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Two days after Ranjith left for his parents’ village — a sudden, short trip he’d mentioned only the night before, something about his mother’s health check-up and “just three-four days” — the house felt emptier than usual.
Ranjith had kissed Divya’s forehead before leaving at dawn, told Monu to be good for Mummy, and ridden off on his bike without any extra words. No lingering look. No unspoken question hanging in the air. Just gone.
Divya spent the first day and a half in the same careful rhythm: convent in the morning, Monu’s college drop-off and pickup, cooking simple meals, folding laundry with mechanical precision. The shame still sat heavy in her chest — quieter now, but never gone — like a stone she carried everywhere.
By the second night — around 8 PM — Monu had eaten his dinner (roti-sabzi, extra ghee on his roti the way he liked), brushed his teeth, said goodnight to Papa’s photo on the wall, and fallen asleep in his small bed with his favorite stuffed tiger tucked under his arm.
The house was silent except for the low hum of the ceiling fan and the distant bark of a street dog.
Divya went to the bathroom — the same one — locked the door this time without thinking. She took a long bath: hot water poured slowly over her shoulders, steam clouding the small mirror.
She scrubbed gently, almost tenderly, as if trying to forgive her own skin.
When she stepped out, she dried herself and slipped into a tight white nighty she rarely wore — thin cotton, sleeveless, knee-length but clinging to every curve from the dampness of her skin.
The fabric was semi-sheer in the right light; her dark nipples showed faintly through it, the outline of her breasts clear, no bra underneath.
She didn’t notice — or told herself she didn’t — how the nighty rode up slightly when she moved.
She came into the hall, switched on the single tube light above the dining table, and sat down with the stack of question papers from her convent class.
Red pen in hand, she began correcting — circling mistakes, writing short remarks in neat Hindi and English.
“Very good effort.”
“Try to write full sentences.”
“Neat handwriting, keep it up.”
Her hair was still damp, loose over one shoulder, a few strands sticking to her neck. The nighty’s neckline dipped low when she leaned forward to read the next answer.
Her mangalsutra rested between her breasts, gold chain catching the tube light.
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Divya sat at the dining table under the single tube light, red pen hovering over the last question paper.
The nighty felt tighter than she remembered — the thin white cotton clinging to her damp skin, neckline dipping low every time she leaned forward.
She tried to focus on the child’s answers, but her mind kept drifting: to the empty bedroom, to Ranjith miles away at his parents’ house, to Monu’s soft breathing from the next room.
Then she heard it.
A hoarse, familiar shout drifting up the lane from the main road:
“Roti do… bhagwan ke naam pe roti do… maa-baap ki dua lenge…”
The old beggar.
He came every week — same cracked voice, same tattered kurta, same stooped walk with a crooked stick.
Usually she ignored him from inside the house, or sent Monu with a piece of bread if he was awake.
But tonight the house felt too quiet, too full of her own thoughts.
She stood up. The nighty shifted, riding up slightly on her thighs. She tugged it down absentmindedly, went to the kitchen, tore two warm rotis from the stack still covered with a cloth, folded them in half, and walked to the front door.
She opened it quietly.
Stepped onto the small porch. The gate was only a few feet away.
The beggar had already turned into their street — slow, shuffling steps.
When he saw her standing there in the dim porch light, he stopped.
His rheumy eyes lifted.
Divya hesitated for half a second.
Then she pushed the gate open and stepped onto the road — barefoot, nighty swaying gently with each step.
The street was empty except for a distant street lamp flickering and a stray dog watching from the shadows.
She walked the short distance to him, holding out the folded rotis.
“Here, baba… le lo.”
The old man stared.
Not at the rotis.
At her.
The tight white nighty — damp from the bath, semi-sheer in the yellow streetlight — outlined every curve.
Her full breasts moved freely beneath the thin fabric as she walked: soft, natural bounce with each step, nipples faintly visible as dark shadows pressing against cotton.
The neckline dipped low enough that the upper swells were clearly on display, mangalsutra nestled deep in the cleavage, swaying gently.
