20-06-2025, 09:04 PM
The morning arrived with a weight that settled over Devika like a damp cloth, heavy and suffocating. Sleep had offered little escape from the memory of her palm connecting with Ramlal's weathered cheek, the sound echoing in her mind throughout the restless night. She dressed mechanically, her fingers fumbling with the familiar folds of her saree as if they belonged to someone else—someone capable of striking an old man over a damaged package, someone she didn't recognize in the hollow-eyed reflection staring back from her mirror.
Outside her apartment building, the day progressed with cruel normalcy—children darting to college with lunch boxes swinging, office workers striding purposefully toward bus stops, vendors arranging their wares with practiced efficiency. Devika moved through this tableau like a ghost, her thoughts anchored to yesterday's moment of violence rather than the lecture notes in her bag.
As she approached the college gates, a voice called out behind her.
"Madam! Professor Madam!"
Devika turned to find a young man in a courier company uniform jogging toward her, his face flushed with exertion. He clutched a clipboard in one hand, waving it as if to ensure she wouldn't disappear before he reached her.
"Are you Professor Devika Nair?" he asked, breathing heavily as he came to a stop before her.
She nodded, confusion momentarily displacing her guilt.
"Thank goodness I found you." He wiped sweat from his brow with his sleeve. "I've been trying to locate you since yesterday. I wanted to apologize personally about your package."
"My package?" Devika repeated, the words taking a moment to penetrate the fog of her distraction.
"Yes, ma'am. The books you ordered." He gestured vaguely with his clipboard. "The corner was damaged during sorting at our facility. I should have noted it on the delivery form, but I was running behind schedule and—" He shook his head, clearly embarrassed. "It was unprofessional of me. My supervisor insisted I find you and apologize properly."
Devika stared at him, the implications of his words slowly crystallizing in her mind. If the package had arrived damaged...
"The security guard signed for it," she said, her voice barely audible over the street noise. "He told me it was damaged during delivery."
"It was damaged before delivery, ma'am." The courier adjusted his cap nervously. "But I should have made that clear. If there's any issue with the contents, our company will handle the replacement process. I have the forms here—"
"No," Devika interrupted, raising a hand to stop him. "The books are fine. Just... thank you for telling me."
The young man nodded, clearly relieved to have completed his mission, and retreated with a series of small bows. Devika watched him go, a new heaviness settling in her chest—a different kind of guilt, sharper and more immediate than before.
Ramlal had told the truth. The package had been damaged before it reached him. And she had struck him, accused him of lying, humiliated him in his workplace.
The biology department corridor seemed longer than usual as Devika made her way to her office. Each step felt weighted, as if she were walking through water. The familiar sounds of the college—students' chatter, professors' lectures drifting through half-open doors, the distant ring of the bell marking period changes—registered as distant background noise, unable to penetrate the fog of her thoughts.
Inside her office, she moved through the motions of preparation—arranging lecture notes, checking email, responding to a student query about assignment deadlines—but her mind remained fixed on the twin betrayals that now defined her weekend: her husband's apparent infidelity and her own violence toward an innocent old man.
"Devika? Are you with us?"
She blinked, suddenly aware that Sharada stood in her doorway, arms crossed, head tilted in concern. How long had she been there?
"Sorry," Devika murmured, straightening the already neat stack of papers on her desk. "Did you need something?"
Sharada stepped into the office, closing the door behind her with deliberate care. "I've been standing here for almost a minute. You didn't even notice." She settled into the chair opposite Devika's desk, her expression a mixture of curiosity and concern. "What's wrong? You look like you haven't slept in days."
"It's nothing. Just... tired." The lie tasted bitter on Devika's tongue.
"Mmm." Sharada's skeptical hum made it clear she wasn't convinced. "Does this 'nothing' have anything to do with why you're back to dbanging your saree the old way?"
Devika glanced down, only now realizing she had indeed reverted to her traditional, higher dbang style without conscious thought. The fabric was wrapped securely around her waist, the pleats crisp and conservative, the pallu dbangd to cover her torso completely. The style she had worn before Sharada's suggestions, before Vishnu and Pathan's predatory gazes, before everything had begun to unravel.
