20-06-2025, 01:33 PM
In the close darkness of Pathan's dormitory room, the memory of Devika's exposed navel glowed like a coal. Vishnu lay sprawled across the narrow bed, one arm flung over his eyes, while Pathan paced the three steps from door to window and back again, his movements tight with residual energy. The ceiling fan clicked through each rotation, stirring the hot air without cooling it, mixing the smell of unwashed laundry with the lingering sweetness of paan. Neither boy had spoken for several minutes, as if words might diminish what they had witnessed – that brief, forbidden glimpse of flesh, the shallow dimple at the center of Professor Menon's abdomen, exposed by the treacherous slip of her pallu.
"I can still see it," Vishnu finally said, his voice muffled behind his arm. "Perfect little hollow. Like someone pressed their thumb into wet clay."
Pathan stopped pacing, his silver tooth catching the weak light from the bedside lamp. "Better than in the films, right? Because it's real. Because it's her."
"I couldn't breathe," Vishnu admitted. "When she reached up to write on the board, and that pallu slipped..." He let the sentence hang, unfinished.
Pathan dropped onto the edge of the bed, the cheap frame groaning under their combined weight. "That's the thing about the uptight ones. They keep everything so hidden that when you get even a glimpse, it's like..." He made a gesture with his hands, fingers splaying outward. "Explosion."
Vishnu sat up, his back against the wall, knees drawn to his chest. "Do you think she knew? That we could see?"
"Who cares?" Pathan grinned. "The point is, we saw. And we'll see again." He reached for his phone, scrolling through the contacts with practiced flicks of his thumb. "Time to call our favorite professor."
The phone rang five times before Sharada answered, her voice tight with tension. "What do you want now?"
Pathan put it on speaker, holding it between them. "Just calling to say thank you, Professor. You did an excellent job today."
"Is this a joke to you?" Sharada's voice was low, strained. In the background, they could hear the clatter of dishes, the domestic sounds of an evening at home. "Do you have any idea what you made me do? The risk I took?"
"Risk?" Pathan's eyebrows rose. "All you did was help a colleague fix her saree after a little accident. Very thoughtful of you."
"I made a PhD-holding professor expose herself without her knowledge!" Sharada's voice rose, then abruptly dropped as if she'd remembered someone might overhear. "She's a decent woman. A professional. And you made me... you made me..."
"Made you what?" Pathan's voice hardened. "All we did was admire what was shown. You're the one who arranged it, Professor."
There was a pause, filled only with Sharada's uneven breathing. When she spoke again, her voice had a hollow quality. "What more do you want? I did what you asked. The photos—"
"Are safe," Pathan cut in smoothly. "For now. But we want more."
"More?"
"We want to see it again," Vishnu blurted out, leaning toward the phone. "Every day."
Pathan shot him a look – half amusement, half warning – but nodded. "My friend is right. Once isn't enough. We want you to make sure she wears her saree like that every day. Low enough that we can see that perfect little navel when she moves."
The silence on the other end was so complete they thought the call might have dropped. Then came a sound – not quite a sob, not quite a laugh, but something broken in between.
"This is insane," Sharada finally said. "I can't just... you don't understand. Today was a fluke. She was uncomfortable the entire time. She'll never agree to wear it that way again."
"Then convince her," Pathan said simply. "You're the psychology professor, aren't you? Use your expertise. Make her think it's her idea."
"Please," Sharada's voice cracked. "One last time. I'm begging you. Delete the photos, let this end. I have a family, a reputation—"
"So does she," Pathan interrupted, his voice silky. "And so does your librarian friend. Wouldn't it be a shame if his wife found out about your little... study sessions?"
Another silence, heavier this time. Vishnu's stomach twisted, an uncomfortable heat spreading through his chest that felt something like guilt. But when Pathan caught his eye, grinning, the feeling receded beneath a stronger current of anticipation.
