20-06-2025, 09:39 PM
Morning sunlight slanted through the blinds as Devika fastened the final pin in her saree, the fabric dbangd lower on her waist than she would have worn it three months ago. The mirror reflected a woman she was still learning to recognize—professionally dressed yet with a hint of modernity that marked her as someone adapting to a new environment. She smoothed a hand over the emerald silk, feeling the cool fabric against her palm, a small act of defiance against the voice in her head that sounded suspiciously like her mother's, whispering about propriety and tradition.
The past few days had been a storm of emotions—the confrontation with her husband, the incident with Ramlal, the strange tea they had shared afterward. Yet this morning, a tentative calm had settled over her, as if the worst had passed and she could begin rebuilding from the rubble of her certainties.
Her phone buzzed on the dresser, the screen lighting up with Anand's name. Devika's heart stuttered in her chest. They hadn't spoken since their argument three days ago, when she had heard the woman's voice in the background of their call. Her finger hovered over the decline button before a sudden impulse made her accept instead.
"Hello?" Her voice came out steadier than she felt.
"Devika." Anand's voice carried none of the anger from their last conversation. Instead, it was soft, almost contrite. "Can we switch to video? I want to see you."
She hesitated, glancing at her reflection once more. "Alright," she agreed, tapping the camera icon.
Anand's face filled the screen—handsome in the conventional way that had first drawn her parents' attention during the arranged marriage discussions. His hair was neatly combed, his collared shirt crisp as always. Behind him, she could see the familiar backdrop of his Dubai apartment, the skyline visible through the window.
"There you are," he said, his expression softening. "I've missed seeing your face."
The words should have warmed her, but they landed like pebbles on frozen ground—small impacts that failed to penetrate the surface.
"Have you?" she asked, unable to keep the edge from her voice.
Anand's smile faltered, then reasserted itself with deliberate effort. "Of course I have. You're my wife. I think about you every day." He leaned closer to the screen. "Can you prop the phone up somewhere? I want to see all of you."
Devika placed the phone against a stack of books on her dresser, adjusting the angle until she was fully in frame. She stepped back, arms hanging awkwardly at her sides, feeling suddenly like a specimen under examination.
"You look beautiful," Anand said, his gaze traveling the length of her. Then his expression shifted, his brows drawing together. "But what are you wearing? Is that how you're dbanging your saree now?"
Devika's hand moved instinctively to her waist, where the fabric sat lower than traditional Kerala style. "It's how professional women dress here," she replied, the justification sounding hollow even to her own ears.
"Professional women?" Anand's voice took on the hard edge she remembered from their last conversation. "Or women looking for attention?"
"Please, not this again." Devika crossed her arms over her chest, as if to shield herself from his scrutiny. "I told you, this is the standard style here. Sharada advised—"
"Sharada again," Anand interrupted. "This mysterious colleague who keeps telling you to show more skin. Have you ever considered her motives?"
"Her motives?" Devika repeated, incredulous. "She's trying to help me fit in, to be taken seriously as a professional."
"By dressing like that?" Anand's voice rose. "I called because I missed you, because I wanted to make things right between us. And what do I find? That you're still ignoring everything I said, still dressing like—"
"Like what?" Devika challenged, her own anger rising to meet his. "Like a confident, modern woman? Like someone with agency over her own body?"
"Don't use those feminist buzzwords with me," Anand snapped. "This isn't about agency or modernity. It's about respect—for yourself, for our marriage, for our culture."
"Our culture," Devika echoed bitterly. "The same culture that has you working halfway across the world while I build a life alone in a new city? The same culture that expects me to be the perfect, obedient wife while you—" She broke off, the accusation hovering unspoken between them.
"While I what?" Anand's eyes narrowed. "Go on, say it."
The doorbell's shrill ring cut through the tension, making Devika flinch. "I have to get that," she said, grateful for the interruption.
"We're not finished," Anand called as she moved out of frame.
Devika opened the door to find Ramlal standing in the corridor, a small package in his weathered hands. His eyes brightened at the sight of her, then quickly lowered in a show of deference that hadn't been there before their tea together.
"Good morning, Devika," he said, using her name with careful deliberation. "A courier came for you."
"Thank you, Ramlal-ji." She accepted the package, acutely aware of Anand's presence just out of sight, listening to every word. "I appreciate you bringing it up."