"I..." Devika began, then stopped, uncertain how to explain without revealing everything—her husband's betrayal, her violent outburst, the shame that clung to her like a second skin.
"You can tell me," Sharada pressed, her voice softening. "We're friends, aren't we?"
Something in her tone—genuine concern beneath the usual briskness—broke through Devika's defenses. Before she could stop herself, the words tumbled out.
"I slapped someone yesterday. An old man—the security guard at my building." Her voice cracked slightly. "He brought me a package with damaged corners, and I accused him of opening it. He denied it, and I... I hit him. I've never hit anyone in my life, Sharada. Never."
Sharada's eyes widened, her usual composure momentarily shattered by surprise. "You slapped the security guard? Why would you do that?"
"I thought he was lying about the damage. I was already upset about... other things." Devika swallowed hard, unwilling to mention Anand's apparent infidelity. "But I just found out he was telling the truth. The courier came to apologize this morning. The package was damaged before it ever reached my building."
Sharada leaned back in her chair, studying Devika as if seeing her for the first time. "That doesn't sound like you at all."
"It wasn't me," Devika agreed, her voice barely above a whisper. "I don't know who that person was yesterday, but it wasn't me."
"Everyone has breaking points," Sharada said after a moment of silence. "Even the most controlled, disciplined people." She leaned forward, her gaze direct. "The question is, what are you going to do about it now?"
Devika ran her fingers along the edge of her desk, tracing the worn wood grain. "I have to apologize to him. But how do I face him after what I did?"
"The same way we face our students after making a mistake in a lecture," Sharada replied simply. "With honesty and humility. Admit you were wrong, apologize sincerely, and move forward."
"It's not that simple."
"It never is," Sharada agreed. "But it's necessary. You won't be able to live with yourself otherwise." She stood, smoothing the front of her salwar kameez. "Go home early today. Find him. Make it right."
Devika nodded, grateful for the directness of Sharada's advice even as she dreaded the prospect of facing Ramlal again.
---
The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the courtyard of Ramlal Apartments as Devika approached the gates. She spotted Ramlal immediately—his white hair catching the light as he stood at attention beside the security booth, his posture stiff and formal in a way it had never been before. At the sight of her, he turned deliberately toward his booth, busying himself with a logbook, his back presented to her like a shield.
Devika's steps faltered. The physical manifestation of his hurt—the deliberate avoidance, the rigid posture—cut deeper than she had anticipated. She lowered her gaze as she passed him, unable to summon the courage to speak, and hurried to the stairwell without looking back.
Inside her apartment, she moved with restless energy, unable to settle. She changed out of her work clothes, carefully selecting a traditional Kerala saree in soft cream with a gold border—the kind she had worn before Pune, before Sharada's advice, before everything had changed. She dbangd it high on her waist, the pleats precise and modest, the pallu covering her torso completely. An unconscious return to her roots, to the woman she had been before.
Standing before the mirror, Devika rehearsed what she would say to Ramlal. Simple words: "I was wrong. I'm sorry. Please forgive me." Yet they seemed inadequate against the memory of his shocked expression, the red mark on his cheek, the deliberate way he had turned his back to her just moments ago.
With trembling fingers, she picked up her intercom phone and pressed the button for the security booth.
"Security," Ramlal's voice crackled through the speaker, formal and distant.
"Ramlal-ji," Devika began, her voice steadier than she felt. "Could you please come to my apartment? I need assistance with something."
There was a pause, then: "I can send the other guard, madam. He is on duty now."
"No," Devika insisted, swallowing her pride. "I need your help specifically. Please."
Another pause, longer this time. Devika could almost feel his hesitation through the static of the intercom.
"Very well, madam. I will come in five minutes."
"Thank you."
Devika paced the small living room, checking her appearance once more in the mirror, adjusting the already perfect pleats of her saree. The five minutes stretched interminably, each second marked by the loud ticking of the wall clock that had come with the furnished apartment.
Finally, a soft knock at the door.
