Devika made her way to her office. Each step felt weighted, as if she were walking through water. The familiar sounds of the college—students' chatter, professors' lectures drifting through half-open doors, the distant ring of the bell marking period changes—registered as distant background noise, unable to penetrate the fog of her thoughts.



Inside her office, she moved through the motions of preparation—arranging lecture notes, checking email, responding to a student query about assignment deadlines—but her mind remained fixed on the twin betrayals that now defined her weekend: her husband's apparent infidelity and her own violence toward an innocent old man.



"Devika? Are you with us?"



She blinked, suddenly aware that Sharada stood in her doorway, arms crossed, head tilted in concern. How long had she been there?



"Sorry," Devika murmured, straightening the already neat stack of papers on her desk. "Did you need something?"



Sharada stepped into the office, closing the door behind her with deliberate care. "I've been standing here for almost a minute. You didn't even notice." She settled into the chair opposite Devika's desk, her expression a mixture of curiosity and concern. "What's wrong? You look like you haven't slept in days."



"It's nothing. Just... tired." The lie tasted bitter on Devika's tongue.



"Mmm." Sharada's skeptical hum made it clear she wasn't convinced. "Does this 'nothing' have anything to do with why you're back to dbanging your saree the old way?"



Devika glanced down, only now realizing she had indeed reverted to her traditional, higher dbang style without conscious thought. The fabric was wrapped securely around her waist, the pleats crisp and conservative, the pallu dbangd to cover her torso completely. The style she had worn before Sharada's suggestions, before Vishnu and Pathan's predatory gazes, before everything had begun to unravel.



"I..." Devika began, then stopped, uncertain how to explain without revealing everything—her husband's betrayal, her violent outburst, the shame that clung to her like a second skin.



"You can tell me," Sharada pressed, her voice softening. "We're friends, aren't we?"



Something in her tone—genuine concern beneath the usual briskness—broke through Devika's defenses. Before she could stop herself, the words tumbled out.



"I slapped someone yesterday. An old man—the security guard at my building." Her voice cracked slightly. "He brought me a package with damaged corners, and I accused him of opening it. He denied it, and I... I hit him. I've never hit anyone in my life, Sharada. Never."



Sharada's eyes widened, her usual composure momentarily shattered by surprise. "You slapped the security guard? Why would you do that?"



"I thought he was lying about the damage. I was already upset about... other things." Devika swallowed hard, unwilling to mention Anand's apparent infidelity. "But I just found out he was telling the truth. The courier came to apologize this morning. The package was damaged before it ever reached my building."



Sharada leaned back in her chair, studying Devika as if seeing her for the first time. "That doesn't sound like you at all."



"It wasn't me," Devika agreed, her voice barely above a whisper. "I don't know who that person was yesterday, but it wasn't me."



"Everyone has breaking points," Sharada said after a moment of silence. "Even the most controlled, disciplined people." She leaned forward, her gaze direct. "The question is, what are you going to do about it now?"



Devika ran her fingers along the edge of her desk, tracing the worn wood grain. "I have to apologize to him. But how do I face him after what I did?"



"The same way we face our students after making a mistake in a lecture," Sharada replied simply. "With honesty and humility. Admit you were wrong, apologize sincerely, and move forward."



"It's not that simple."



"It never is," Sharada agreed. "But it's necessary. You won't be able to live with yourself otherwise." She stood, smoothing the front of her salwar kameez. "Go home early today. Find him. Make it right."



Devika nodded, grateful for the directness of Sharada's advice even as she dreaded the prospect of facing Ramlal again.



---



The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the courtyard of Ramlal Apartments as Devika approached the gates. She spotted Ramlal immediately—his white hair catching the light as he stood at attention beside the security booth, his posture stiff and formal in a way it had never been before. At the sight of her, he turned deliberately toward his booth, busying himself with a logbook, his back presented to her like a shield.



Devika's steps faltered. The physical manifestation of his hurt—the deliberate avoidance, the rigid posture—cut deeper than she had anticipated. She lowered her gaze as she passed him, unable to summon the courage to speak, and hurried to the stairwell without looking back.



Inside her apartment, she moved with restless energy, unable to settle. She changed out of her work clothes, carefully selecting a traditional Kerala saree in soft cream with a gold border—the kind she had worn before Pune, before Sharada's advice, before everything had changed. She dbangd it high on her waist, the pleats precise and modest, the pallu covering her torso completely. An unconscious return to her roots, to the woman she had been before.



Standing before the mirror, Devika rehearsed what she would say to Ramlal. Simple words: "I was wrong. I'm sorry. Please forgive me." Yet they seemed inadequate against the memory of his shocked expression, the red mark on his cheek, the deliberate way he had turned his back to her just moments ago.



With trembling fingers, she picked up her intercom phone and pressed the button for the security booth.



"Security," Ramlal's voice crackled through the speaker, formal and distant.



"Ramlal-ji," Devika began, her voice steadier than she felt. "Could you please come to my apartment? I need assistance with something."



There was a pause, then: "I can send the other guard, madam. He is on duty now."



"No," Devika insisted, swallowing her pride. "I need your help specifically. Please."



Another pause, longer this time. Devika could almost feel his hesitation through the static of the intercom.



"Very well, madam. I will come in five minutes."



"Thank you."



Devika paced the small living room, checking her appearance once more in the mirror, adjusting the already perfect pleats of her saree. The five minutes stretched interminably, each second marked by the loud ticking of the wall clock that had come with the furnished apartment.



Finally, a soft knock at the door.



Devika took a deep breath, smoothing her palms down the front of her saree, and opened the door.



Ramlal stood in the corridor, his uniform pressed but somehow still hanging loosely on his thin frame, his cap clutched in his hands. He kept his eyes downcast, not meeting her gaze.



"You wanted to see me, madam?" His voice was carefully neutral, devoid of the effusive greeting that had once characterized their interactions.



"Yes, please come in," Devika said, stepping aside to make space for him to enter.



Ramlal hesitated, his discomfort evident in the shifting of his weight from one foot to the other. "If madam could just tell me what is needed, I can—"



"Please," Devika interrupted, the word carrying more weight than its single syllable should allow. "Come inside. I need to speak with you."



Reluctantly, Ramlal stepped into the apartment, maintaining a careful distance from Devika as he passed. He stood just inside the doorway, still not meeting her eyes, his cap twisting in his weathered hands.



Devika closed the door and turned to face him, suddenly aware of how small her apartment was, how the silence between them seemed to compress the space further.



"What work do you need, madam?" Ramlal asked, his voice barely audible.



"There is no work," Devika admitted. "I needed to speak with you privately. About yesterday."



Ramlal's shoulders tensed visibly. "No need to speak of it, madam. It is forgotten."



"It's not forgotten," Devika contradicted gently. "Not by you, and certainly not by me." She took a step toward him, careful to maintain enough distance that he wouldn't feel threatened. "I was wrong, Ramlal-ji. The courier came to me today and told me the package was damaged before it reached you. You were telling the truth, and I..." Her voice caught. "I behaved inexcusably. I am deeply, truly sorry."



Ramlal looked up at last, surprise momentarily overriding his caution. His cheek, she noticed with a pang, still bore a faint discoloration where her hand had struck.



"It is nothing, madam," he said, his voice stronger now. "Such things happen in life. I have experienced worse."



"That doesn't make it right," Devika insisted. "I had no right to treat you that way, no matter what I was feeling. Please, won't you sit down? Let me make you some tea."



"No, madam, I cannot—"



"Please," Devika repeated, moving toward him and gently taking his arm. "Let me do this small thing. It would mean a great deal to me to know you've truly accepted my apology."



The moment her fingers touched his arm, something shifted in Ramlal's expression—a flicker of that same look she had often caught him giving her, a mixture of appreciation and desire that had once made her uncomfortable but now served her purpose.



"Very well," he conceded, allowing her to guide him to the small dining table. "But only for a moment. It is not appropriate for me to be in a tenant's home."



"I won't tell if you won't," Devika replied, attempting lightness as she moved to the kitchen to prepare tea.



She could feel his eyes on her as she worked, following her movements as she set the kettle to boil, measured tea leaves, added cardamom and ginger to the pot. The attention that had once seemed invasive now felt like a strange form of penance—allowing him to look, to appreciate, after she had caused him pain.



"Do you have family nearby, Ramlal-ji?" she asked, filling the silence as she waited for the water to boil.



Ramlal's hands finally stilled their nervous movement against his cap. "No, madam. My wife left me when I was forty-five. My sons work in the Gulf countries—Dubai, Bahrain. They rarely contact me now."



The mention of Dubai sent a sharp pang through Devika's chest—an unwelcome reminder of Anand and the woman whose voice had filtered through the phone.



"I'm sorry to hear that," she said, pouring the boiling water over the tea leaves. "It must be difficult to be alone."



"One becomes accustomed," Ramlal replied, his tone matter-of-fact rather than self-pitying. "And you, madam? You are from Kerala, yes?"



"Yes," Devika confirmed, bringing two steaming cups to the table and taking the seat opposite him. "I came to Pune for this teaching position."



Ramlal accepted the cup with a nod of thanks but didn't immediately drink. "May I speak freely, madam?" he asked, his voice hesitant.



"Of course," Devika replied, curling her fingers around the warmth of her cup. "Please do."



"You are..." He paused, clearly searching for the right words. "You are very beautiful. Are all Kerala women as beautiful as you?"



The compliment, unexpected and delivered with such earnestness, startled a laugh from Devika. "Thank you, Ramlal-ji. Many Kerala women are considered beautiful, yes. We're known for our connection to nature and traditional ways."



Ramlal nodded, seeming encouraged by her response. "I am not good at talking to women," he admitted. "If I say something wrong, please forgive me and correct me."



"You're doing fine," Devika assured him, sipping her tea to hide her discomfort with the turn in conversation.



"Your husband must miss you very much," Ramlal continued, his gaze dropping briefly to the gold mangalsutra chain at her neck. "Being away from such a beautiful wife... especially at night."



Heat rushed to Devika's face—part embarrassment, part anger at the reminder of Anand's betrayal. The woman's voice echoed in her memory: "Just tell her you have to go, Anu. We're getting late."



"I'm not sure," she replied, her voice tight despite her efforts to sound casual. "He's very focused on his work, and—" She stopped, unwilling to voice the suspicion that had taken root in her heart.



Ramlal nodded as if she had confirmed something for him. "Men can be foolish," he said simply, finally taking a sip of his tea. His eyes widened with genuine pleasure. "This tea is wonderful, madam. I have not tasted such good tea in many years."



"Thank you," Devika replied, grateful for the change in subject. "It's a Kerala blend with cardamom and fresh ginger."



"Your husband is a fortunate man," Ramlal said, his tone reverential as he took another appreciative sip. "To have such a talented wife who makes such excellent tea."



The compliment, innocent as it was, stirred a complex mixture of emotions in Devika's chest. When was the last time Anand had complimented anything she did? When had he last noticed her efforts, her skills, her presence in his life as anything other than an expectation?



"You must come for tea again," she found herself saying, the words bypassing her usual careful consideration. "Whenever you like."



Ramlal lowered his cup, surprise evident in his expression. "That would not be proper, madam. People would talk."



"Let them talk," Devika replied, surprised by her own boldness. "Consider it part of my apology. Besides, who would know? Our secret."



Ramlal hesitated, clearly tempted but uncertain. "You are sure, madam?"



"Only if you stop calling me 'madam' when we're having tea," Devika said, offering a small smile. "My name is Devika."



"Devika," Ramlal repeated, the name sounding strange in his mouth, intimate in a way that made her both uncomfortable and oddly pleased. "Thank you for the tea... Devika. And for the apology, though it was not necessary."



He finished his tea and stood, once again the proper security guard, though something had shifted between them—a boundary crossed, a new understanding established.



"I should return to my post," he said, adjusting his uniform cap. "Thank you again."



"Remember," Devika said as she walked him to the door, "you're welcome anytime for tea."



Ramlal paused at the threshold, his eyes meeting hers with unexpected directness. "Only if you truly wish it. I would not want to impose."



"I truly wish it," Devika confirmed, surprising herself with the sincerity in her voice. "It would mean you've forgiven me completely."



"There is nothing to forgive," Ramlal insisted, but he nodded his acceptance of her invitation. "Good evening, ma—Devika."



As the door closed behind him, Devika leaned against it, exhaling slowly. The apartment felt different somehow—the space altered by the conversation that had taken place within it, by the invitation extended, by the subtle shift in how she viewed both Ramlal and herself.



