19-06-2025, 05:57 PM
The morning air in the staff room felt thick with conspiracy, clinging to Sarada's skin like the damp of monsoon. She checked her phone for the third time in as many minutes, Pathan's message burning into her retinas with each glance: "8:30. Back gate. Come alone." Her fingers trembled as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, the weight of yesterday's confrontation still pressing down on her shoulders like wet concrete, hardening into something permanent and inescapable.
She slipped out through the service entrance, where the groundskeeper's tools leaned against the wall like tired sentinels. The back gate was little more than a rusted afterthought in the compound wall, partially hidden by an overgrowth of bougainvillea whose thorns had torn at the sleeves of a generation of smokers seeking privacy. Pathan was already there, one shoulder pressed against the wall, scrolling through his phone with practiced indifference.
"You're late," he said without looking up. The screen's blue glow painted his face in sickly light, hollowing his cheeks and hardening the angles of his jaw.
"I had to sign the attendance register." Sarada's voice was pitched low, defensive. She adjusted her dupatta, pulling it tighter across her chest as if it might shield her from what was coming. "What more do you want? I agreed to help you already."
Pathan finally looked up, his eyes dark and flat as river stones. "We want to see Devika's navel. Today."
Sarada blinked, the absurdity of the request momentarily eclipsing her fear. "Her what?"
"Don't play dumb," Pathan said, sliding his phone into his pocket. "Her navel. The south Indian women, they have a thing about it, right? Always hiding it. Makes a man curious." His smile was slow, practiced. "We want to see it. And you're going to make it happen."
"This is ridiculous," Sarada hissed. "You can't possibly—"
"I can." Pathan's hand shot out, gripping her wrist. Not hard enough to bruise, just enough to remind her who had the power. "Remember your little library friend? Remember his hand on yours? Remember how easily I could destroy you?"
The air between them seemed to thin. Sarada looked down at his fingers encircling her wrist, then back up at his face. His expression hadn't changed, but something in his eyes had—a flicker of something almost hungry.
"How am I supposed to make her show her navel?" Sarada's voice cracked slightly. "She's not going to just—she's conservative, traditional. She barely shows her ankles."
"That's your problem," Pathan said, releasing her wrist. "Be creative. Spill something on her. Create a situation where she has to adjust her saree. I don't care how, but it needs to happen today. In the third period. Biology 101."
"And if I can't?"
Pathan's smile widened. "Then you'll find out exactly how fast rumors travel in this college. And how eager the principal is to maintain our institution's... moral standards."
Sarada rubbed her wrist, feeling the ghost of his grip. "Fine," she whispered. "I'll try."
"Don't try. Do it." He leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear. "And remember, we'll be watching. So make it good."
He pushed off from the wall and walked away, leaving her alone with the bougainvillea and the heavy knowledge that she had sunk even lower than she thought possible.
***
The staff room was empty when Sarada returned, save for a junior lecturer dozing behind yesterday's newspaper. She sank into her chair, mind racing. How does one engineer the exposure of another woman's body? The thought made her sick, a greasy nausea coating her tongue.
She pulled out her day planner, flipping through it as if the answer might be hidden in its pages. She and Devika had adjacent free periods before the third class. Usually, they took tea together in the staff room—a ritual of small talk and professional commiseration that had become one of the few bright spots in Sarada's increasingly compromised days.
The water dispenser sat in the corner, its plastic belly half-full. Sarada stared at it, an idea forming. It wasn't elegant, but it might work—a simple accident, a moment of clumsiness, and then an offer of help that would solve one problem while creating another.
The shame of it burned in her chest, but when she thought of the alternative—the photo, the whispers, the inevitable meeting with the principal—she steeled herself. Better Devika's minor embarrassment than her own complete ruin.
She practiced her apology in her head, over and over, until the words lost all meaning.
**
At eleven-thirty, Devika swept into the staff room, a stack of lab reports balanced in the crook of her arm. Her maroon saree—the one with the thin gold border that caught the light at just the right angle—was dbangd with her usual precision: pleats falling in perfect accordion lines, pallu elegantly covering her torso, the border a sharp edge against the dark fabric.
"These first-years will be the death of me," she said by way of greeting, setting the reports down with a sigh. "One of them labeled the diagram of a paramecium as 'the thing with the hair.'"