Devika took a deep breath, smoothing her palms down the front of her saree, and opened the door.
Ramlal stood in the corridor, his uniform pressed but somehow still hanging loosely on his thin frame, his cap clutched in his hands. He kept his eyes downcast, not meeting her gaze.
"You wanted to see me, madam?" His voice was carefully neutral, devoid of the effusive greeting that had once characterized their interactions.
"Yes, please come in," Devika said, stepping aside to make space for him to enter.
Ramlal hesitated, his discomfort evident in the shifting of his weight from one foot to the other. "If madam could just tell me what is needed, I can—"
"Please," Devika interrupted, the word carrying more weight than its single syllable should allow. "Come inside. I need to speak with you."
Reluctantly, Ramlal stepped into the apartment, maintaining a careful distance from Devika as he passed. He stood just inside the doorway, still not meeting her eyes, his cap twisting in his weathered hands.
Devika closed the door and turned to face him, suddenly aware of how small her apartment was, how the silence between them seemed to compress the space further.
"What work do you need, madam?" Ramlal asked, his voice barely audible.
"There is no work," Devika admitted. "I needed to speak with you privately. About yesterday."
Ramlal's shoulders tensed visibly. "No need to speak of it, madam. It is forgotten."
"It's not forgotten," Devika contradicted gently. "Not by you, and certainly not by me." She took a step toward him, careful to maintain enough distance that he wouldn't feel threatened. "I was wrong, Ramlal-ji. The courier came to me today and told me the package was damaged before it reached you. You were telling the truth, and I..." Her voice caught. "I behaved inexcusably. I am deeply, truly sorry."
Ramlal looked up at last, surprise momentarily overriding his caution. His cheek, she noticed with a pang, still bore a faint discoloration where her hand had struck.
"It is nothing, madam," he said, his voice stronger now. "Such things happen in life. I have experienced worse."
"That doesn't make it right," Devika insisted. "I had no right to treat you that way, no matter what I was feeling. Please, won't you sit down? Let me make you some tea."
"No, madam, I cannot—"
"Please," Devika repeated, moving toward him and gently taking his arm. "Let me do this small thing. It would mean a great deal to me to know you've truly accepted my apology."
The moment her fingers touched his arm, something shifted in Ramlal's expression—a flicker of that same look she had often caught him giving her, a mixture of appreciation and desire that had once made her uncomfortable but now served her purpose.
"Very well," he conceded, allowing her to guide him to the small dining table. "But only for a moment. It is not appropriate for me to be in a tenant's home."
"I won't tell if you won't," Devika replied, attempting lightness as she moved to the kitchen to prepare tea.
She could feel his eyes on her as she worked, following her movements as she set the kettle to boil, measured tea leaves, added cardamom and ginger to the pot. The attention that had once seemed invasive now felt like a strange form of penance—allowing him to look, to appreciate, after she had caused him pain.
"Do you have family nearby, Ramlal-ji?" she asked, filling the silence as she waited for the water to boil.
Ramlal's hands finally stilled their nervous movement against his cap. "No, madam. My wife left me when I was forty-five. My sons work in the Gulf countries—Dubai, Bahrain. They rarely contact me now."
The mention of Dubai sent a sharp pang through Devika's chest—an unwelcome reminder of Anand and the woman whose voice had filtered through the phone.
"I'm sorry to hear that," she said, pouring the boiling water over the tea leaves. "It must be difficult to be alone."
"One becomes accustomed," Ramlal replied, his tone matter-of-fact rather than self-pitying. "And you, madam? You are from Kerala, yes?"
"Yes," Devika confirmed, bringing two steaming cups to the table and taking the seat opposite him. "I came to Pune for this teaching position."
Ramlal accepted the cup with a nod of thanks but didn't immediately drink. "May I speak freely, madam?" he asked, his voice hesitant.
"Of course," Devika replied, curling her fingers around the warmth of her cup. "Please do."
"You are..." He paused, clearly searching for the right words. "You are very beautiful. Are all Kerala women as beautiful as you?"