"Fine," Sharada whispered, the word barely audible. "Fine. I'll... I'll try. But I can't promise anything. She's not stupid, she'll suspect something."
"You'll find a way," Pathan said, confidence radiating from every syllable. "Women listen to other women, right? Tell her she looks good. Tell her she's got a body worth showing off. Make her proud of what she's got."
"And if she refuses?"
"Then we'll be having a different conversation." Pathan's tone left no room for misinterpretation. "Tomorrow morning. Before her first class." He ended the call without waiting for a response.
Vishnu exhaled slowly, the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "She sounded... really upset."
Pathan shrugged, tossing his phone onto the nightstand. "She'll get over it. Besides, we're not asking her to do anything illegal. Just to help a friend dress more... confidently." He lay back on the bed, hands linked behind his head. "Tomorrow, we sit front row. Don't want to miss a second."
Vishnu nodded, trying to recapture the thrill from earlier, the electric jolt when Devika's saree had shifted. But Sharada's broken voice kept intruding, the desperate edge of her pleas. He pushed the thought away, focusing instead on the memory of that smooth expanse of skin, the perfect dimple at its center.
"Front row," he agreed, and tried not to think about anything else.
***
The staff room was quiet when Sharada arrived the next morning, only the economics lecturer dozing in the corner, a half-drunk cup of tea cooling at his elbow. She moved to her usual chair, arranging her papers with methodical precision, though her hands trembled slightly. She had barely slept, the conversation with Pathan playing on loop in her head, interspersed with images of her husband's face if he ever discovered her affair, of the principal's cold disappointment, of her children's confusion.
When Devika entered, Sharada nearly flinched. The younger woman looked fresh and composed in a mint-green saree with a thin silver border, dbangd in her usual conservative style – pleats neat, pallu covering her torso completely, no hint of midriff visible. Her hair was pulled back in a simple braid, a few strands escaping to frame her face. She looked, Sharada thought with a pang, exactly like what she was: a serious academic, a woman of dignity and restraint.
"Good morning," Devika said, setting her bag down on the adjacent chair. "You're in early."
Sharada forced a smile. "Couldn't sleep. Too much on my mind." It wasn't a lie, at least. "How about you? No trouble with the... saree situation yesterday?"
A flicker of embarrassment crossed Devika's face. "No, thankfully. Though I was uncomfortable all afternoon. It felt so... exposed." She lowered her voice. "I think some of the students noticed. Those two boys in the back – they kept staring."
This was her opening. Sharada took a breath, steadying herself. "Boys will stare no matter what," she said, her tone deliberately casual. "It's what they do. Especially at women like you."
"Women like me?" Devika looked puzzled.
"Beautiful women. Women with..." Sharada made a vague gesture that encompassed Devika's figure. "You know. Curves in the right places."
Devika blushed, the color rising from her neck to her cheeks in a slow tide. "I don't think—"
"Oh, come on," Sharada pressed, hating herself with each word. "You must know how lovely you are. That figure – most women would kill for it. I certainly would." She laughed, the sound brittle to her own ears. "When I helped you yesterday, I was actually a bit jealous. Your waist, your stomach – so flat and firm. Women with that kind of natural fitness should be proud to show it off, not hide it away."
Devika shook her head, but there was a hint of pleasure in her eyes, a softening around her mouth. "I come from a traditional family. We don't... reveal ourselves that way."
"Traditional?" Sharada scoffed. "Those are just old ideas from people who were probably jealous of your beauty. Times have changed. Even the most conservative actresses show a little midriff these days." She leaned closer, lowering her voice. "Besides, there's a difference between revealing yourself and simply wearing your clothes in a way that flatters your natural gifts."
Devika hesitated, fingers tracing the edge of her pallu. "You really think so?"
"Absolutely," Sharada said, forcing enthusiasm into her voice. "In fact, I could show you how to dbang your saree in a way that's still completely respectable but more... contemporary. More flattering to your figure."