He didn’t move to take the rotis at first.
Just stared — stunned, mouth slightly open, stick forgotten in his gnarled hand.
Divya felt the weight of his gaze instantly.
She suddenly became aware of everything: the cool night air making the fabric cling even tighter, the way her breasts rose and fell with her quickened breathing, the faint outline of her body that the nighty did nothing to hide.
She thrust the rotis forward again — a little more urgently.
“Le lo, baba… thanda ho jayega.”
The beggar finally blinked. His trembling hand reached out, took the rotis slowly. His fingers brushed hers — rough, calloused, cold.
“Shukriya… beti…” he rasped, voice cracking.
But his eyes never left her chest.
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Divya turned quickly toward the gate, cheeks burning from the beggar’s open stare, the two rotis now in his trembling hands.
She wanted to disappear back inside — fast, before the shame could sink any deeper.
But as she pivoted, the old man moved faster than she expected.
His free hand — gnarled, dirt-blackened, calloused from years on the road — shot out and landed a firm, deliberate slap on her ass.
The sound cracked softly in the quiet night — palm against thin cotton nighty, the fabric doing nothing to cushion the sting.
Her body jolted forward half a step, breasts bouncing visibly under the tight white material.
Divya froze. Shocked. Breath knocked out of her in a sharp gasp.
She spun back to face him, eyes wide, one hand instinctively flying to cover her backside as if she could erase the contact.
The beggar didn’t flinch. Didn’t apologize. Just stood there under the flickering street lamp, rheumy eyes still locked on her body.
His cracked voice rasped out, low and matter-of-fact:
“Roz bus stop pe dekhta hoon tujhe, beti. Tu kabhi nahi dekhti mujhe. Aaj pehli baar… nazar mili.”
Divya stared at him.
Really looked.
His tattered kurta hung .
Gray hair matted with dust and grease. Skin cracked and blackened from sun and exposure. Bare feet caked in road grime. The same crooked stick in one hand, the two rotis clutched in the other like treasures.
He was old — older than Beedaa.
Yet the slap had been bold. Possessive. The same kind of boldness she’d felt from Beedaa days ago.
Her stomach twisted — a sick mix of shock, humiliation, and that same traitorous heat she hated herself for feeling.
She didn’t shout. Didn’t slap him back. Didn’t call for help.
She just looked at his dirty body one long second longer — the filth, the poverty, the hunger in his eyes that wasn’t only for food — then turned without a word.
She hurried back through the gate.
. The iron bars clanged shut behind her. She bolted the front door, leaned against it, breathing hard.
Her ass still stung — a warm, tingling imprint of his rough palm.
---He sees me every day at the bus stop---
The thought made her skin crawl. All those mornings — saree neatly dbangd, pallu pinned, walking to catch the bus to the convent — she’d never noticed him.
Never looked at the old beggar sitting on the pavement corner, stick across his lap. But he’d noticed her. Watched her. Every day.
And tonight… he touched her.
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Five minutes passed in heavy silence.
Then shouts erupted from down the lane.
Sharp. Angry. Male.
She lifted her head.
The voices carried clearly in the quiet night:
“Arre bewakoof! Maine bola na paisa mat maang!”
A dull thud — flesh hitting flesh.
Another shout, louder:
“Idiot! Chal yahan se bhag!”
Divya stood up slowly.
Her nighty felt even thinner now, the fabric sticking to her skin.
She went to gate.
Two houses down, under the same flickering streetlamp, the scene unfolded.
The owner of the house — a middle-aged man in a vest and lungi, pot-bellied, furious — had the old beggar by the collar of his tattered kurta.
He slapped him hard across the face — open palm, no hesitation.
The beggar staggered but didn’t fall.
His body — though filthy, thin, bent with age — was surprisingly solid.
Years on the road had hardened muscle under the dirt and rags.
He straightened slowly.
The owner shoved him again.
“Chal nikal yahan se! Roz aa ke tang karta hai! Poli.ce ko bulaunga!”
