20-06-2025, 09:03 PM
The second practical session with Vishnu and Pathan had gone better than Devika had expected. As she made her way across the campus grounds toward the apartment complex where she lived, the afternoon sun warm against her skin, she found herself wondering if perhaps she had overreacted after their first meeting. The boys had been attentive today, their questions relevant, their hands steady as they manipulated the pipettes without the fumbling "accidents" that had marked their previous session. She adjusted her saree slightly, the fabric now sitting comfortably lower on her waist—a style she was gradually becoming accustomed to despite her initial misgivings.
"Perhaps Sharada was right," she murmured to herself, stepping through the gates of Ramlal Apartments. "Maybe consistency was all that was needed."
At the security booth near the entrance, the old guard straightened as she approached. Ramlal was well into his sixties, his hair a shock of white against weathered brown skin, his uniform hanging loose on a frame that had once been broader. He snapped to attention with exaggerated formality, offering Devika a salute that bordered on theatrical.
"Good evening, Madam Professor," he called, his voice carrying across the courtyard.
Devika nodded in acknowledgment, the barest hint of a smile touching her lips—the same distracted courtesy she extended to him each day without really seeing him. Her mind was already upstairs in her apartment, mentally cataloging the practical notes she needed to review before her next class.
What she didn't see was how Ramlal's eyes followed her across the courtyard, lingering on the sway of her hips, the glimpse of skin visible between her saree and blouse when she took the stairs. His gaze had the practiced stealth of a man who had spent decades watching women without being caught—a predator camouflaged by age and position.
Since Devika had moved into the complex three months ago, Ramlal had observed her transformation with increasing interest. At first, she had been the picture of conservative propriety—her sarees dbangd high on her waist, pallu securely covering her torso, her manner reserved and professional. But over the past week, something had changed. The hemline of her saree had dropped, revealing a sliver of smooth skin at her waist. The pallu dbangd more loosely across her chest. Small changes, perhaps imperceptible to most, but Ramlal had been watching women for far too long to miss such details.
"What changed you, Professor?" he whispered to himself as she disappeared up the stairwell. "What made you start showing that pretty skin?"
In the small, sweltering security booth, surrounded by monitors showing grainy feeds from the building's security cameras, Ramlal indulged in fantasies that would have disgusted Devika had she known of them. In his mind, she wore her saree even lower, just for him. In his mind, she knew he was watching and welcomed it. The reality—that she barely registered his existence beyond the most perfunctory acknowledgment—was a detail his fantasies conveniently erased.
Later that night, in the cramped bathroom attached to the security office, Ramlal would replay these images as his gnarled hand moved mechanically, bringing him a moment's relief from desires that age had failed to diminish. Afterward, he would feel the familiar blend of satisfaction and shame, washing his hands with extra soap as if to cleanse away more than just physical evidence.
---
Saturday arrived with a drowsy warmth that seemed to slow the very air in Devika's apartment. With no classes to teach, she allowed herself the luxury of sleeping past six, rising only when the sun was well established in the sky. Even without the need to leave her apartment, she dbangd herself in a saree—a comfortable cotton in shades of turquoise and gold—the fabric sitting low on her waist as had become her habit, even in private.
Sharada's voice echoed in her mind: "Consistency. Be consistent."
The advice had proven surprisingly effective. After the tense first practical session with Vishnu and Pathan, Devika had maintained the lower dbang style Sharada had suggested, refusing to show any change in response to their attention. And strangely, their behavior had seemed to improve. The second session had been almost... normal. Their eyes still followed her movements, of course, but the deliberate fumbling, the "accidental" brushes of fingers against hers, the exaggerated need for her physical assistance—all had diminished significantly.
"They just needed clear boundaries," Devika told her reflection as she adjusted the pleats of her saree. The woman in the mirror looked confident, professional—a far cry from the nervous newcomer who had arrived in Pune three months ago.
With a cup of ginger tea in hand, Devika settled onto her small balcony, enjoying the relative quiet of a weekend morning. Her thoughts drifted to her husband, Anand, working in Dubai, the distance between them measured not just in kilometers but in growing silences during their weekly calls. When had they last had a real conversation? Not just the exchange of practical information—bills paid, schedules managed, relatives greeted—but an actual sharing of thoughts, feelings, desires?