Sarada managed a laugh, though it felt hollowed out. "Welcome to Satara. Where education comes to die a slow death."
Devika smiled, the kind of smile that started in her eyes and worked its way down. "At least they're trying. That's more than I can say for some of the other classes."
"Vishnu and Pathan's batch?" Sarada asked, carefully casual.
A shadow crossed Devika's face. "Among others. Though those two..." She shook her head. "There's something about the way they look at me. Like I'm a specimen under their microscope."
The irony wasn't lost on Sarada. She looked away, unable to meet Devika's eyes. "Men always look. It's what they do."
"I suppose." Devika moved to the cupboard, retrieving her mug—a chipped ceramic thing with "World's Best Teacher" printed on it, a gift from her Chennai students. "Tea?"
"Please." Sarada watched as Devika filled the electric kettle, her movements precise and economical. Now was the moment—a simple brush past, a stumble, an "accidental" collision—but something in her hesitated.
Devika looked up, catching her stare. "Are you alright? You seem... distracted."
"Just tired," Sarada lied. She stood, crossing to the water dispenser. "Let me get some water while we wait for the kettle."
She filled a cup slowly, watching Devika out of the corner of her eye. The younger woman was arranging tea bags, her back half-turned. Sarada took a deep breath, steeled herself, and started back toward the table, deliberately taking a path that would bring her close to Devika.
The collision was awkward, a half-step too calculated to be truly accidental. The water splashed across Devika's midsection, darkening the maroon fabric in an irregular blotch that spread quickly, soaking through to the petticoat beneath.
"Oh God, I'm so sorry!" Sarada's apology was genuine, if not for the reasons Devika might assume. "I wasn't looking—"
Devika gasped, jumping back, her hands flying to the wet fabric. "It's okay, it's just—" She looked down at the spreading stain, dismay crossing her features. "Oh no."
"I'm so sorry," Sarada repeated, already grabbing tissues from the nearby box. "Here, let me help—"
"It's fine, really." Devika dabbed at the fabric, but the damage was done. The water had soaked through, leaving a dark patch that ran from just below her waist to mid-thigh. "I just don't know how I can teach like this. Everyone will see."
Sarada paused, as if considering. "I could help you readjust it," she offered. "I'm pretty good at dbanging sarees. We could rearrange it so the wet part isn't visible."
Devika looked uncertain. "I don't know..."
"It's either that or change completely, and I know you don't have a spare saree here." Sarada pressed, sensing her opportunity. "Let me help. We can go to the washroom, and I'll fix it for you."
After a moment's hesitation, Devika nodded. "Alright. Thank you."
The women's washroom was mercifully empty, its fluorescent light casting everything in an unflattering greenish tinge. Devika stood awkwardly in front of the streaked mirror, the wet patch on her saree now cold against her skin.
"We'll need to undo it completely and redape," Sarada said, her voice echoing slightly against the tiled walls. "The wet part needs to be hidden in the pleats at the back."
Devika nodded, reluctantly unraveling her carefully arranged pallu. The fabric fell away, revealing the fitted blouse beneath, its maroon fabric clinging to the curve of her breasts and the hollow of her spine. She unwound the outer layer of the saree, leaving only the petticoat and the remaining length of fabric.
Sarada worked quickly, her fingers deft from years of practice. She gathered the fabric, tucking and folding with deliberate precision. But as she arranged the pleats, she subtly adjusted the height, dbanging the saree lower on Devika's waist than it had been before.
"I think that's a bit too low," Devika said, noticing the change. The waistline of the saree now sat a good two inches below her navel, exposing a sliver of skin above the petticoat.
"Trust me," Sarada said, continuing her work. "If it's higher, the wet patch will show. This way, it's completely hidden in the back pleats." She finished tucking the pleats into the waistband, then moved to arrange the pallu. "I'll make sure the pallu covers everything in front."
She dbangd the pallu across Devika's torso, making sure it covered the exposed midriff. But she arranged it loosely, knowing that the slightest movement—especially reaching up—would cause it to shift.
Devika examined herself in the mirror, tugging at the pallu to secure it better. "It feels... exposed," she said, frowning slightly. "Are you sure this is right?"
"It's fine," Sarada assured her, guilt twisting in her stomach. "The pallu covers everything. Just be careful not to move too suddenly, and it will stay in place."