Ramlal lingered a moment longer than necessary, his gaze lifting briefly to meet hers. "Will you be wanting tea this evening?" he asked, his voice lowered to near-whisper.
Before Devika could respond, she heard Anand's voice from inside the apartment: "Who is that? What's he saying about tea?"
Ramlal's eyes widened in alarm, and Devika quickly closed the door with a hurried, "Not today, thank you."
She returned to the phone, setting the package aside without looking at it. Anand's face on the screen was tight with suspicion.
"Who was that?" he demanded.
"The security guard," Devika replied, fighting to keep her voice neutral. "He brought up a package."
"And what was that about tea?" Anand's eyes had taken on a dangerous gleam. "Since when are you on tea terms with the security guard?"
"He's an old man," Devika said, the defense sounding weak even to her ears. "I invited him for tea once as an apology for... for a misunderstanding."
"An apology," Anand repeated, his voice dripping with disbelief. "Looks like your old friend came for a little enjoyment, and I disturbed you."
The accusation hit Devika like a physical blow. "He's my father's age!" she exclaimed, incredulous. "How dare you suggest—"
"How dare I?" Anand's laugh was harsh, devoid of humor. "You're the one dressing provocatively, having private tea with men while your husband is away. And you ask how dare I?"
"This is insane," Devika said, shaking her head. "You're accusing me of having an affair with a 65-year-old security guard? Do you even hear yourself?"
"I hear a woman making excuses," Anand replied coldly. "A woman who doesn't respect herself or her marriage enough to—"
A female voice interrupted him, calling from somewhere off-screen. "Anu, darling, we're going to be late for the meeting."
The same voice from their last call. The same intimate tone, the same casual use of his nickname. Time seemed to freeze as Devika and Anand stared at each other through the screen, the woman's words hanging between them like a physical presence.
"Who is that?" Devika asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Anand's expression shuttered closed. "A colleague."
"Colleagues don't call each other 'darling,'" Devika said, surprised by the steadiness of her voice despite the trembling in her hands. "Who is she, Anand?"
"This is ridiculous," he muttered, looking away from the camera. "I'm not going to justify myself to you when you're the one—"
"Who is she?" Devika repeated, louder this time.
The woman's voice came again, closer now. "Anu, seriously, Sharma is waiting."
"I can't waste time on this," Anand said, his voice cold. "Some of us have actual responsibilities, not just parading around for students and security guards."
"Answer me!" Devika demanded, tears burning at the back of her eyes. "Are you having an affair?"
Anand's face contorted with anger. "You've lost your mind," he spat. "Throwing around accusations when you're the one who's changed, who's turned into someone I don't even recognize. I can't waste any more time on you, you—" He paused, his jaw working as if chewing on the word before spitting it out: "Slut."
The screen went black as he ended the call.
Devika stood frozen, the slur ringing in her ears. She waited for the tears to come, for the collapse she had experienced during their last fight. Instead, she felt a strange, cold clarity spreading through her chest.
"Slut," she repeated to the empty room, testing the weight of the word. It should have crushed her, but instead, it seemed to illuminate something she hadn't been able to see before—the fundamental unfairness of it all. Her husband, likely in the arms of another woman, had the audacity to call her names for simply adapting her style of dress.
She turned to the mirror again, studying her reflection. The emerald saree dbangd across her form, the lower style revealing a sliver of skin at her waist. She adjusted it slightly, not higher as she might have done before, but more securely in its current position. Then she slipped on her heels, picked up her bag, and walked out the door with her head held high.
Ramlal was still at his post when she reached the courtyard. She met his gaze directly and offered him a warm smile that made his weathered face light up with surprise and pleasure.
"Have a good day, Ramlal-ji," she called, her voice carrying across the space between them.
"You too, Devika," he replied, his response drawing curious looks from two women chatting near the gate.
Let them look, Devika thought as she strode toward the college, her heels clicking against the pavement with rhythmic determination. Let them talk. I've done nothing wrong.
---
The biology laboratory was bathed in afternoon light when Vishnu and Pathan arrived for their practical session. Devika was already there, arranging slides and equipment with methodical precision, her mind still echoing with Anand's accusation, still burning with the slur he had hurled at her before hanging up.