The beggar didn’t reply. Didn’t beg. Just stared at the man with those rheumy eyes — no fear, no anger, just blank endurance. Then he turned, shuffled away down the lane.
Divya watched.
She should have closed the curtain. Gone back to the table. Pretended nothing happened.
But she didn’t.
The beggar kept walking.
Then — halfway between the two houses — he stopped.
Turned.
Looked straight at her house.
At her.
He shuffled back — slow, deliberate steps — until he reached her gate.
Divya’s breath caught.
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He spoke , voice low and cracked like dry leaves.
“Mera damaad ne usko das hazaar rupaye diye the… . Lekin ab woh paise nahi lauta raha. Aur jab maangta hoon toh maar bhi maarta hai.”
He lifted his free hand, touched the fresh red mark on his cheek from the neighbor’s slap.
Divya stood frozen on the porch, arms crossed loosely over her chest — trying to hide how the thin cotton made her nipples press visibly against it.
Her voice came out soft, almost automatic.
“Oh… I see.”
She didn’t know what else to say.
The shame from his earlier slap still burned on her skin; now this — an old beggar standing at her gate at night, sharing his sad story like she was supposed to care.
The beggar’s gaze dropped lower — to her bare thighs where the nighty thin, then back up to her face.
He licked cracked lips.
“Roti kha loon… aur thodi der andar baith jaaun? Bahar thand lag rahi hai.”
Divya’s heart thudded.
Every sensible part of her screamed to shut the door, bolt it, pretend this wasn’t happening.
But the house was empty except for sleeping Monu. Ranjith was gone.
She swallowed.
“…Theek hai. Aaiye.”
She unlatched the gate. Let it swing open.
The beggar shuffled inside — rotis still clutched like treasures.
He smelled of dust, old sweat, and the faint sourness of unwashed clothes.
He didn’t look around the small compound; his eyes stayed on her — on the sway of her breasts as she walked ahead, on the way the nighty shifted over her ass with each step.
When they reached the porch he stopped.
“Chhat pe kha loon? Wahaan thandi hawa chalti hai.”
Divya hesitated.
The roof was dark, open to the sky, only a low pabangt wall.
But Monu was asleep inside. And the beggar was old. Weak-looking. Harmless… maybe.
She nodded once.
“Chaliye.”
She led him around the side to the narrow external staircase — concrete steps leading up. He followed slowly, , breathing heavier now.
When he reached the roof he disappeared into the darkness. Divya heard his stick scbang against the cement, then silence.
She stood at the bottom of the stairs for a long minute.
Then she went to the kitchen, filled a steel glass with water from the filter, and climbed the steps herself.
The roof was pitch dark — no bulb, only faint moonlight filtering through thin clouds. The water tank loomed in one corner.
She saw him there.
He looked up when he heard her footsteps.
Divya stopped a few feet away, holding the glass out like an offering.
“Paani…”
He didn’t move to take it immediately.
His eyes — sharper now in the moonlight — traveled over her again: the white nighty glowing faintly, damp hair loose over her shoulders, bare arms, the deep neckline that dipped with every breath she took.
He patted the cement beside him — slow, deliberate.
“Baith ja, beti. Thodi der baat kar lete hain.”
Divya’s fingers tightened around the glass.
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Divya set the steel glass of water down on the low concrete bench near the water tank — careful not to spill, the clink of metal on cement loud in the dark rooftop silence.
She straightened, tugging the hem of her tight white nighty down again.
Her voice came out firm but quiet, the same tone she used with Monu when bedtime was non-negotiable.
“Roti kha li… ab jaaiye.”
She turned to leave — back toward the staircase, toward the safety of the lit house below.
But before she could take two steps—
The beggar moved.
Fast. Stronger than his frame .
His arms wrapped around her from behind — one filthy forearm locking across her waist..
He pulled her back hard against his body. Divya’s breath punched out in a sharp gasp.
She froze. Shocked. Body rigid.