Devika adjusted it once more, then sighed. "I suppose it will have to do. Thank you for helping." She smiled, the kind of trusting smile that made Sarada want to confess everything, to warn her.
Instead, she said, "What are friends for?"
They left the washroom together, neither noticing the small red light of the CCTV camera mounted in the corner of the corridor outside, its lens pivoting slightly to follow their movement.
***
In the security office, tucked away in a forgotten corner of the administration building, Seenu sat alone, his eyes fixed on the bank of monitors that displayed feeds from around the campus. Most showed empty corridors, students lounging in the courtyard, a cleaner mopping listlessly at the entrance to the library.
But one screen had captured his complete attention: the corridor outside the women's washroom, where Devika and Sarada had just emerged. He had been doing his usual scan of the monitors when movement caught his eye—Devika, her saree partially undone, being ushered into the washroom by Sarada.
Something in their body language had made him pause, his finger hovering over the button to switch to the next feed. Instead, he had leaned closer, watching the closed door with a focus that bordered on obsession.
Now, seeing them emerge, he noticed the change immediately. Devika's saree sat lower on her hips, the pallu arranged in a way that seemed deliberate yet precarious. As she walked, there was a moment—just a flash—when the fabric shifted, revealing a glimpse of smooth brown skin at her midriff.
Seenu felt a jolt of heat spread through him, pooling in his groin. His hand moved unconsciously to his lap, pressing against the sudden tightness in his trousers.
"What are they doing?" he muttered to himself, eyes never leaving the screen. The camera followed Devika as she walked down the corridor, the saree's new arrangement creating an occasional gap between the pallu and the lower dbang. Each time it happened, Seenu's breath caught.
He had always found Devika attractive—her quiet dignity, the way she carried herself with such careful reserve—but seeing her like this, partially undone, was something else entirely. It felt forbidden, private, a side of her not meant for public consumption.
His hand moved rhythmically now, rubbing against his erection through the fabric of his pants. The guilt was there, a distant buzz at the back of his mind, but it was drowned out by the heady rush of voyeuristic pleasure.
What had happened in that washroom? Why had Sarada helped her rearrange her saree? And why had they dbangd it so much lower than Devika's usual conservative style?
These questions floated through Seenu's mind, but they were secondary to the visual feast before him. When Devika disappeared from the camera's view, he quickly switched to another feed, following her progress toward the biology wing.
He would have to investigate this later, he decided. For now, he would watch. Just watch.
***
The biology classroom was half-full when Devika entered, her steps more careful than usual. The students closest to the door looked up, a ripple of attention spreading as they noticed their teacher's entrance. At the back of the room, as always, sat Vishnu and Pathan, their chairs tilted at identical angles of studied indifference.
Devika made her way to the front, painfully aware of the saree's unfamiliar dbang. The fabric felt loose, threatening to shift with each step. She kept one hand pressed to her waist, holding the pallu in place.
Pathan nudged Vishnu, their heads bending together in conspiratorial proximity. Between them, a small silver container of paan glinted in the fluorescent light. Their mouths were already stained a faint red, lips glossy with betel juice.
"Check it out," Pathan whispered, his voice barely audible above the classroom chatter. "Something's different."
Vishnu's eyes narrowed, tracking Devika's movement. "The saree's tied differently," he murmured back. "Lower. But she's covering it with the pallu."
"Fuck," Pathan hissed, disappointment edging his voice. "Sarada said she'd make it happen. If that pallu stays where it is, we won't see shit."
Devika reached her desk, setting down her notes with deliberate care. She felt exposed, vulnerable, as if she were wearing someone else's skin. The saree's lower dbang left her feeling like a stranger in her own body, the unfamiliar sensation of air against her normally covered midriff a constant reminder of her discomfort.
"Good afternoon, class," she began, voice steady despite her unease. "Today we'll be continuing with cell membrane structure and function."
She turned to the whiteboard, picking up a marker. As she raised her arm to write, the motion caused the pallu to shift, sliding sideways across her torso. For a brief moment—no more than a second or two—the fabric parted, revealing a sliver of her midriff and the shallow indentation of her navel.
At the back of the room, Vishnu's breath caught. The paan paused halfway to his mouth, forgotten. Beside him, Pathan went perfectly still, eyes widening.
