25-04-2025, 06:04 PM
Saturday morning.
No alarm.
No college bag packing.
No dosa batter rush.
Just the soft, lazy hum of the ceiling fan and sunlight cutting through the curtain slit onto the sofa.
Kartik was inside his room—typing something. His door half-closed. No sounds from him except the occasional mouse click.
Arjun had left early. Said he had to go check a few rentals.
Took his bag, one water bottle, and disappeared.
The house felt mine again.
I was in my old saree. Pallu tucked tight. Hair rolled in a bun. Cleaning cloth still in my hand.
After mopping the hall, I grabbed the garbage bag and tied it tightly. Vegetable skin smell. Tissue. Milk packet corners. All packed.
I slipped into my slippers and walked out.
The corridor was quiet.
And the lift light was on.
My eyebrows raised automatically.
Working?
That filthy Prakash fellow had actually kept his word?
For once?
I stepped into the lift. Pressed G. Leaned slightly against the metal bar.
The walls still had fingerprints.
But the ride was smooth.
Too smooth.
No shaking.
No stopping.
The memory came instantly.
His hands under my knees.
That grip on my hip.
That lift ride, in his arms.
Sweat. Skin. Smell.
I looked down and cursed inside.
“Pavi. Please.”
Reached ground floor. Walked out quickly. Tossed the bag in the common bin and wiped my hand with tissue.
The smell of morning sun mixed with yesterday's heat.
A few aunties drying clothes on their balcony. One boy watering the roadside plant.
I turned, came back, and entered the lift again.
Door closed.
Breathed out.
No Prakash. No drama.
Good.
The lift stopped on 7 with a soft ding.
I stepped out, fixing the pallu corner.
And just before I could unlock my flat—
I saw her.
Anusha.
She stepped out of her 1BHK flat, locking the door behind her.
I paused.
Her dress was nothing dramatic—just a light baby pink kurti, smooth and flowing, with black leggings that hugged her thighs properly.
No dupatta.
Just a small leather side-sling bag on her shoulder.
Hair open.
Straight. Brushed neatly. Fresh blow-dry maybe.
The moment she turned and saw me—she smiled instantly.
“Good morning, akka.”
I smiled. “Morning, Anusha.”
We stood there in the corridor.
Sunlight from the window at the corner was hitting the floor between us.
“I was just heading out,” she said, adjusting her bag.
“Parlour?” I asked, cocking one eyebrow playfully.
She laughed lightly, brushing her hair back with one hand. “Yes. Eyebrows. Little haircut. Just touch-up.”
“Self-care,” I said. “Nice. I’ve not gone in months.”
“You don’t need,” she said with a small wink. “Some people just look fresh.”
I laughed softly.
But I felt a small flutter inside.
I watched her more closely.
Her body was slender—but not thin.
That young fullness that stays even without workout.
The kurti didn’t hide much—the soft curve of her waist, the sharp drop of her hip, the way the leggings drew a neat line along her thighs down to her calves.
Even her feet—painted nails, flat sandals.
Everything looked sorted. Modern. Confident.
We spoke for a few minutes.
About lift problems.
Power backup timing.
Parlour stories.
Her bank shifts.
She even asked about the kids.
“So quiet here now,” she said.
I nodded. “They went to hometown yesterday. With my father.”
She smiled. “Peaceful break?”
I chuckled. “Temporary.”
She glanced at her watch and said, “I should rush…”
Then I realised.
We were still standing in the corridor like colony gossip aunties.
“Oh! Sorry! Come in. At least drink water.”
She hesitated.
“I’ll be late…”
“Just one glass. Two minutes.”
She smiled. “Okay, akka.”
She stepped in behind me.
Her scent brushed past—something mild, maybe peach or rose body mist.
I noticed how she walked inside confidently.
No awkwardness.
Looked around once. Took everything in.
I walked to the kitchen and poured water.
She stood near the sofa and sipped slowly.
“This flat is big,” she said. “You’ve arranged everything nicely.”
“Thank you,” I said.
Her eyes scanned the shelf, the pooja corner, the cushion covers.
Simple. But clean.
She drank the water in two gulps.
“Thanks, akka.”
“You can call me Pavitra.”
She paused.
Then smiled. “Okay. Pavitra.”
That moment.
Something soft lingered.
Her voice saying my name.
Her eyes meeting mine.
No awkwardness. No discomfort.
But no extra smile either.
She walked to the sink, placed the glass herself.
I liked that.
Then adjusted her kurti hem and said, “Okay, I’ll run. Parlour lady will kill me.”
I nodded. “Come whenever.”
She turned and walked to the door.
I followed her slowly.
She stepped into her sandals.
And walked.
I stood at the door and watched.
Her back was straight.
Her hips moved gently under the kurti.
Not exaggerated. Not shy.
Just natural.
Her legs curved in the leggings like they were stitched for her.
She reached the lift.
Pressed the button.
Waited.
Her face was calm. Not rushed.
Not shy that I was watching.
Then the door opened.
She stepped in.
Lift closed.
Gone.
I stood there.
Hand still on the edge of the door.
The breeze from the corridor touched my blouse sleeve.
I exhaled.
These girls…
They don’t hesitate.
They don’t overthink.
And yet… they carry more depth than we imagine.
I stepped in.
Closed the door.
And locked it.
The house was quiet again, but not peaceful. Just... still. The kind of stillness that feels like it’s waiting to burst.
Kartik had returned to his usual posture—half involvement, half detachment. He was scrolling something on his phone as I served breakfast.
The upma had already gone a little dry, but he didn’t comment. Not a complaint, not a compliment. He just sat down and started eating, one hand still holding the phone.
I sat across him, serving myself with the steel spoon, the handle slightly bent. We ate without much talk. Just the sound of the ceiling fan above and our spoons tapping the plates. I was chewing, but my thoughts were already wandering—to the laundry, the half-mopped bedroom, and my sticky blouse.
After he finished, Kartik wiped his hands, got up, said, “I have a call now,” and walked off.
Click.
He locked the bedroom door behind him.
Just like that.
No second look, no “thanks,” no “do you need help with anything?”
Gone.
I looked at my plate. The upma was still warm. I finished it slowly, scbanging up the last bits with the spoon, chewing without tasting.