The compliment, unexpected and delivered with such earnestness, startled a laugh from Devika. "Thank you, Ramlal-ji. Many Kerala women are considered beautiful, yes. We're known for our connection to nature and traditional ways."
Ramlal nodded, seeming encouraged by her response. "I am not good at talking to women," he admitted. "If I say something wrong, please forgive me and correct me."
"You're doing fine," Devika assured him, sipping her tea to hide her discomfort with the turn in conversation.
"Your husband must miss you very much," Ramlal continued, his gaze dropping briefly to the gold mangalsutra chain at her neck. "Being away from such a beautiful wife... especially at night."
Heat rushed to Devika's face—part embarrassment, part anger at the reminder of Anand's betrayal. The woman's voice echoed in her memory: "Just tell her you have to go, Anu. We're getting late."
"I'm not sure," she replied, her voice tight despite her efforts to sound casual. "He's very focused on his work, and—" She stopped, unwilling to voice the suspicion that had taken root in her heart.
Ramlal nodded as if she had confirmed something for him. "Men can be foolish," he said simply, finally taking a sip of his tea. His eyes widened with genuine pleasure. "This tea is wonderful, madam. I have not tasted such good tea in many years."
"Thank you," Devika replied, grateful for the change in subject. "It's a Kerala blend with cardamom and fresh ginger."
"Your husband is a fortunate man," Ramlal said, his tone reverential as he took another appreciative sip. "To have such a talented wife who makes such excellent tea."
The compliment, innocent as it was, stirred a complex mixture of emotions in Devika's chest. When was the last time Anand had complimented anything she did? When had he last noticed her efforts, her skills, her presence in his life as anything other than an expectation?
"You must come for tea again," she found herself saying, the words bypassing her usual careful consideration. "Whenever you like."
Ramlal lowered his cup, surprise evident in his expression. "That would not be proper, madam. People would talk."
"Let them talk," Devika replied, surprised by her own boldness. "Consider it part of my apology. Besides, who would know? Our secret."
Ramlal hesitated, clearly tempted but uncertain. "You are sure, madam?"
"Only if you stop calling me 'madam' when we're having tea," Devika said, offering a small smile. "My name is Devika."
"Devika," Ramlal repeated, the name sounding strange in his mouth, intimate in a way that made her both uncomfortable and oddly pleased. "Thank you for the tea... Devika. And for the apology, though it was not necessary."
He finished his tea and stood, once again the proper security guard, though something had shifted between them—a boundary crossed, a new understanding established.
"I should return to my post," he said, adjusting his uniform cap. "Thank you again."
"Remember," Devika said as she walked him to the door, "you're welcome anytime for tea."
Ramlal paused at the threshold, his eyes meeting hers with unexpected directness. "Only if you truly wish it. I would not want to impose."
"I truly wish it," Devika confirmed, surprising herself with the sincerity in her voice. "It would mean you've forgiven me completely."
"There is nothing to forgive," Ramlal insisted, but he nodded his acceptance of her invitation. "Good evening, ma—Devika."
As the door closed behind him, Devika leaned against it, exhaling slowly. The apartment felt different somehow—the space altered by the conversation that had taken place within it, by the invitation extended, by the subtle shift in how she viewed both Ramlal and herself.
Outside, the evening shadows lengthened across the courtyard as Ramlal returned to his post. From her window, Devika watched him settle into his chair beside the security booth, his posture more relaxed than it had been when she arrived home. The guilt that had weighed on her since yesterday hadn't disappeared entirely, but it had transformed into something different—a strange, unexpected connection with a man she had previously viewed as merely part of the background of her life.
She turned away from the window, her gaze falling on her phone where it lay on the coffee table. Anand hadn't called since their argument. No apology, no explanation for the woman's voice, no concern for how she might be feeling.
Devika moved to the kitchen, rinsing the teacups with methodical care, her mind drifting between the three men now occupying different corners of her life—Anand with his distant betrayal, Vishnu and Pathan with their predatory attention, and now Ramlal with his awkward compliments and lonely eyes.