"Holy fuck," Pathan breathed, the words barely a vibration against Vishnu's ear. "Did you see that?"
Vishnu couldn't speak. His throat had gone dry, the bitter-sweet taste of paan suddenly ashy on his tongue. That glimpse—that tiny, fleeting glimpse—had been like a match struck in a dark room, illuminating possibilities he hadn't dared imagine.
Devika, unaware of the exposure, continued writing on the board. The pallu had settled back into place, but the damage was done. The memory of that exposed skin burned in the boys' retinas like an afterimage.
"It's deeper than I thought," Pathan murmured, the words sticky with paan juice. "Perfect little dimple, like it was made for a man's tongue."
Vishnu shifted in his seat, discomfort and arousal warring for dominance. "Shut up," he muttered, but there was no force behind it.
"Sarada came through," Pathan continued, eyes never leaving Devika's form. "Now we just need her to reach up again."
As if hearing his wish, Devika moved to the upper portion of the whiteboard, stretching to write a new heading. This time, the shift in the pallu was more pronounced. It slipped aside, revealing not just her navel but a few inches of smooth, taut skin above and below it. The exposure lasted several seconds before she lowered her arm, the fabric falling back into place.
Pathan's hand gripped Vishnu's thigh under the desk, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. "Fuck me," he breathed. "Did you see how tight it is? Like a little mouth, man. So fucking perfect."
Vishnu couldn't respond. His entire body felt electrified, every nerve ending raw and hyper-aware. He had seen women's navels before—in movies, in magazines, in the occasional flash of skin when a girl's crop top rode up. But this was different. This was Devika—proper, conservative, untouchable Devika—whose body had been a subject of speculation but never confirmation.
"I bet it tastes like cinnamon," Pathan whispered, his voice thick with lust. "South Indian women, they're always wearing that powder, that fragrance. I bet if you put your tongue right in that little hole, it would taste like spice."
"Jesus, stop," Vishnu muttered, but his eyes were fixed on Devika, waiting for the next revelation.
"You think her husband licks it?" Pathan continued, relentless. "Or maybe he's never even seen it. Maybe we're the first men to see that perfect little dip in her stomach."
The thought sent a jolt of heat through Vishnu's body. He shifted again, trying to ease the pressure of his jeans against his growing erection.
"We need to thank Sarada," Pathan said, slipping another piece of paan into his mouth. The red juice stained his lips like fresh blood. "She did better than I expected. Getting her to tie the saree so low—that was genius."
Vishnu nodded, not trusting himself to speak. His mind was a mess of images: Devika's navel, the smooth expanse of her stomach, the subtle curve where her waist met her hip. He imagined tracing that curve with his fingertips, following it down to where the saree sat low on her pelvis.
"I'm going to dream about that little dimple tonight," Pathan whispered, his voice dropping even lower. "Imagine getting to press your thumb right into it, feeling how warm and soft it is."
Vishnu closed his eyes briefly, trying to regain control. When he opened them, Devika was looking directly at them, her expression unreadable. For a terrifying moment, he thought she had heard them, but then she continued her lecture, turning back to the board.
"This is just the beginning," Pathan said, confidence returning to his voice. "Next time, we'll see more. Maybe even get her alone, see if she's as proper up close as she pretends to be."
Vishnu didn't answer. He watched as Devika wrote another equation on the board, her arm stretching up, the pallu shifting once again to reveal that perfect indent of flesh. Each glimpse felt like a secret, stolen moment that belonged only to those who were watching closely enough to catch it.
In the corner of the classroom, a ceiling fan turned lazy circles, pushing the humid air around without cooling it. The smell of chalk dust and paan mixed with the faint scent of Devika's jasmine perfume, creating an atmosphere that felt both academic and strangely intimate.
Pathan leaned closer, his mouth nearly touching Vishnu's ear. "I bet when she's naked, that navel looks even deeper. Like a well you could fall into."
Vishnu swallowed hard, trying to focus on the lecture, on the diagrams of cell membranes and protein channels, on anything but the persistent image of Devika's exposed midriff.
But each time she reached up, each time the pallu shifted, his eyes were drawn back to that small, perfect hollow in her stomach—a private place made briefly, tantalizingly public.