My whole body was already itching with sweat. The saree I had worn since morning had become heavy, dull, and damp with heat. I could feel the neckline of the blouse sticking near my shoulder blades. My petticoat was tight across my waist, and the fabric had bunched near my knees while sitting.
I needed a bath.
Badly.
After rinsing the plate and drying my hands, I walked into the bathroom. The main one near the hall.
The tube light was already on from earlier. The water tap was silent. I turned it open, and a narrow stream began to fill the plastic bucket.
Relief. I let out a quiet breath.
I pulled the pallu over my shoulder and began unwrapping the saree. It didn’t slide like usual. It stuck in places. The edge of the petticoat had rubbed against my thighs, leaving marks I could feel without even seeing.
Blouse off.
Petticoat untied.
Now only in my panty, I leaned down and touched the water.
Still cold. Still flowing.
I tied my hair up, tucked the end into the coil, and stood beside the bucket. The mirror on the wall was foggy with age, but I saw myself.
Bare skin. Drops of sweat still on my collarbone. A thin line of dust near my ankle where the saree had dragged on the floor.
Just as I leaned to test the water again—
It stopped.
The pipe gave a soft cough and died.
I turned the knob back and forth. Nothing.
Tried the shower tap.
Not a sound.
The entire bathroom went still. Just like that.
My breath got caught.
I looked into the bucket. It wasn’t even half full.
Not enough.
My towel was hanging on the hook. I grabbed it and tried to wipe the sweat down. Chest. Underarms. Inner thighs. Rushed wipes, dry hands. Still didn’t feel clean.
And I couldn't stay like that. Not in just a panty.
So I reached for the same clothes I had just removed.
No choice.
I wore them again.
Not like a woman dressing for comfort.
Not like someone going to meet a guest.
But like someone who was defeated.
First, I pulled the petticoat on. It felt heavier, more wrinkled. I tied it quickly, didn’t check the knot.
Next, the blouse. I hooked it without adjusting. The neckline sat wrong, slightly twisted. I didn’t fix it.
Then the saree.
No pleats.
No smooth tuck.
Just grabbed it, wrapped it around, tucked it at the side.
Pallu was thrown over the shoulder. Didn’t even look in the mirror.
I felt like a labour woman. Not the classy kind of tired. Just… burnt out. The kind of woman people don’t look at twice.
I stepped out.
The hall was silent. I walked to the bedroom door.
Kartik was inside.
The faint sound of his voice came through—his “professional” tone.
I knocked once and pushed the door halfway open.
He turned, headphones on, eyebrows raised like I was interrupting something major.
I didn’t speak. Just used my hand.
Pointed at the floor. Then rotated my fingers like water running. And then made a circle with my fingers and tapped the wrist—association.
He understood.
He gestured: “I’m in a call.”
Then added in whisper, “I can’t come for one hour. You check.”
He turned back to the laptop.
I stared at his back for two seconds.
Then shut the door quietly.
Inside my mind, I cursed.
You can’t pause your call for two minutes? Can't lift a phone and ask?
I picked up my phone and tried calling the association number.
Ringing.
No answer.
Tried again. Again.
Switched to the WhatsApp group. Typed “No water in flat 703. Anyone else?” and sent it.
No replies.
Typical.
I looked down.
My blouse was already showing the wet patches from underarm sweat. The petticoat string had slipped slightly. I didn’t care.
I pulled a small cotton towel from the clothesline, threw it across my shoulder, and tightened the saree’s tuck with one quick tug.
Didn’t comb hair.
Didn’t recheck appearance.
Just walked to the door.
Opened it.
The heat outside punched my face.
I stepped out.
Lift light was on.
I pressed the button, my finger slightly trembling.
I was going to the security gate myself.
And if that Prakash fellow looked at me sideways, even once…
I wouldn’t be responsible for what I’d say.
The lift opened with a dry click.
The corridor on the ground floor was hot, the kind that sticks to your face like smoke from a roadside idli stall. I stepped out with my towel still across my shoulder, my saree still creased and uneven, and my mind burning hotter than my skin.
I didn’t even wait a second. Walked straight past the pillars and toward the security gate.
But—
No one.
Chair was there. Fan running. The newspaper was half open on the table. But the seat was empty.
“Where the hell…”
I stood still, turned left and right.
Nothing.
Not even a slipper sound from the corner bathroom.
I pulled out my phone and opened the security number saved from the association group.
Dialled.
It rang once. Twice.
No answer.
Third time.
Still ringing.
I cut the call and let out a curse under my breath.
That filthy bastard. Sitting here like a king the whole day, and when we need him, gone without a trace.
I was about to turn and go back—
When I saw him.
Prakash.
Standing near the diesel generator corner, halfway behind the wall. Talking to another man. Laughing about something.
He didn’t see me yet.
I didn’t wait.
I raised my voice just enough.
“Oye! Security!”
His head jerked.
He saw me.
His whole body changed. Like some stray dog spotting a biscuit in a god’s hand.
He started jogging—almost running—toward me.
Straightening his shirt while running.
His hand came up to adjust his waistband.
I stood still, watching him approach.
Inside, I smirked once.
That reaction.
Like a dog seeing his owner after a full day of hunger.
Even the man he was talking to turned, confused. Watching this grown man suddenly run mid-conversation toward a saree-clad woman.
I didn’t care what that man thought.
My eyes were on Prakash.
He reached me, panting a little.
“Madam, madam, I’m here,” he said, stopping just two steps away, standing straight.
I didn’t wait.
“Where the hell were you?”
He blinked.
“Uh… generator, madam. I was checking—”
“You have a chair there, you have a table there. You have a phone. I called you just now. Didn’t even pick up?”
“No madam, I didn’t hear—”
“Don’t lie to me.”
My voice was low but sharp.
“That’s your number, right?” I held up my phone.
He looked and nodded, head down.
“Sorry, madam…”
“Duty means sitting on that chair. Not gossiping near the wall. Understand?”
“Yes madam.”
“I had to come all the way down, in this heat, can’t even bath properly, because you’re not doing your job.”
He was sweating now.
Whether from heat or shame, I didn’t care.
He kept nodding. “Very sorry, madam. Won’t happen again.”
I folded my arms.
Looked him from head to toe.
His shirt was already half untucked. One slipper was loose. And I could smell a faint mix of talcum and yesterday’s sweat.
I didn’t say anything more.