"Good afternoon, Professor," Pathan greeted, his voice carrying that silky quality that had once made her skin crawl but now barely registered through the numbness that had settled over her.
"Afternoon," she replied, not looking up from her work. "We're studying plant cell structures today. Please prepare your microscopes."
The practical proceeded as expected—Vishnu and Pathan maintained a pretense of academic interest while finding every opportunity for proximity. When Devika leaned over to adjust Vishnu's microscope, he shifted in his seat, bringing his shoulder against her arm. When she demonstrated the proper cutting technique for plant samples, Pathan stood unnecessarily close, his breath warm against her neck.
In previous sessions, Devika had maintained strict distance, had stepped away at the first brush of contact. Today, she found herself unmoved by their tactics, too drained by her morning confrontation to summon the energy for avoidance.
When Pathan's hand brushed against her lower back as she passed his workstation, she simply continued walking. When Vishnu inhaled deeply near her shoulder, murmuring about her "lovely perfume," she merely corrected his slide preparation without comment.
Their touches grew bolder in response to her apparent indifference—a hand lingering at her waist when asking a question, fingers brushing her arm when reaching for equipment, bodies positioned to create unavoidable contact in the narrow spaces between lab tables.
"Professor, could you help me with this measurement?" Vishnu called, though the simple volumetric task hardly required assistance.
Devika moved to his side, demonstrating once again how to read the meniscus at eye level. As she straightened, his hand briefly touched her hip, the contact so quick it could have been dismissed as accidental if not for the gleam in his eyes when she looked at him.
"Is that clear now?" she asked, her voice professionally detached.
"Crystal clear," Vishnu replied, his gaze holding hers a beat too long. "You're an excellent teacher, Professor."
The session continued in this vein—their advances increasingly blatant, her responses increasingly detached. It was as if she were observing the situation from a distance, watching another woman navigate these predatory waters with mechanical efficiency.
By the time the practical ended, Devika felt hollowed out, emptied of the emotional energy required for either outrage or fear. She dismissed the students with curt instructions for their next meeting and began cleaning the laboratory with robotic movements, her mind elsewhere—caught in the echo chamber of Anand's voice calling her a slut, the stranger's voice calling him darling.
---
The staff room was mercifully empty when Devika arrived, her arms laden with materials from the practical session. She sank into her chair, the weight of the day suddenly crashing down on her shoulders. The numbness that had carried her through the practical with Vishnu and Pathan began to crack, emotion seeping through the fissures like water through damaged concrete.
Her vision blurred as tears filled her eyes, spilling over before she could blink them away. One sob escaped, then another, her body shaking with the force of emotions she had suppressed all day.
"Devika? What's wrong?"
Sharada stood in the doorway, concern etched across her features. She closed the door behind her and crossed to Devika's desk, pulling up a chair to sit beside her.
"Nothing," Devika managed, hastily wiping at her tears. "I'm fine."
"Clearly," Sharada replied dryly. She reached out to touch Devika's arm. "Was it those boys? Did they do something during the practical? Because if they did, we can go straight to the principal and—"
"No, no," Devika interrupted, shaking her head. "It wasn't them. Not really."
"Then what?" Sharada pressed, her normally brisk manner softening. "You can tell me."
The simple kindness in those words broke the last of Devika's resistance. Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks as words tumbled out.
"It's Anand—my husband. He called this morning," she began, her voice breaking. "At first it seemed like he wanted to reconcile after our last fight, but then he saw how I was wearing my saree and started accusing me of... of trying to attract attention."
Sharada's expression darkened. "The same argument again?"
"Worse this time," Devika continued. "Ramlal brought a package while we were talking, and Anand somehow twisted that into... into an accusation that I'm having an affair with him."
"With Ramlal?" Sharada's eyebrows shot up. "The security guard? That's absurd!"
"I know," Devika agreed, wiping at her tears with the edge of her saree pallu. "But that's not even the worst part. There was a woman there with him—I could hear her calling him 'darling,' just like last time. When I asked who she was, he got defensive and then—" Her voice caught on the memory. "He called me a slut before hanging up."
Sharada's intake of breath was sharp with indignation. "He called you what?"
"A slut," Devika repeated, the word still burning on her tongue. "My own husband."
"That's completely unacceptable," Sharada declared, her hand squeezing Devika's arm. "No husband should ever speak to his wife that way, no matter what the disagreement."