Outside, the evening shadows lengthened across the courtyard as Ramlal returned to his post. From her window, Devika watched him settle into his chair beside the security booth, his posture more relaxed than it had been when she arrived home. The guilt that had weighed on her since yesterday hadn't disappeared entirely, but it had transformed into something different—a strange, unexpected connection with a man she had previously viewed as merely part of the background of her life.



She turned away from the window, her gaze falling on her phone where it lay on the coffee table. Anand hadn't called since their argument. No apology, no explanation for the woman's voice, no concern for how she might be feeling.



Devika moved to the kitchen, rinsing the teacups with methodical care, her mind drifting between the three men now occupying different corners of her life—Anand with his distant betrayal, Vishnu and Pathan with their predatory attention, and now Ramlal with his awkward compliments and lonely eyes.



Each relationship pulled her in a different direction, stretching her identity into shapes she didn't recognize. Who was she becoming in this city so far from home? The woman who slapped an old man, who invited him for private tea, who felt a perverse satisfaction in his admiring gaze?



The questions lingered, unanswered, as darkness settled over the apartment and the first stars appeared in the Pune sky.

[prady12191]

Morning sunlight slanted through the blinds as Devika fastened the final pin in her saree, the fabric dbangd lower on her waist than she would have worn it three months ago. The mirror reflected a woman she was still learning to recognize—professionally dressed yet with a hint of modernity that marked her as someone adapting to a new environment. She smoothed a hand over the emerald silk, feeling the cool fabric against her palm, a small act of defiance against the voice in her head that sounded suspiciously like her mother's, whispering about propriety and tradition.



The past few days had been a storm of emotions—the confrontation with her husband, the incident with Ramlal, the strange tea they had shared afterward. Yet this morning, a tentative calm had settled over her, as if the worst had passed and she could begin rebuilding from the rubble of her certainties.



Her phone buzzed on the dresser, the screen lighting up with Anand's name. Devika's heart stuttered in her chest. They hadn't spoken since their argument three days ago, when she had heard the woman's voice in the background of their call. Her finger hovered over the decline button before a sudden impulse made her accept instead.



"Hello?" Her voice came out steadier than she felt.



"Devika." Anand's voice carried none of the anger from their last conversation. Instead, it was soft, almost contrite. "Can we switch to video? I want to see you."



She hesitated, glancing at her reflection once more. "Alright," she agreed, tapping the camera icon.



Anand's face filled the screen—handsome in the conventional way that had first drawn her parents' attention during the arranged marriage discussions. His hair was neatly combed, his collared shirt crisp as always. Behind him, she could see the familiar backdrop of his Dubai apartment, the skyline visible through the window.



"There you are," he said, his expression softening. "I've missed seeing your face."



The words should have warmed her, but they landed like pebbles on frozen ground—small impacts that failed to penetrate the surface.



"Have you?" she asked, unable to keep the edge from her voice.



Anand's smile faltered, then reasserted itself with deliberate effort. "Of course I have. You're my wife. I think about you every day." He leaned closer to the screen. "Can you prop the phone up somewhere? I want to see all of you."



Devika placed the phone against a stack of books on her dresser, adjusting the angle until she was fully in frame. She stepped back, arms hanging awkwardly at her sides, feeling suddenly like a specimen under examination.



"You look beautiful," Anand said, his gaze traveling the length of her. Then his expression shifted, his brows drawing together. "But what are you wearing? Is that how you're dbanging your saree now?"



Devika's hand moved instinctively to her waist, where the fabric sat lower than traditional Kerala style. "It's how professional women dress here," she replied, the justification sounding hollow even to her own ears.



"Professional women?" Anand's voice took on the hard edge she remembered from their last conversation. "Or women looking for attention?"



"Please, not this again." Devika crossed her arms over her chest, as if to shield herself from his scrutiny. "I told you, this is the standard style here. Sharada advised—"



"Sharada again," Anand interrupted. "This mysterious colleague who keeps telling you to show more skin. Have you ever considered her motives?"



"Her motives?" Devika repeated, incredulous. "She's trying to help me fit in, to be taken seriously as a professional."



"By dressing like that?" Anand's voice rose. "I called because I missed you, because I wanted to make things right between us. And what do I find? That you're still ignoring everything I said, still dressing like—"



"Like what?" Devika challenged, her own anger rising to meet his. "Like a confident, modern woman? Like someone with agency over her own body?"



"Don't use those feminist buzzwords with me," Anand snapped. "This isn't about agency or modernity. It's about respect—for yourself, for our marriage, for our culture."



"Our culture," Devika echoed bitterly. "The same culture that has you working halfway across the world while I build a life alone in a new city? The same culture that expects me to be the perfect, obedient wife while you—" She broke off, the accusation hovering unspoken between them.



"While I what?" Anand's eyes narrowed. "Go on, say it."



The doorbell's shrill ring cut through the tension, making Devika flinch. "I have to get that," she said, grateful for the interruption.



"We're not finished," Anand called as she moved out of frame.



Devika opened the door to find Ramlal standing in the corridor, a small package in his weathered hands. His eyes brightened at the sight of her, then quickly lowered in a show of deference that hadn't been there before their tea together.



"Good morning, Devika," he said, using her name with careful deliberation. "A courier came for you."



"Thank you, Ramlal-ji." She accepted the package, acutely aware of Anand's presence just out of sight, listening to every word. "I appreciate you bringing it up."



Ramlal lingered a moment longer than necessary, his gaze lifting briefly to meet hers. "Will you be wanting tea this evening?" he asked, his voice lowered to near-whisper.



Before Devika could respond, she heard Anand's voice from inside the apartment: "Who is that? What's he saying about tea?"



Ramlal's eyes widened in alarm, and Devika quickly closed the door with a hurried, "Not today, thank you."



She returned to the phone, setting the package aside without looking at it. Anand's face on the screen was tight with suspicion.



"Who was that?" he demanded.



"The security guard," Devika replied, fighting to keep her voice neutral. "He brought up a package."



"And what was that about tea?" Anand's eyes had taken on a dangerous gleam. "Since when are you on tea terms with the security guard?"



"He's an old man," Devika said, the defense sounding weak even to her ears. "I invited him for tea once as an apology for... for a misunderstanding."



"An apology," Anand repeated, his voice dripping with disbelief. "Looks like your old friend came for a little enjoyment, and I disturbed you."



The accusation hit Devika like a physical blow. "He's my father's age!" she exclaimed, incredulous. "How dare you suggest—"



"How dare I?" Anand's laugh was harsh, devoid of humor. "You're the one dressing provocatively, having private tea with men while your husband is away. And you ask how dare I?"



"This is insane," Devika said, shaking her head. "You're accusing me of having an affair with a 65-year-old security guard? Do you even hear yourself?"



"I hear a woman making excuses," Anand replied coldly. "A woman who doesn't respect herself or her marriage enough to—"



A female voice interrupted him, calling from somewhere off-screen. "Anu, darling, we're going to be late for the meeting."



The same voice from their last call. The same intimate tone, the same casual use of his nickname. Time seemed to freeze as Devika and Anand stared at each other through the screen, the woman's words hanging between them like a physical presence.



"Who is that?" Devika asked, her voice barely above a whisper.



Anand's expression shuttered closed. "A colleague."



"Colleagues don't call each other 'darling,'" Devika said, surprised by the steadiness of her voice despite the trembling in her hands. "Who is she, Anand?"



"This is ridiculous," he muttered, looking away from the camera. "I'm not going to justify myself to you when you're the one—"



"Who is she?" Devika repeated, louder this time.



The woman's voice came again, closer now. "Anu, seriously, Sharma is waiting."



"I can't waste time on this," Anand said, his voice cold. "Some of us have actual responsibilities, not just parading around for students and security guards."



"Answer me!" Devika demanded, tears burning at the back of her eyes. "Are you having an affair?"



Anand's face contorted with anger. "You've lost your mind," he spat. "Throwing around accusations when you're the one who's changed, who's turned into someone I don't even recognize. I can't waste any more time on you, you—" He paused, his jaw working as if chewing on the word before spitting it out: "Slut."



The screen went black as he ended the call.



Devika stood frozen, the slur ringing in her ears. She waited for the tears to come, for the collapse she had experienced during their last fight. Instead, she felt a strange, cold clarity spreading through her chest.



"Slut," she repeated to the empty room, testing the weight of the word. It should have crushed her, but instead, it seemed to illuminate something she hadn't been able to see before—the fundamental unfairness of it all. Her husband, likely in the arms of another woman, had the audacity to call her names for simply adapting her style of dress.



She turned to the mirror again, studying her reflection. The emerald saree dbangd across her form, the lower style revealing a sliver of skin at her waist. She adjusted it slightly, not higher as she might have done before, but more securely in its current position. Then she slipped on her heels, picked up her bag, and walked out the door with her head held high.



Ramlal was still at his post when she reached the courtyard. She met his gaze directly and offered him a warm smile that made his weathered face light up with surprise and pleasure.



"Have a good day, Ramlal-ji," she called, her voice carrying across the space between them.



"You too, Devika," he replied, his response drawing curious looks from two women chatting near the gate.



Let them look, Devika thought as she strode toward the college, her heels clicking against the pavement with rhythmic determination. Let them talk. I've done nothing wrong.



---



The biology laboratory was bathed in afternoon light when Vishnu and Pathan arrived for their practical session. Devika was already there, arranging slides and equipment with methodical precision, her mind still echoing with Anand's accusation, still burning with the slur he had hurled at her before hanging up.



"Good afternoon, Professor," Pathan greeted, his voice carrying that silky quality that had once made her skin crawl but now barely registered through the numbness that had settled over her.



"Afternoon," she replied, not looking up from her work. "We're studying plant cell structures today. Please prepare your microscopes."



The practical proceeded as expected—Vishnu and Pathan maintained a pretense of academic interest while finding every opportunity for proximity. When Devika leaned over to adjust Vishnu's microscope, he shifted in his seat, bringing his shoulder against her arm. When she demonstrated the proper cutting technique for plant samples, Pathan stood unnecessarily close, his breath warm against her neck.



In previous sessions, Devika had maintained strict distance, had stepped away at the first brush of contact. Today, she found herself unmoved by their tactics, too drained by her morning confrontation to summon the energy for avoidance.



When Pathan's hand brushed against her lower back as she passed his workstation, she simply continued walking. When Vishnu inhaled deeply near her shoulder, murmuring about her "lovely perfume," she merely corrected his slide preparation without comment.



Their touches grew bolder in response to her apparent indifference—a hand lingering at her waist when asking a question, fingers brushing her arm when reaching for equipment, bodies positioned to create unavoidable contact in the narrow spaces between lab tables.



"Professor, could you help me with this measurement?" Vishnu called, though the simple volumetric task hardly required assistance.



Devika moved to his side, demonstrating once again how to read the meniscus at eye level. As she straightened, his hand briefly touched her hip, the contact so quick it could have been dismissed as accidental if not for the gleam in his eyes when she looked at him.



"Is that clear now?" she asked, her voice professionally detached.



"Crystal clear," Vishnu replied, his gaze holding hers a beat too long. "You're an excellent teacher, Professor."



The session continued in this vein—their advances increasingly blatant, her responses increasingly detached. It was as if she were observing the situation from a distance, watching another woman navigate these predatory waters with mechanical efficiency.



By the time the practical ended, Devika felt hollowed out, emptied of the emotional energy required for either outrage or fear. She dismissed the students with curt instructions for their next meeting and began cleaning the laboratory with robotic movements, her mind elsewhere—caught in the echo chamber of Anand's voice calling her a slut, the stranger's voice calling him darling.



---



The staff room was mercifully empty when Devika arrived, her arms laden with materials from the practical session. She sank into her chair, the weight of the day suddenly crashing down on her shoulders. The numbness that had carried her through the practical with Vishnu and Pathan began to crack, emotion seeping through the fissures like water through damaged concrete.



Her vision blurred as tears filled her eyes, spilling over before she could blink them away. One sob escaped, then another, her body shaking with the force of emotions she had suppressed all day.



"Devika? What's wrong?"



Sharada stood in the doorway, concern etched across her features. She closed the door behind her and crossed to Devika's desk, pulling up a chair to sit beside her.



"Nothing," Devika managed, hastily wiping at her tears. "I'm fine."



"Clearly," Sharada replied dryly. She reached out to touch Devika's arm. "Was it those boys? Did they do something during the practical? Because if they did, we can go straight to the principal and—"



"No, no," Devika interrupted, shaking her head. "It wasn't them. Not really."



"Then what?" Sharada pressed, her normally brisk manner softening. "You can tell me."