Just stood, letting the silence sit on his head like a weight.
I didn’t wait for him to explain.
“Not a drop of water is coming,” I snapped, wiping the sweat from my forehead with the edge of my loose pallu.
Prakash stood silent, eyes confused. His hands were still half-raised from the awkward run he did toward me, breath slightly heavy.
“Morning I filled and checked, madam… all tanks were okay…” he said cautiously.
I gave a sharp look.
“Are you trying to say I’m lying?”
“No madam,” he said immediately, head shaking. “Not at all.”
I stared at him, hard.
He looked down. Took out his phone.
Without asking or giving excuses, he dialled someone. I could hear his voice change into that desperate tone men use when they know they’re seconds from getting slapped.
“Raju… come to gate. Now. Water complaint.”
He cut the call.
Then turned, pulled open the drawer below his desk, and picked up a single long key.
“I’ll go check, madam. Must see on terrace.”
I was still burning. Not just with sweat.
I didn’t even think before speaking.
“I’ll also come.”
He turned back, surprised. But said nothing.
Just nodded slightly.
I followed him.
We walked together, side by side.
My blouse had already surrendered to the heat—it was clinging tight under my arms, completely soaked at the back. My petticoat knot had slipped once earlier, and the cotton saree was hanging lazily across my chest.
No pin. No tightness.
I wasn’t walking like a lady.
Just walking.
We reached the lift. He pressed the button.
The small red light flicked on.
The hum inside grew louder.
I stood behind him, my arms folded under my pallu, holding the wet fold against my chest.
The door opened.
He stepped in.
I stepped in behind him.
He pressed 12—the topmost floor.
The door closed.
The moment the lift jerked upward, I felt something shift in me.
Not outside.
Inside.
The silence of the lift. The metallic warmth of the walls. The sound of the floor counter beeping.
It all triggered something.
Something I had locked up.
But now it came back.
That morning.
The power cut.
Pitch darkness.
Me, wearing only a petticoat.
That sharp jerk when the lift stopped.
I had lost my balance.
And fallen.
On him.
Topless.
And he…
He was nude.
I didn’t know it then. But when I fell forward, I felt it.
His cock.
Warm. Long. Wet with sweat.
It hit my chin directly.
My breath caught even now, remembering it.
I had jumped back, shocked, ashamed, humiliated.
He didn’t even touch me.
Not with his hands.
But that moment—
His cock on my skin.
My chin.
My lips just inches below.
The smell.
The sweat.
The rawness.
It had burned me from the inside that night.
And now, inside this same lift, everything was coming back.
The cabin was smaller than I remembered.
Or maybe it was just my breathing.
Tighter.
I didn’t look at him.
He didn’t look at me.
The numbers kept ticking.
4… 5… 6…
My blouse was still soaked.
My chest still sticking under the fabric.
But now my skin was hot for a different reason.
Not anger.
Not heat.
Just memory.
Alive again.
The lift stopped with a final jerk.
Floor 12.
Prakash stepped out first. I followed.
Just a few feet ahead, the terrace gate stood like a metal spine—tall, black, chained from the inside. The sunlight beyond it was sharper, hotter. It poured in through the narrow grills like white knives on the floor tiles.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out the key again, and unlocked the gate with a familiar click.
Then stepped through.
I was right behind him, wiping sweat from my forehead with the same towel that had been sitting across my shoulder for the last hour.
I hadn’t said anything.
Until I heard the click again.
He had locked the gate from inside.
I turned sharply.
“What are you locking it for?”
He glanced back casually, still walking forward.
“Madam, association rule. Kids sometimes come up without permission and run around. They said always lock—either from inside or outside. So no one gets in.”
I looked at the gate again.
Steel. Strong. Thick lock.
Nobody could open it without the key now.
And the key was in his pocket.
I nodded, without speaking.
He didn’t wait.
Just walked ahead toward the far end of the terrace.
I followed him, a little slower, adjusting my blouse once near the shoulder.
The wind on the terrace hit different.
Stronger. Drier.
It lifted my pallu slightly. I pressed it down against my stomach.
We passed a few scattered pipes, an old rusted grill, and some coils of cable lying twisted in the corner like dead snakes.
The tank for my floor was just ahead.
Not one soul on the terrace.
No voices. No children. No aunties drying clothes.
Only sun, wind, and open sky.
The kind of silence that hums in your ears after a few seconds.
I turned my head and looked around.
From the 13th floor—technically the rooftop above the 12th floor—I could see everything.
The dusty main road.
The fields behind the layout.
A few scooters parked far below looked like matchboxes.
And the world… looked tiny.
Too tiny to notice what happens up here.
No one could hear a thing.
No one could see anything either.
Not from balconies.
Not from windows.
Not even from the other block.
And the gate behind us?
Locked.
No one could come in without the key.
I looked back at Prakash.
He had already reached the tank.
I walked forward—slowly.
Still wiping my chest with the towel, trying to ignore how tight my blouse felt across my back.
The sweat hadn’t stopped.
And neither had my thoughts.
The tank stood tall at the edge of the terrace. Dull grey, with rust lines near the edges, and water stains down the side like an old tear trail.
Prakash walked up to it in his full security uniform. Faded navy blue shirt tucked into matching pants, with that cheap synthetic belt hanging slightly loose around his waist. His back was sweaty. I could see the damp patches even from behind.
He reached the base of the tank and stepped up onto the small built-in ladder—just four or five narrow iron steps fixed into the side.
I followed, standing behind him, not too close—just a foot away. Close enough to see everything, far enough not to make it awkward.
As he climbed, his body shifted slightly with each step.
His backside—thick, broad, barely contained by the stretched fabric of his uniform pants—moved as he ascended. The waistband of his underwear was faintly visible above the pants. The cloth between his thighs looked too tight. Like it hadn’t been washed properly. Maybe not even today.
I stood behind, sweating inside my blouse, wiping my forehead with the towel. My thoughts were not clean, but not dirty either. Just restless.
He reached the top, stood on the narrow ledge near the tank mouth, and leaned over. The metal lid was already half open, pushed to the side.
He bent forward and looked inside.
“Blocked, madam,” he said, without turning. “Some plastic—bag or cover. Stuck in the inlet.”
I stared up.
Blocked?
That’s it?
That’s what’s making me stand like this, half bathed, sweating, with dust on my skin and soap on my back?