And in that moment, watching her unaware, he felt a power that was both intoxicating and shameful. It was the power of seeing without being seen, of knowing something private about someone who would be mortified if they knew.
It was the power that Pathan had promised him, the first sweet taste of what was to come.
She slipped out through the service entrance, where the groundskeeper's tools leaned against the wall like tired sentinels. The back gate was little more than a rusted afterthought in the compound wall, partially hidden by an overgrowth of bougainvillea whose thorns had torn at the sleeves of a generation of smokers seeking privacy. Pathan was already there, one shoulder pressed against the wall, scrolling through his phone with practiced indifference.
"You're late," he said without looking up. The screen's blue glow painted his face in sickly light, hollowing his cheeks and hardening the angles of his jaw.
"I had to sign the attendance register." Sarada's voice was pitched low, defensive. She adjusted her dupatta, pulling it tighter across her chest as if it might shield her from what was coming. "What more do you want? I agreed to help you already."
Pathan finally looked up, his eyes dark and flat as river stones. "We want to see Devika's navel. Today."
Sarada blinked, the absurdity of the request momentarily eclipsing her fear. "Her what?"
"Don't play dumb," Pathan said, sliding his phone into his pocket. "Her navel. The south Indian women, they have a thing about it, right? Always hiding it. Makes a man curious." His smile was slow, practiced. "We want to see it. And you're going to make it happen."
"This is ridiculous," Sarada hissed. "You can't possibly—"
"I can." Pathan's hand shot out, gripping her wrist. Not hard enough to bruise, just enough to remind her who had the power. "Remember your little library friend? Remember his hand on yours? Remember how easily I could destroy you?"
The air between them seemed to thin. Sarada looked down at his fingers encircling her wrist, then back up at his face. His expression hadn't changed, but something in his eyes had—a flicker of something almost hungry.
"How am I supposed to make her show her navel?" Sarada's voice cracked slightly. "She's not going to just—she's conservative, traditional. She barely shows her ankles."
"That's your problem," Pathan said, releasing her wrist. "Be creative. Spill something on her. Create a situation where she has to adjust her saree. I don't care how, but it needs to happen today. In the third period. Biology 101."
"And if I can't?"
Pathan's smile widened. "Then you'll find out exactly how fast rumors travel in this college. And how eager the principal is to maintain our institution's... moral standards."
Sarada rubbed her wrist, feeling the ghost of his grip. "Fine," she whispered. "I'll try."
"Don't try. Do it." He leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear. "And remember, we'll be watching. So make it good."
He pushed off from the wall and walked away, leaving her alone with the bougainvillea and the heavy knowledge that she had sunk even lower than she thought possible.
***
The staff room was empty when Sarada returned, save for a junior lecturer dozing behind yesterday's newspaper. She sank into her chair, mind racing. How does one engineer the exposure of another woman's body? The thought made her sick, a greasy nausea coating her tongue.
She pulled out her day planner, flipping through it as if the answer might be hidden in its pages. She and Devika had adjacent free periods before the third class. Usually, they took tea together in the staff room—a ritual of small talk and professional commiseration that had become one of the few bright spots in Sarada's increasingly compromised days.
The water dispenser sat in the corner, its plastic belly half-full. Sarada stared at it, an idea forming. It wasn't elegant, but it might work—a simple accident, a moment of clumsiness, and then an offer of help that would solve one problem while creating another.
The shame of it burned in her chest, but when she thought of the alternative—the photo, the whispers, the inevitable meeting with the principal—she steeled herself. Better Devika's minor embarrassment than her own complete ruin.
She practiced her apology in her head, over and over, until the words lost all meaning.
**
At eleven-thirty, Devika swept into the staff room, a stack of lab reports balanced in the crook of her arm. Her maroon saree—the one with the thin gold border that caught the light at just the right angle—was dbangd with her usual precision: pleats falling in perfect accordion lines, pallu elegantly covering her torso, the border a sharp edge against the dark fabric.
"These first-years will be the death of me," she said by way of greeting, setting the reports down with a sigh. "One of them labeled the diagram of a paramecium as 'the thing with the hair.'"
Sarada managed a laugh, though it felt hollowed out. "Welcome to Satara. Where education comes to die a slow death."
Devika smiled, the kind of smile that started in her eyes and worked its way down. "At least they're trying. That's more than I can say for some of the other classes."