The simple kindness in those words broke the last of Devika's resistance. Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks as words tumbled out.



"It's Anand—my husband. He called this morning," she began, her voice breaking. "At first it seemed like he wanted to reconcile after our last fight, but then he saw how I was wearing my saree and started accusing me of... of trying to attract attention."



Sharada's expression darkened. "The same argument again?"



"Worse this time," Devika continued. "Ramlal brought a package while we were talking, and Anand somehow twisted that into... into an accusation that I'm having an affair with him."



"With Ramlal?" Sharada's eyebrows shot up. "The security guard? That's absurd!"



"I know," Devika agreed, wiping at her tears with the edge of her saree pallu. "But that's not even the worst part. There was a woman there with him—I could hear her calling him 'darling,' just like last time. When I asked who she was, he got defensive and then—" Her voice caught on the memory. "He called me a slut before hanging up."



Sharada's intake of breath was sharp with indignation. "He called you what?"



"A slut," Devika repeated, the word still burning on her tongue. "My own husband."



"That's completely unacceptable," Sharada declared, her hand squeezing Devika's arm. "No husband should ever speak to his wife that way, no matter what the disagreement."



"I think he's having an affair," Devika admitted, giving voice to the suspicion that had been growing for weeks. "This isn't the first time I've heard this woman. She's always there, always calling him with such... familiarity."



"We can't know for certain," Sharada cautioned, though her expression suggested she found the evidence compelling. "Long-distance relationships are complicated, and sometimes—"



"If it was just once or twice, maybe," Devika interrupted. "But it's happening every time we speak lately. And now this—calling me names, making accusations, refusing to explain who this woman is." She shook her head, fresh tears threatening. "What am I supposed to think?"



Sharada was quiet for a moment, considering. "Whatever is happening with your husband—and I agree it sounds suspicious—it doesn't justify how he spoke to you. That was cruel and disrespectful."



Devika nodded, accepting the tissue Sharada pulled from her purse. "I don't even know who he is anymore," she confessed. "The man I married would never have spoken to me that way."



"People change," Sharada said simply. "Sometimes distance reveals who they truly are, rather than who we thought they were."



The words hung in the air between them, weighty with implication. Devika dabbed at her eyes, the storm of emotion gradually subsiding into a dull ache in her chest.



"What do I do now?" she asked, her voice small.



"For today? You rest," Sharada replied, practical as always. "You've had an emotional morning and a difficult practical session. Go home, have some tea, get some sleep." She paused, then added more gently, "Tomorrow, you can start thinking about what you want your life to look like—with or without Anand."



"With or without..." Devika echoed, the concept simultaneously terrifying and strangely liberating.



"It's something to consider," Sharada said carefully. "But not today. Today, just breathe."



She handed Devika a bottle of water from her own bag, watching as she took a long drink. The cool liquid seemed to wash away some of the raw emotion, leaving clarity in its wake.



"Thank you," Devika said, meeting Sharada's eyes. "For listening. For not judging."



"That's what friends are for," Sharada replied with a small smile. "And whatever happens with Anand, with those boys, with anything—you're not alone here. Remember that."



As the afternoon light softened toward evening outside the staff room windows, Devika felt the weight on her shoulders shift slightly—not lighter, exactly, but more evenly distributed, as if Sharada had taken some portion of it upon herself. The pain of Anand's betrayal, the shame of his accusation, the discomfort of Vishnu and Pathan's attention—none of it had disappeared, but for the first time since coming to Pune, Devika felt she might not have to carry it all alone.

[prady12191]

Morning light filled the staff room as Devika stepped inside, her spine straight as a ruler despite the weight pressing down on her shoulders. The word Anand had hurled at her yesterday—slut—still burned in her mind, a hot coal refusing to cool. She had barely slept, lying awake as scenarios played out in her imagination: Anand with another woman, laughing at her naiveté, dismissing their marriage with casual cruelty. By dawn, the hurt had crystallized into something harder, sharper. She needed proof—something concrete that would either confirm her suspicions or lay them to rest. Either way, she couldn't continue in this limbo of doubt and accusation.



Sharada looked up from her desk, her shrewd eyes immediately noting the shadows beneath Devika's eyes, the tight set of her jaw. "You look like you've been through war," she said, pulling out the chair beside her. "Sit. Have you eaten anything?"



Devika shook her head, dropping her bag onto the desk with unusual carelessness. "I couldn't stomach food. I just kept hearing his voice, that word he called me, and then her voice in the background. 'Darling.' As if she had every right."



"Men," Sharada muttered, pushing a thermos toward her. "At least drink some tea. You need something."



The familiar scent of cardamom and ginger rose as Devika unscrewed the cap, a small comfort in a world that had tilted off its axis. She took a sip, letting the warmth travel down her throat, into her chest.



"I need to know for certain," she said finally, setting the thermos down with deliberate care. "I can't just sit here in Pune while my husband may be carrying on with someone else in Dubai. I need proof."



Sharada studied her, the usual briskness of her manner softening. "What would you do with this proof? Confront him? Leave him? What's your endgame here, Devika?"



"I don't know yet." Devika's fingers traced the edge of the desk, finding a small nick in the wood, pressing against it until her fingertip whitened. "But I need to make decisions based on truth, not suspicion. I can't let things continue as they are."



"And how exactly do you plan to get this proof from halfway around the world?"



"That's why I'm talking to you." Devika leaned forward, her voice dropping despite the empty staff room. "Do you know anyone in Dubai? Someone who could... observe him, perhaps? Take photos if he's with this woman?"



Sharada's eyebrows rose. "You want to hire a private investigator? On a professor's salary?"



"Not a professional, just... someone. Anyone." The desperation in Devika's voice surprised even herself. "I have some savings. I could pay something reasonable."



Sharada sat back, tapping her pen against her notebook as she considered. "I don't know anyone in Dubai personally. My cousin's daughter is in Sharjah, but that's not close enough to be useful." She fell silent, her eyes narrowing in thought. "Wait. There might be someone..."



"Who?" Devika leaned closer, hope flickering to life.



"It's not ideal," Sharada warned, hesitation clear in her voice. "But Vishnu Patil—that student of yours—I believe his uncle or cousin works for some shipping company in Dubai. He mentioned it once when explaining why he had connections for imported goods."



"Vishnu?" The hope in Devika's chest curdled into something sour. "You can't be serious."



"I told you it wasn't ideal." Sharada's expression was sympathetic but pragmatic. "But we're limited in our options here. Unless you want to fly to Dubai yourself?"



"I can't afford that." Devika pressed her palms against her eyes, trying to think clearly. "But Vishnu? After everything I've told you about how he and Pathan behave in the practicals?"



"I know, I know." Sharada reached out to touch Devika's arm. "But think about it—who else do we know with direct connections to Dubai? The college community is mostly local or from other parts of India."



Devika lowered her hands, staring at nothing as she weighed her limited options. "He'd want something in return. Both of them would."



"Probably," Sharada agreed, her voice matter-of-fact. "But you don't have to give them anything inappropriate. Maybe some extra credit, or a good reference letter when they graduate."



"You think they'd settle for that?" Devika couldn't keep the skepticism from her voice.



Sharada sighed, leaning closer. "Look, I wouldn't suggest this if I thought you had better options. But I also..." She hesitated, then seemed to make a decision. "I also feel terrible about what's happening to you. Your husband—who should cherish you—is likely cheating, while you're alone in a new city, trying to build a career. It's not fair."



"Life rarely is," Devika murmured.



"True. But I still hate to see it." Sharada's voice softened further. "You're beautiful, intelligent, kind. Any man would be lucky to have you. For your husband to betray that..." She shook her head, genuine anger flashing in her eyes. "It makes my blood boil."



The simple validation—the acknowledgment that she didn't deserve this, that the fault lay with Anand rather than her—brought fresh tears to Devika's eyes. She blinked them away hastily, unwilling to break down again in the staff room.



"So what do you think I should do?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.



"I think you should talk to Vishnu after class today. Explain enough of the situation to get his help, but not so much that he thinks you're completely vulnerable. Be firm about what you're asking for and what you're offering in return." Sharada squeezed her arm. "And remember—you're still his professor. You still hold the authority in that relationship."



Devika nodded slowly, not entirely convinced but seeing no better alternative. "I'll think about it."



"That's all I'm suggesting." Sharada glanced at the wall clock. "You should eat something before your first lecture. There's still time to grab a vada pav from the canteen."



"I'm not hungry." Devika gathered her lecture notes, her movements mechanical. "But thank you, Sharada. For listening. For trying to help."



"That's what friends do." Sharada's smile held a warmth that briefly pierced the cold fog surrounding Devika's heart. "Now go teach those students something useful about cell biology."



---



The lecture hall buzzed with the usual pre-class chatter as Devika entered, her notes clutched tightly against her chest like armor. Her eyes immediately found Vishnu and Pathan in their usual seats near the back, heads bent in conversation, Pathan's silver tooth flashing as he laughed at something Vishnu had said. They straightened as they noticed her entrance, their gazes following her path to the podium with the predatory focus she had come to expect.



For two hours, Devika lectured on membrane transport mechanisms, her voice steady and professional despite the turmoil beneath her composed exterior. She moved through the material methodically, answering questions, guiding discussions, all while acutely aware of Vishnu's eyes tracking her movements, of Pathan's smirk when she accidentally dropped her chalk and had to bend to retrieve it.



When the bell finally rang, signaling the end of class, Devika took a deep breath before calling out over the scbang of chairs and shuffle of papers:



"Mr. Patil, Mr. Khan—a moment of your time, please."



The two exchanged glances, triumphant smiles playing at the corners of their mouths as they made their way down to the podium while other students filtered out. Devika waited until the last stragglers had left before addressing them.



"I need to speak with you privately," she said, her voice carefully neutral. "Could you both come to my office in fifteen minutes?"



"Of course, Professor," Vishnu replied, his tone a study in false deference. "Is this about the practical assignments?"



"No. It's a personal matter." The words tasted strange on her tongue—the admission that she needed something from them beyond the professional relationship they were meant to maintain. "I'll explain when we're alone."



Pathan's eyebrows rose, a slow smile spreading across his face. "We're honored by your trust, Professor. Fifteen minutes."



Devika nodded curtly and gathered her materials, refusing to meet their curious gazes as she left the lecture hall. In her small office, she paced the confined space, rehearsing what she would say, how she would maintain her dignity while asking for their help. The minutes ticked by with excruciating slowness until a knock at her door announced their arrival.



"Come in," she called, moving behind her desk as if the wooden barrier might offer some protection.



They entered with unusual restraint, Vishnu closing the door carefully behind them. Both took seats without being invited, their postures relaxed, expectant.



"Thank you for coming," Devika began, her hands clasped tightly on the desktop. "What I'm about to discuss is highly personal and confidential. I would appreciate your discretion."



"Of course, Professor," Vishnu replied, leaning forward slightly. "You can trust us completely."



The earnestness in his voice might have been convincing if she hadn't seen the flash of anticipation in his eyes. Devika took a deep breath, forcing herself to continue.



"I'm having some... difficulties in my marriage," she said, each word carefully chosen. "My husband works in Dubai, as you may know, and I have reason to believe he may be... involved with someone there."



Pathan's expression shifted to one of exaggerated concern. "That's terrible, Professor. How could any man betray a woman like you?"



"I don't need sympathy," Devika replied sharply. "What I need is information. Confirmation of whether my suspicions are correct."



"And how can we help with that?" Vishnu asked, though the gleam in his eyes suggested he had already guessed.



"I understand you have relatives in Dubai, Mr. Patil." Devika met his gaze steadily, refusing to show weakness. "I need someone there who could observe my husband, perhaps take photographs if he's seen with this woman. I would compensate them for their time, of course."



Vishnu and Pathan exchanged looks, a silent communication passing between them that made Devika's skin crawl.



"Your husband is a fool," Vishnu said finally, his voice dropping to a lower register. "To have a wife like you and look elsewhere."



"That's not relevant to my request," Devika said coldly. "Can you help me or not?"



"Of course we can help," Pathan interjected, his tone soothing. "Vishnu's cousin works for a shipping company with offices all over Dubai. He knows the city well."



"The bastard deserves to be caught," Vishnu added, sudden vehemence in his voice. "Pardon my language, Professor, but a man who would cheat on his wife—especially a wife like you—is lower than dirt."



"Please don't speak of my husband that way," Devika said, though the defense felt hollow after everything that had happened. "Whatever is occurring, he is still my husband. I simply need facts, not judgments."



"Facts we can provide," Vishnu assured her, his anger smoothly transitioning to helpful eagerness. "I'll need his full name, a photograph, his workplace details, and usual haunts in Dubai. My cousin can start observing him within days."