I raised my voice. “So this is what I’m bathing with? What I’m drinking? Plastic garbage?”
“No madam… sorry madam. Someone must’ve thrown from terrace side or it flew in…”
“Don’t give me stories,” I snapped. “Is this how you maintain it? You people sit near gate, scratch balls, and here we are drinking plastic soup?”
He kept quiet, still bent forward.
Then I saw his hand go in.
He reached in, pinched something, pulled out a piece—looked like part of a biscuit packet or some torn shopping bag.
He dropped it to the side of the tank.
Reached in again.
Pulled more.
But during the third attempt, a piece slipped from his hand and fell inside.
He turned slightly. “Some fell in…”
I was already shaking my head.
“Take it out.”
“Madam, already cleared most—”
“I said, take it out. Even that one piece. If it stays in, it’ll get stuck in outlet, or stink later. Get inside and clean it completely.”
He turned his head. Slight hesitation in his eyes.
I didn’t blink.
“You want me to report it to the association? Then go explain why I’m drinking plastic?”
He nodded slowly.
Turned fully toward the tank again.
Began unbuttoning the top two buttons of his uniform shirt.
And I stood there, a foot away from the tank, arms folded across my sticky chest, watching him prepare to go inside. Still fuming. Still sweating. And still… aware.
I stood still, arms folded, watching as Prakash unbuttoned the top of his shirt.
One.
Then two.
His fingers were slow, unsure.
My eyebrows narrowed immediately.
“Why are you undressing?” I asked sharply.
He paused, looked back at me with half a face of confusion, half hesitation.
“Mam… I thought—it’ll get wet inside—”
“So what? Someone might come. What if someone sees you half-naked inside the tank?”
He opened his mouth to respond, but didn’t speak.
Just turned his head toward the locked terrace gate and said softly, “Nobody can come, madam… It’s locked.”
The words didn’t sit right.
I took a step forward. My foot landed just beside a small puddle of water near the tank base.
“So that’s why you locked it? So no one can come?” I asked, voice sharper now.
He didn’t answer.
Just looked away.
That was enough.
“Wear your full dress and get in.” I snapped. “Don’t try anything.”
“Yes, madam.” His voice was quick, lowered.
He buttoned back the top, then turned and slowly stepped onto the tank’s edge.
In one awkward movement, he lifted his leg and jumped inside the tank—clothes and all.
The splash was soft.
Inside, water came up just above his thighs. The fabric of his pants clung to his legs. His shirt started sticking across his chest. He bent forward and pulled out the remaining pieces of plastic—one black wrapper, a crumpled yellow cover, and something that looked like wet paper.
He turned and handed them up to me.
I stretched my hand down and took them, using just two fingers. Sticky. Slimy.
I dropped them into a small plastic bag beside me and wiped my fingers on the edge of my pallu.
“Is the tank clean now?” I asked, still standing at the ledge.
He looked up, brushing hair away from his forehead. His shirt had begun sticking completely now. His body was soaked, and water rippled around his knees.
“Yes, madam. Clean.”
I wasn’t satisfied.
I stepped forward. Climbed up on the small ledge beside the tank and looked in.
He was standing inside, shirt floating slightly at the waist, eyes down. The water was not very deep.
I looked around inside the tank.
Walls were not fully clean.
Black patches.
Dark green streaks in some corners. Faint rings where water had stood still.
“Are you blind?” I asked. “There are marks. Look at that corner. That’s algae.”
He turned and looked where I pointed.
“Oh… yes madam.”
“Is this what we are drinking?”
“No madam. It’s common. All tanks will have like that…”
“Clean it.”
He looked up again. “Do you have any cloth, madam?”
“Do you have any cloth, madam?” he asked again, eyes blinking up from inside the tank.
I stared at him.
Then narrowed my eyes.
“What do you want me to do? Remove my saree and throw it down to you?”
I said it flat.
No smile. No laugh.
His face froze.
For a second, he didn’t even breathe.
His hands gripped the tank wall, still dripping water.
I didn’t wait.
“Remove your shirt and clean with that.”
He looked at me with hesitation.
“Madam… it’ll get wet…”
“So?” I cut him off. “You’re already inside. What are you trying to save? Prestige?”
He didn’t argue.
Just nodded once.
And slowly began unbuttoning his uniform shirt.
One.
Two.
Three.
All the way.
The fabric peeled off his soaked body.
And I saw him properly.
Dark skinned.
Not gym-built.
But a hardworking body. The kind you don’t get in AC rooms or health clubs.
Broad shoulders with dust marks. A chest that was flat but not tight. Muscles shaped by labour, not protein shakes.
And a small belly.
Soft curve below his ribs. Something I hadn’t seen earlier through his shirt.
It jiggled slightly as he moved.
He pulled the shirt off completely and squeezed it once near the tank edge.
Water dripped off the cloth like old sweat.
Then he began cleaning.
Bending forward, scrubbing with the shirt. Using the edge of the wet cotton like a mop, rubbing it across the green-black lines running along the tank walls.
His back bent. Muscles shifting.
The sun was beating down from above. It made the water shimmer.
I stood above, watching him.
Not blinking.
Then I said it.
Calmly. Like it was nothing.
“Remove your pants too. Clean better.”
He stopped.
Looked up.
Didn’t ask “why.”
Didn’t say “no.”
Just understood.
He turned around.
Unzipped.
The sound was soft but loud in that silent terrace.
He pushed the pants down, past his hips, down his thighs, and stepped out.
Now he stood in the tank, in water, wearing only his dark inner brief.
It was old.
Clinging to his thighs. Slightly stretched. And wet from thigh to waistband.
His legs were strong. Hairy. His belly was now more visible—soft but round, pushing forward slightly.
I didn’t speak.
Just watched.
He bent again and continued cleaning.
And then—
Without thinking, without even deciding—
I sat.
Not on the ground.
But right on the tank edge.
I lifted my right leg and placed it inside the tank opening.
Then the left.
I was sitting now, both legs inside.
My saree folded behind me.
My knees bent forward, feet dipped just into the edge water inside.
He could see my knees.
Through the gap in the saree, the skin under the folds, the slight shine of sweat on my legs.
I didn’t pull the saree down.
Let him see.
Let him look.
Let him pretend he’s not.
But let it stay.