Each relationship pulled her in a different direction, stretching her identity into shapes she didn't recognize. Who was she becoming in this city so far from home? The woman who slapped an old man, who invited him for private tea, who felt a perverse satisfaction in his admiring gaze?
The questions lingered, unanswered, as darkness settled over the apartment and the first stars appeared in the Pune sky.
Outside her apartment building, the day progressed with cruel normalcy—children darting to college with lunch boxes swinging, office workers striding purposefully toward bus stops, vendors arranging their wares with practiced efficiency. Devika moved through this tableau like a ghost, her thoughts anchored to yesterday's moment of violence rather than the lecture notes in her bag.
As she approached the college gates, a voice called out behind her.
"Madam! Professor Madam!"
Devika turned to find a young man in a courier company uniform jogging toward her, his face flushed with exertion. He clutched a clipboard in one hand, waving it as if to ensure she wouldn't disappear before he reached her.
"Are you Professor Devika Nair?" he asked, breathing heavily as he came to a stop before her.
She nodded, confusion momentarily displacing her guilt.
"Thank goodness I found you." He wiped sweat from his brow with his sleeve. "I've been trying to locate you since yesterday. I wanted to apologize personally about your package."
"My package?" Devika repeated, the words taking a moment to penetrate the fog of her distraction.
"Yes, ma'am. The books you ordered." He gestured vaguely with his clipboard. "The corner was damaged during sorting at our facility. I should have noted it on the delivery form, but I was running behind schedule and—" He shook his head, clearly embarrassed. "It was unprofessional of me. My supervisor insisted I find you and apologize properly."
Devika stared at him, the implications of his words slowly crystallizing in her mind. If the package had arrived damaged...
"The security guard signed for it," she said, her voice barely audible over the street noise. "He told me it was damaged during delivery."
"It was damaged before delivery, ma'am." The courier adjusted his cap nervously. "But I should have made that clear. If there's any issue with the contents, our company will handle the replacement process. I have the forms here—"
"No," Devika interrupted, raising a hand to stop him. "The books are fine. Just... thank you for telling me."
The young man nodded, clearly relieved to have completed his mission, and retreated with a series of small bows. Devika watched him go, a new heaviness settling in her chest—a different kind of guilt, sharper and more immediate than before.
Ramlal had told the truth. The package had been damaged before it reached him. And she had struck him, accused him of lying, humiliated him in his workplace.
The biology department corridor seemed longer than usual as Devika made her way to her office. Each step felt weighted, as if she were walking through water. The familiar sounds of the college—students' chatter, professors' lectures drifting through half-open doors, the distant ring of the bell marking period changes—registered as distant background noise, unable to penetrate the fog of her thoughts.
Inside her office, she moved through the motions of preparation—arranging lecture notes, checking email, responding to a student query about assignment deadlines—but her mind remained fixed on the twin betrayals that now defined her weekend: her husband's apparent infidelity and her own violence toward an innocent old man.
"Devika? Are you with us?"
She blinked, suddenly aware that Sharada stood in her doorway, arms crossed, head tilted in concern. How long had she been there?
"Sorry," Devika murmured, straightening the already neat stack of papers on her desk. "Did you need something?"
Sharada stepped into the office, closing the door behind her with deliberate care. "I've been standing here for almost a minute. You didn't even notice." She settled into the chair opposite Devika's desk, her expression a mixture of curiosity and concern. "What's wrong? You look like you haven't slept in days."
"It's nothing. Just... tired." The lie tasted bitter on Devika's tongue.
"Mmm." Sharada's skeptical hum made it clear she wasn't convinced. "Does this 'nothing' have anything to do with why you're back to dbanging your saree the old way?"
Devika glanced down, only now realizing she had indeed reverted to her traditional, higher dbang style without conscious thought. The fabric was wrapped securely around her waist, the pleats crisp and conservative, the pallu dbangd to cover her torso completely. The style she had worn before Sharada's suggestions, before Vishnu and Pathan's predatory gazes, before everything had begun to unravel.
"I..." Devika began, then stopped, uncertain how to explain without revealing everything—her husband's betrayal, her violent outburst, the shame that clung to her like a second skin.