His stink hit her instantly — road dust, old sweat, sour breath against her neck. His tattered kurta rasped against the thin cotton of her nighty.
then she felt it — unmistakable — his cock, hard and pressing insistently against the cleft of her ass through the layers of rag and fabric.
Thick enough to feel even through his dirty lungi. Hot. Throbbing.
Divya’s heart slammed against her ribs.
“N-nahi… chhodiye…!”
Her voice cracked — small, panicked.
But he didn’t let go.
Instead his rough hands moved.
The arm around her waist slid higher — calloused palm cupping one breast fully through the nighty. Fingers squeezed — not gentle, not tentative — possessive.
The other hand joined the first, both now kneading her soft mounds, thumbs brushing over her nipples that had already hardened from the cool night air and the shock.
Divya’s body jerked.
“Ahh…!”
A small, involuntary sound escaped her. Her hands flew up to his wrists — trying to pull them away — but his grip was too strong, arms like twisted ropes from years of carrying loads and surviving streets.
He pressed his face into the crook of her neck — stubble scbanging her skin, breath hot and ragged.
“Beti… roz dekhta hoon tujhe… aaj haath lagaaya… ab poora haath laga raha hoon…”
His hips rocked forward once — grinding his hardness against her ass — slow, deliberate.
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With his hard cock still pressing insistently against the cleft of her ass through the thin layers of fabric, Divya’s struggles slowly… stopped.
Her hands — which had been clawing weakly at his wrists — fell limp to her sides.
Her body sagged slightly against him, not in surrender exactly, but in a kind of exhausted defeat. The rooftop wind stirred her damp hair.
After a long, trembling second she twisted in his grip — not violently, just enough to face him.
The beggar loosened his hold just a fraction — enough for her to turn fully in the circle of his arms.
Streetlight from the lane below slanted up across his face now, harsh and unforgiving.
It lit every detail she’d tried not to see before: the matted gray beard streaked with dirt .
, yellowed broken teeth behind cracked lips, rheumy eyes sunken in dark sockets, the sour smell of unwashed skin and rotting breath rolling off him in waves.
She looked at his ugly, bearded face — really looked — and felt revulsion rise sharp and immediate.
This was filth. Decay. Something that belonged on the pavement, not touching her.
Her voice came out small, slow, almost pleading — barely above a whisper:
“I don’t like this… get out.”
She didn’t shout. Didn’t scream. Just said it quietly, like a tired teacher asking a child to leave the classroom.
The beggar didn’t move.
Instead he grinned — crooked, yellow-toothed — and leaned closer, breath hot against her cheek.
“Roti kha li… ab thoda maza kar le. Mera lauda khel le, beti.”
He took one of her hands in his filthy fingers — rough, calloused, nails black with grime — and tried to guide it down toward the front of his tattered lungi where the hard bulge strained obviously against the dirty cloth.
Divya didn’t move.
Her hand stayed limp in his grasp — neither pulling away nor closing around him.
She just stood there, frozen, eyes fixed on his ugly face under the streetlight glow.
He waited — breathing heavier now — hand still wrapped around her wrist, trying to pull her palm toward his cock.
Divya didn’t resist.
Divya’s hand stayed frozen where the beggar had guided it — palm pressed flat against the rough, dirty fabric of his lungi. The hardness beneath throbbed once, hot and insistent, making her stomach twist with fresh revulsion.
But she didn’t pull away.
The beggar’s cracked lips curved wider. He released her wrist completely now, letting her decide.
His own hands stayed on her breasts — squeezing slowly, thumbs dragging over her nipples through the thin white nighty until they ached and peaked even harder.
Divya’s breathing turned ragged. She hated the way her body responded — hated the faint slick warmth blooming low in her belly despite everything.
Slowly — almost against her will — her fingers curled tighter around the shape of him.
The beggar groaned low in his throat — raspy, satisfied — and rocked his hips forward just enough to press himself firmer into her palm.
Then he reached down with one hand — the other still kneading her breast — and tugged the front knot of his lungi loose.
The filthy cloth parted.