"I think he's having an affair," Devika admitted, giving voice to the suspicion that had been growing for weeks. "This isn't the first time I've heard this woman. She's always there, always calling him with such... familiarity."
"We can't know for certain," Sharada cautioned, though her expression suggested she found the evidence compelling. "Long-distance relationships are complicated, and sometimes—"
"If it was just once or twice, maybe," Devika interrupted. "But it's happening every time we speak lately. And now this—calling me names, making accusations, refusing to explain who this woman is." She shook her head, fresh tears threatening. "What am I supposed to think?"
Sharada was quiet for a moment, considering. "Whatever is happening with your husband—and I agree it sounds suspicious—it doesn't justify how he spoke to you. That was cruel and disrespectful."
Devika nodded, accepting the tissue Sharada pulled from her purse. "I don't even know who he is anymore," she confessed. "The man I married would never have spoken to me that way."
"People change," Sharada said simply. "Sometimes distance reveals who they truly are, rather than who we thought they were."
The words hung in the air between them, weighty with implication. Devika dabbed at her eyes, the storm of emotion gradually subsiding into a dull ache in her chest.
"What do I do now?" she asked, her voice small.
"For today? You rest," Sharada replied, practical as always. "You've had an emotional morning and a difficult practical session. Go home, have some tea, get some sleep." She paused, then added more gently, "Tomorrow, you can start thinking about what you want your life to look like—with or without Anand."
"With or without..." Devika echoed, the concept simultaneously terrifying and strangely liberating.
"It's something to consider," Sharada said carefully. "But not today. Today, just breathe."
She handed Devika a bottle of water from her own bag, watching as she took a long drink. The cool liquid seemed to wash away some of the raw emotion, leaving clarity in its wake.
"Thank you," Devika said, meeting Sharada's eyes. "For listening. For not judging."
"That's what friends are for," Sharada replied with a small smile. "And whatever happens with Anand, with those boys, with anything—you're not alone here. Remember that."
As the afternoon light softened toward evening outside the staff room windows, Devika felt the weight on her shoulders shift slightly—not lighter, exactly, but more evenly distributed, as if Sharada had taken some portion of it upon herself. The pain of Anand's betrayal, the shame of his accusation, the discomfort of Vishnu and Pathan's attention—none of it had disappeared, but for the first time since coming to Pune, Devika felt she might not have to carry it all alone.
The past few days had been a storm of emotions—the confrontation with her husband, the incident with Ramlal, the strange tea they had shared afterward. Yet this morning, a tentative calm had settled over her, as if the worst had passed and she could begin rebuilding from the rubble of her certainties.
Her phone buzzed on the dresser, the screen lighting up with Anand's name. Devika's heart stuttered in her chest. They hadn't spoken since their argument three days ago, when she had heard the woman's voice in the background of their call. Her finger hovered over the decline button before a sudden impulse made her accept instead.
"Hello?" Her voice came out steadier than she felt.
"Devika." Anand's voice carried none of the anger from their last conversation. Instead, it was soft, almost contrite. "Can we switch to video? I want to see you."
She hesitated, glancing at her reflection once more. "Alright," she agreed, tapping the camera icon.
Anand's face filled the screen—handsome in the conventional way that had first drawn her parents' attention during the arranged marriage discussions. His hair was neatly combed, his collared shirt crisp as always. Behind him, she could see the familiar backdrop of his Dubai apartment, the skyline visible through the window.
"There you are," he said, his expression softening. "I've missed seeing your face."
The words should have warmed her, but they landed like pebbles on frozen ground—small impacts that failed to penetrate the surface.
"Have you?" she asked, unable to keep the edge from her voice.
Anand's smile faltered, then reasserted itself with deliberate effort. "Of course I have. You're my wife. I think about you every day." He leaned closer to the screen. "Can you prop the phone up somewhere? I want to see all of you."
Devika placed the phone against a stack of books on her dresser, adjusting the angle until she was fully in frame. She stepped back, arms hanging awkwardly at her sides, feeling suddenly like a specimen under examination.
"You look beautiful," Anand said, his gaze traveling the length of her. Then his expression shifted, his brows drawing together. "But what are you wearing? Is that how you're dbanging your saree now?"