"And what do you want in return?" Devika asked bluntly. "I can pay a reasonable fee, but that's all I'm offering."



Pathan raised his hands in a gesture of innocence. "Professor, you wound us. We're helping because it's the right thing to do. Because we respect you."



"I'm not naive, Mr. Khan," Devika replied, her voice hard. "Everyone wants something. Name your price so we understand each other clearly."



Another look passed between the two men, this one lingering longer.



"Your friendship," Vishnu said finally. "That's all we want. To be seen as more than just troublesome students. To have a... closer relationship with our favorite professor."



The implication hung in the air between them, ambiguous enough to deny if challenged, clear enough to make Devika's stomach tighten with apprehension.



"I can offer my gratitude and perhaps a letter of recommendation when you graduate," she countered. "The relationship remains professional. Are we clear?"



"Crystal clear," Pathan said, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. "We understand boundaries, Professor. We're simply offering friendly support in your time of need."



Devika wanted to believe them, needed to believe them, despite every instinct warning her of danger. She opened her desk drawer and withdrew a photograph of Anand she kept there—a formal portrait from his company's website that she had printed months ago.



"His name is Anand Menon," she said, sliding the photograph across the desk. "He works for Gulf Construction Partners as a structural engineer. Their offices are in the Business Bay area."



Vishnu took the photograph, studying it with unsettling intensity. "Handsome man," he observed. "Though clearly not very smart, if he's neglecting you."



Devika ignored the comment. "He usually leaves the office around six. Often mentions meeting colleagues at a place called Barasti on the marina." She hesitated, then added, "The woman's voice I heard called him 'Anu.' It's a nickname only family and close friends use."



"This is very helpful," Vishnu said, tucking the photograph into his notebook. "I'll contact my cousin today. We should have preliminary information within a week."



"Thank you," Devika said stiffly, already questioning her decision. "Remember, this is strictly confidential. I don't want anyone else at the college knowing about my personal situation."



"Your secrets are safe with us, Professor," Pathan assured her, rising from his chair. "We only want to help you find the truth. Whatever it may be."



After they left, Devika remained at her desk, a strange hollowness expanding in her chest. She had crossed a line, involving students in her personal life, creating a connection that went beyond the professional boundaries she had fought so hard to maintain. Yet what choice did she have? The need to know—to confirm or disprove Anand's betrayal—outweighed all other considerations.



She opened her desk drawer again, staring at the empty space where Anand's photograph had been. It felt symbolic somehow, this small erasure—the first tangible step toward whatever came next.



---



"Can you believe this?" Vishnu's voice was thick with excitement as he closed the door to their shared room in the college hostel. "She came to us. She actually came to us."



Pathan sprawled on his bed, arms folded behind his head, a satisfied smile playing across his lips. "The universe provides, my friend. I told you something would break in our favor."



"Her husband is cheating on her," Vishnu marveled, pacing the small room with restless energy. "Fucking idiot. Do you know what this means for us?"



"It means she's vulnerable," Pathan replied, his voice dropping to a contemplative murmur. "Questioning her marriage, her value as a woman. Seeking validation."



"Exactly." Vishnu stopped pacing, turning to face his friend with gleaming eyes. "And we're the ones she turned to for help. Not her female colleagues, not the administration. Us."



"She had little choice," Pathan pointed out. "We have the Dubai connection. But still..." His silver tooth caught the light as his smile widened. "It creates an intimacy. A dependency."



Vishnu dropped onto his own bed, pulling out the photograph of Anand. "Look at this guy. Traditional type. Probably arranged marriage." He tapped the image with his finger. "No wonder she's been so uptight. Living by his rules even when he's not here."



"While he's free to do whatever—and whoever—he wants in Dubai." Pathan laughed, the sound devoid of humor. "What a hypocrite."



"Should we actually help her?" Vishnu asked, setting the photograph aside. "Have my cousin follow him?"



"Of course," Pathan replied without hesitation. "We need to deliver something of value. Build trust." He sat up, eyes narrowing with calculation. "Besides, if he is cheating—and it sounds like he is—having evidence gives us leverage with her."



"How?"



"Think, Vishnu." Pathan tapped his temple. "If we confirm her husband's betrayal, we become her confidants. The ones who supported her when her world fell apart. The ones who saw her value when her husband didn't."



Understanding dawned on Vishnu's face. "And a woman like that—educated, sophisticated, but emotionally wounded—might look for comfort in unexpected places."



"Precisely." Pathan reached for his phone. "Call your cousin now. Tell him exactly what we need. Photos, video if possible. The more evidence of the husband's betrayal, the better."



Vishnu nodded, already scrolling through his contacts. "This might be easier than we thought. No more weeks of careful manipulation during practicals. She's practically delivering herself to us."



"Don't get ahead of yourself," Pathan cautioned, though his eyes sparkled with the same anticipation. "She's still maintaining boundaries. Still the proper professor. We need to be patient, strategic."



"But it will happen," Vishnu insisted, finding the number he sought. "Soon, she'll have nowhere to turn but to us. And then..."



"And then," Pathan finished, his voice silky with anticipation, "the real education begins."

[prady12191]

The phone vibrated against Vishnu's thigh, yanking him from a half-sleep filled with dreams of emerald silk and exposed skin. He fumbled in his pocket, squinting at the screen. Dubai's country code. His cousin. Vishnu sat up straight, suddenly wide awake, and glanced at Pathan who dozed in the adjacent bed. The room felt too small, too airless as he answered the call, his voice a careful whisper. "Tell me you have something."



"Oh, I have something alright," his cousin Rakesh's voice crackled through the line, thick with barely contained excitement. "Your professor's husband is quite the player."



Vishnu swung his legs over the side of the bed, his heart hammering against his ribs. "You found him?"



"Found him? I've been tracking him for five days." Rakesh chuckled, the sound tinny through the connection. "And brother, this man is not just having an affair. He's having two."



"Two?" Vishnu hissed, loud enough that Pathan stirred, one eye cracking open to regard him with groggy curiosity.



"Two different women. One looks like a coworker – business suits, professional type. The other's younger, maybe a waitress or something at one of the bars he frequents." Rakesh's voice dropped lower, conspiratorial. "I got photos of everything. The man isn't even subtle about it."



Vishnu motioned urgently to Pathan, who now sat up, fully alert. "How explicit are these photos? We need proof, but..."



"Trust me, there's no mistaking what's happening. Got him kissing the professional woman in a park – hands everywhere, very public. And the younger one, she was feeding him at some fancy restaurant, sitting in his lap." Rakesh paused. "I'll send everything now. What exactly are you planning to do with these, cousin?"



"Just helping a friend discover the truth," Vishnu replied, his tone deliberately vague. "You've done well. I owe you."



"Keep your money. Just send me some of those foreign liquors from your father's collection. The ones that don't make it to Dubai legally."



"Done. And Rakesh?" Vishnu's fingers tightened around the phone. "Not a word about this to anyone else in the family."



After ending the call, Vishnu turned to Pathan, who was now perched on the edge of his bed, eyes bright with anticipation.



"Well?" Pathan demanded.



"The bastard is cheating on her. Not with one woman—with two."



Pathan's mouth fell open before curving into a slow, disbelieving smile. "Two? Are you serious?"



"My cousin is sending the photos now." Vishnu stared at his phone, waiting for the notification. "Said he got everything we need. One woman seems to be a coworker, the other some girl from a bar."



"While Professor Nair sits alone in Pune, teaching biology to unappreciative students," Pathan shook his head, his expression a carefully constructed mask of indignation that didn't quite hide the gleam of opportunity in his eyes. "What kind of man does that?"



"A fool," Vishnu muttered, just as his phone vibrated with an incoming message. "They're here."



The two leaned close together as Vishnu opened the message, revealing a folder of images. The first showed a man they recognized from the photograph Devika had provided – Anand Menon – sitting on a park bench with a woman in a tailored pantsuit. Her legs were crossed toward him, her hand resting on his thigh as they spoke, heads inclined toward each other with obvious intimacy.



Vishnu swiped to the next image. The same woman, now standing between Anand's knees as he remained seated, his hands gripping her waist, their mouths locked together in a kiss that left no room for misinterpretation.



"Fuck," Pathan breathed, his voice thick. "Look at his hand."



Vishnu zoomed in slightly. Anand's right hand had moved up from the woman's waist to cup her breast, fingers visibly pressing into the fabric of her blouse.



"In public," Vishnu murmured, a strange mix of disgust and admiration coloring his tone. "The man has no shame."



They continued through the images – Anand and the suited woman entering an apartment building together, emerging hours later with rumpled clothes. Then a new set, featuring a different woman – younger, with highlighted hair and bright red lips. These showed them at a restaurant, the woman perched on Anand's lap in a private booth, feeding him from her fork, his hand disappearing beneath the table in a way that made their activity unmistakable.



"His wife is ten times more beautiful than either of these women," Pathan said, his voice hard with genuine anger. "Look at them – this one has a face like a monkey, and the young one wears enough makeup to supply a film set."



"He doesn't deserve her," Vishnu agreed, closing the folder and pocketing his phone. "But his loss is potentially our gain."



Pathan leaned back, considering. "How do we tell her? We can't just show her these photos without preparation. She might collapse."



"We need to be gentle," Vishnu said, the word sounding strange coming from his mouth. "Supportive. She needs to see us as her protectors, not just the bearers of bad news."



"Tomorrow," Pathan decided. "We'll approach her after the lecture, ask to speak privately. Tell her we have news about her husband, but suggest meeting somewhere more private than her office."



"Her apartment would be ideal," Vishnu mused, already imagining the possibilities that might unfold in such an intimate setting. "She'll be in her own space, comfortable. Vulnerable."



"But we can't suggest it," Pathan cautioned. "She has to be the one to offer."



"She will," Vishnu said with quiet confidence. "Where else could we possibly show her these kinds of photos? She won't want to risk being seen breaking down on campus."



They fell silent, each lost in his own thoughts about the opportunity that had fallen into their laps – a beautiful woman on the verge of discovering her husband's betrayal, with only them to turn to for comfort.



---



The next day dragged endlessly. Throughout Devika's lecture on genetic mutation, Vishnu found himself unable to focus on anything but the weight of his phone in his pocket, the images it contained, and the woman standing at the podium who had no idea her world was about to shatter.



She looked different today – more like when she had first arrived at the college. Her saree was dbangd higher on her waist in the traditional Kerala style, her demeanor more reserved. Perhaps some instinct had warned her that change was coming.



When the lecture finally ended, Vishnu caught Pathan's eye and nodded. They remained seated as other students filed out, waiting until the room was nearly empty before approaching the podium where Devika was gathering her notes.



"Professor Nair," Vishnu began, his voice pitched low. "We need to speak with you. About the matter you asked us to look into."



Devika's hands stilled on her papers, her eyes darting to the few remaining students lingering near the door. "You found something?" she asked, her voice barely audible.



"Yes," Pathan confirmed. "But it's not something we should discuss here."



She studied their faces, seeming to search for clues about what they had discovered. "My office, then? In ten minutes?"



Vishnu hesitated, glancing meaningfully at a group of students who had paused just outside the open door. "Perhaps somewhere more... private would be better. The information is sensitive."



Understanding dawned in Devika's eyes, followed quickly by apprehension. "I see." She was quiet for a moment, clearly weighing her options. "My apartment, then. This evening at six?"



"That would be appropriate, yes," Pathan agreed, his tone carefully professional despite the triumph surging through him. "We'll be discrete."



Devika nodded, her fingers nervously adjusting the edge of her saree pallu. "Do you... is there..." She seemed unable to form the question directly. "Did you find what I feared?"



"We should discuss everything in private," Vishnu replied gently. "But you should prepare yourself. The news isn't good."



She closed her eyes briefly, a small tremor passing through her shoulders. "I suspected as much. Thank you for your help. I'll text you the address."



---



The apartment building was nicer than Vishnu had expected – a modern complex with a security guard stationed at the entrance who eyed them suspiciously as they approached. They gave Devika's name, and after a brief call to confirm, he waved them through with obvious reluctance.



"That must be the old man she told us about," Pathan murmured as they climbed the stairs. "The one she thought was opening her packages."



"The one she slapped," Vishnu corrected, a smirk playing at his lips. "Our proper professor has quite the temper beneath that calm exterior."



They found her apartment on the second floor, the door opening almost immediately after Vishnu's tentative knock. Devika stood before them in a simple cotton saree of deep blue, her hair loose around her shoulders rather than in its usual neat braid. The informal presentation made her seem younger, more vulnerable.