His cock sprang free — thick, dark, veined, unwashed for who knew how long.
The pubic hair was coarse and matted, a wild gray-black tangle covering his lower belly and the base of his shaft.
The skin there looked rough, almost scaly from years of exposure and neglect, pubic bone prominent under thin flesh.
Divya’s eyes dropped involuntarily.
She saw it all — the coarse pubic hair curling thickly around the root, the heavy balls hanging low beneath, the musky, sour scent rising sharp and immediate now that the lungi was open.
Her stomach lurched again — pure disgust mixing with the shame that had already drowned her.
But her hand… didn’t move away.
Fingers wrapped loosely around the bare shaft now — skin hot, slightly sticky, veins pulsing under her palm.
She felt every ridge, every throb. It wasn’t as long as Beedaa’s, but thicker at the base, heavy in her grip.
The beggar exhaled roughly through his nose — almost a laugh.
“Chal… khel na, beti… dheere se…”
He thrust shallowly into her hand — once, twice — guiding her rhythm with small rocks of his hips.
She looked at his pubic bone again — the coarse hair brushing her knuckles with every slow stroke she allowed — and felt a fresh wave of humiliation crash over her.
This was her now.
A married woman. A mother. A teacher.
Standing on her own rooftop at night, in a tight white nighty, holding an old beggar’s dirty cock while he fondled her breasts like she belonged to him.
She whispered — broken, barely audible:
“Bas… jaldi…”
But her hand kept moving — slow, reluctant strokes — while his groans grew louder, rougher, echoing faintly off the pabangt wall.
The streetlight kept shining on his ugly, bearded face.
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Suddenly, the sharp ring of Divya’s phone sliced through the dark rooftop silence.
It was coming from downstairs — left on the dining table where she’d been correcting papers.
Divya’s body jerked like she’d been slapped again.
Monu.
If the phone kept ringing loud enough… if it woke him…
Panic flooded her instantly — sharper than shame, stronger than revulsion.
She wrenched herself out of the beggar’s loose grip — his hands sliding off her breasts with a rough drag — and stumbled backward toward the staircase.
Without a word, without looking back at his ugly bearded face or the hard cock still jutting from his open lungi, she ran.
Bare feet slapped concrete steps — , breasts bouncing painfully free under the thin fabric.
She flew down the narrow stairs, heart in her throat, praying Monu stayed asleep.
The phone rang twice more before she reached the hall.
She snatched it up — screen glowing: Ranjith.
She answered on the last ring, voice breathless, trembling, trying to sound normal.
“H-hello… Ranjith ji?”
His voice came through calm, tired, familiar — the same voice that kissed her goodnight every night.
“Divya? Sorry itna late call kiya. Mom ki report aa gayi hai… sab normal hai bas thoda check-up extra kar rahe hain. Kal subah tak aa jaunga. Monu so gaya?”
Divya pressed the phone hard against her ear, one hand clutching the edge of the dining table for balance. Her legs still shook.
The faint ache from the beggar’s earlier slap lingered on her ass.
Her nipples were still hard and sensitive from his rough thumbs.
“Haan… so gaya,” she whispered. “Sab theek hai yahan.”
They talked for one minute — short, ordinary things: Monu’s college, what she cooked, when he’d eat dinner tomorrow.
Ranjith’s voice was steady. Loving. Oblivious.
Divya answered in monosyllables — “Haan… theek hai… haan…” — while tears burned behind her eyes.
When he said “Good night, take care,” she managed a soft “Good night, Ranjith ji… jaldi aaiye.”
She ended the call.
The screen went dark.
Silence rushed back in.
Divya stood there — breathing hard, nighty askew, hair tangled from the rooftop wind.
Then she looked toward the front door.
The beggar was already moving.
He had come down the stairs quietly while she was on the phone — stick tapping softly, lungi re-tied .
He reached the gate now — didn’t look back at first.
Then he paused.
Turned just enough for the porch light to catch half his ugly, bearded face.