Devika's hand moved instinctively to her waist, where the fabric sat lower than traditional Kerala style. "It's how professional women dress here," she replied, the justification sounding hollow even to her own ears.
"Professional women?" Anand's voice took on the hard edge she remembered from their last conversation. "Or women looking for attention?"
"Please, not this again." Devika crossed her arms over her chest, as if to shield herself from his scrutiny. "I told you, this is the standard style here. Sharada advised—"
"Sharada again," Anand interrupted. "This mysterious colleague who keeps telling you to show more skin. Have you ever considered her motives?"
"Her motives?" Devika repeated, incredulous. "She's trying to help me fit in, to be taken seriously as a professional."
"By dressing like that?" Anand's voice rose. "I called because I missed you, because I wanted to make things right between us. And what do I find? That you're still ignoring everything I said, still dressing like—"
"Like what?" Devika challenged, her own anger rising to meet his. "Like a confident, modern woman? Like someone with agency over her own body?"
"Don't use those feminist buzzwords with me," Anand snapped. "This isn't about agency or modernity. It's about respect—for yourself, for our marriage, for our culture."
"Our culture," Devika echoed bitterly. "The same culture that has you working halfway across the world while I build a life alone in a new city? The same culture that expects me to be the perfect, obedient wife while you—" She broke off, the accusation hovering unspoken between them.
"While I what?" Anand's eyes narrowed. "Go on, say it."
The doorbell's shrill ring cut through the tension, making Devika flinch. "I have to get that," she said, grateful for the interruption.
"We're not finished," Anand called as she moved out of frame.
Devika opened the door to find Ramlal standing in the corridor, a small package in his weathered hands. His eyes brightened at the sight of her, then quickly lowered in a show of deference that hadn't been there before their tea together.
"Good morning, Devika," he said, using her name with careful deliberation. "A courier came for you."
"Thank you, Ramlal-ji." She accepted the package, acutely aware of Anand's presence just out of sight, listening to every word. "I appreciate you bringing it up."
Ramlal lingered a moment longer than necessary, his gaze lifting briefly to meet hers. "Will you be wanting tea this evening?" he asked, his voice lowered to near-whisper.
Before Devika could respond, she heard Anand's voice from inside the apartment: "Who is that? What's he saying about tea?"
Ramlal's eyes widened in alarm, and Devika quickly closed the door with a hurried, "Not today, thank you."
She returned to the phone, setting the package aside without looking at it. Anand's face on the screen was tight with suspicion.
"Who was that?" he demanded.
"The security guard," Devika replied, fighting to keep her voice neutral. "He brought up a package."
"And what was that about tea?" Anand's eyes had taken on a dangerous gleam. "Since when are you on tea terms with the security guard?"
"He's an old man," Devika said, the defense sounding weak even to her ears. "I invited him for tea once as an apology for... for a misunderstanding."
"An apology," Anand repeated, his voice dripping with disbelief. "Looks like your old friend came for a little enjoyment, and I disturbed you."
The accusation hit Devika like a physical blow. "He's my father's age!" she exclaimed, incredulous. "How dare you suggest—"
"How dare I?" Anand's laugh was harsh, devoid of humor. "You're the one dressing provocatively, having private tea with men while your husband is away. And you ask how dare I?"
"This is insane," Devika said, shaking her head. "You're accusing me of having an affair with a 65-year-old security guard? Do you even hear yourself?"
"I hear a woman making excuses," Anand replied coldly. "A woman who doesn't respect herself or her marriage enough to—"
A female voice interrupted him, calling from somewhere off-screen. "Anu, darling, we're going to be late for the meeting."
The same voice from their last call. The same intimate tone, the same casual use of his nickname. Time seemed to freeze as Devika and Anand stared at each other through the screen, the woman's words hanging between them like a physical presence.
"Who is that?" Devika asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Anand's expression shuttered closed. "A colleague."
"Colleagues don't call each other 'darling,'" Devika said, surprised by the steadiness of her voice despite the trembling in her hands. "Who is she, Anand?"
"This is ridiculous," he muttered, looking away from the camera. "I'm not going to justify myself to you when you're the one—"
"Who is she?" Devika repeated, louder this time.
The woman's voice came again, closer now. "Anu, seriously, Sharma is waiting."
"I can't waste time on this," Anand said, his voice cold. "Some of us have actual responsibilities, not just parading around for students and security guards."