"You can tell me," Sharada pressed, her voice softening. "We're friends, aren't we?"
Something in her tone—genuine concern beneath the usual briskness—broke through Devika's defenses. Before she could stop herself, the words tumbled out.
"I slapped someone yesterday. An old man—the security guard at my building." Her voice cracked slightly. "He brought me a package with damaged corners, and I accused him of opening it. He denied it, and I... I hit him. I've never hit anyone in my life, Sharada. Never."
Sharada's eyes widened, her usual composure momentarily shattered by surprise. "You slapped the security guard? Why would you do that?"
"I thought he was lying about the damage. I was already upset about... other things." Devika swallowed hard, unwilling to mention Anand's apparent infidelity. "But I just found out he was telling the truth. The courier came to apologize this morning. The package was damaged before it ever reached my building."
Sharada leaned back in her chair, studying Devika as if seeing her for the first time. "That doesn't sound like you at all."
"It wasn't me," Devika agreed, her voice barely above a whisper. "I don't know who that person was yesterday, but it wasn't me."
"Everyone has breaking points," Sharada said after a moment of silence. "Even the most controlled, disciplined people." She leaned forward, her gaze direct. "The question is, what are you going to do about it now?"
Devika ran her fingers along the edge of her desk, tracing the worn wood grain. "I have to apologize to him. But how do I face him after what I did?"
"The same way we face our students after making a mistake in a lecture," Sharada replied simply. "With honesty and humility. Admit you were wrong, apologize sincerely, and move forward."
"It's not that simple."
"It never is," Sharada agreed. "But it's necessary. You won't be able to live with yourself otherwise." She stood, smoothing the front of her salwar kameez. "Go home early today. Find him. Make it right."
Devika nodded, grateful for the directness of Sharada's advice even as she dreaded the prospect of facing Ramlal again.
---
The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the courtyard of Ramlal Apartments as Devika approached the gates. She spotted Ramlal immediately—his white hair catching the light as he stood at attention beside the security booth, his posture stiff and formal in a way it had never been before. At the sight of her, he turned deliberately toward his booth, busying himself with a logbook, his back presented to her like a shield.
Devika's steps faltered. The physical manifestation of his hurt—the deliberate avoidance, the rigid posture—cut deeper than she had anticipated. She lowered her gaze as she passed him, unable to summon the courage to speak, and hurried to the stairwell without looking back.
Inside her apartment, she moved with restless energy, unable to settle. She changed out of her work clothes, carefully selecting a traditional Kerala saree in soft cream with a gold border—the kind she had worn before Pune, before Sharada's advice, before everything had changed. She dbangd it high on her waist, the pleats precise and modest, the pallu covering her torso completely. An unconscious return to her roots, to the woman she had been before.
Standing before the mirror, Devika rehearsed what she would say to Ramlal. Simple words: "I was wrong. I'm sorry. Please forgive me." Yet they seemed inadequate against the memory of his shocked expression, the red mark on his cheek, the deliberate way he had turned his back to her just moments ago.
With trembling fingers, she picked up her intercom phone and pressed the button for the security booth.
"Security," Ramlal's voice crackled through the speaker, formal and distant.
"Ramlal-ji," Devika began, her voice steadier than she felt. "Could you please come to my apartment? I need assistance with something."
There was a pause, then: "I can send the other guard, madam. He is on duty now."
"No," Devika insisted, swallowing her pride. "I need your help specifically. Please."
Another pause, longer this time. Devika could almost feel his hesitation through the static of the intercom.
"Very well, madam. I will come in five minutes."
"Thank you."
Devika paced the small living room, checking her appearance once more in the mirror, adjusting the already perfect pleats of her saree. The five minutes stretched interminably, each second marked by the loud ticking of the wall clock that had come with the furnished apartment.
Finally, a soft knock at the door.
Devika took a deep breath, smoothing her palms down the front of her saree, and opened the door.
Ramlal stood in the corridor, his uniform pressed but somehow still hanging loosely on his thin frame, his cap clutched in his hands. He kept his eyes downcast, not meeting her gaze.