He gave her one long, slow look — eyes raking over her disheveled nighty, her flushed cheeks, the way her chest still rose and fell too fast.
No words.
Just that look — satisfied, patient, promising more.
Then he pushed the gate open, shuffled out into the lane, and disappeared into the shadows toward the main road.
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After the beggar shuffled out the gate and the iron latch clanged shut behind him, the lane fell silent again.
Divya stood frozen in the hall for several long seconds — one hand still pressed to the bolted door, the other clutching the front of her nighty as if she could pull the thin cotton tighter around her body and erase what had just happened.
Then the tension in her shoulders slowly… unwound.
She exhaled — long, shaky, almost a sigh of relief.
The beggar was gone.
No more rough palm on her ass.
No more sour breath on her neck. No more dirty fingers trying to guide her hand to his hardness.
She was safe.
For now.
She walked to the sofa on unsteady legs, sank down onto the cushions, and pulled the thin blanket over herself.
. She curled onto her side, facing the dim hall light, knees drawn toward her chest.
Her mind replayed the rooftop in fragments — the slap, the grope, the way she’d frozen instead of screaming, the way her body had betrayed her with a flicker of unwanted heat when his cock pressed against her through the fabric.
She closed her eyes.
A single thought rose clear and bitter:
---If Ranjith hadn’t called at that moment… the beggar definitely would have done that to me. Pushed me down. Taken more. Everything.---
The shame hit her like a fresh wave — hot, suffocating.
--What a shame… what a dirty, disgusting shame I’ve become.---
She hugged the blanket tighter, face buried in the cushion.
Monu’s soft breathing drifted from the next room — innocent, steady.
Ranjith’s call had saved her.
But it hadn’t erased the memory. Hadn’t erased the tingling red mark on her ass. Hadn’t erased the way her nipples still ached faintly from the beggar’s rough thumbs.
She felt filthy.
Used.
And yet… strangely relaxed now that the danger had passed.
Exhaustion finally overtook the churning thoughts.
Her eyelids grew heavy.
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Next morning, Divya woke up early on the sofa. She felt a little disturbance inside her mind. Her body felt heavy.
She remembered last night — the slap, the grope, how she froze. Shame came back fast.
She got up quietly. Made tea for herself. Woke Monu gently. “Beta, college time.” She made breakfast — simple roti and sabzi. Packed his tiffin. Helped him wear uniform. Smiled for him like always. But inside, she felt dirty. Wrong.
Ranjith did not come back that day. He called in the morning. “Mom needs one more check-up. I will stay one more day.” His voice was normal. Divya said “Okay” and “Take care.” She felt relief. Also fear. If he comes home, will he see something on her face?
She dressed in a simple blue saree. Neat pallu. Bindi. Mangalsutra shining. Looked like a good wife, good teach.er.
Took Monu to college drop. Then walked to bus stop for convent.
At the bus stop, she saw him.
The old beggar.
He sat on the same corner of pavement. Dirty kurta. Crooked stick. Same place every week.
He looked up. Saw her.
His eyes went to her face.
Then down — to her saree, her breasts under the blouse, her hips. Slow look.
No smile. Just staring.
Divya felt hot shame rush to her face. Cheeks burned red. She looked away fast. Pulled pallu tighter over chest. Heart beat very fast.
---He touched me last night. He slapped my ass. He tried to make me touch him--
She remembered his rough hand. His hard thing pressing. How she did not scream loud enough.
Bus came. She got in quickly. Sat near window. Looked outside but did not see anything. Mind full of shame.
She whispered to herself, very soft: “I must control myself.”
All day in convent she taught children. Smiled. Corrected books. But inside, disturbance stayed. Little shame became big shame.
When she came home in evening, house felt empty. Ranjith not back yet. Monu playing.
She made dinner. Sat with Monu. Ate.
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Monu sat on the sofa watching cartoon on TV. He laughed at funny parts. Divya went to bathroom. She took bath. Hot water. She washed body well. Tried to clean last night shame. But it stayed in mind.
