20-06-2025, 09:44 PM
"I am ready to begin when you are," Ramlal said, his voice taking on a professional timbre that contrasted with the nervous flutter of his fingers around the measuring tape. He cleared his throat, avoiding her eyes. "For the most accurate measurements, it is best to stand before a mirror. That way, I can ensure the tape is perfectly straight."
Devika nodded, setting her teacup aside. A sudden awareness of what she had invited—this man into her home, to touch her body under the guise of measurements—sent heat crawling up her neck.
"I have a mirror," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. "But it's in my bedroom. The only full-length one in the apartment."
The words hung between them, weighted with implication. Her bedroom—the most private space in her small domain, the room where she slept alone while her husband entertained other women half a world away.
"If that is uncomfortable," Ramlal began, "perhaps we could—"
"No, it's fine," Devika interrupted, rising from the sofa with sudden determination. "It's just a room. And we're just taking measurements."
She led the way down the short hallway, hyperaware of Ramlal's footsteps behind her. The bedroom door stood ajar, and she pushed it open to reveal the neat space beyond—her bed made with precision, a few books stacked on the nightstand, and a full-length mirror mounted on the wall beside her wardrobe.
Ramlal hesitated at the threshold, as if crossing it required special permission.
"This is the first time I've had a man in my bedroom since coming to Pune," Devika said, the confession slipping out unbidden. "My husband has never even seen this apartment."
"I am honored by your trust," Ramlal replied, his voice soft as he finally stepped inside. He stood awkwardly near the door, the measuring tape twisted between his fingers. "Though perhaps I should not be here."
"Why not? You're helping me." Devika moved to stand before the mirror, straightening her shoulders. "Besides, what does propriety matter now? My husband is with other women while I'm alone in a strange city. I think I'm entitled to bend a few rules."
Ramlal nodded, approaching her with cautious steps. In the mirror's reflection, they made an odd pair—her in her gold saree, still youthful despite the shadows beneath her eyes; him in his faded clothes, white-haired and weathered, yet standing straight with newfound purpose.
"We should begin," he said, untwisting the measuring tape. Then he paused, indecision clear in his eyes. "Madam—Devika—I must say something that may seem improper."
She met his gaze in the mirror. "Go ahead."
"For accurate measurements, especially for sleeveless blouses, I cannot measure over the pallu of your saree." His words came carefully, as if navigating a minefield. "The fabric adds bulk that would make the measurements incorrect."
Devika's fingers tightened around the edge of her pallu where it dbangd across her shoulder and chest. Of course he was right—she'd known this was coming, had prepared herself for it, yet the reality of standing before this man without the modest covering sent a tremor through her hands.
"I understand," she said, forcing confidence into her voice. "It's no different than at a tailor's shop, is it?"
"No different," Ramlal agreed, though the flush creeping up his neck belied his words.
With deliberate movements, Devika unwound the pallu from her shoulder, folding it neatly before dbanging it over a nearby chair. She stood before the mirror in her simple cotton blouse and the lower half of her saree, the border still wrapped securely around her waist. The absence of the pallu left her shoulders and arms bare, the modest neckline of her blouse suddenly seeming more revealing without the additional layer.
In the mirror, she caught Ramlal's expression—a flash of naked admiration quickly collegeed into professional detachment. But not before she saw it, not before it registered like a small flame kindled in her chest. How long had it been since a man had looked at her that way? Since Anand had regarded her with desire rather than suspicion or indifference?
Ramlal's eyes traveled the length of her reflection, taking in the curve of her waist where the saree hugged her hips, the soft flesh above the blouse's edge, the slight swell of her breasts visible now without the pallu's concealment. He swallowed hard, and Devika watched the movement of his Adam's apple with a strange fascination.
"You are—" he began, then stopped himself. "Forgive me. I am here as a tailor, not to... I should focus on the measurements."
Devika felt a curious power in his discomfort, in the knowledge that her body could affect this man so visibly. "It's all right," she said softly. "I know I'm not as young as I once was."
"No," Ramlal said, meeting her eyes in the mirror with unexpected directness. "You are a woman in her fullness. Not a girl. There is a difference."
The compliment, delivered with such simple honesty, warmed her in ways she hadn't anticipated. Anand's flattery had always been calculated, designed to achieve some end. Ramlal's words felt raw, unvarnished—truth pried from a reluctant tongue.
"Thank you," she whispered. "Shall we begin?"
Ramlal nodded, unrolling the measuring tape with hands that trembled slightly. He stepped closer, and Devika could smell the faint scent of betel nut on his breath, mingled with the cheap soap he'd used to wash.
"I will need to measure from both front and back for precision," he explained, his professional demeanor reasserting itself. "The same measurement from different angles ensures the blouse will fit perfectly."
"I understand," she said, standing straighter. "Whatever you need to do."
He positioned himself before her, so close she could feel the heat radiating from his body. "First, the bust measurement," he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper.
Ramlal raised the tape, his arms extending around her in a gesture that mimicked an embrace. The tape circled her chest, his knuckles brushing against the sides of her breasts as he brought the ends together in front. Devika held her breath, acutely aware of his proximity, of the slight pressure of the tape against her breasts, of how his eyes focused intently on the numbers rather than on her face.
"Is this tight enough?" he asked, pulling the tape snug. "For sleeveless blouses, the fit must be precise."
"A little tighter," she heard herself say, though the tape already pressed firmly against her. "The blouses should be fitted."