She could see the doubt in Devika's eyes, warring with something else – curiosity, perhaps, or vanity. A sliver of hope that perhaps she wasn't only the serious academic, the proper wife, the obedient daughter.
"I don't know..." Devika began.
"Just let me show you," Sharada pressed. "If you don't like it, you can change it back. No harm done."
After a moment's hesitation, Devika nodded. "Alright. But nothing too... revealing."
Sharada stood, gesturing toward the door. "Let's go to the washroom. More space there."
The women's washroom was empty, the morning sun casting long rectangles of light across the tiled floor. Sharada checked each stall before returning to where Devika waited, uncertain, by the mirror.
"It's simple," Sharada said, her voice steadier than she felt. "Just a small adjustment to the height of the dbang. It will accentuate your waist more, that's all."
She guided Devika through unwinding the pallu, then loosening the pleats at the waist. With practiced hands, she rearranged the fabric, dbanging it lower on Devika's hips than it had been before – not dramatically lower, but enough that when Devika moved, the edge of the saree would dip below her navel, revealing that small, perfect hollow.
"See?" Sharada said, stepping back to let Devika examine herself in the mirror. "Still completely decent. The pallu covers everything. But now the proportions are more flattering – it makes your waist look even smaller, your hips more feminine."
Devika turned sideways, studying her reflection with a mixture of doubt and fascination. The saree now sat just below her hip bones, the pleats falling in elegant lines that emphasized the curve of her waist, the subtle flare of her hips. When she moved, there was a flash of skin at her midriff, quickly covered by the pallu but undeniably there.
"I don't know," she said, voice hesitant. "It feels... dangerous."
"Dangerous?" Sharada laughed, the sound forced. "It's just a saree, Devika. Women have been wearing them this way for centuries. It's actually more traditional, in some ways."
"Maybe, but I—"
"You look beautiful," Sharada cut in, hating the desperation in her own voice. "Truly elegant. The way the fabric dbangs now, it shows what a perfect figure you have." She reached out, adjusting the pallu across Devika's shoulder. "I'm actually jealous, to be honest."
She pinched Devika's hip playfully, a gesture of feminine camaraderie that made her stomach turn. "So slender! Where do you hide all those dosas you eat at lunch?"
Devika laughed despite herself, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. "You really think it looks alright?"
"More than alright," Sharada assured her, relief flooding through her veins. "It looks perfect. Trust me."
Neither woman noticed the small red light of the CCTV camera in the corridor outside, its lens focused on the washroom door. In the security office, Seenu sat transfixed, his breath coming in short, uneven gasps as he watched the women emerge.
The mint-green of Devika's saree was a shock of color on the black-and-white monitor, the fabric now arranged in a way that sent a jolt of heat through him. He couldn't see details – the camera's resolution was too poor for that – but he could see the change in how she moved, more conscious of her body, one hand occasionally moving to adjust the pallu where it threatened to slip.
Seenu's hand moved to his lap, pressing against his arousal. The thrill was doubled now by the knowledge that this was deliberate – not an accident, but a choice. Devika had chosen to wear her saree this way, to reveal more of herself.
His fantasy shifted, became more focused. In his mind, she was doing it for him – each adjustment of the pallu a silent invitation, each glimpse of midriff a promise.
"Devika," he moaned, the name a prayer on his lips as his hand moved rhythmically beneath the desk.
***
The biology classroom was already half-full when Devika entered, students shuffling into their seats with the resigned air of the chronically under-caffeinated. As promised, Pathan and Vishnu had claimed spots in the front row, their postures identical studies in forced casualness. Both looked up at her entrance, their gazes tracking her movement with predatory focus.
Devika felt their eyes like physical pressure, cataloging each step as she made her way to the desk. The saree felt different – lighter, somehow, as if the lower dbang had altered not just its appearance but its weight. She was acutely conscious of the way the fabric shifted with each movement, the occasional brush of air against her midriff when the pallu slipped minutely out of place.