Because I was tired of pretending too.
No alarm.
No college bag packing.
No dosa batter rush.
Just the soft, lazy hum of the ceiling fan and sunlight cutting through the curtain slit onto the sofa.
Kartik was inside his room—typing something. His door half-closed. No sounds from him except the occasional mouse click.
Arjun had left early. Said he had to go check a few rentals.
Took his bag, one water bottle, and disappeared.
The house felt mine again.
I was in my old saree. Pallu tucked tight. Hair rolled in a bun. Cleaning cloth still in my hand.
After mopping the hall, I grabbed the garbage bag and tied it tightly. Vegetable skin smell. Tissue. Milk packet corners. All packed.
I slipped into my slippers and walked out.
The corridor was quiet.
And the lift light was on.
My eyebrows raised automatically.
Working?
That filthy Prakash fellow had actually kept his word?
For once?
I stepped into the lift. Pressed G. Leaned slightly against the metal bar.
The walls still had fingerprints.
But the ride was smooth.
Too smooth.
No shaking.
No stopping.
The memory came instantly.
His hands under my knees.
That grip on my hip.
That lift ride, in his arms.
Sweat. Skin. Smell.
I looked down and cursed inside.
“Pavi. Please.”
Reached ground floor. Walked out quickly. Tossed the bag in the common bin and wiped my hand with tissue.
The smell of morning sun mixed with yesterday's heat.
A few aunties drying clothes on their balcony. One boy watering the roadside plant.
I turned, came back, and entered the lift again.
Door closed.
Breathed out.
No Prakash. No drama.
Good.
The lift stopped on 7 with a soft ding.
I stepped out, fixing the pallu corner.
And just before I could unlock my flat—
I saw her.
Anusha.
She stepped out of her 1BHK flat, locking the door behind her.
I paused.
Her dress was nothing dramatic—just a light baby pink kurti, smooth and flowing, with black leggings that hugged her thighs properly.
No dupatta.
Just a small leather side-sling bag on her shoulder.
Hair open.
Straight. Brushed neatly. Fresh blow-dry maybe.
The moment she turned and saw me—she smiled instantly.
“Good morning, akka.”
I smiled. “Morning, Anusha.”
We stood there in the corridor.
Sunlight from the window at the corner was hitting the floor between us.
“I was just heading out,” she said, adjusting her bag.
“Parlour?” I asked, cocking one eyebrow playfully.
She laughed lightly, brushing her hair back with one hand. “Yes. Eyebrows. Little haircut. Just touch-up.”
“Self-care,” I said. “Nice. I’ve not gone in months.”
“You don’t need,” she said with a small wink. “Some people just look fresh.”
I laughed softly.
But I felt a small flutter inside.
I watched her more closely.
Her body was slender—but not thin.
That young fullness that stays even without workout.
The kurti didn’t hide much—the soft curve of her waist, the sharp drop of her hip, the way the leggings drew a neat line along her thighs down to her calves.
Even her feet—painted nails, flat sandals.
Everything looked sorted. Modern. Confident.
We spoke for a few minutes.
About lift problems.
Power backup timing.
Parlour stories.
Her bank shifts.
She even asked about the kids.
“So quiet here now,” she said.
I nodded. “They went to hometown yesterday. With my father.”
She smiled. “Peaceful break?”
I chuckled. “Temporary.”
She glanced at her watch and said, “I should rush…”
Then I realised.
We were still standing in the corridor like colony gossip aunties.
“Oh! Sorry! Come in. At least drink water.”
She hesitated.
“I’ll be late…”
“Just one glass. Two minutes.”
She smiled. “Okay, akka.”
She stepped in behind me.
Her scent brushed past—something mild, maybe peach or rose body mist.
I noticed how she walked inside confidently.
No awkwardness.
Looked around once. Took everything in.
I walked to the kitchen and poured water.
She stood near the sofa and sipped slowly.
“This flat is big,” she said. “You’ve arranged everything nicely.”
“Thank you,” I said.
Her eyes scanned the shelf, the pooja corner, the cushion covers.
Simple. But clean.
She drank the water in two gulps.
“Thanks, akka.”
“You can call me Pavitra.”
She paused.
Then smiled. “Okay. Pavitra.”
That moment.
Something soft lingered.
Her voice saying my name.
Her eyes meeting mine.
No awkwardness. No discomfort.
But no extra smile either.
She walked to the sink, placed the glass herself.
I liked that.
Then adjusted her kurti hem and said, “Okay, I’ll run. Parlour lady will kill me.”
I nodded. “Come whenever.”
She turned and walked to the door.
I followed her slowly.
She stepped into her sandals.
And walked.
I stood at the door and watched.
Her back was straight.
Her hips moved gently under the kurti.
Not exaggerated. Not shy.
Just natural.
Her legs curved in the leggings like they were stitched for her.
She reached the lift.
Pressed the button.
Waited.
Her face was calm. Not rushed.
Not shy that I was watching.
Then the door opened.
She stepped in.
Lift closed.
Gone.
I stood there.
Hand still on the edge of the door.
The breeze from the corridor touched my blouse sleeve.
I exhaled.
These girls…
They don’t hesitate.
They don’t overthink.
And yet… they carry more depth than we imagine.
I stepped in.
Closed the door.
And locked it.
The house was quiet again, but not peaceful. Just... still. The kind of stillness that feels like it’s waiting to burst.
Kartik had returned to his usual posture—half involvement, half detachment. He was scrolling something on his phone as I served breakfast.
The upma had already gone a little dry, but he didn’t comment. Not a complaint, not a compliment. He just sat down and started eating, one hand still holding the phone.
I sat across him, serving myself with the steel spoon, the handle slightly bent. We ate without much talk. Just the sound of the ceiling fan above and our spoons tapping the plates. I was chewing, but my thoughts were already wandering—to the laundry, the half-mopped bedroom, and my sticky blouse.
After he finished, Kartik wiped his hands, got up, said, “I have a call now,” and walked off.
Click.
He locked the bedroom door behind him.
Just like that.
No second look, no “thanks,” no “do you need help with anything?”
Gone.
I looked at my plate. The upma was still warm. I finished it slowly, scbanging up the last bits with the spoon, chewing without tasting.