On impulse, she retrieved her phone from the coffee table and opened the camera app. The screen reflected her image—hair loosely braided over one shoulder, minimal makeup enhancing her natural features, the turquoise saree bringing out the warmth in her complexion. She adjusted her position, ensuring that the morning light fell favorably on her face, and snapped a photo.
She studied the result critically. It was nice, but something was missing. Turning slightly to capture her profile, she took another, then another from a different angle. In each, the lower dbang of her saree was visible, the style that had become her new normal over the past week.
"He should see how I've been dressing for work," she murmured, selecting the best photos and sending them to Anand with a simple message: "Missing you this morning."
The response came faster than she expected. Her phone buzzed with an incoming call, Anand's name flashing on the screen. She answered with a smile in her voice.
"That was quick. Did my photos wake you up?"
There was a brief silence on the other end, then Anand's voice, tight with an emotion she couldn't immediately identify.
"What are you wearing, Devika?"
The question caught her off guard. "What do you mean? It's just a saree."
"It's how you're wearing it," he replied, his words clipped. "Since when do you dbang your saree so low? I can see your stomach in these photos."
Devika felt a flush of embarrassment, followed quickly by defensiveness. "It's the style here among professional women. Sharada—my colleague—suggested it might help me appear more confident, less... provincial."
"Provincial?" Anand's voice rose slightly. "Is that what our culture is to you now? Something provincial to be shed for the sake of appearing 'confident'?"
"That's not what I meant," Devika protested, pacing the length of her small living room. "It's just a slight adjustment to how I dbang my saree. It's not like I'm wearing something inappropriate."
"By whose standards?" Anand demanded. "Not by the standards we were raised with. Not by what your parents would consider appropriate."
"I'm not in Kerala anymore," Devika replied, her own voice rising to match his. "I'm a professional woman establishing myself in a new city. I need to adapt—"
"Adapt? Is that what you call it?" The accusation in his tone was unmistakable now. "Or are you trying to attract attention while I'm away?"
The words landed like a physical blow. Devika stopped pacing, her free hand clutching the edge of the dining table for support.
"What are you implying?" she asked, her voice dangerously quiet.
"I'm not implying anything," Anand replied. "I'm asking directly. Are you dressing this way to attract men's attention?"
"How dare you?" The heat in Devika's chest expanded, flooding her face, her throat tight with indignation. "I love my profession. I am respected for my mind, my research, my teaching abilities. The last thing I want is to attract attention for my appearance."
"Then why change how you dress? Why suddenly show more skin?"
"It's not about showing skin! It's about appearing confident, about not looking like I just stepped off the boat from some backward village!" The words spilled out before she could consider them, a reflection of insecurities she hadn't fully acknowledged even to herself.
There was a pause on the line, then a sound that froze Devika's blood—a soft, feminine laugh in the background, followed by a murmured comment she couldn't make out. Anand's response was muffled, as if he had covered the mouthpiece, but the feminine voice responded again, clearer this time.
"Just tell her you have to go, Anu. We're getting late."
Devika's fingers tightened around her phone until her knuckles whitened. "Who is that? Who's there with you, Anand?"
"No one," he replied too quickly. "Just the television."
"Don't lie to me!" The words burst from her with surprising force. "I heard a woman. Who is she? And why is she calling you 'Anu'?"
"This is ridiculous," Anand snapped, his voice hardening. "You're changing yourself completely, dressing like someone I don't recognize, and you have the audacity to question me?"
"Answer me!" Devika demanded, tears of anger blurring her vision. "Are you with someone else? Is that why you're so quick to accuse me of trying to attract men? Because you're projecting your own guilt?"
"I'm not going to dignify that with a response," Anand replied, his tone glacial. "When you're ready to have a rational conversation, call me back. Until then, maybe reflect on why you've decided our cultural values are suddenly too 'provincial' for you."
"Don't you dare hang up on me," Devika began, but the line was already dead, the screen showing the call duration—three minutes and forty-seven seconds of destruction.
She stared at the phone in her hand, tears now flowing freely down her cheeks. The betrayal felt physical, a knife twist in her stomach. The woman's voice played on repeat in her mind—casual, intimate, using a nickname Devika herself rarely used for her husband.