She set her books down, straightening to face the class. "Good morning, everyone. Today we'll be discussing cellular transport mechanisms."
Her voice was steady, professional, but beneath it ran a current of heightened awareness. She could see Pathan leaning toward Vishnu, whispering something that made the other boy's mouth twitch into a half-smile. Both had their eyes fixed not on her face but lower, where the pallu dbangd across her torso.
She turned to write on the board, stretching up to reach the top portion. The movement caused the pallu to shift, exposing a sliver of skin at her waist. She felt rather than saw their attention sharpen, the sudden stillness in their postures.
"The plasma membrane," she continued, determined to ignore them, "regulates what enters and exits the cell through various mechanisms."
Pathan's voice, though pitched low, carried to her ears. "Just like her saree regulates what we get to see. Up, down, up, down."
Vishnu snickered, then quickly composed his face when Devika turned to face them.
"Is there something you'd like to share with the class, Mr. Khan?" she asked, her tone clipped.
"Just commenting on the elegant movement of cellular transport, ma'am," Pathan replied, his smile insolent. "The way things slip in and out."
A flush crept up Devika's neck, not of embarrassment but anger. She knew exactly what he was doing, what they both were doing. The whispers, the stares, the double entendres – it was a game to them, and somehow she had become the playing field.
For a moment, she considered calling them out directly. But what would she say? That she suspected they were objectifying her? That she felt their eyes on her body like unwanted hands? The thought of voicing it, of making it real in the classroom air, was unbearable.
Instead, she straightened her spine, adjusted her pallu with deliberate precision, and continued the lesson. "As I was saying, the cell membrane is selectively permeable. It allows certain substances to pass through while blocking others."
She moved around the desk, determined to reclaim the space, to assert her authority through movement. As she walked, she felt the saree shift with each step, the lower edge occasionally dipping to reveal the curve of her hip, the slight protrusion of her hip bone, the shadow where her waist met her pelvis.
Pathan and Vishnu tracked her like hunters, their eyes never leaving that vulnerable strip of skin at her midriff. When she turned, she caught Vishnu's expression – a mixture of fascination and hunger that made her skin crawl.
"The cell uses various proteins to control this process," she continued, voice hardening. "It maintains its integrity through constant vigilance."
She looked directly at them as she said it, a warning wrapped in scientific language. Pathan merely smiled, silver tooth gleaming, while Vishnu had the grace to look momentarily abashed.
When the bell finally rang, signaling the end of class, Devika felt a rush of relief so intense it was almost dizzying. The students gathered their books, the room filling with the scbang of chairs and the murmur of conversation. Pathan lingered, adjusting his bag with deliberate slowness, his eyes never leaving her.
"Excellent lesson, Professor," he said, voice pitched just for her ears. "Very... revealing."
She met his gaze, refusing to look away first. "I suggest you focus on the content, Mr. Khan, not the delivery."
His smile widened. "But the delivery is so... captivating." His eyes dropped to her waist, then back to her face. "Same time tomorrow?"
Before she could respond, he turned and sauntered out, Vishnu trailing in his wake like a shadow. Devika stood perfectly still, waiting until the last student had left before allowing her shoulders to slump, her hand moving automatically to adjust the saree, pulling it higher on her waist.
The anger came in waves, mixed with something else – a complicated emotion she couldn't quite name. She had felt their eyes on her, had known exactly what they were thinking, what they were seeing. And yet, beneath the discomfort and the indignation, there had been something else. A tiny, treacherous part of her that had responded to being seen not as the serious academic, the proper wife, but simply as a woman with a body worth looking at.
She shook her head, dispelling the thought. It was wrong, all of it. The way they looked at her, the things they whispered. And tomorrow, she would make sure they had nothing to see. She would wear her saree the old way – high, secure, impenetrable.