My whole body was already itching with sweat. The saree I had worn since morning had become heavy, dull, and damp with heat. I could feel the neckline of the blouse sticking near my shoulder blades. My petticoat was tight across my waist, and the fabric had bunched near my knees while sitting.
I needed a bath.
Badly.
After rinsing the plate and drying my hands, I walked into the bathroom. The main one near the hall.
The tube light was already on from earlier. The water tap was silent. I turned it open, and a narrow stream began to fill the plastic bucket.
Relief. I let out a quiet breath.
I pulled the pallu over my shoulder and began unwrapping the saree. It didn’t slide like usual. It stuck in places. The edge of the petticoat had rubbed against my thighs, leaving marks I could feel without even seeing.
Blouse off.
Petticoat untied.
Now only in my panty, I leaned down and touched the water.
Still cold. Still flowing.
I tied my hair up, tucked the end into the coil, and stood beside the bucket. The mirror on the wall was foggy with age, but I saw myself.
Bare skin. Drops of sweat still on my collarbone. A thin line of dust near my ankle where the saree had dragged on the floor.
Just as I leaned to test the water again—
It stopped.
The pipe gave a soft cough and died.
I turned the knob back and forth. Nothing.
Tried the shower tap.
Not a sound.
The entire bathroom went still. Just like that.
My breath got caught.
I looked into the bucket. It wasn’t even half full.
Not enough.
My towel was hanging on the hook. I grabbed it and tried to wipe the sweat down. Chest. Underarms. Inner thighs. Rushed wipes, dry hands. Still didn’t feel clean.
And I couldn't stay like that. Not in just a panty.
So I reached for the same clothes I had just removed.
No choice.
I wore them again.
Not like a woman dressing for comfort.
Not like someone going to meet a guest.
But like someone who was defeated.
First, I pulled the petticoat on. It felt heavier, more wrinkled. I tied it quickly, didn’t check the knot.
Next, the blouse. I hooked it without adjusting. The neckline sat wrong, slightly twisted. I didn’t fix it.
Then the saree.
No pleats.
No smooth tuck.
Just grabbed it, wrapped it around, tucked it at the side.
Pallu was thrown over the shoulder. Didn’t even look in the mirror.
I felt like a labour woman. Not the classy kind of tired. Just… burnt out. The kind of woman people don’t look at twice.
I stepped out.
The hall was silent. I walked to the bedroom door.
Kartik was inside.
The faint sound of his voice came through—his “professional” tone.
I knocked once and pushed the door halfway open.
He turned, headphones on, eyebrows raised like I was interrupting something major.
I didn’t speak. Just used my hand.
Pointed at the floor. Then rotated my fingers like water running. And then made a circle with my fingers and tapped the wrist—association.
He understood.
He gestured: “I’m in a call.”
Then added in whisper, “I can’t come for one hour. You check.”
He turned back to the laptop.
I stared at his back for two seconds.
Then shut the door quietly.
Inside my mind, I cursed.
You can’t pause your call for two minutes? Can't lift a phone and ask?
I picked up my phone and tried calling the association number.
Ringing.
No answer.
Tried again. Again.
Switched to the WhatsApp group. Typed “No water in flat 703. Anyone else?” and sent it.
No replies.
Typical.
I looked down.
My blouse was already showing the wet patches from underarm sweat. The petticoat string had slipped slightly. I didn’t care.
I pulled a small cotton towel from the clothesline, threw it across my shoulder, and tightened the saree’s tuck with one quick tug.
Didn’t comb hair.
Didn’t recheck appearance.
Just walked to the door.
Opened it.
The heat outside punched my face.
I stepped out.
Lift light was on.
I pressed the button, my finger slightly trembling.
I was going to the security gate myself.
And if that Prakash fellow looked at me sideways, even once…
I wouldn’t be responsible for what I’d say.
The lift opened with a dry click.
The corridor on the ground floor was hot, the kind that sticks to your face like smoke from a roadside idli stall. I stepped out with my towel still across my shoulder, my saree still creased and uneven, and my mind burning hotter than my skin.
I didn’t even wait a second. Walked straight past the pillars and toward the security gate.
But—
No one.
Chair was there. Fan running. The newspaper was half open on the table. But the seat was empty.
“Where the hell…”
I stood still, turned left and right.
Nothing.
Not even a slipper sound from the corner bathroom.
I pulled out my phone and opened the security number saved from the association group.
Dialled.
It rang once. Twice.
No answer.
Third time.
Still ringing.
I cut the call and let out a curse under my breath.
That filthy bastard. Sitting here like a king the whole day, and when we need him, gone without a trace.
I was about to turn and go back—
When I saw him.
Prakash.
Standing near the diesel generator corner, halfway behind the wall. Talking to another man. Laughing about something.
He didn’t see me yet.
I didn’t wait.
I raised my voice just enough.
“Oye! Security!”
His head jerked.
He saw me.
His whole body changed. Like some stray dog spotting a biscuit in a god’s hand.
He started jogging—almost running—toward me.
Straightening his shirt while running.
His hand came up to adjust his waistband.
I stood still, watching him approach.
Inside, I smirked once.
That reaction.
Like a dog seeing his owner after a full day of hunger.
Even the man he was talking to turned, confused. Watching this grown man suddenly run mid-conversation toward a saree-clad woman.
I didn’t care what that man thought.
My eyes were on Prakash.
He reached me, panting a little.
“Madam, madam, I’m here,” he said, stopping just two steps away, standing straight.
I didn’t wait.
“Where the hell were you?”
He blinked.
“Uh… generator, madam. I was checking—”
“You have a chair there, you have a table there. You have a phone. I called you just now. Didn’t even pick up?”
“No madam, I didn’t hear—”
“Don’t lie to me.”
My voice was low but sharp.
“That’s your number, right?” I held up my phone.
He looked and nodded, head down.
“Sorry, madam…”
“Duty means sitting on that chair. Not gossiping near the wall. Understand?”
“Yes madam.”
“I had to come all the way down, in this heat, can’t even bath properly, because you’re not doing your job.”
He was sweating now.
Whether from heat or shame, I didn’t care.
He kept nodding. “Very sorry, madam. Won’t happen again.”
I folded my arms.
Looked him from head to toe.
His shirt was already half untucked. One slipper was loose. And I could smell a faint mix of talcum and yesterday’s sweat.
I didn’t say anything more.
Just stood, letting the silence sit on his head like a weight.