"Answer me!" Devika demanded, tears burning at the back of her eyes. "Are you having an affair?"
Anand's face contorted with anger. "You've lost your mind," he spat. "Throwing around accusations when you're the one who's changed, who's turned into someone I don't even recognize. I can't waste any more time on you, you—" He paused, his jaw working as if chewing on the word before spitting it out: "Slut."
The screen went black as he ended the call.
Devika stood frozen, the slur ringing in her ears. She waited for the tears to come, for the collapse she had experienced during their last fight. Instead, she felt a strange, cold clarity spreading through her chest.
"Slut," she repeated to the empty room, testing the weight of the word. It should have crushed her, but instead, it seemed to illuminate something she hadn't been able to see before—the fundamental unfairness of it all. Her husband, likely in the arms of another woman, had the audacity to call her names for simply adapting her style of dress.
She turned to the mirror again, studying her reflection. The emerald saree dbangd across her form, the lower style revealing a sliver of skin at her waist. She adjusted it slightly, not higher as she might have done before, but more securely in its current position. Then she slipped on her heels, picked up her bag, and walked out the door with her head held high.
Ramlal was still at his post when she reached the courtyard. She met his gaze directly and offered him a warm smile that made his weathered face light up with surprise and pleasure.
"Have a good day, Ramlal-ji," she called, her voice carrying across the space between them.
"You too, Devika," he replied, his response drawing curious looks from two women chatting near the gate.
Let them look, Devika thought as she strode toward the college, her heels clicking against the pavement with rhythmic determination. Let them talk. I've done nothing wrong.
---
The biology laboratory was bathed in afternoon light when Vishnu and Pathan arrived for their practical session. Devika was already there, arranging slides and equipment with methodical precision, her mind still echoing with Anand's accusation, still burning with the slur he had hurled at her before hanging up.
"Good afternoon, Professor," Pathan greeted, his voice carrying that silky quality that had once made her skin crawl but now barely registered through the numbness that had settled over her.
"Afternoon," she replied, not looking up from her work. "We're studying plant cell structures today. Please prepare your microscopes."
The practical proceeded as expected—Vishnu and Pathan maintained a pretense of academic interest while finding every opportunity for proximity. When Devika leaned over to adjust Vishnu's microscope, he shifted in his seat, bringing his shoulder against her arm. When she demonstrated the proper cutting technique for plant samples, Pathan stood unnecessarily close, his breath warm against her neck.
In previous sessions, Devika had maintained strict distance, had stepped away at the first brush of contact. Today, she found herself unmoved by their tactics, too drained by her morning confrontation to summon the energy for avoidance.
When Pathan's hand brushed against her lower back as she passed his workstation, she simply continued walking. When Vishnu inhaled deeply near her shoulder, murmuring about her "lovely perfume," she merely corrected his slide preparation without comment.
Their touches grew bolder in response to her apparent indifference—a hand lingering at her waist when asking a question, fingers brushing her arm when reaching for equipment, bodies positioned to create unavoidable contact in the narrow spaces between lab tables.
"Professor, could you help me with this measurement?" Vishnu called, though the simple volumetric task hardly required assistance.
Devika moved to his side, demonstrating once again how to read the meniscus at eye level. As she straightened, his hand briefly touched her hip, the contact so quick it could have been dismissed as accidental if not for the gleam in his eyes when she looked at him.
"Is that clear now?" she asked, her voice professionally detached.
"Crystal clear," Vishnu replied, his gaze holding hers a beat too long. "You're an excellent teacher, Professor."
The session continued in this vein—their advances increasingly blatant, her responses increasingly detached. It was as if she were observing the situation from a distance, watching another woman navigate these predatory waters with mechanical efficiency.
By the time the practical ended, Devika felt hollowed out, emptied of the emotional energy required for either outrage or fear. She dismissed the students with curt instructions for their next meeting and began cleaning the laboratory with robotic movements, her mind elsewhere—caught in the echo chamber of Anand's voice calling her a slut, the stranger's voice calling him darling.
---
The staff room was mercifully empty when Devika arrived, her arms laden with materials from the practical session. She sank into her chair, the weight of the day suddenly crashing down on her shoulders. The numbness that had carried her through the practical with Vishnu and Pathan began to crack, emotion seeping through the fissures like water through damaged concrete.