"Bastard," she whispered, sinking onto the sofa. "Hypocritical bastard."
The doorbell's shrill ring cut through her spiraling thoughts, jarring her back to her immediate surroundings. She wiped hastily at her tears, checking her reflection in the hallway mirror before approaching the door. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her cheeks flushed, but there was nothing to be done about it now.
She opened the door to find Ramlal standing there, a medium-sized cardboard package cradled in his arms. His eyes performed their usual inventory of her appearance, lingering a moment too long on the exposed skin at her waist before traveling up to her face.
"Parcel for you, Madam Professor," he announced, holding out the package. "It came while you were at college yesterday, but you weren't home when I brought it then."
Devika reached for the package, noticing immediately that one corner was crushed, the cardboard torn to reveal the contents—books, from the look of it, their covers visible through the damaged packaging.
"What happened to this?" she demanded, examining the torn corner more closely. Her anger at Anand, still fresh and raw, found a new target in the damaged parcel and the old man's lascivious gaze.
"It came like this," Ramlal replied, shrugging. "Delivery boy was in a hurry, just dropped it and left. I signed for it to make sure it didn't get stolen."
Something in his casual dismissal of the damage, combined with the way his eyes kept dropping to her waist, snapped the last thread of Devika's composure. These were research books she had ordered weeks ago, expensive imports she had been waiting for impatiently.
"You're lying," she accused, her voice tight with fury. "This was damaged after delivery. Did you open it to see what was inside?"
Ramlal's eyes widened with alarm. "No, Madam, never! I would not—"
"Don't lie to me!" The same words she had hurled at Anand now found a new target. "I've seen how you look at me every day. You think I don't notice? You think because I smile politely, I don't see where your eyes go?"
The old man took a step back, genuine fear flickering across his weathered features. "Please, Madam, I only brought your package—"
"And damaged it in the process!" Devika's hand moved of its own accord, a sharp crack as her palm connected with Ramlal's cheek. The sound seemed to echo in the narrow corridor, followed by a silence so complete she could hear her own ragged breathing.
Ramlal stood frozen, one hand rising slowly to touch the reddening mark on his face, his eyes wide with shock and humiliation. Devika herself was equally stunned, staring at her hand as if it belonged to someone else.
"Get out," she whispered, clutching the damaged package to her chest. "Just go."
The old man backed away, trembling slightly, his usual obsequious manner replaced by genuine fear. "I'm sorry, Madam. The package was already damaged, I swear on my mother's—"
"I said go!" Devika's voice rose again, and Ramlal retreated hastily, nearly stumbling in his haste to reach the stairwell.
She closed the door with shaking hands, then leaned against it, sliding slowly to the floor as the reality of what she had done crashed over her. She had struck an old man—a man her father's age—over a damaged package. She, who had never raised a hand in violence to anyone in her thirty-two years.
The package lay forgotten beside her as she buried her face in her hands, fresh tears leaking between her fingers. What was happening to her? This wasn't who she was—this angry, violent woman lashing out at an elderly security guard, suspicious of her husband, changing her appearance to fit in.
"This is his fault," she whispered, trying to shift the weight of guilt to Anand's absent shoulders. If he hadn't accused her, hadn't been with another woman, hadn't provoked her anger in the first place...
But the justification rang hollow. Ramlal's shocked expression, the red mark on his leathery cheek—these were her doing, not Anand's. She had lost control, allowed her frustration and hurt to spill over onto an easy target.
Devika wrapped her arms around her knees, making herself small against the door as if trying to physically contain the shame expanding within her chest. An uncomfortable heat spread through her body, settling in her stomach—a sensation she recognized as guilt in its purest form.
Outside, the sounds of the apartment complex continued unabated—children playing in the courtyard, a pressure cooker's whistle from a neighboring flat, a car horn from the street below. Life proceeded normally while Devika sat frozen in the aftermath of her outburst, wondering how she had traveled so far from the woman she thought herself to be.
The damaged books, her husband's betrayal, Vishnu and Pathan's predatory attention, Sharada's ambiguous advice, Ramlal's lascivious gaze—all of it swirled together in a toxic mixture that threatened to drown her. She was adrift in a city that wasn't hers, playing roles she hadn't chosen, losing pieces of herself with each compromise.