"Vishnu and Pathan's batch?" Sarada asked, carefully casual.
A shadow crossed Devika's face. "Among others. Though those two..." She shook her head. "There's something about the way they look at me. Like I'm a specimen under their microscope."
The irony wasn't lost on Sarada. She looked away, unable to meet Devika's eyes. "Men always look. It's what they do."
"I suppose." Devika moved to the cupboard, retrieving her mug—a chipped ceramic thing with "World's Best Teacher" printed on it, a gift from her Chennai students. "Tea?"
"Please." Sarada watched as Devika filled the electric kettle, her movements precise and economical. Now was the moment—a simple brush past, a stumble, an "accidental" collision—but something in her hesitated.
Devika looked up, catching her stare. "Are you alright? You seem... distracted."
"Just tired," Sarada lied. She stood, crossing to the water dispenser. "Let me get some water while we wait for the kettle."
She filled a cup slowly, watching Devika out of the corner of her eye. The younger woman was arranging tea bags, her back half-turned. Sarada took a deep breath, steeled herself, and started back toward the table, deliberately taking a path that would bring her close to Devika.
The collision was awkward, a half-step too calculated to be truly accidental. The water splashed across Devika's midsection, darkening the maroon fabric in an irregular blotch that spread quickly, soaking through to the petticoat beneath.
"Oh God, I'm so sorry!" Sarada's apology was genuine, if not for the reasons Devika might assume. "I wasn't looking—"
Devika gasped, jumping back, her hands flying to the wet fabric. "It's okay, it's just—" She looked down at the spreading stain, dismay crossing her features. "Oh no."
"I'm so sorry," Sarada repeated, already grabbing tissues from the nearby box. "Here, let me help—"
"It's fine, really." Devika dabbed at the fabric, but the damage was done. The water had soaked through, leaving a dark patch that ran from just below her waist to mid-thigh. "I just don't know how I can teach like this. Everyone will see."
Sarada paused, as if considering. "I could help you readjust it," she offered. "I'm pretty good at dbanging sarees. We could rearrange it so the wet part isn't visible."
Devika looked uncertain. "I don't know..."
"It's either that or change completely, and I know you don't have a spare saree here." Sarada pressed, sensing her opportunity. "Let me help. We can go to the washroom, and I'll fix it for you."
After a moment's hesitation, Devika nodded. "Alright. Thank you."
The women's washroom was mercifully empty, its fluorescent light casting everything in an unflattering greenish tinge. Devika stood awkwardly in front of the streaked mirror, the wet patch on her saree now cold against her skin.
"We'll need to undo it completely and redape," Sarada said, her voice echoing slightly against the tiled walls. "The wet part needs to be hidden in the pleats at the back."
Devika nodded, reluctantly unraveling her carefully arranged pallu. The fabric fell away, revealing the fitted blouse beneath, its maroon fabric clinging to the curve of her breasts and the hollow of her spine. She unwound the outer layer of the saree, leaving only the petticoat and the remaining length of fabric.
Sarada worked quickly, her fingers deft from years of practice. She gathered the fabric, tucking and folding with deliberate precision. But as she arranged the pleats, she subtly adjusted the height, dbanging the saree lower on Devika's waist than it had been before.
"I think that's a bit too low," Devika said, noticing the change. The waistline of the saree now sat a good two inches below her navel, exposing a sliver of skin above the petticoat.
"Trust me," Sarada said, continuing her work. "If it's higher, the wet patch will show. This way, it's completely hidden in the back pleats." She finished tucking the pleats into the waistband, then moved to arrange the pallu. "I'll make sure the pallu covers everything in front."
She dbangd the pallu across Devika's torso, making sure it covered the exposed midriff. But she arranged it loosely, knowing that the slightest movement—especially reaching up—would cause it to shift.
Devika examined herself in the mirror, tugging at the pallu to secure it better. "It feels... exposed," she said, frowning slightly. "Are you sure this is right?"
"It's fine," Sarada assured her, guilt twisting in her stomach. "The pallu covers everything. Just be careful not to move too suddenly, and it will stay in place."
Devika adjusted it once more, then sighed. "I suppose it will have to do. Thank you for helping." She smiled, the kind of trusting smile that made Sarada want to confess everything, to warn her.