"You wanted to see me, madam?" His voice was carefully neutral, devoid of the effusive greeting that had once characterized their interactions.
"Yes, please come in," Devika said, stepping aside to make space for him to enter.
Ramlal hesitated, his discomfort evident in the shifting of his weight from one foot to the other. "If madam could just tell me what is needed, I can—"
"Please," Devika interrupted, the word carrying more weight than its single syllable should allow. "Come inside. I need to speak with you."
Reluctantly, Ramlal stepped into the apartment, maintaining a careful distance from Devika as he passed. He stood just inside the doorway, still not meeting her eyes, his cap twisting in his weathered hands.
Devika closed the door and turned to face him, suddenly aware of how small her apartment was, how the silence between them seemed to compress the space further.
"What work do you need, madam?" Ramlal asked, his voice barely audible.
"There is no work," Devika admitted. "I needed to speak with you privately. About yesterday."
Ramlal's shoulders tensed visibly. "No need to speak of it, madam. It is forgotten."
"It's not forgotten," Devika contradicted gently. "Not by you, and certainly not by me." She took a step toward him, careful to maintain enough distance that he wouldn't feel threatened. "I was wrong, Ramlal-ji. The courier came to me today and told me the package was damaged before it reached you. You were telling the truth, and I..." Her voice caught. "I behaved inexcusably. I am deeply, truly sorry."
Ramlal looked up at last, surprise momentarily overriding his caution. His cheek, she noticed with a pang, still bore a faint discoloration where her hand had struck.
"It is nothing, madam," he said, his voice stronger now. "Such things happen in life. I have experienced worse."
"That doesn't make it right," Devika insisted. "I had no right to treat you that way, no matter what I was feeling. Please, won't you sit down? Let me make you some tea."
"No, madam, I cannot—"
"Please," Devika repeated, moving toward him and gently taking his arm. "Let me do this small thing. It would mean a great deal to me to know you've truly accepted my apology."
The moment her fingers touched his arm, something shifted in Ramlal's expression—a flicker of that same look she had often caught him giving her, a mixture of appreciation and desire that had once made her uncomfortable but now served her purpose.
"Very well," he conceded, allowing her to guide him to the small dining table. "But only for a moment. It is not appropriate for me to be in a tenant's home."
"I won't tell if you won't," Devika replied, attempting lightness as she moved to the kitchen to prepare tea.
She could feel his eyes on her as she worked, following her movements as she set the kettle to boil, measured tea leaves, added cardamom and ginger to the pot. The attention that had once seemed invasive now felt like a strange form of penance—allowing him to look, to appreciate, after she had caused him pain.
"Do you have family nearby, Ramlal-ji?" she asked, filling the silence as she waited for the water to boil.
Ramlal's hands finally stilled their nervous movement against his cap. "No, madam. My wife left me when I was forty-five. My sons work in the Gulf countries—Dubai, Bahrain. They rarely contact me now."
The mention of Dubai sent a sharp pang through Devika's chest—an unwelcome reminder of Anand and the woman whose voice had filtered through the phone.
"I'm sorry to hear that," she said, pouring the boiling water over the tea leaves. "It must be difficult to be alone."
"One becomes accustomed," Ramlal replied, his tone matter-of-fact rather than self-pitying. "And you, madam? You are from Kerala, yes?"
"Yes," Devika confirmed, bringing two steaming cups to the table and taking the seat opposite him. "I came to Pune for this teaching position."
Ramlal accepted the cup with a nod of thanks but didn't immediately drink. "May I speak freely, madam?" he asked, his voice hesitant.
"Of course," Devika replied, curling her fingers around the warmth of her cup. "Please do."
"You are..." He paused, clearly searching for the right words. "You are very beautiful. Are all Kerala women as beautiful as you?"
The compliment, unexpected and delivered with such earnestness, startled a laugh from Devika. "Thank you, Ramlal-ji. Many Kerala women are considered beautiful, yes. We're known for our connection to nature and traditional ways."
Ramlal nodded, seeming encouraged by her response. "I am not good at talking to women," he admitted. "If I say something wrong, please forgive me and correct me."