She came out. Dried hair. Wore light blue saree. Simple. Neat pallu. Bindi. Mangalsutra. Looked like good wife again.
She went to Monu. Kissed his head.
“Beta, Mummy will come in ten minutes. You watch TV. Don’t open door. Okay?”
Monu nodded. “Okay Mummy.”
Divya took deep breath. Heart beat fast. She opened door. Looked left-right in lane. No one watching. She walked quick. Out of colony. Into slum gali.
Narrow road. Dirty. Smell of cooking and drain. People sat outside houses. She kept eyes down. Pallu tight. Walked fast.
She reached Beedaa house. Small tin roof. Door open a little.
She stopped. Looked inside.
Empty.
No one there.
No Beedaa. No friends. No sound.
Just old charpoy. Dirty blanket. Few clothes on nail. Empty beedi packet on floor.
Divya stood at door. Heart still fast.
She whispered to herself: “He is not here.”
She felt little sad. Little scared. Little empty.
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Divya walked back from Beedaa’s empty house. Her light blue saree moved softly with each step. Heart still fast. Mind full of questions.
On the way home, near the slum edge, she saw the rickshaw puller.
His name was Hamee. He was the man who daily took Monu to convent scho.ol in his cycle rickshaw.
Today he sat outside his small house. Face tired. One eye little swollen. Shirt torn at shoulder.
Divya stopped. She felt little surprise.
She asked softly, “Hamee bhaiya, why you not come today to take Monu?”
Hamee looked up. His eyes went to her face first.
Then slowly down — to her saree, her fair skin, the way pallu hugged her curves. He stared a second too long at her beauty.
Then looked away fast.
He spoke in low voice, “Memsab… this is my house. Last night my wife beaten me. She got angry for nothing. Called polic.e. They came. Arrested me. Kept me in lockup whole night. Released only this evening.”
Divya felt little sad. She said, “Oho… that is bad. Hope everything okay now.”
Hamee nodded slowly. Looked at ground.
When Divya turned to go home, he called after her.
“Memsab… please give me hundred rupees. I want to drink cheap liquor. Just to forget this day.”
Divya stopped.
She said gently, “Sorry Hamee bhaiya. Today I don’t have cash. I will give you tomorrow. Okay?”
Hamee looked at her again — eyes tired but still hungry for something. He nodded.
“haa memsab. "
Divya walked away fast. Head down. Pallu tight.
Inside house, she closed door. Leaned against it.
Monu still watching TV.
She felt more shame now. First beggar last night. Now Hamee staring at her like that. Asking for money to drink.
She thought: “I am married woman. Mother. Teach.er. Why everyone sees me like this now?”
She went to kitchen. Made juice. Sat with Monu.
But mind not peaceful.
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After five minutes, Divya’s phone rang again.
It was Sasuma (Ranjith’s mother).
Divya picked up the call. “Hello, Sasuma ji?”
Sasuma talked sweetly. “Beta, Ranjith is here. He is fine. You take care of Monu. How are you?”
Divya said, “I am fine, Sasuma ji. Everything okay.”
She kept talking and slowly walked to the stairs. She climbed up to the roof. The phone was on her ear. She stood near the water tank. Air was cool. Light blue saree moved in wind.
After five minutes, she looked down at the road from the roof.
She saw Hamee.
He was walking on the lane. Steps not straight. He looked up. Saw Divya on the roof. His eyes stayed on her for long time. Then he turned and came to her house gate.
Divya saw him open the gate slowly. No sound. He came inside compound. Then climbed the stairs to roof.
Divya was still on phone. She said to Sasuma, “Sasuma ji, I will call later. Something came.”
She put off the phone.
Hamee reached the roof.
Divya turned to him. Voice little scared.
“What bhaiyaa?”
Hamee came close. He smelled very bad — cheap liquor. Strong smell. Eyes red. Face more tired than morning. Shirt still torn.
He looked at Divya. Up and down. Saree. Blouse. Face. He smiled little. Not nice smile.
“Memsab… I need that hundred rupees now. Please.”
He came one step closer.
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