Instead, she said, "What are friends for?"
They left the washroom together, neither noticing the small red light of the CCTV camera mounted in the corner of the corridor outside, its lens pivoting slightly to follow their movement.
***
In the security office, tucked away in a forgotten corner of the administration building, Seenu sat alone, his eyes fixed on the bank of monitors that displayed feeds from around the campus. Most showed empty corridors, students lounging in the courtyard, a cleaner mopping listlessly at the entrance to the library.
But one screen had captured his complete attention: the corridor outside the women's washroom, where Devika and Sarada had just emerged. He had been doing his usual scan of the monitors when movement caught his eye—Devika, her saree partially undone, being ushered into the washroom by Sarada.
Something in their body language had made him pause, his finger hovering over the button to switch to the next feed. Instead, he had leaned closer, watching the closed door with a focus that bordered on obsession.
Now, seeing them emerge, he noticed the change immediately. Devika's saree sat lower on her hips, the pallu arranged in a way that seemed deliberate yet precarious. As she walked, there was a moment—just a flash—when the fabric shifted, revealing a glimpse of smooth brown skin at her midriff.
Seenu felt a jolt of heat spread through him, pooling in his groin. His hand moved unconsciously to his lap, pressing against the sudden tightness in his trousers.
"What are they doing?" he muttered to himself, eyes never leaving the screen. The camera followed Devika as she walked down the corridor, the saree's new arrangement creating an occasional gap between the pallu and the lower dbang. Each time it happened, Seenu's breath caught.
He had always found Devika attractive—her quiet dignity, the way she carried herself with such careful reserve—but seeing her like this, partially undone, was something else entirely. It felt forbidden, private, a side of her not meant for public consumption.
His hand moved rhythmically now, rubbing against his erection through the fabric of his pants. The guilt was there, a distant buzz at the back of his mind, but it was drowned out by the heady rush of voyeuristic pleasure.
What had happened in that washroom? Why had Sarada helped her rearrange her saree? And why had they dbangd it so much lower than Devika's usual conservative style?
These questions floated through Seenu's mind, but they were secondary to the visual feast before him. When Devika disappeared from the camera's view, he quickly switched to another feed, following her progress toward the biology wing.
He would have to investigate this later, he decided. For now, he would watch. Just watch.
***
The biology classroom was half-full when Devika entered, her steps more careful than usual. The students closest to the door looked up, a ripple of attention spreading as they noticed their teacher's entrance. At the back of the room, as always, sat Vishnu and Pathan, their chairs tilted at identical angles of studied indifference.
Devika made her way to the front, painfully aware of the saree's unfamiliar dbang. The fabric felt loose, threatening to shift with each step. She kept one hand pressed to her waist, holding the pallu in place.
Pathan nudged Vishnu, their heads bending together in conspiratorial proximity. Between them, a small silver container of paan glinted in the fluorescent light. Their mouths were already stained a faint red, lips glossy with betel juice.
"Check it out," Pathan whispered, his voice barely audible above the classroom chatter. "Something's different."
Vishnu's eyes narrowed, tracking Devika's movement. "The saree's tied differently," he murmured back. "Lower. But she's covering it with the pallu."
"Fuck," Pathan hissed, disappointment edging his voice. "Sarada said she'd make it happen. If that pallu stays where it is, we won't see shit."
Devika reached her desk, setting down her notes with deliberate care. She felt exposed, vulnerable, as if she were wearing someone else's skin. The saree's lower dbang left her feeling like a stranger in her own body, the unfamiliar sensation of air against her normally covered midriff a constant reminder of her discomfort.
"Good afternoon, class," she began, voice steady despite her unease. "Today we'll be continuing with cell membrane structure and function."
She turned to the whiteboard, picking up a marker. As she raised her arm to write, the motion caused the pallu to shift, sliding sideways across her torso. For a brief moment—no more than a second or two—the fabric parted, revealing a sliver of her midriff and the shallow indentation of her navel.
At the back of the room, Vishnu's breath caught. The paan paused halfway to his mouth, forgotten. Beside him, Pathan went perfectly still, eyes widening.
"Holy fuck," Pathan breathed, the words barely a vibration against Vishnu's ear. "Did you see that?"