But as she gathered her papers, a small voice in the back of her mind wondered if perhaps Sharada had been right. Perhaps there was a difference between revealing herself and simply wearing her clothes in a way that flattered her natural gifts.
The thought lingered, unwelcome but persistent, as she left the classroom and headed toward the staff room, her steps measured, her spine straight, her mind already rehearsing what she would say to Sharada when they met for lunch.
"I can still see it," Vishnu finally said, his voice muffled behind his arm. "Perfect little hollow. Like someone pressed their thumb into wet clay."
Pathan stopped pacing, his silver tooth catching the weak light from the bedside lamp. "Better than in the films, right? Because it's real. Because it's her."
"I couldn't breathe," Vishnu admitted. "When she reached up to write on the board, and that pallu slipped..." He let the sentence hang, unfinished.
Pathan dropped onto the edge of the bed, the cheap frame groaning under their combined weight. "That's the thing about the uptight ones. They keep everything so hidden that when you get even a glimpse, it's like..." He made a gesture with his hands, fingers splaying outward. "Explosion."
Vishnu sat up, his back against the wall, knees drawn to his chest. "Do you think she knew? That we could see?"
"Who cares?" Pathan grinned. "The point is, we saw. And we'll see again." He reached for his phone, scrolling through the contacts with practiced flicks of his thumb. "Time to call our favorite professor."
The phone rang five times before Sharada answered, her voice tight with tension. "What do you want now?"
Pathan put it on speaker, holding it between them. "Just calling to say thank you, Professor. You did an excellent job today."
"Is this a joke to you?" Sharada's voice was low, strained. In the background, they could hear the clatter of dishes, the domestic sounds of an evening at home. "Do you have any idea what you made me do? The risk I took?"
"Risk?" Pathan's eyebrows rose. "All you did was help a colleague fix her saree after a little accident. Very thoughtful of you."
"I made a PhD-holding professor expose herself without her knowledge!" Sharada's voice rose, then abruptly dropped as if she'd remembered someone might overhear. "She's a decent woman. A professional. And you made me... you made me..."
"Made you what?" Pathan's voice hardened. "All we did was admire what was shown. You're the one who arranged it, Professor."
There was a pause, filled only with Sharada's uneven breathing. When she spoke again, her voice had a hollow quality. "What more do you want? I did what you asked. The photos—"
"Are safe," Pathan cut in smoothly. "For now. But we want more."
"More?"
"We want to see it again," Vishnu blurted out, leaning toward the phone. "Every day."
Pathan shot him a look – half amusement, half warning – but nodded. "My friend is right. Once isn't enough. We want you to make sure she wears her saree like that every day. Low enough that we can see that perfect little navel when she moves."
The silence on the other end was so complete they thought the call might have dropped. Then came a sound – not quite a sob, not quite a laugh, but something broken in between.
"This is insane," Sharada finally said. "I can't just... you don't understand. Today was a fluke. She was uncomfortable the entire time. She'll never agree to wear it that way again."
"Then convince her," Pathan said simply. "You're the psychology professor, aren't you? Use your expertise. Make her think it's her idea."
"Please," Sharada's voice cracked. "One last time. I'm begging you. Delete the photos, let this end. I have a family, a reputation—"
"So does she," Pathan interrupted, his voice silky. "And so does your librarian friend. Wouldn't it be a shame if his wife found out about your little... study sessions?"
Another silence, heavier this time. Vishnu's stomach twisted, an uncomfortable heat spreading through his chest that felt something like guilt. But when Pathan caught his eye, grinning, the feeling receded beneath a stronger current of anticipation.
"Fine," Sharada whispered, the word barely audible. "Fine. I'll... I'll try. But I can't promise anything. She's not stupid, she'll suspect something."
"You'll find a way," Pathan said, confidence radiating from every syllable. "Women listen to other women, right? Tell her she looks good. Tell her she's got a body worth showing off. Make her proud of what she's got."
"And if she refuses?"