"I need to call my mother," she whispered, reaching for her phone, then stopping. What would she say? How could she explain any of this to her traditional, devout mother in Kerala? The very thought made her curl tighter into herself, alone with her shame and confusion in an apartment that still didn't feel like home.
"Perhaps Sharada was right," she murmured to herself, stepping through the gates of Ramlal Apartments. "Maybe consistency was all that was needed."
At the security booth near the entrance, the old guard straightened as she approached. Ramlal was well into his sixties, his hair a shock of white against weathered brown skin, his uniform hanging loose on a frame that had once been broader. He snapped to attention with exaggerated formality, offering Devika a salute that bordered on theatrical.
"Good evening, Madam Professor," he called, his voice carrying across the courtyard.
Devika nodded in acknowledgment, the barest hint of a smile touching her lips—the same distracted courtesy she extended to him each day without really seeing him. Her mind was already upstairs in her apartment, mentally cataloging the practical notes she needed to review before her next class.
What she didn't see was how Ramlal's eyes followed her across the courtyard, lingering on the sway of her hips, the glimpse of skin visible between her saree and blouse when she took the stairs. His gaze had the practiced stealth of a man who had spent decades watching women without being caught—a predator camouflaged by age and position.
Since Devika had moved into the complex three months ago, Ramlal had observed her transformation with increasing interest. At first, she had been the picture of conservative propriety—her sarees dbangd high on her waist, pallu securely covering her torso, her manner reserved and professional. But over the past week, something had changed. The hemline of her saree had dropped, revealing a sliver of smooth skin at her waist. The pallu dbangd more loosely across her chest. Small changes, perhaps imperceptible to most, but Ramlal had been watching women for far too long to miss such details.
"What changed you, Professor?" he whispered to himself as she disappeared up the stairwell. "What made you start showing that pretty skin?"
In the small, sweltering security booth, surrounded by monitors showing grainy feeds from the building's security cameras, Ramlal indulged in fantasies that would have disgusted Devika had she known of them. In his mind, she wore her saree even lower, just for him. In his mind, she knew he was watching and welcomed it. The reality—that she barely registered his existence beyond the most perfunctory acknowledgment—was a detail his fantasies conveniently erased.
Later that night, in the cramped bathroom attached to the security office, Ramlal would replay these images as his gnarled hand moved mechanically, bringing him a moment's relief from desires that age had failed to diminish. Afterward, he would feel the familiar blend of satisfaction and shame, washing his hands with extra soap as if to cleanse away more than just physical evidence.
---
Saturday arrived with a drowsy warmth that seemed to slow the very air in Devika's apartment. With no classes to teach, she allowed herself the luxury of sleeping past six, rising only when the sun was well established in the sky. Even without the need to leave her apartment, she dbangd herself in a saree—a comfortable cotton in shades of turquoise and gold—the fabric sitting low on her waist as had become her habit, even in private.
Sharada's voice echoed in her mind: "Consistency. Be consistent."
The advice had proven surprisingly effective. After the tense first practical session with Vishnu and Pathan, Devika had maintained the lower dbang style Sharada had suggested, refusing to show any change in response to their attention. And strangely, their behavior had seemed to improve. The second session had been almost... normal. Their eyes still followed her movements, of course, but the deliberate fumbling, the "accidental" brushes of fingers against hers, the exaggerated need for her physical assistance—all had diminished significantly.
"They just needed clear boundaries," Devika told her reflection as she adjusted the pleats of her saree. The woman in the mirror looked confident, professional—a far cry from the nervous newcomer who had arrived in Pune three months ago.
With a cup of ginger tea in hand, Devika settled onto her small balcony, enjoying the relative quiet of a weekend morning. Her thoughts drifted to her husband, Anand, working in Dubai, the distance between them measured not just in kilometers but in growing silences during their weekly calls. When had they last had a real conversation? Not just the exchange of practical information—bills paid, schedules managed, relatives greeted—but an actual sharing of thoughts, feelings, desires?
On impulse, she retrieved her phone from the coffee table and opened the camera app. The screen reflected her image—hair loosely braided over one shoulder, minimal makeup enhancing her natural features, the turquoise saree bringing out the warmth in her complexion. She adjusted her position, ensuring that the morning light fell favorably on her face, and snapped a photo.