"Come in," she said, stepping aside to let them enter.



The apartment was small but tastefully furnished, with bookshelves lining one wall and a modest seating area centered around a low coffee table. Everything was meticulously clean, orderly in a way that spoke of Devika's careful nature.



"Please, sit down," she said, gesturing to the sofa. "Would you like some tea?"



"That's not necessary," Vishnu began, acutely aware that they were in her personal space, breathing the air that smelled faintly of sandalwood and jasmine – her scent.



"I insist," Devika said, her voice taking on a note of determination. "I need... I need something normal right now. Before whatever comes next."



"Of course," Pathan conceded, settling onto the sofa. "Tea would be nice."



She disappeared into the kitchen, the soft clinking of cups and the sound of water being poured providing a domestic soundtrack that felt jarringly at odds with their purpose. Vishnu and Pathan exchanged glances, neither speaking. The weight of what they were about to do hung heavy in the air between them.



Devika returned with a tray bearing three cups of tea, setting it carefully on the coffee table before taking a seat in the armchair opposite them. Her hands trembled slightly as she passed them each a cup.



"So," she said after taking a small sip of her own tea, "you found something."



"Yes," Vishnu confirmed, setting his untouched tea back on the tray. "My cousin in Dubai has been tracking your husband for the past week. He..." He paused, searching for the most delicate way to continue. "He observed behavior that confirms your suspicions."



Devika's fingers tightened around her cup. "He's having an affair."



"I'm sorry to say that yes, he is," Pathan said, his voice gentler than Vishnu had ever heard it. "We have photographic evidence."



A small, pained sound escaped her, quickly suppressed. "I need to see it," she said, setting down her cup with a decisive clink. "Whatever it is, I need to see it with my own eyes."



Vishnu hesitated, then reached for his phone. "The images are... explicit, Professor. Are you sure you want to see them now?"



"Stop treating me like I'm made of glass," Devika snapped, a flash of anger momentarily overwhelming her anxiety. "Just show me."



Vishnu unlocked his phone and opened the folder, but instead of handing it over, he stood and moved to sit beside Devika on the arm of her chair. "I'll show you," he said quietly. "So I can explain what you're seeing."



She nodded, seemingly unaware of how close he now sat, her attention fixed entirely on the phone in his hand. Pathan moved as well, coming to stand behind her chair, effectively surrounding her with their presence.



Vishnu opened the first image – Anand and the suited woman sitting close together on the park bench. "This woman appears to be a colleague," he explained. "They were observed meeting several times during lunch breaks."



Devika stared at the image, her expression frozen. "Show me more," she whispered.



He swiped to the next photo, where the kiss was clearly visible. Devika's breath caught, a small, wounded noise escaping her lips.



"I'm sorry," Vishnu murmured, his free hand coming to rest lightly on her shoulder. "There's more."



The next few images showed the progression – Anand's hand on the woman's breast, their entry into an apartment building, their exit hours later.



"There's something else," Pathan said softly from behind her. "Something you should know."



Devika looked up, her eyes already glistening with unshed tears. "What could be worse than this?"



"He's not just involved with this woman," Vishnu said, swiping to the first image of Anand with the younger woman at the restaurant. "There's another."



Devika's hand flew to her mouth, her eyes widening in shock as she stared at the image of her husband with another woman on his lap. "Two?" she whispered through her fingers. "He's seeing two different women?"



"I'm afraid so," Pathan confirmed, his hand joining Vishnu's on her shoulders, a gesture that would have been unthinkable days earlier but now seemed natural in the context of her distress. "My cousin observed him with both women on different days."



Devika took the phone from Vishnu's hand, scrolling through the images with trembling fingers. Her face had gone pale, the skin stretched tight across her cheekbones. "I don't understand," she said, her voice hollow. "One woman wasn't enough? He needed two?"



"Some men are never satisfied," Vishnu said, his fingers gently squeezing her shoulder. "No matter what they have at home."



A tear slipped down Devika's cheek, followed quickly by another. "What's wrong with me?" she whispered, the question clearly not meant for them but torn from some deep, wounded place inside her. "Why wasn't I enough for him?"



"Nothing is wrong with you," Pathan said firmly, moving around to kneel before her chair. "Your husband is a fool. These women aren't half the woman you are."



She looked at him through tear-filled eyes, her usual composure completely shattered. "Then why? Why would he do this?"



"Because he's weak," Vishnu said, his arm slipping further around her shoulders. "Weak men take the easy path. They chase whatever's in front of them rather than cherishing what they have."



A sob broke from Devika's throat, raw and jagged. She bent forward, her body shaking with the force of her grief, the phone falling from her hands onto the carpet. "I tried so hard," she cried, words spilling out between sobs. "I was the perfect wife. I supported his career. I waited for him. And he's... he's touching them, kissing them in public... while calling me a... a slut for how I dbang my saree."



Pathan reached for her hands, taking them in his own, his thumb stroking across her knuckles. "He had no right to call you that. No right at all."



"I'm not enough," she repeated, the words muffled against her chest as she curled in on herself. "Not enough for one man, let alone two."



"That's not true," Vishnu insisted, pulling her gently against his side. "Look at me, Professor."



She raised her head, her face streaked with tears, eyes red-rimmed and vulnerable in a way that made something twist in Vishnu's chest – something that wasn't entirely predatory.



"You are more than enough," he said, surprising himself with the sincerity in his voice. "Any man would be lucky to have you. Your husband is blind and stupid not to see what he has."



Devika's face crumpled again, and without warning, she turned toward Pathan, who was still kneeling before her. She leaned forward, her forehead coming to rest on his shoulder as she cried. Pathan froze for a moment, his eyes meeting Vishnu's over her bent head, shock clear in his expression. Then, slowly, he wrapped his arms around her, one hand awkwardly patting her back.



"It's alright," he murmured, the words stiff with unfamiliar sincerity. "Let it out."



Vishnu watched, a strange mixture of jealousy and fascination coursing through him as Devika clung to Pathan, her body shaking with sobs. This wasn't how they had imagined the scene unfolding – her vulnerability was too raw, too genuine. It made their calculated approach feel suddenly shabby, inappropriate.



After several minutes, Devika's sobs quieted. She pulled back from Pathan, wiping hastily at her face with the edge of her saree pallu. "I'm sorry," she whispered, not meeting either of their eyes. "That was... unprofessional."



"Don't apologize," Vishnu said quickly. "You've received a terrible shock."



She nodded, her gaze fixed on the floor where the phone still lay. "I think I need to be alone now. To process all of this."



"Are you sure that's a good idea?" Pathan asked, genuine concern creasing his brow. "In this state..."



"I'm not going to do anything foolish," Devika said, a hint of her usual composure returning. "I just need space to think. To decide what happens next."



"We could stay," Vishnu offered. "Just to make sure you're alright."



"No." Her voice was firmer now. "Thank you for bringing me this information. Truly. But I need privacy now."



They exchanged glances, reluctant to leave her but recognizing that pushing further would only damage the fragile connection they had established. Vishnu retrieved his phone from the floor, carefully avoiding looking at the images that had caused such pain.



"We'll check on you tomorrow," he said as they moved toward the door. "If that's alright."



Devika nodded, not trusting herself to speak.



At the threshold, Pathan turned back. "Remember, Professor – this says nothing about you and everything about him."



She attempted a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Good night, Mr. Khan. Mr. Patil."



The door closed behind them with a soft click, leaving them standing in the corridor, the echo of Devika's sobs still ringing in their ears.



"Well," Vishnu said as they descended the stairs, "that wasn't exactly how I imagined it going."



"No," Pathan agreed, his expression thoughtful. "I expected... I don't know. Not that."



"She completely broke down."



"Wouldn't you? Finding out your spouse is cheating with two different people?"



They stepped out into the evening air, the security guard watching them with suspicious eyes as they passed his booth.



"We should give her some space," Vishnu said, surprising himself with the suggestion. "Let her process it. Come to us when she's ready."



"Since when are you the patient type?" Pathan asked, eyebrows raised.



Vishnu shrugged, unable to articulate the strange feeling that had come over him watching Devika's genuine grief. "Just seems like the right approach. She's broken now. If we push too hard, she might shatter completely."



"And then what use would she be to us?" Pathan nodded, understanding. "You're right. We've planted the seed. Now we wait for it to grow."



They walked in silence for several minutes, each lost in thought about the scene they had just witnessed and what it might mean for their plans.



"Do you think she'll divorce him?" Pathan asked eventually.



"After seeing those photos? She'd be a fool not to."



"And then?"



Vishnu smiled, the familiar predatory gleam returning to his eyes. "And then she'll be truly alone in a city far from home. No husband, no family to turn to. Just her colleagues... and us."



"Her loyal students," Pathan added, his silver tooth catching the light of a passing streetlamp. "Who saw her value when her husband didn't."



"Exactly," Vishnu agreed, his momentary empathy giving way to calculation once more. "The perfect foundation for what comes next."

[prady12191]

Darkness had settled over Pune by the time Devika's tears finally subsided, leaving her hollow-eyed and empty on the sofa where Vishnu and Pathan had left her hours before. The teacups still sat on the coffee table, cold and untouched, silent witnesses to her collapse. She stared at her hands—steady now, though they'd trembled violently as she'd scrolled through those damning photos. Two women. Not one betrayal but many, layered and deliberate, while he'd had the audacity to question her character, her choices, her very self-worth.



"Hypocrite," she whispered to the empty room, the word hanging in the still air like a judgment. "Liar."



She rose mechanically, gathering the teacups and carrying them to the kitchen where she washed each one with methodical precision, as if the simple act might restore order to a world suddenly spinning off its axis. The cool water rushing over her fingers grounded her, pulling her back from the edge of an emotional abyss.



In the bathroom mirror, a stranger stared back at her—eyes swollen, cheeks blotched with red, hair disheveled from where she'd clutched it in despair. This broken woman wasn't her. This victim wasn't Devika Nair, PhD, respected professor of biology. This was someone else, someone she refused to become.



Her phone buzzed on the nightstand, the screen illuminating with an incoming video call. Anand's name and face flashed on the display, his smile—once so dear to her—now a grotesque mask that concealed the man she'd never truly known.



Her finger hovered over the decline button, but something stopped her—a flicker of anger that felt like the first spark of life after hours of emotional death. She deserved answers. She deserved to see his face when he realized he'd been caught.



She accepted the call.



"Devika! Thank goodness you answered." Anand's face filled the screen, handsome features arranged in an expression of contrite worry. "I've been trying to reach you all day."



She said nothing, just stared at him, memorizing the face of this stranger who wore her husband's skin.



"Devi? Are you there? Can you hear me?"



"I hear you," she replied, her voice surprisingly calm despite the storm building inside her.



"Listen, I'm sorry about our last conversation." His voice softened, taking on the tender tone he'd used during their courtship. "I was stressed about work and I took it out on you. That wasn't fair."



Devika settled onto the edge of her bed, propping the phone against a pillow so she could see him fully. "Is that so?"



"Yes," he continued, apparently encouraged by her response. "And I have to say, you look more beautiful than ever today. There's something different about you."



A bitter laugh escaped her lips. "Yes, I suppose there is."



"I miss you," he said, leaning closer to the camera. "So much, Devi. This distance is harder than I expected."



"I'm sure it is," she replied, each word weighted with ice.



Anand's smile faltered slightly, but he pressed on. "I actually have some news. The company has extended my contract for another six months. The money is excellent, and it means our future will be that much more secure."



"Our future," Devika echoed, the words tasting like ash on her tongue.



"Yes, our future. I know it's a long time to be apart, but think of what we're building together." His expression turned earnest. "I miss you every day, Devi. Every night I go to sleep wishing you were beside me."



She stared at him, searching for any sign of guilt, any crack in his performance. Finding none, she reached for her tablet on the nightstand.



"Anand, do you know what I was doing before you called?"



He shook his head, confusion flickering across his features at her flat tone.



"I was looking at these." She held up the tablet, displaying the first photo—Anand with the suited woman on the park bench, her hand on his thigh.



The color drained from his face. "What—how did you—"



"And these." She swiped to the next image—the kiss, his hand on the woman's breast. Then the next—entering the apartment building. And finally, the most damning—Anand with the younger woman on his lap in the restaurant.



"Who sent you these?" he demanded, his voice rising with panic. "Have you been having me followed?"



"Is that really your first question?" Devika's voice trembled not with sorrow now but with rage. "Not an explanation for why you're kissing another woman in public? Or why there's a different woman sitting on your lap while you grope her under the table?"