Her vision blurred as tears filled her eyes, spilling over before she could blink them away. One sob escaped, then another, her body shaking with the force of emotions she had suppressed all day.
"Devika? What's wrong?"
Sharada stood in the doorway, concern etched across her features. She closed the door behind her and crossed to Devika's desk, pulling up a chair to sit beside her.
"Nothing," Devika managed, hastily wiping at her tears. "I'm fine."
"Clearly," Sharada replied dryly. She reached out to touch Devika's arm. "Was it those boys? Did they do something during the practical? Because if they did, we can go straight to the principal and—"
"No, no," Devika interrupted, shaking her head. "It wasn't them. Not really."
"Then what?" Sharada pressed, her normally brisk manner softening. "You can tell me."
The simple kindness in those words broke the last of Devika's resistance. Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks as words tumbled out.
"It's Anand—my husband. He called this morning," she began, her voice breaking. "At first it seemed like he wanted to reconcile after our last fight, but then he saw how I was wearing my saree and started accusing me of... of trying to attract attention."
Sharada's expression darkened. "The same argument again?"
"Worse this time," Devika continued. "Ramlal brought a package while we were talking, and Anand somehow twisted that into... into an accusation that I'm having an affair with him."
"With Ramlal?" Sharada's eyebrows shot up. "The security guard? That's absurd!"
"I know," Devika agreed, wiping at her tears with the edge of her saree pallu. "But that's not even the worst part. There was a woman there with him—I could hear her calling him 'darling,' just like last time. When I asked who she was, he got defensive and then—" Her voice caught on the memory. "He called me a slut before hanging up."
Sharada's intake of breath was sharp with indignation. "He called you what?"
"A slut," Devika repeated, the word still burning on her tongue. "My own husband."
"That's completely unacceptable," Sharada declared, her hand squeezing Devika's arm. "No husband should ever speak to his wife that way, no matter what the disagreement."
"I think he's having an affair," Devika admitted, giving voice to the suspicion that had been growing for weeks. "This isn't the first time I've heard this woman. She's always there, always calling him with such... familiarity."
"We can't know for certain," Sharada cautioned, though her expression suggested she found the evidence compelling. "Long-distance relationships are complicated, and sometimes—"
"If it was just once or twice, maybe," Devika interrupted. "But it's happening every time we speak lately. And now this—calling me names, making accusations, refusing to explain who this woman is." She shook her head, fresh tears threatening. "What am I supposed to think?"
Sharada was quiet for a moment, considering. "Whatever is happening with your husband—and I agree it sounds suspicious—it doesn't justify how he spoke to you. That was cruel and disrespectful."
Devika nodded, accepting the tissue Sharada pulled from her purse. "I don't even know who he is anymore," she confessed. "The man I married would never have spoken to me that way."
"People change," Sharada said simply. "Sometimes distance reveals who they truly are, rather than who we thought they were."
The words hung in the air between them, weighty with implication. Devika dabbed at her eyes, the storm of emotion gradually subsiding into a dull ache in her chest.
"What do I do now?" she asked, her voice small.
"For today? You rest," Sharada replied, practical as always. "You've had an emotional morning and a difficult practical session. Go home, have some tea, get some sleep." She paused, then added more gently, "Tomorrow, you can start thinking about what you want your life to look like—with or without Anand."
"With or without..." Devika echoed, the concept simultaneously terrifying and strangely liberating.
"It's something to consider," Sharada said carefully. "But not today. Today, just breathe."
She handed Devika a bottle of water from her own bag, watching as she took a long drink. The cool liquid seemed to wash away some of the raw emotion, leaving clarity in its wake.
"Thank you," Devika said, meeting Sharada's eyes. "For listening. For not judging."
"That's what friends are for," Sharada replied with a small smile. "And whatever happens with Anand, with those boys, with anything—you're not alone here. Remember that."
As the afternoon light softened toward evening outside the staff room windows, Devika felt the weight on her shoulders shift slightly—not lighter, exactly, but more evenly distributed, as if Sharada had taken some portion of it upon herself. The pain of Anand's betrayal, the shame of his accusation, the discomfort of Vishnu and Pathan's attention—none of it had disappeared, but for the first time since coming to Pune, Devika felt she might not have to carry it all alone.
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