I didn’t wait for him to explain.
“Not a drop of water is coming,” I snapped, wiping the sweat from my forehead with the edge of my loose pallu.
Prakash stood silent, eyes confused. His hands were still half-raised from the awkward run he did toward me, breath slightly heavy.
“Morning I filled and checked, madam… all tanks were okay…” he said cautiously.
I gave a sharp look.
“Are you trying to say I’m lying?”
“No madam,” he said immediately, head shaking. “Not at all.”
I stared at him, hard.
He looked down. Took out his phone.
Without asking or giving excuses, he dialled someone. I could hear his voice change into that desperate tone men use when they know they’re seconds from getting slapped.
“Raju… come to gate. Now. Water complaint.”
He cut the call.
Then turned, pulled open the drawer below his desk, and picked up a single long key.
“I’ll go check, madam. Must see on terrace.”
I was still burning. Not just with sweat.
I didn’t even think before speaking.
“I’ll also come.”
He turned back, surprised. But said nothing.
Just nodded slightly.
I followed him.
We walked together, side by side.
My blouse had already surrendered to the heat—it was clinging tight under my arms, completely soaked at the back. My petticoat knot had slipped once earlier, and the cotton saree was hanging lazily across my chest.
No pin. No tightness.
I wasn’t walking like a lady.
Just walking.
We reached the lift. He pressed the button.
The small red light flicked on.
The hum inside grew louder.
I stood behind him, my arms folded under my pallu, holding the wet fold against my chest.
The door opened.
He stepped in.
I stepped in behind him.
He pressed 12—the topmost floor.
The door closed.
The moment the lift jerked upward, I felt something shift in me.
Not outside.
Inside.
The silence of the lift. The metallic warmth of the walls. The sound of the floor counter beeping.
It all triggered something.
Something I had locked up.
But now it came back.
That morning.
The power cut.
Pitch darkness.
Me, wearing only a petticoat.
That sharp jerk when the lift stopped.
I had lost my balance.
And fallen.
On him.
Topless.
And he…
He was nude.
I didn’t know it then. But when I fell forward, I felt it.
His cock.
Warm. Long. Wet with sweat.
It hit my chin directly.
My breath caught even now, remembering it.
I had jumped back, shocked, ashamed, humiliated.
He didn’t even touch me.
Not with his hands.
But that moment—
His cock on my skin.
My chin.
My lips just inches below.
The smell.
The sweat.
The rawness.
It had burned me from the inside that night.
And now, inside this same lift, everything was coming back.
The cabin was smaller than I remembered.
Or maybe it was just my breathing.
Tighter.
I didn’t look at him.
He didn’t look at me.
The numbers kept ticking.
4… 5… 6…
My blouse was still soaked.
My chest still sticking under the fabric.
But now my skin was hot for a different reason.
Not anger.
Not heat.
Just memory.
Alive again.
The lift stopped with a final jerk.
Floor 12.
Prakash stepped out first. I followed.
Just a few feet ahead, the terrace gate stood like a metal spine—tall, black, chained from the inside. The sunlight beyond it was sharper, hotter. It poured in through the narrow grills like white knives on the floor tiles.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out the key again, and unlocked the gate with a familiar click.
Then stepped through.
I was right behind him, wiping sweat from my forehead with the same towel that had been sitting across my shoulder for the last hour.
I hadn’t said anything.
Until I heard the click again.
He had locked the gate from inside.
I turned sharply.
“What are you locking it for?”
He glanced back casually, still walking forward.
“Madam, association rule. Kids sometimes come up without permission and run around. They said always lock—either from inside or outside. So no one gets in.”
I looked at the gate again.
Steel. Strong. Thick lock.
Nobody could open it without the key now.
And the key was in his pocket.
I nodded, without speaking.
He didn’t wait.
Just walked ahead toward the far end of the terrace.
I followed him, a little slower, adjusting my blouse once near the shoulder.
The wind on the terrace hit different.
Stronger. Drier.
It lifted my pallu slightly. I pressed it down against my stomach.
We passed a few scattered pipes, an old rusted grill, and some coils of cable lying twisted in the corner like dead snakes.
The tank for my floor was just ahead.
Not one soul on the terrace.
No voices. No children. No aunties drying clothes.
Only sun, wind, and open sky.
The kind of silence that hums in your ears after a few seconds.
I turned my head and looked around.
From the 13th floor—technically the rooftop above the 12th floor—I could see everything.
The dusty main road.
The fields behind the layout.
A few scooters parked far below looked like matchboxes.
And the world… looked tiny.
Too tiny to notice what happens up here.
No one could hear a thing.
No one could see anything either.
Not from balconies.
Not from windows.
Not even from the other block.
And the gate behind us?
Locked.
No one could come in without the key.
I looked back at Prakash.
He had already reached the tank.
I walked forward—slowly.
Still wiping my chest with the towel, trying to ignore how tight my blouse felt across my back.
The sweat hadn’t stopped.
And neither had my thoughts.
The tank stood tall at the edge of the terrace. Dull grey, with rust lines near the edges, and water stains down the side like an old tear trail.
Prakash walked up to it in his full security uniform. Faded navy blue shirt tucked into matching pants, with that cheap synthetic belt hanging slightly loose around his waist. His back was sweaty. I could see the damp patches even from behind.
He reached the base of the tank and stepped up onto the small built-in ladder—just four or five narrow iron steps fixed into the side.
I followed, standing behind him, not too close—just a foot away. Close enough to see everything, far enough not to make it awkward.
As he climbed, his body shifted slightly with each step.
His backside—thick, broad, barely contained by the stretched fabric of his uniform pants—moved as he ascended. The waistband of his underwear was faintly visible above the pants. The cloth between his thighs looked too tight. Like it hadn’t been washed properly. Maybe not even today.
I stood behind, sweating inside my blouse, wiping my forehead with the towel. My thoughts were not clean, but not dirty either. Just restless.
He reached the top, stood on the narrow ledge near the tank mouth, and leaned over. The metal lid was already half open, pushed to the side.
He bent forward and looked inside.
“Blocked, madam,” he said, without turning. “Some plastic—bag or cover. Stuck in the inlet.”
I stared up.
Blocked?
That’s it?
That’s what’s making me stand like this, half bathed, sweating, with dust on my skin and soap on my back?