"This isn't what it looks like," he stammered, eyes darting around as if searching for an escape.



"Really? Because it looks like my husband is having affairs with two different women while calling me a slut for how I dbang my saree."



"Those are my friends," Anand insisted, desperation edging into his voice. "Colleagues. The photos are misleading—"



"Which friends?" Devika cut in, her voice razor-sharp. "The one you were kissing with your hand on her breast? Or the one feeding you while sitting on your lap? Tell me, Anand, which of these 'friends' are you sleeping with? Both? Or are there more I don't know about?"



"You don't understand the context—"



"Then explain it to me!" she shouted, tears threatening again but held back by the force of her anger. "Explain to me what context makes this acceptable! What context makes your behavior anything but a betrayal of everything we promised each other!"



Anand's expression hardened, defense giving way to counterattack. "You're the one to talk about betrayal. I know about your little tea parties with the security guard. How you invite him into our home when I'm not there."



"He's like a father to me," Devika shot back, incredulous. "He's sixty-five years old!"



"And they're like sisters to me," Anand retorted, gesturing wildly at the screen where the photos were still displayed.



"Sisters?" Devika's laugh was brittle as glass. "Do you kiss your sisters like that? Do you let your sisters sit on your lap while you put your hands between their legs?"



"Don't talk about my friends that way!"



"They're not friends, Anand. They're the women you're sleeping with while your wife sits alone in another country!"



They stared at each other through the screen, the connection crackling with the static of a relationship disintegrating in real-time.



"I'm not going to argue about this," Devika said finally, her voice dropping to a dangerous calm. "I'm not going to justify myself to you. I've seen enough."



"What are you saying?" Anand asked, wariness replacing anger.



"I'm saying be happy in Dubai with your... friends. I don't want to speak to you anymore."



"Fine," he spat, his face contorting with rage. "I don't need a slut like you anyway. Go enjoy your time with that old man. I'm sure he appreciates the attention."



The screen went dark as Anand ended the call, leaving Devika staring at her own reflection in the blackened display. She sat motionless for several heartbeats, absorbing the finality of what had just occurred. Then, with deliberate movements, she opened her contacts, found Anand's entry, and pressed delete. She did the same with their chat history, their shared photos, every digital trace of him she could find on her phone.



Each deletion felt like cutting a string that had bound her, leaving her lighter with each severed connection. By the time she finished, she was breathing more easily than she had in months. The pain was still there—a throbbing wound where her marriage had been—but beneath it lay something unexpected: relief.



---



Morning light streamed through the staff room windows, painting golden stripes across the worn wooden desks where Devika sat reviewing her lecture notes. She'd dressed with particular care that day, choosing a rich crimson saree with a gold border, dbangd in the lower style that Anand had so vehemently objected to. Her makeup was subtle but deliberate, concealing the evidence of a night spent alternating between anger and grief.



"You're here early," Sharada observed, setting her bag down at the adjacent desk. She studied Devika's face with the keen attention of someone who had seen her at her lowest. "How are you feeling?"



"Like I've been run over by a truck," Devika replied honestly. "But somehow still standing."



Sharada pulled her chair closer, lowering her voice though they were alone in the room. "Did you confront him?"



"Yes." Devika's fingers fidgeted with the edge of her notes. "He called last night, acting as if nothing had happened. Told me his contract had been extended for another six months."



"And?"



"I showed him the photos. The ones Vishnu's cousin took." Devika's mouth tightened at the memory. "He tried to claim they were just friends."



Sharada snorted in disbelief. "Friends? That's the best he could come up with?"



"Then he tried to turn it around on me. Brought up the security guard at my building—Ramlal—as if having tea with an elderly man was equivalent to what he's been doing."



"Of course he did," Sharada said, disgust evident in her tone. "Men always deflect when they're caught. So what happens now?"



Devika's hand unconsciously rose to her mangalsutra, the gold chain that symbolized her married status. "I told him I didn't want to speak to him anymore. I deleted his number, his messages, everything."



"And the marriage?"



"I don't know yet," Devika admitted. "Legally ending it would mean returning to Kerala, facing my family, explaining everything. I'm not ready for that battle."



Sharada's eyes focused on the gold chain at Devika's neck. "Are you going to keep wearing that?"



Devika's fingers closed around the pendant. "For now. Not for him—for me. I don't want to be seen as a woman alone in this city. It offers some protection, at least in perception."



"That's practical, I suppose." Sharada hesitated, then asked, "How did you get those photos, anyway? You mentioned Vishnu's cousin?"



"Yes," Devika nodded. "Vishnu has a cousin in Dubai. I asked him if he could help me confirm my suspicions about Anand. He arranged for his cousin to follow him."



Sharada's eyebrows rose. "You involved your student in your personal life? That's... unorthodox."



"I had no choice," Devika defended, though a flicker of unease passed through her at Sharada's tone. "You were the one who suggested it, remember? You said Vishnu had connections in Dubai."



"I suppose I did," Sharada conceded. "And it worked—you got your proof. How are they handling it? Vishnu and Pathan?"



"They were surprisingly... supportive when they showed me the photos. Not at all what I expected from them." Devika shook her head slightly. "They were gentle, even respectful."



"Interesting," Sharada murmured, her expression thoughtful. "Just be careful, Devika. You're in a vulnerable position now, and those boys have a reputation."



"I know my boundaries," Devika assured her, though the memory of Pathan's arms around her as she sobbed against his shoulder made her face warm with embarrassment. "I won't forget they're my students."



"Good." Sharada squeezed her arm. "And remember—whatever happens, you don't need that cheating bastard. You're more than capable of building a life without him."



Devika smiled, the first genuine smile in days. "I already have. I'm going to focus on my work, my students, building a community here. I refuse to let Anand's betrayal define me."



"That's my girl," Sharada said approvingly. "Now, shall we go destroy some young minds with knowledge?"



---



The lecture hall hummed with the usual pre-class chatter as Devika entered, her notes clutched against her chest. The familiar setting—the worn podium, the tiered rows of seats, the eager and not-so-eager faces of her students—provided a comforting constancy when everything else in her life had shifted.



She delivered her lecture on genetic engineering with unexpected energy, her voice clear and confident as she guided her students through complex concepts, her gestures animated as she illustrated key points. Teaching had always been her sanctuary, the place where her uncertainties fell away, and today that sanctuary felt more precious than ever.



If the students noticed anything different about their professor—the slight redness around her eyes, the occasionally distant look that crossed her face when she paused—none commented. By the time the lecture ended, Devika felt almost normal, grounded by the familiar rhythm of academic discourse.



The practical lab session that afternoon brought her face to face with Vishnu and Pathan for the first time since their visit to her apartment. They entered the laboratory with uncharacteristic restraint, their usual swagger tempered by something that looked almost like concern.



"Good afternoon, Professor," Vishnu greeted, his voice lacking its usual suggestive undertone. "How are you today?"



The question carried more weight than its simple words suggested. Devika adjusted a microscope before responding, buying herself a moment to compose her thoughts.



"I'm... okay," she answered finally, meeting his gaze directly. "Better than I expected to be, actually."



"Did you speak with your husband?" Pathan asked, setting up his workstation with unusual care.



Devika nodded, glancing around to ensure the other students were out of earshot. "Yes. Last night. I showed him the photos."



"And?" Vishnu leaned closer, genuine curiosity in his expression.



"He tried to claim they were just friends," Devika replied, unable to keep the bitterness from her voice. "Can you believe that? Friends."



"What an idiot," Pathan muttered, shaking his head. "What man in his right mind would risk losing a wife like you?"



The compliment should have made Devika uncomfortable, but in her raw emotional state, it felt like a balm on an open wound. "Thank you," she said simply. "And thank you both for what you did. For helping me see the truth about who he really is."



"You deserved to know," Vishnu said, his eyes never leaving her face. "No one should be deceived like that."



"Well, thanks to you, I'm not being deceived anymore." Devika straightened, reclaiming her professional demeanor. "I told him I don't want to speak to him again. I've deleted his number. As far as I'm concerned, that bastard can stay in Dubai forever."



A flash of satisfaction crossed both men's faces at her words, quickly masked by expressions of sympathy.



"You're better off without him," Vishnu said, his voice dropping to a confidential murmur. "A woman like you deserves a man who appreciates what he has."



"Right now, I don't need any man," Devika replied firmly, though she softened the statement with a small smile. "I need to focus on my work, on building my life here. The rest can wait."



"Of course," Pathan agreed, his tone respectful though his eyes still held that calculating gleam she had come to recognize. "But if you need anything—anything at all—we're here for you, Professor."



"That's very kind," Devika said, already moving toward the front of the lab. "But right now what I need is for everyone to focus on today's practical. We're examining plant cellular adaptation to environmental stressors—something I find particularly relevant at the moment."



As she guided the class through the experiment, Devika caught Vishnu and Pathan exchanging meaningful glances when they thought she wasn't looking. In her grief and anger over Anand's betrayal, she had allowed these two students closer than propriety should permit. She had shown them her vulnerability, her pain, her rage.



Yet despite the warning bells that should have been ringing in her mind, Devika found herself feeling an unexpected gratitude toward them. Without their help, she might have continued in ignorant misery, believing herself at fault for her husband's coldness, his accusations, his distance.



They had given her truth, painful as it was. And truth, Devika reflected as she adjusted a student's microscope focus, was always preferable to comforting lies—even when it left you standing alone with nothing but the shattered remains of what you once believed to be real.

[prady12191]

Saturday morning arrived with a strange, hollow peace that Devika hadn't expected. The storm of confronting Anand, of watching his face contort with panic as she displayed the damning photographs, had passed, leaving behind a strange clarity like the washed-clean air after monsoon rains. She moved through her apartment with quiet purpose, tea cup warming her palms as she stood by the window, watching Pune begin its weekend rituals without feeling any need to join them. For the first time in months—perhaps years—she had no husband to please, no expectations to meet but her own.



The realization settled in her chest, not quite joy but something adjacent to it—a weightlessness, as if she'd shed a skin that had grown too tight. She absently fingered the gold mangalsutra at her neck, the symbol of a marriage that now existed only in legal documents. She still wore it, a shield against unwanted attention rather than a badge of pride, but its meaning had transformed overnight.



Devika set her empty cup in the sink and wandered to her bedroom, where the morning light spilled across her bed. She stood before her open wardrobe, eyes tracing the neat row of sarees—each one chosen with careful consideration of what Anand might approve, what her in-laws might deem appropriate, what wouldn't draw comments from colleagues back in Kerala.



"Bold." The word whispered in her mind, Sharada's voice giving it shape. "You need to be bold, Devika. Stop hiding behind what others expect."



Her friend's advice, initially about classroom management, now seemed to apply to every corner of her life. Bold. The opposite of what she'd been trained to be since childhood. Good Kerala girls were modest, reserved, traditional. Even her decision to pursue higher education had been framed as a way to become a more suitable wife, not as self-fulfillment.



Her fingers brushed against a package tucked at the back of her wardrobe—unstitched blouse materials she'd purchased months ago during a moment of daring, then hidden away when Anand had commented disapprovingly on a colleague's wife who'd worn a sleeveless blouse to a department dinner.



"Too exposing," he'd said later that night. "Not suitable for a professor's wife."



She pulled the package out now, unwrapping the tissue paper to reveal three pieces of silk in rich, jewel tones—emerald, sapphire, ruby. The fabric slipped cool and smooth between her fingers as she held them up to the light. She'd chosen them for their quality, their colors, never quite admitting to herself that she'd been drawn to their potential to become something Anand wouldn't approve.



Sleeveless blouses. The thought materialized with sudden clarity. She'd seen many professional women in Pune wearing them—doctors, lawyers, professors—their arms bare below elegantly dbangd saree pallus. They looked confident, modern, unencumbered. Like women who made their own choices.



"Why not?" she murmured to her reflection. "Why not now?"



Decision made, Devika changed into a simple cotton saree in muted gold, gathered her blouse materials, and placed them carefully in a cloth bag. She needed a tailor—someone who could transform these lengths of silk into the vision forming in her mind.



As she left her apartment, Ramlal stood at his usual post near the security booth. Something had shifted between them since their tea together, since her apology—a strange, fragile connection neither professional nor quite friendly.



"Good morning, Devika," he called, using her name with the careful deliberation that still sounded strange coming from him. "You look well today."



"Thank you, Ramlal-ji." She paused, noticing how his eyes brightened at her attention. "I'm heading out to find a tailor. Do you know of any good ones nearby?"



"Tailor?" He straightened, professional pride entering his voice. "There are several shops on Laxmi Road, not far from here. Sharma Tailoring is most popular, though they charge extra for rush orders."