She studied the result critically. It was nice, but something was missing. Turning slightly to capture her profile, she took another, then another from a different angle. In each, the lower dbang of her saree was visible, the style that had become her new normal over the past week.
"He should see how I've been dressing for work," she murmured, selecting the best photos and sending them to Anand with a simple message: "Missing you this morning."
The response came faster than she expected. Her phone buzzed with an incoming call, Anand's name flashing on the screen. She answered with a smile in her voice.
"That was quick. Did my photos wake you up?"
There was a brief silence on the other end, then Anand's voice, tight with an emotion she couldn't immediately identify.
"What are you wearing, Devika?"
The question caught her off guard. "What do you mean? It's just a saree."
"It's how you're wearing it," he replied, his words clipped. "Since when do you dbang your saree so low? I can see your stomach in these photos."
Devika felt a flush of embarrassment, followed quickly by defensiveness. "It's the style here among professional women. Sharada—my colleague—suggested it might help me appear more confident, less... provincial."
"Provincial?" Anand's voice rose slightly. "Is that what our culture is to you now? Something provincial to be shed for the sake of appearing 'confident'?"
"That's not what I meant," Devika protested, pacing the length of her small living room. "It's just a slight adjustment to how I dbang my saree. It's not like I'm wearing something inappropriate."
"By whose standards?" Anand demanded. "Not by the standards we were raised with. Not by what your parents would consider appropriate."
"I'm not in Kerala anymore," Devika replied, her own voice rising to match his. "I'm a professional woman establishing myself in a new city. I need to adapt—"
"Adapt? Is that what you call it?" The accusation in his tone was unmistakable now. "Or are you trying to attract attention while I'm away?"
The words landed like a physical blow. Devika stopped pacing, her free hand clutching the edge of the dining table for support.
"What are you implying?" she asked, her voice dangerously quiet.
"I'm not implying anything," Anand replied. "I'm asking directly. Are you dressing this way to attract men's attention?"
"How dare you?" The heat in Devika's chest expanded, flooding her face, her throat tight with indignation. "I love my profession. I am respected for my mind, my research, my teaching abilities. The last thing I want is to attract attention for my appearance."
"Then why change how you dress? Why suddenly show more skin?"
"It's not about showing skin! It's about appearing confident, about not looking like I just stepped off the boat from some backward village!" The words spilled out before she could consider them, a reflection of insecurities she hadn't fully acknowledged even to herself.
There was a pause on the line, then a sound that froze Devika's blood—a soft, feminine laugh in the background, followed by a murmured comment she couldn't make out. Anand's response was muffled, as if he had covered the mouthpiece, but the feminine voice responded again, clearer this time.
"Just tell her you have to go, Anu. We're getting late."
Devika's fingers tightened around her phone until her knuckles whitened. "Who is that? Who's there with you, Anand?"
"No one," he replied too quickly. "Just the television."
"Don't lie to me!" The words burst from her with surprising force. "I heard a woman. Who is she? And why is she calling you 'Anu'?"
"This is ridiculous," Anand snapped, his voice hardening. "You're changing yourself completely, dressing like someone I don't recognize, and you have the audacity to question me?"
"Answer me!" Devika demanded, tears of anger blurring her vision. "Are you with someone else? Is that why you're so quick to accuse me of trying to attract men? Because you're projecting your own guilt?"
"I'm not going to dignify that with a response," Anand replied, his tone glacial. "When you're ready to have a rational conversation, call me back. Until then, maybe reflect on why you've decided our cultural values are suddenly too 'provincial' for you."
"Don't you dare hang up on me," Devika began, but the line was already dead, the screen showing the call duration—three minutes and forty-seven seconds of destruction.
She stared at the phone in her hand, tears now flowing freely down her cheeks. The betrayal felt physical, a knife twist in her stomach. The woman's voice played on repeat in her mind—casual, intimate, using a nickname Devika herself rarely used for her husband.
"Bastard," she whispered, sinking onto the sofa. "Hypocritical bastard."
The doorbell's shrill ring cut through her spiraling thoughts, jarring her back to her immediate surroundings. She wiped hastily at her tears, checking her reflection in the hallway mirror before approaching the door. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her cheeks flushed, but there was nothing to be done about it now.