"You're doing fine," Devika assured him, sipping her tea to hide her discomfort with the turn in conversation.
"Your husband must miss you very much," Ramlal continued, his gaze dropping briefly to the gold mangalsutra chain at her neck. "Being away from such a beautiful wife... especially at night."
Heat rushed to Devika's face—part embarrassment, part anger at the reminder of Anand's betrayal. The woman's voice echoed in her memory: "Just tell her you have to go, Anu. We're getting late."
"I'm not sure," she replied, her voice tight despite her efforts to sound casual. "He's very focused on his work, and—" She stopped, unwilling to voice the suspicion that had taken root in her heart.
Ramlal nodded as if she had confirmed something for him. "Men can be foolish," he said simply, finally taking a sip of his tea. His eyes widened with genuine pleasure. "This tea is wonderful, madam. I have not tasted such good tea in many years."
"Thank you," Devika replied, grateful for the change in subject. "It's a Kerala blend with cardamom and fresh ginger."
"Your husband is a fortunate man," Ramlal said, his tone reverential as he took another appreciative sip. "To have such a talented wife who makes such excellent tea."
The compliment, innocent as it was, stirred a complex mixture of emotions in Devika's chest. When was the last time Anand had complimented anything she did? When had he last noticed her efforts, her skills, her presence in his life as anything other than an expectation?
"You must come for tea again," she found herself saying, the words bypassing her usual careful consideration. "Whenever you like."
Ramlal lowered his cup, surprise evident in his expression. "That would not be proper, madam. People would talk."
"Let them talk," Devika replied, surprised by her own boldness. "Consider it part of my apology. Besides, who would know? Our secret."
Ramlal hesitated, clearly tempted but uncertain. "You are sure, madam?"
"Only if you stop calling me 'madam' when we're having tea," Devika said, offering a small smile. "My name is Devika."
"Devika," Ramlal repeated, the name sounding strange in his mouth, intimate in a way that made her both uncomfortable and oddly pleased. "Thank you for the tea... Devika. And for the apology, though it was not necessary."
He finished his tea and stood, once again the proper security guard, though something had shifted between them—a boundary crossed, a new understanding established.
"I should return to my post," he said, adjusting his uniform cap. "Thank you again."
"Remember," Devika said as she walked him to the door, "you're welcome anytime for tea."
Ramlal paused at the threshold, his eyes meeting hers with unexpected directness. "Only if you truly wish it. I would not want to impose."
"I truly wish it," Devika confirmed, surprising herself with the sincerity in her voice. "It would mean you've forgiven me completely."
"There is nothing to forgive," Ramlal insisted, but he nodded his acceptance of her invitation. "Good evening, ma—Devika."
As the door closed behind him, Devika leaned against it, exhaling slowly. The apartment felt different somehow—the space altered by the conversation that had taken place within it, by the invitation extended, by the subtle shift in how she viewed both Ramlal and herself.
Outside, the evening shadows lengthened across the courtyard as Ramlal returned to his post. From her window, Devika watched him settle into his chair beside the security booth, his posture more relaxed than it had been when she arrived home. The guilt that had weighed on her since yesterday hadn't disappeared entirely, but it had transformed into something different—a strange, unexpected connection with a man she had previously viewed as merely part of the background of her life.
She turned away from the window, her gaze falling on her phone where it lay on the coffee table. Anand hadn't called since their argument. No apology, no explanation for the woman's voice, no concern for how she might be feeling.
Devika moved to the kitchen, rinsing the teacups with methodical care, her mind drifting between the three men now occupying different corners of her life—Anand with his distant betrayal, Vishnu and Pathan with their predatory attention, and now Ramlal with his awkward compliments and lonely eyes.
Each relationship pulled her in a different direction, stretching her identity into shapes she didn't recognize. Who was she becoming in this city so far from home? The woman who slapped an old man, who invited him for private tea, who felt a perverse satisfaction in his admiring gaze?
The questions lingered, unanswered, as darkness settled over the apartment and the first stars appeared in the Pune sky.
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