I raised my voice. “So this is what I’m bathing with? What I’m drinking? Plastic garbage?”
“No madam… sorry madam. Someone must’ve thrown from terrace side or it flew in…”
“Don’t give me stories,” I snapped. “Is this how you maintain it? You people sit near gate, scratch balls, and here we are drinking plastic soup?”
He kept quiet, still bent forward.
Then I saw his hand go in.
He reached in, pinched something, pulled out a piece—looked like part of a biscuit packet or some torn shopping bag.
He dropped it to the side of the tank.
Reached in again.
Pulled more.
But during the third attempt, a piece slipped from his hand and fell inside.
He turned slightly. “Some fell in…”
I was already shaking my head.
“Take it out.”
“Madam, already cleared most—”
“I said, take it out. Even that one piece. If it stays in, it’ll get stuck in outlet, or stink later. Get inside and clean it completely.”
He turned his head. Slight hesitation in his eyes.
I didn’t blink.
“You want me to report it to the association? Then go explain why I’m drinking plastic?”
He nodded slowly.
Turned fully toward the tank again.
Began unbuttoning the top two buttons of his uniform shirt.
And I stood there, a foot away from the tank, arms folded across my sticky chest, watching him prepare to go inside. Still fuming. Still sweating. And still… aware.
I stood still, arms folded, watching as Prakash unbuttoned the top of his shirt.
One.
Then two.
His fingers were slow, unsure.
My eyebrows narrowed immediately.
“Why are you undressing?” I asked sharply.
He paused, looked back at me with half a face of confusion, half hesitation.
“Mam… I thought—it’ll get wet inside—”
“So what? Someone might come. What if someone sees you half-naked inside the tank?”
He opened his mouth to respond, but didn’t speak.
Just turned his head toward the locked terrace gate and said softly, “Nobody can come, madam… It’s locked.”
The words didn’t sit right.
I took a step forward. My foot landed just beside a small puddle of water near the tank base.
“So that’s why you locked it? So no one can come?” I asked, voice sharper now.
He didn’t answer.
Just looked away.
That was enough.
“Wear your full dress and get in.” I snapped. “Don’t try anything.”
“Yes, madam.” His voice was quick, lowered.
He buttoned back the top, then turned and slowly stepped onto the tank’s edge.
In one awkward movement, he lifted his leg and jumped inside the tank—clothes and all.
The splash was soft.
Inside, water came up just above his thighs. The fabric of his pants clung to his legs. His shirt started sticking across his chest. He bent forward and pulled out the remaining pieces of plastic—one black wrapper, a crumpled yellow cover, and something that looked like wet paper.
He turned and handed them up to me.
I stretched my hand down and took them, using just two fingers. Sticky. Slimy.
I dropped them into a small plastic bag beside me and wiped my fingers on the edge of my pallu.
“Is the tank clean now?” I asked, still standing at the ledge.
He looked up, brushing hair away from his forehead. His shirt had begun sticking completely now. His body was soaked, and water rippled around his knees.
“Yes, madam. Clean.”
I wasn’t satisfied.
I stepped forward. Climbed up on the small ledge beside the tank and looked in.
He was standing inside, shirt floating slightly at the waist, eyes down. The water was not very deep.
I looked around inside the tank.
Walls were not fully clean.
Black patches.
Dark green streaks in some corners. Faint rings where water had stood still.
“Are you blind?” I asked. “There are marks. Look at that corner. That’s algae.”
He turned and looked where I pointed.
“Oh… yes madam.”
“Is this what we are drinking?”
“No madam. It’s common. All tanks will have like that…”
“Clean it.”
He looked up again. “Do you have any cloth, madam?”
“Do you have any cloth, madam?” he asked again, eyes blinking up from inside the tank.
I stared at him.
Then narrowed my eyes.
“What do you want me to do? Remove my saree and throw it down to you?”
I said it flat.
No smile. No laugh.
His face froze.
For a second, he didn’t even breathe.
His hands gripped the tank wall, still dripping water.
I didn’t wait.
“Remove your shirt and clean with that.”
He looked at me with hesitation.
“Madam… it’ll get wet…”
“So?” I cut him off. “You’re already inside. What are you trying to save? Prestige?”
He didn’t argue.
Just nodded once.
And slowly began unbuttoning his uniform shirt.
One.
Two.
Three.
All the way.
The fabric peeled off his soaked body.
And I saw him properly.
Dark skinned.
Not gym-built.
But a hardworking body. The kind you don’t get in AC rooms or health clubs.
Broad shoulders with dust marks. A chest that was flat but not tight. Muscles shaped by labour, not protein shakes.
And a small belly.
Soft curve below his ribs. Something I hadn’t seen earlier through his shirt.
It jiggled slightly as he moved.
He pulled the shirt off completely and squeezed it once near the tank edge.
Water dripped off the cloth like old sweat.
Then he began cleaning.
Bending forward, scrubbing with the shirt. Using the edge of the wet cotton like a mop, rubbing it across the green-black lines running along the tank walls.
His back bent. Muscles shifting.
The sun was beating down from above. It made the water shimmer.
I stood above, watching him.
Not blinking.
Then I said it.
Calmly. Like it was nothing.
“Remove your pants too. Clean better.”
He stopped.
Looked up.
Didn’t ask “why.”
Didn’t say “no.”
Just understood.
He turned around.
Unzipped.
The sound was soft but loud in that silent terrace.
He pushed the pants down, past his hips, down his thighs, and stepped out.
Now he stood in the tank, in water, wearing only his dark inner brief.
It was old.
Clinging to his thighs. Slightly stretched. And wet from thigh to waistband.
His legs were strong. Hairy. His belly was now more visible—soft but round, pushing forward slightly.
I didn’t speak.
Just watched.
He bent again and continued cleaning.
And then—
Without thinking, without even deciding—
I sat.
Not on the ground.
But right on the tank edge.
I lifted my right leg and placed it inside the tank opening.
Then the left.
I was sitting now, both legs inside.
My saree folded behind me.
My knees bent forward, feet dipped just into the edge water inside.
He could see my knees.
Through the gap in the saree, the skin under the folds, the slight shine of sweat on my legs.
I didn’t pull the saree down.
Let him see.
Let him look.
Let him pretend he’s not.
But let it stay.
Because I was tired of pretending too.
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