She opened the door to find Ramlal standing there, a medium-sized cardboard package cradled in his arms. His eyes performed their usual inventory of her appearance, lingering a moment too long on the exposed skin at her waist before traveling up to her face.
"Parcel for you, Madam Professor," he announced, holding out the package. "It came while you were at college yesterday, but you weren't home when I brought it then."
Devika reached for the package, noticing immediately that one corner was crushed, the cardboard torn to reveal the contents—books, from the look of it, their covers visible through the damaged packaging.
"What happened to this?" she demanded, examining the torn corner more closely. Her anger at Anand, still fresh and raw, found a new target in the damaged parcel and the old man's lascivious gaze.
"It came like this," Ramlal replied, shrugging. "Delivery boy was in a hurry, just dropped it and left. I signed for it to make sure it didn't get stolen."
Something in his casual dismissal of the damage, combined with the way his eyes kept dropping to her waist, snapped the last thread of Devika's composure. These were research books she had ordered weeks ago, expensive imports she had been waiting for impatiently.
"You're lying," she accused, her voice tight with fury. "This was damaged after delivery. Did you open it to see what was inside?"
Ramlal's eyes widened with alarm. "No, Madam, never! I would not—"
"Don't lie to me!" The same words she had hurled at Anand now found a new target. "I've seen how you look at me every day. You think I don't notice? You think because I smile politely, I don't see where your eyes go?"
The old man took a step back, genuine fear flickering across his weathered features. "Please, Madam, I only brought your package—"
"And damaged it in the process!" Devika's hand moved of its own accord, a sharp crack as her palm connected with Ramlal's cheek. The sound seemed to echo in the narrow corridor, followed by a silence so complete she could hear her own ragged breathing.
Ramlal stood frozen, one hand rising slowly to touch the reddening mark on his face, his eyes wide with shock and humiliation. Devika herself was equally stunned, staring at her hand as if it belonged to someone else.
"Get out," she whispered, clutching the damaged package to her chest. "Just go."
The old man backed away, trembling slightly, his usual obsequious manner replaced by genuine fear. "I'm sorry, Madam. The package was already damaged, I swear on my mother's—"
"I said go!" Devika's voice rose again, and Ramlal retreated hastily, nearly stumbling in his haste to reach the stairwell.
She closed the door with shaking hands, then leaned against it, sliding slowly to the floor as the reality of what she had done crashed over her. She had struck an old man—a man her father's age—over a damaged package. She, who had never raised a hand in violence to anyone in her thirty-two years.
The package lay forgotten beside her as she buried her face in her hands, fresh tears leaking between her fingers. What was happening to her? This wasn't who she was—this angry, violent woman lashing out at an elderly security guard, suspicious of her husband, changing her appearance to fit in.
"This is his fault," she whispered, trying to shift the weight of guilt to Anand's absent shoulders. If he hadn't accused her, hadn't been with another woman, hadn't provoked her anger in the first place...
But the justification rang hollow. Ramlal's shocked expression, the red mark on his leathery cheek—these were her doing, not Anand's. She had lost control, allowed her frustration and hurt to spill over onto an easy target.
Devika wrapped her arms around her knees, making herself small against the door as if trying to physically contain the shame expanding within her chest. An uncomfortable heat spread through her body, settling in her stomach—a sensation she recognized as guilt in its purest form.
Outside, the sounds of the apartment complex continued unabated—children playing in the courtyard, a pressure cooker's whistle from a neighboring flat, a car horn from the street below. Life proceeded normally while Devika sat frozen in the aftermath of her outburst, wondering how she had traveled so far from the woman she thought herself to be.
The damaged books, her husband's betrayal, Vishnu and Pathan's predatory attention, Sharada's ambiguous advice, Ramlal's lascivious gaze—all of it swirled together in a toxic mixture that threatened to drown her. She was adrift in a city that wasn't hers, playing roles she hadn't chosen, losing pieces of herself with each compromise.
"I need to call my mother," she whispered, reaching for her phone, then stopping. What would she say? How could she explain any of this to her traditional, devout mother in Kerala? The very thought made her curl tighter into herself, alone with her shame and confusion in an apartment that still didn't feel like home.
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