"Then we'll be having a different conversation." Pathan's tone left no room for misinterpretation. "Tomorrow morning. Before her first class." He ended the call without waiting for a response.
Vishnu exhaled slowly, the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "She sounded... really upset."
Pathan shrugged, tossing his phone onto the nightstand. "She'll get over it. Besides, we're not asking her to do anything illegal. Just to help a friend dress more... confidently." He lay back on the bed, hands linked behind his head. "Tomorrow, we sit front row. Don't want to miss a second."
Vishnu nodded, trying to recapture the thrill from earlier, the electric jolt when Devika's saree had shifted. But Sharada's broken voice kept intruding, the desperate edge of her pleas. He pushed the thought away, focusing instead on the memory of that smooth expanse of skin, the perfect dimple at its center.
"Front row," he agreed, and tried not to think about anything else.
***
The staff room was quiet when Sharada arrived the next morning, only the economics lecturer dozing in the corner, a half-drunk cup of tea cooling at his elbow. She moved to her usual chair, arranging her papers with methodical precision, though her hands trembled slightly. She had barely slept, the conversation with Pathan playing on loop in her head, interspersed with images of her husband's face if he ever discovered her affair, of the principal's cold disappointment, of her children's confusion.
When Devika entered, Sharada nearly flinched. The younger woman looked fresh and composed in a mint-green saree with a thin silver border, dbangd in her usual conservative style – pleats neat, pallu covering her torso completely, no hint of midriff visible. Her hair was pulled back in a simple braid, a few strands escaping to frame her face. She looked, Sharada thought with a pang, exactly like what she was: a serious academic, a woman of dignity and restraint.
"Good morning," Devika said, setting her bag down on the adjacent chair. "You're in early."
Sharada forced a smile. "Couldn't sleep. Too much on my mind." It wasn't a lie, at least. "How about you? No trouble with the... saree situation yesterday?"
A flicker of embarrassment crossed Devika's face. "No, thankfully. Though I was uncomfortable all afternoon. It felt so... exposed." She lowered her voice. "I think some of the students noticed. Those two boys in the back – they kept staring."
This was her opening. Sharada took a breath, steadying herself. "Boys will stare no matter what," she said, her tone deliberately casual. "It's what they do. Especially at women like you."
"Women like me?" Devika looked puzzled.
"Beautiful women. Women with..." Sharada made a vague gesture that encompassed Devika's figure. "You know. Curves in the right places."
Devika blushed, the color rising from her neck to her cheeks in a slow tide. "I don't think—"
"Oh, come on," Sharada pressed, hating herself with each word. "You must know how lovely you are. That figure – most women would kill for it. I certainly would." She laughed, the sound brittle to her own ears. "When I helped you yesterday, I was actually a bit jealous. Your waist, your stomach – so flat and firm. Women with that kind of natural fitness should be proud to show it off, not hide it away."
Devika shook her head, but there was a hint of pleasure in her eyes, a softening around her mouth. "I come from a traditional family. We don't... reveal ourselves that way."
"Traditional?" Sharada scoffed. "Those are just old ideas from people who were probably jealous of your beauty. Times have changed. Even the most conservative actresses show a little midriff these days." She leaned closer, lowering her voice. "Besides, there's a difference between revealing yourself and simply wearing your clothes in a way that flatters your natural gifts."
Devika hesitated, fingers tracing the edge of her pallu. "You really think so?"
"Absolutely," Sharada said, forcing enthusiasm into her voice. "In fact, I could show you how to dbang your saree in a way that's still completely respectable but more... contemporary. More flattering to your figure."
She could see the doubt in Devika's eyes, warring with something else – curiosity, perhaps, or vanity. A sliver of hope that perhaps she wasn't only the serious academic, the proper wife, the obedient daughter.
"I don't know..." Devika began.
"Just let me show you," Sharada pressed. "If you don't like it, you can change it back. No harm done."