"Thank you." She smiled, adjusting her bag. "I'll try there first."



Ramlal nodded, watching her leave with that same mixture of admiration and longing she'd grown accustomed to seeing in his gaze. It no longer bothered her as it once had—perhaps because after Anand's betrayal, honest desire seemed preferable to disguised contempt.



The tailor shop was exactly where Ramlal had described, nestled between a stationery store and a small tea stall. A bell tinkled as Devika pushed open the door, stepping into a space fragrant with the smell of new fabric and starch. A middle-aged man looked up from behind a counter where he was measuring out dark wool with practiced precision.



"Yes, madam? How can I help?" He set aside his work, eyeing her with professional assessment.



"I need some blouses made," Devika explained, removing her materials from the bag. "Sleeveless designs, if possible."



The tailor nodded, accepting the fabrics with careful hands. "Very nice quality, madam. I can make beautiful blouses from these. Do you have a particular style in mind?"



"Something simple but elegant. Not too revealing, but..." She hesitated, searching for the right words. "Modern. Confident."



"I understand perfectly." He smiled, setting the materials on his counter. "I'll need to take your measurements."



"I have an existing blouse that fits well," Devika offered, producing a carefully folded blouse from her bag. "Could you use this for the measurements?"



The tailor examined the blouse, his fingers expert as they traced the seams and darts. Then he shook his head regretfully. "I'm sorry, madam, but for a first-time customer, I need fresh measurements. Especially for sleeveless designs—the armhole cut must be precise or the blouse will gap or bind."



Devika glanced around the shop, noting the absence of any female staff. "Is there a woman who could take my measurements?" she asked, discomfort creeping into her voice.



"My wife sometimes assists, but she is visiting her mother this week." He gestured to a small curtained area at the back of the shop. "I assure you, madam, I am a professional. I have been taking measurements for ladies' garments for thirty years."



Despite his reassurances, Devika felt a flutter of unease at the thought of this stranger's hands moving around her body, measuring intimate areas. In Kerala, she'd always gone to female tailors, or at least shops with female assistants for this purpose.



"I'm sorry," she said, gathering her materials back into her bag. "I think I'll try somewhere else."



The man seemed disappointed but not surprised. "As you wish, madam. If you change your mind, my shop is always open."



Outside again, the morning sun now high enough to cast short shadows, Devika felt a flicker of frustration. She tried two more shops with similar results—each needed measurements, none had female staff available. By the third rejection, her determination had begun to fray.



Standing on the sidewalk, uncertain where to try next, a memory surfaced—Ramlal mentioning his past during one of their afternoon teas. "Before security work, I was many things," he'd said. "Factory worker, cook's assistant, even tailor for some years in Mumbai garment workshop."



The thought came suddenly, unexpectedly—Ramlal could take her measurements. The idea should have seemed absurd, inappropriate even, but it settled in her mind with strange logic. Better someone she knew, someone already familiar with her, than a complete stranger. Someone who already looked at her with appreciation rather than a stranger whose gaze she couldn't interpret.



Devika returned to the apartment complex, finding Ramlal dozing in his chair beside the security booth, his chin drooping toward his chest in the afternoon heat. He startled awake as she approached, straightening his uniform cap with embarrassed haste.



"Devika! I mean, madam. You've returned quickly." He blinked away sleep, his weathered face creasing with concern. "Was there a problem with the tailors?"



"Yes and no," she replied, stopping before him. "The shops were where you said, but none had female staff to take measurements. I wasn't comfortable having a strange man measure me."



Ramlal nodded in understanding. "Many ladies feel the same. Perhaps try again on Monday? Sharma's wife should be back by then."



"Actually," Devika began, then paused, suddenly uncertain. "Ramlal-ji, you mentioned once that you worked as a tailor in Mumbai."



His eyebrows rose in surprise. "Yes, many years ago. Before my hair turned white and my fingers grew stiff." He flexed his hands as if to demonstrate their diminished dexterity.



"Are you still able to take measurements?" The question emerged more bluntly than she'd intended.



Ramlal's mouth opened slightly, confusion giving way to dawning comprehension. "You want me to measure you for your blouses?"



"I thought—" Devika felt heat rise to her cheeks. "I thought it might be better than a stranger. Someone I know. But if you're uncomfortable—"



"No, no," he interrupted hastily. "I mean, yes, I can take measurements. I remember the process well. But..." He glanced around the courtyard, lowering his voice. "It would not be proper. People would talk if I went to your flat for such a purpose."



"People already talk because I invited you for tea," Devika replied, a new boldness in her voice. "I'm past caring what they think."



Ramlal studied her face, searching for something—permission, perhaps, or reassurance that this wasn't some test he was failing. "You are sure? It is very... personal work."



"I'm sure." Devika's voice was firm despite the flutter of nerves in her stomach. "I trust you more than some stranger in a shop."



He nodded slowly, a mixture of pride and trepidation crossing his features. "I will need a measuring tape. And paper to record the numbers."



"I have those things," she assured him. "Could you come to my apartment in about ten minutes? After your shift change?"



"Yes, I can do that." His eyes darted around again, as if checking for eavesdroppers. "But Devika, I must say—I am just a poor old man. Not clean and proper like the tailors in shops. My hands..." He held them up, callused and stained from years of manual labor. "Not suitable for touching fine fabrics. Or..."



The unspoken word hung between them—"you."



Devika surprised herself with a genuine laugh. "Ramlal-ji, I've seen you chewing paan and spitting over the railing when you think no one is looking. I know exactly what kind of old man you are." Her smile softened the words. "But you're an old man I know, not a stranger. I'll see you in ten minutes."



She left him standing bewildered by his post, his weathered face a mixture of disbelief and barely contained anticipation.



Back in her apartment, Devika moved with nervous energy, tidying the already clean space, setting out her blouse materials on the dining table, finding her measuring tape and a notebook.



The thought sent a small shiver through her—standing before Ramlal in just her petticoat while he measured her. It wasn't proper, wasn't what a respectable Kerala woman would do. But she was no longer just that woman. She was Devika Nair, PhD, a woman betrayed by her husband and rebuilding herself from the broken pieces.



At precisely ten minutes past their conversation, a hesitant knock sounded at her door. Devika took a deep breath, smoothing her saree, and opened it to find Ramlal standing in the corridor, a measuring tape clutched in his gnarled hands. He'd changed from his security uniform into civilian clothes—a faded but clean shirt and loose trousers—and his hair was freshly combed, still damp at the temples.



"You came," she said, stepping aside to let him enter.



"I said I would." He stepped inside, his movements stiff with self-consciousness. He smelled of cheap soap and betel nut, an oddly comforting combination that reminded Devika of the older men in her father's circle back home.



She closed the door and turned the lock with a soft click that seemed to echo in the silent apartment. Ramlal's eyes widened slightly at the sound, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed.



"Would you like tea first?" Devika asked, suddenly needing to delay the inevitable, to establish some normalcy before proceeding.



"Yes, tea would be good." Relief flooded his voice. "To steady the hands."



She busied herself in the kitchen while Ramlal remained standing awkwardly by the door, as if afraid to make himself comfortable. When she returned with two steaming cups, she gestured to the sofa.



"Please, sit. You're making me nervous hovering there like a ghost."



He obeyed, perching on the edge of the cushion, the measuring tape still clutched in his lap. Devika sat beside him, maintaining a careful distance, and handed him a cup.



"Have you made many women's blouses?" she asked after they had each taken a sip.



"Many, yes, in the workshop. Women's blouses, children's dresses, men's shirts." He relaxed slightly as he spoke of his past profession. "I was known for fine stitching. Steady hands." He glanced down at his fingers, now knotted with age. "Then, not now."



"But you remember how to take measurements?"



"Oh yes. That never leaves you." He tapped his temple. "Up here, the numbers are clear. Bust, waist, shoulder to shoulder, armhole depth." His hands made small, precise gestures in the air as he named each measurement.



"Good." Devika set down her cup, gathering her courage. "Because I want sleeveless blouses, and the shops all said the measurements must be exact."



Ramlal's eyes widened again. "Sleeveless? You?"



"Yes, me," she replied, a defensive edge entering her voice. "Is that so surprising?"



"No, no," he backpedaled quickly. "Only that you always wear such traditional styles. Sleeveless is more..." He searched for an acceptable word. "Modern."



"Exactly." Devika's fingers brushed against the silk fabrics laid out on the table. "I want to be more modern. More confident."



Ramlal studied her face, something like understanding dawning in his eyes. "This is because of your husband? The one in Dubai?"



The question caught her off guard. "How did you know about that?"



"Guards hear things," he said simply. "And I see no husband visit in three months I've been here."



Devika was quiet for a moment, weighing how much to share. "Yes," she admitted finally. "It's because of him. Or rather, because of me—who I want to be now that I've seen who he really is."



Ramlal nodded, not pressing for details. "I understand changing yourself after betrayal. My wife left me for a bank manager. Younger, richer. After that, I became security guard. Wanted to feel strong, protective." He smiled ruefully. "Foolish old man dreams."



"Not foolish," Devika said softly. "Human."



They sat in companionable silence for a moment, finishing their tea. Then Ramlal set down his cup with a decisive clink.

[prady12191]

"I am ready to begin when you are," Ramlal said, his voice taking on a professional timbre that contrasted with the nervous flutter of his fingers around the measuring tape. He cleared his throat, avoiding her eyes. "For the most accurate measurements, it is best to stand before a mirror. That way, I can ensure the tape is perfectly straight."



Devika nodded, setting her teacup aside. A sudden awareness of what she had invited—this man into her home, to touch her body under the guise of measurements—sent heat crawling up her neck.



"I have a mirror," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. "But it's in my bedroom. The only full-length one in the apartment."



The words hung between them, weighted with implication. Her bedroom—the most private space in her small domain, the room where she slept alone while her husband entertained other women half a world away.



"If that is uncomfortable," Ramlal began, "perhaps we could—"



"No, it's fine," Devika interrupted, rising from the sofa with sudden determination. "It's just a room. And we're just taking measurements."



She led the way down the short hallway, hyperaware of Ramlal's footsteps behind her. The bedroom door stood ajar, and she pushed it open to reveal the neat space beyond—her bed made with precision, a few books stacked on the nightstand, and a full-length mirror mounted on the wall beside her wardrobe.



Ramlal hesitated at the threshold, as if crossing it required special permission.



"This is the first time I've had a man in my bedroom since coming to Pune," Devika said, the confession slipping out unbidden. "My husband has never even seen this apartment."



"I am honored by your trust," Ramlal replied, his voice soft as he finally stepped inside. He stood awkwardly near the door, the measuring tape twisted between his fingers. "Though perhaps I should not be here."



"Why not? You're helping me." Devika moved to stand before the mirror, straightening her shoulders. "Besides, what does propriety matter now? My husband is with other women while I'm alone in a strange city. I think I'm entitled to bend a few rules."



Ramlal nodded, approaching her with cautious steps. In the mirror's reflection, they made an odd pair—her in her gold saree, still youthful despite the shadows beneath her eyes; him in his faded clothes, white-haired and weathered, yet standing straight with newfound purpose.



"We should begin," he said, untwisting the measuring tape. Then he paused, indecision clear in his eyes. "Madam—Devika—I must say something that may seem improper."



She met his gaze in the mirror. "Go ahead."



"For accurate measurements, especially for sleeveless blouses, I cannot measure over the pallu of your saree." His words came carefully, as if navigating a minefield. "The fabric adds bulk that would make the measurements incorrect."



Devika's fingers tightened around the edge of her pallu where it dbangd across her shoulder and chest. Of course he was right—she'd known this was coming, had prepared herself for it, yet the reality of standing before this man without the modest covering sent a tremor through her hands.



"I understand," she said, forcing confidence into her voice. "It's no different than at a tailor's shop, is it?"



"No different," Ramlal agreed, though the flush creeping up his neck belied his words.



With deliberate movements, Devika unwound the pallu from her shoulder, folding it neatly before dbanging it over a nearby chair. She stood before the mirror in her simple cotton blouse and the lower half of her saree, the border still wrapped securely around her waist. The absence of the pallu left her shoulders and arms bare, the modest neckline of her blouse suddenly seeming more revealing without the additional layer.



In the mirror, she caught Ramlal's expression—a flash of naked admiration quickly collegeed into professional detachment. But not before she saw it, not before it registered like a small flame kindled in her chest. How long had it been since a man had looked at her that way? Since Anand had regarded her with desire rather than suspicion or indifference?