Vishnu couldn't speak. His throat had gone dry, the bitter-sweet taste of paan suddenly ashy on his tongue. That glimpse—that tiny, fleeting glimpse—had been like a match struck in a dark room, illuminating possibilities he hadn't dared imagine.
Devika, unaware of the exposure, continued writing on the board. The pallu had settled back into place, but the damage was done. The memory of that exposed skin burned in the boys' retinas like an afterimage.
"It's deeper than I thought," Pathan murmured, the words sticky with paan juice. "Perfect little dimple, like it was made for a man's tongue."
Vishnu shifted in his seat, discomfort and arousal warring for dominance. "Shut up," he muttered, but there was no force behind it.
"Sarada came through," Pathan continued, eyes never leaving Devika's form. "Now we just need her to reach up again."
As if hearing his wish, Devika moved to the upper portion of the whiteboard, stretching to write a new heading. This time, the shift in the pallu was more pronounced. It slipped aside, revealing not just her navel but a few inches of smooth, taut skin above and below it. The exposure lasted several seconds before she lowered her arm, the fabric falling back into place.
Pathan's hand gripped Vishnu's thigh under the desk, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. "Fuck me," he breathed. "Did you see how tight it is? Like a little mouth, man. So fucking perfect."
Vishnu couldn't respond. His entire body felt electrified, every nerve ending raw and hyper-aware. He had seen women's navels before—in movies, in magazines, in the occasional flash of skin when a girl's crop top rode up. But this was different. This was Devika—proper, conservative, untouchable Devika—whose body had been a subject of speculation but never confirmation.
"I bet it tastes like cinnamon," Pathan whispered, his voice thick with lust. "South Indian women, they're always wearing that powder, that fragrance. I bet if you put your tongue right in that little hole, it would taste like spice."
"Jesus, stop," Vishnu muttered, but his eyes were fixed on Devika, waiting for the next revelation.
"You think her husband licks it?" Pathan continued, relentless. "Or maybe he's never even seen it. Maybe we're the first men to see that perfect little dip in her stomach."
The thought sent a jolt of heat through Vishnu's body. He shifted again, trying to ease the pressure of his jeans against his growing erection.
"We need to thank Sarada," Pathan said, slipping another piece of paan into his mouth. The red juice stained his lips like fresh blood. "She did better than I expected. Getting her to tie the saree so low—that was genius."
Vishnu nodded, not trusting himself to speak. His mind was a mess of images: Devika's navel, the smooth expanse of her stomach, the subtle curve where her waist met her hip. He imagined tracing that curve with his fingertips, following it down to where the saree sat low on her pelvis.
"I'm going to dream about that little dimple tonight," Pathan whispered, his voice dropping even lower. "Imagine getting to press your thumb right into it, feeling how warm and soft it is."
Vishnu closed his eyes briefly, trying to regain control. When he opened them, Devika was looking directly at them, her expression unreadable. For a terrifying moment, he thought she had heard them, but then she continued her lecture, turning back to the board.
"This is just the beginning," Pathan said, confidence returning to his voice. "Next time, we'll see more. Maybe even get her alone, see if she's as proper up close as she pretends to be."
Vishnu didn't answer. He watched as Devika wrote another equation on the board, her arm stretching up, the pallu shifting once again to reveal that perfect indent of flesh. Each glimpse felt like a secret, stolen moment that belonged only to those who were watching closely enough to catch it.
In the corner of the classroom, a ceiling fan turned lazy circles, pushing the humid air around without cooling it. The smell of chalk dust and paan mixed with the faint scent of Devika's jasmine perfume, creating an atmosphere that felt both academic and strangely intimate.
Pathan leaned closer, his mouth nearly touching Vishnu's ear. "I bet when she's naked, that navel looks even deeper. Like a well you could fall into."
Vishnu swallowed hard, trying to focus on the lecture, on the diagrams of cell membranes and protein channels, on anything but the persistent image of Devika's exposed midriff.
But each time she reached up, each time the pallu shifted, his eyes were drawn back to that small, perfect hollow in her stomach—a private place made briefly, tantalizingly public.
And in that moment, watching her unaware, he felt a power that was both intoxicating and shameful. It was the power of seeing without being seen, of knowing something private about someone who would be mortified if they knew.
It was the power that Pathan had promised him, the first sweet taste of what was to come.
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