After a moment's hesitation, Devika nodded. "Alright. But nothing too... revealing."
Sharada stood, gesturing toward the door. "Let's go to the washroom. More space there."
The women's washroom was empty, the morning sun casting long rectangles of light across the tiled floor. Sharada checked each stall before returning to where Devika waited, uncertain, by the mirror.
"It's simple," Sharada said, her voice steadier than she felt. "Just a small adjustment to the height of the dbang. It will accentuate your waist more, that's all."
She guided Devika through unwinding the pallu, then loosening the pleats at the waist. With practiced hands, she rearranged the fabric, dbanging it lower on Devika's hips than it had been before – not dramatically lower, but enough that when Devika moved, the edge of the saree would dip below her navel, revealing that small, perfect hollow.
"See?" Sharada said, stepping back to let Devika examine herself in the mirror. "Still completely decent. The pallu covers everything. But now the proportions are more flattering – it makes your waist look even smaller, your hips more feminine."
Devika turned sideways, studying her reflection with a mixture of doubt and fascination. The saree now sat just below her hip bones, the pleats falling in elegant lines that emphasized the curve of her waist, the subtle flare of her hips. When she moved, there was a flash of skin at her midriff, quickly covered by the pallu but undeniably there.
"I don't know," she said, voice hesitant. "It feels... dangerous."
"Dangerous?" Sharada laughed, the sound forced. "It's just a saree, Devika. Women have been wearing them this way for centuries. It's actually more traditional, in some ways."
"Maybe, but I—"
"You look beautiful," Sharada cut in, hating the desperation in her own voice. "Truly elegant. The way the fabric dbangs now, it shows what a perfect figure you have." She reached out, adjusting the pallu across Devika's shoulder. "I'm actually jealous, to be honest."
She pinched Devika's hip playfully, a gesture of feminine camaraderie that made her stomach turn. "So slender! Where do you hide all those dosas you eat at lunch?"
Devika laughed despite herself, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. "You really think it looks alright?"
"More than alright," Sharada assured her, relief flooding through her veins. "It looks perfect. Trust me."
Neither woman noticed the small red light of the CCTV camera in the corridor outside, its lens focused on the washroom door. In the security office, Seenu sat transfixed, his breath coming in short, uneven gasps as he watched the women emerge.
The mint-green of Devika's saree was a shock of color on the black-and-white monitor, the fabric now arranged in a way that sent a jolt of heat through him. He couldn't see details – the camera's resolution was too poor for that – but he could see the change in how she moved, more conscious of her body, one hand occasionally moving to adjust the pallu where it threatened to slip.
Seenu's hand moved to his lap, pressing against his arousal. The thrill was doubled now by the knowledge that this was deliberate – not an accident, but a choice. Devika had chosen to wear her saree this way, to reveal more of herself.
His fantasy shifted, became more focused. In his mind, she was doing it for him – each adjustment of the pallu a silent invitation, each glimpse of midriff a promise.
"Devika," he moaned, the name a prayer on his lips as his hand moved rhythmically beneath the desk.
***
The biology classroom was already half-full when Devika entered, students shuffling into their seats with the resigned air of the chronically under-caffeinated. As promised, Pathan and Vishnu had claimed spots in the front row, their postures identical studies in forced casualness. Both looked up at her entrance, their gazes tracking her movement with predatory focus.
Devika felt their eyes like physical pressure, cataloging each step as she made her way to the desk. The saree felt different – lighter, somehow, as if the lower dbang had altered not just its appearance but its weight. She was acutely conscious of the way the fabric shifted with each movement, the occasional brush of air against her midriff when the pallu slipped minutely out of place.
She set her books down, straightening to face the class. "Good morning, everyone. Today we'll be discussing cellular transport mechanisms."
Her voice was steady, professional, but beneath it ran a current of heightened awareness. She could see Pathan leaning toward Vishnu, whispering something that made the other boy's mouth twitch into a half-smile. Both had their eyes fixed not on her face but lower, where the pallu dbangd across her torso.