Ramlal's eyes traveled the length of her reflection, taking in the curve of her waist where the saree hugged her hips, the soft flesh above the blouse's edge, the slight swell of her breasts visible now without the pallu's concealment. He swallowed hard, and Devika watched the movement of his Adam's apple with a strange fascination.



"You are—" he began, then stopped himself. "Forgive me. I am here as a tailor, not to... I should focus on the measurements."



Devika felt a curious power in his discomfort, in the knowledge that her body could affect this man so visibly. "It's all right," she said softly. "I know I'm not as young as I once was."



"No," Ramlal said, meeting her eyes in the mirror with unexpected directness. "You are a woman in her fullness. Not a girl. There is a difference."



The compliment, delivered with such simple honesty, warmed her in ways she hadn't anticipated. Anand's flattery had always been calculated, designed to achieve some end. Ramlal's words felt raw, unvarnished—truth pried from a reluctant tongue.



"Thank you," she whispered. "Shall we begin?"



Ramlal nodded, unrolling the measuring tape with hands that trembled slightly. He stepped closer, and Devika could smell the faint scent of betel nut on his breath, mingled with the cheap soap he'd used to wash.



"I will need to measure from both front and back for precision," he explained, his professional demeanor reasserting itself. "The same measurement from different angles ensures the blouse will fit perfectly."



"I understand," she said, standing straighter. "Whatever you need to do."



He positioned himself before her, so close she could feel the heat radiating from his body. "First, the bust measurement," he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper.



Ramlal raised the tape, his arms extending around her in a gesture that mimicked an embrace. The tape circled her chest, his knuckles brushing against the sides of her breasts as he brought the ends together in front. Devika held her breath, acutely aware of his proximity, of the slight pressure of the tape against her breasts, of how his eyes focused intently on the numbers rather than on her face.



"Is this tight enough?" he asked, pulling the tape snug. "For sleeveless blouses, the fit must be precise."



"A little tighter," she heard herself say, though the tape already pressed firmly against her. "The blouses should be fitted."



He tightened the tape another fraction, and Devika felt her breasts compress slightly under the pressure. From his vantage point, she knew he could see down the modest neckline of her blouse, could glimpse the shadow between her breasts.



"Like this?" he asked, his voice hoarse.



"Yes," she whispered. "That's right."



Ramlal's eyes flickered from the tape to her face, then down to where the measurement pressed against her body. He noted the number in the small notebook she'd provided, his writing surprisingly neat for his age.



"Now the underbust," he said, lowering the tape to the band of her blouse. Again his fingers brushed against her, this time along the sensitive skin beneath her breasts. The contact, though professional in intent, sent a small shiver through her that she couldn't suppress.



Ramlal noticed, his eyes lifting to hers in the mirror. "Are you cold?"



"No," she admitted, unable to fabricate a convenient lie. "Just... it's been a while since... since anyone has touched me."



The confession hung in the air between them, too honest, too revealing. Ramlal's hands stilled, the tape measure taut against her ribs.



"Your husband is a fool," he said simply, then returned to his task, noting the measurement without further comment.



Next came the shoulder width, Ramlal stretching the tape from one shoulder to the other across her upper back. His fingers rested lightly on her bare skin, the touch impersonal yet somehow intimate in the quiet bedroom. Devika watched his face in the mirror—the concentration in his eyes, the slight parting of his lips as he worked.



"For sleeveless blouses, we must measure the armhole precisely," he explained, moving to her side. "Please raise your arm slightly."



Devika obeyed, lifting her arm to create space. Ramlal carefully positioned the tape around her armpit, his fingers unavoidably touching the side of her breast as he completed the circle. Despite the professional necessity, the contact felt illicit, forbidden. She felt her nipples tighten beneath her blouse, responding to his proximity in ways that both embarrassed and excited her.



If Ramlal noticed the change, he gave no indication, focusing on the tape with exaggerated attention. "This measurement is very important," he murmured. "If the armhole is too tight, the blouse will bind. Too loose, and it will gap when you move."



He repeated the process on her other arm, his touch growing minutely more confident, lingering a moment longer than strictly necessary. Devika found herself holding her breath again, waiting for each new contact, each professional touch that somehow felt increasingly less professional with each passing moment.



"Now, the front neck depth," Ramlal said, hesitating slightly. This measurement would require him to place the tape at the base of her throat and extend it down toward her cleavage—the most intimate contact yet.



"Is something wrong?" Devika asked, noting his hesitation.



"No, nothing," he replied quickly. "Just... this measurement determines how low the neckline will be."



He positioned the tape at her collarbone, drawing it downward between her breasts. The cool metal end of the tape pressed against her skin, stopping at a modest depth that would reveal nothing more than her current blouse.



"Is this deep enough?" he asked, his eyes meeting hers in the mirror.



Devika studied her reflection, the tape disappearing between the swells of her breasts. "A little lower," she heard herself say. "I want something... different from what I usually wear."



Ramlal's eyebrows rose slightly, but he obediently lowered the tape another half-inch, his fingertip pressing gently into the beginning of her cleavage. "Here?"



"Yes," she breathed, her chest rising and falling more rapidly than normal. "That's right."



He noted the measurement, his handwriting becoming less steady. The air in the bedroom seemed to thicken, charged with unspoken possibilities that neither of them had anticipated when they began.



"Now we should take the same measurements from behind," Ramlal said, moving to stand behind her. "For consistency."



In the mirror, Devika watched him position himself at her back, close enough that she could feel his breath stir the loose strands of hair at her nape. His reflection looked different somehow—less the bent old security guard and more a man with purpose, with hidden depths she hadn't considered before.



As he raised the tape to measure her back, Devika felt something press against her—a firmness that could only be one thing. Ramlal had become aroused, his body betraying his professional demeanor. She should have been offended, should have stepped away immediately. Instead, she found herself shifting slightly, pressing back against him in a movement so subtle it could have been accidental.



Ramlal froze, his eyes meeting hers in the mirror with a mixture of shame and undisguised want. "Forgive me," he whispered. "I am an old man, but still a man."



"There's nothing to forgive," Devika replied, her voice low. Something wild and unfamiliar had awakened in her—a recklessness born of betrayal and loneliness, a desire to feel wanted after learning how thoroughly her husband had discarded her.



Ramlal inhaled deeply, his nose close to her hair. "Your scent," he murmured. "Jasmine. So lovely."



"Thank you," she replied, offering him a shy smile in the mirror instead of the rebuke he clearly expected.



Emboldened by her response, he carefully gathered her hair in his hands, moving it over one shoulder to expose the nape of her neck. "For the back measurements," he explained, though both knew it was unnecessary.



The tape measure pressed against her upper back, but Devika was more aware of Ramlal's proximity, of the heat of his body behind hers, of how his eyes in the mirror had darkened with desire.



"Such a beautiful back," he murmured, the tape sliding down her spine. "So elegant. So clean."



"Are you measuring or admiring?" Devika asked, surprising herself with the teasing note in her voice.



"Both," Ramlal admitted, his honesty disarming. "I cannot help myself. I have never seen such beauty up close. Not in all my years."



He set the tape aside suddenly, his weathered hands coming to rest lightly on her bare arms. The contact sent a shock through Devika's system, so different from the impersonal touch of the measuring process.



"What are you doing?" she asked, though she made no move to pull away.



"Feeling how the sleeveless style would suit you," he replied, his fingers trailing lightly over her skin. "The fabric must complement such softness."



Devika should have stopped him. Should have reminded him of his place, of the professional boundary they were rapidly dissolving. Instead, she heard herself ask, "Am I soft enough?"



Their eyes met in the mirror, the question hanging between them like a thread about to snap. "Yes," Ramlal whispered. "Softer than anything I have ever touched. Any man would feel blessed to touch such skin."



The words sent heat pooling low in Devika's belly, a sensation she hadn't felt in longer than she cared to admit. Without conscious thought, she pressed back against him more deliberately, feeling his hardness against her. A small, desperate sound escaped her throat.



"Your husband," Ramlal said, his hands moving to her waist, hovering just above the fabric of her saree. "He is a fool to leave this. To betray this. What kind of man does such a thing?"



"Touch me," Devika whispered, the words torn from some place deep inside her that had been silent for too long. "I want to feel your hands on my waist."



Ramlal's fingers descended, pressing gently into the fabric-covered flesh of her hips. "So soft," he murmured, his voice thick with wonder. "So perfectly curved."



His hands moved with surprising confidence now, shaped by decades of appreciating women from afar. They curved around her hips, squeezing gently, before sliding forward to the flat plane of her stomach where her navel lay partly exposed by the saree's dbang.



"Your husband," Ramlal said again, his voice rough with emotion. "What a fool. What an idiot to leave something so precious."



One finger dared to probe her navel, circling the small depression. "Deep and soft," he murmured, the words carrying a double meaning that made Devika's knees weaken.



She leaned back against him, her head falling against his shoulder, her hands reaching behind to grasp his thighs for support. "Oh, fuck," she breathed, the profanity foreign on her tongue but perfectly expressing the storm of sensation overwhelming her.



Ramlal seized the moment, his lips finding the side of her neck, pressing against the damp skin with unexpected tenderness. He inhaled deeply, as if trying to capture her essence, before his tongue darted out to taste the salt of her skin. His hands continued their exploration, one sliding up toward the underside of her breast, the other splayed across her abdomen, holding her against him.



Devika felt herself surrendering, melting into his touch, her body responding with an eagerness that shocked her. She could feel wetness gathering between her thighs, her pulse pounding in her ears, every nerve ending alive with sensation.



Then, like a splash of cold water, reality intruded—the face in the mirror was not her husband's but a stranger's, an old man's, someone who had no right to touch her this way. What was she doing? What had she become?



With a gasp, she pulled away, stumbling slightly as she put distance between them. Ramlal stood frozen, his hands still extended, his expression a mixture of desire and dismay.



"I'm sorry," he said immediately, lowering his arms. "I should not have... This was unforgivable."



"No," Devika said, wrapping her arms around herself. "It was my fault. I asked you to touch me. I don't know what I was thinking."



They stood in awkward silence, neither able to meet the other's eyes. The intimate moment had shattered, leaving only confusion and shame in its wake.



"Perhaps we should finish the measurements another time," Ramlal suggested, his voice strained.



"No," Devika said firmly, reaching for her pallu and dbanging it over her shoulder with shaking hands. "We've come this far. Let's complete what we started—the measurements, I mean."



They returned to the living room, the bedroom suddenly too charged with memory to remain there. Ramlal completed the remaining measurements with mechanical efficiency, no longer lingering, no longer commenting on her softness or beauty. His hands trembled slightly but remained professional, the tape measure creating a barrier between his skin and hers.



When he finally folded the measuring tape and tucked it into his pocket, the relief in his posture was palpable. "I will find someone to stitch these blouses for you," he said, not meeting her eyes. "A proper tailor with a shop."



"But you have the measurements," Devika protested. "Couldn't you do it?"



Ramlal shook his head. "My hands are no longer steady enough for fine work. I would not do justice to such beautiful fabric. Or to..." He trailed off, leaving the compliment unfinished.



"I understand," she said softly. "Thank you for your help today."



He nodded, moving toward the door with the careful dignity of a man trying to salvage his pride. "I should go. My measurements are complete."



"Ramlal-ji," Devika called as he reached for the handle. "What happened... it was not your fault. I've been... confused since learning about my husband. Please don't feel ashamed."



He turned to face her, his weathered features arranged in a sad smile. "I am not ashamed of wanting you," he said simply. "Any man would. I am only sorry if I made you uncomfortable in your own home."



"You didn't," she assured him, though the words felt insufficient against the complexity of what had transpired between them.



With a final nod, Ramlal slipped out the door, leaving Devika alone with the echo of his touch still tingling on her skin and the knowledge that something fundamental had shifted within her—boundaries crossed that could never be reestablished, desires awakened that could never be put back to sleep.



She sank onto the sofa, fingers tracing the places his hands had been, wondering what kind of woman she was becoming in the aftermath of betrayal. Not the dutiful wife she had been, certainly. But who, then? And what would she do with this new, unfamiliar self who could respond so eagerly to an old man's touch simply because he looked at her with genuine desire?



The questions hung unanswered in the quiet apartment as afternoon light slanted through the windows, illuminating the notepad where Ramlal had recorded her measurements—numbers that would transform into blouses that would, in turn, transform her. Measurements of a body that had, for one reckless moment, remembered what it meant to be desired.

[Sage_69]

Devika is becoming more honest with her desire.

[Bowlg78]

Waiting for marvellous conversation...lines...like..the following ones....

Oh he missed the measurements....in your golden describing lines....shut yaar