She turned to write on the board, stretching up to reach the top portion. The movement caused the pallu to shift, exposing a sliver of skin at her waist. She felt rather than saw their attention sharpen, the sudden stillness in their postures.
"The plasma membrane," she continued, determined to ignore them, "regulates what enters and exits the cell through various mechanisms."
Pathan's voice, though pitched low, carried to her ears. "Just like her saree regulates what we get to see. Up, down, up, down."
Vishnu snickered, then quickly composed his face when Devika turned to face them.
"Is there something you'd like to share with the class, Mr. Khan?" she asked, her tone clipped.
"Just commenting on the elegant movement of cellular transport, ma'am," Pathan replied, his smile insolent. "The way things slip in and out."
A flush crept up Devika's neck, not of embarrassment but anger. She knew exactly what he was doing, what they both were doing. The whispers, the stares, the double entendres – it was a game to them, and somehow she had become the playing field.
For a moment, she considered calling them out directly. But what would she say? That she suspected they were objectifying her? That she felt their eyes on her body like unwanted hands? The thought of voicing it, of making it real in the classroom air, was unbearable.
Instead, she straightened her spine, adjusted her pallu with deliberate precision, and continued the lesson. "As I was saying, the cell membrane is selectively permeable. It allows certain substances to pass through while blocking others."
She moved around the desk, determined to reclaim the space, to assert her authority through movement. As she walked, she felt the saree shift with each step, the lower edge occasionally dipping to reveal the curve of her hip, the slight protrusion of her hip bone, the shadow where her waist met her pelvis.
Pathan and Vishnu tracked her like hunters, their eyes never leaving that vulnerable strip of skin at her midriff. When she turned, she caught Vishnu's expression – a mixture of fascination and hunger that made her skin crawl.
"The cell uses various proteins to control this process," she continued, voice hardening. "It maintains its integrity through constant vigilance."
She looked directly at them as she said it, a warning wrapped in scientific language. Pathan merely smiled, silver tooth gleaming, while Vishnu had the grace to look momentarily abashed.
When the bell finally rang, signaling the end of class, Devika felt a rush of relief so intense it was almost dizzying. The students gathered their books, the room filling with the scbang of chairs and the murmur of conversation. Pathan lingered, adjusting his bag with deliberate slowness, his eyes never leaving her.
"Excellent lesson, Professor," he said, voice pitched just for her ears. "Very... revealing."
She met his gaze, refusing to look away first. "I suggest you focus on the content, Mr. Khan, not the delivery."
His smile widened. "But the delivery is so... captivating." His eyes dropped to her waist, then back to her face. "Same time tomorrow?"
Before she could respond, he turned and sauntered out, Vishnu trailing in his wake like a shadow. Devika stood perfectly still, waiting until the last student had left before allowing her shoulders to slump, her hand moving automatically to adjust the saree, pulling it higher on her waist.
The anger came in waves, mixed with something else – a complicated emotion she couldn't quite name. She had felt their eyes on her, had known exactly what they were thinking, what they were seeing. And yet, beneath the discomfort and the indignation, there had been something else. A tiny, treacherous part of her that had responded to being seen not as the serious academic, the proper wife, but simply as a woman with a body worth looking at.
She shook her head, dispelling the thought. It was wrong, all of it. The way they looked at her, the things they whispered. And tomorrow, she would make sure they had nothing to see. She would wear her saree the old way – high, secure, impenetrable.
But as she gathered her papers, a small voice in the back of her mind wondered if perhaps Sharada had been right. Perhaps there was a difference between revealing herself and simply wearing her clothes in a way that flattered her natural gifts.
The thought lingered, unwelcome but persistent, as she left the classroom and headed toward the staff room, her steps measured, her spine straight, her mind already rehearsing what she would say to Sharada when they met for lunch.
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