He tightened the tape another fraction, and Devika felt her breasts compress slightly under the pressure. From his vantage point, she knew he could see down the modest neckline of her blouse, could glimpse the shadow between her breasts.
"Like this?" he asked, his voice hoarse.
"Yes," she whispered. "That's right."
Ramlal's eyes flickered from the tape to her face, then down to where the measurement pressed against her body. He noted the number in the small notebook she'd provided, his writing surprisingly neat for his age.
"Now the underbust," he said, lowering the tape to the band of her blouse. Again his fingers brushed against her, this time along the sensitive skin beneath her breasts. The contact, though professional in intent, sent a small shiver through her that she couldn't suppress.
Ramlal noticed, his eyes lifting to hers in the mirror. "Are you cold?"
"No," she admitted, unable to fabricate a convenient lie. "Just... it's been a while since... since anyone has touched me."
The confession hung in the air between them, too honest, too revealing. Ramlal's hands stilled, the tape measure taut against her ribs.
"Your husband is a fool," he said simply, then returned to his task, noting the measurement without further comment.
Next came the shoulder width, Ramlal stretching the tape from one shoulder to the other across her upper back. His fingers rested lightly on her bare skin, the touch impersonal yet somehow intimate in the quiet bedroom. Devika watched his face in the mirror—the concentration in his eyes, the slight parting of his lips as he worked.
"For sleeveless blouses, we must measure the armhole precisely," he explained, moving to her side. "Please raise your arm slightly."
Devika obeyed, lifting her arm to create space. Ramlal carefully positioned the tape around her armpit, his fingers unavoidably touching the side of her breast as he completed the circle. Despite the professional necessity, the contact felt illicit, forbidden. She felt her nipples tighten beneath her blouse, responding to his proximity in ways that both embarrassed and excited her.
If Ramlal noticed the change, he gave no indication, focusing on the tape with exaggerated attention. "This measurement is very important," he murmured. "If the armhole is too tight, the blouse will bind. Too loose, and it will gap when you move."
He repeated the process on her other arm, his touch growing minutely more confident, lingering a moment longer than strictly necessary. Devika found herself holding her breath again, waiting for each new contact, each professional touch that somehow felt increasingly less professional with each passing moment.
"Now, the front neck depth," Ramlal said, hesitating slightly. This measurement would require him to place the tape at the base of her throat and extend it down toward her cleavage—the most intimate contact yet.
"Is something wrong?" Devika asked, noting his hesitation.
"No, nothing," he replied quickly. "Just... this measurement determines how low the neckline will be."
He positioned the tape at her collarbone, drawing it downward between her breasts. The cool metal end of the tape pressed against her skin, stopping at a modest depth that would reveal nothing more than her current blouse.
"Is this deep enough?" he asked, his eyes meeting hers in the mirror.
Devika studied her reflection, the tape disappearing between the swells of her breasts. "A little lower," she heard herself say. "I want something... different from what I usually wear."
Ramlal's eyebrows rose slightly, but he obediently lowered the tape another half-inch, his fingertip pressing gently into the beginning of her cleavage. "Here?"
"Yes," she breathed, her chest rising and falling more rapidly than normal. "That's right."
He noted the measurement, his handwriting becoming less steady. The air in the bedroom seemed to thicken, charged with unspoken possibilities that neither of them had anticipated when they began.
"Now we should take the same measurements from behind," Ramlal said, moving to stand behind her. "For consistency."
In the mirror, Devika watched him position himself at her back, close enough that she could feel his breath stir the loose strands of hair at her nape. His reflection looked different somehow—less the bent old security guard and more a man with purpose, with hidden depths she hadn't considered before.
As he raised the tape to measure her back, Devika felt something press against her—a firmness that could only be one thing. Ramlal had become aroused, his body betraying his professional demeanor. She should have been offended, should have stepped away immediately. Instead, she found herself shifting slightly, pressing back against him in a movement so subtle it could have been accidental.
Ramlal froze, his eyes meeting hers in the mirror with a mixture of shame and undisguised want. "Forgive me," he whispered. "I am an old man, but still a man."
"There's nothing to forgive," Devika replied, her voice low. Something wild and unfamiliar had awakened in her—a recklessness born of betrayal and loneliness, a desire to feel wanted after learning how thoroughly her husband had discarded her.
Ramlal inhaled deeply, his nose close to her hair. "Your scent," he murmured. "Jasmine. So lovely."
"Thank you," she replied, offering him a shy smile in the mirror instead of the rebuke he clearly expected.
Emboldened by her response, he carefully gathered her hair in his hands, moving it over one shoulder to expose the nape of her neck. "For the back measurements," he explained, though both knew it was unnecessary.
The tape measure pressed against her upper back, but Devika was more aware of Ramlal's proximity, of the heat of his body behind hers, of how his eyes in the mirror had darkened with desire.
"Such a beautiful back," he murmured, the tape sliding down her spine. "So elegant. So clean."
"Are you measuring or admiring?" Devika asked, surprising herself with the teasing note in her voice.
"Both," Ramlal admitted, his honesty disarming. "I cannot help myself. I have never seen such beauty up close. Not in all my years."
He set the tape aside suddenly, his weathered hands coming to rest lightly on her bare arms. The contact sent a shock through Devika's system, so different from the impersonal touch of the measuring process.
"What are you doing?" she asked, though she made no move to pull away.
"Feeling how the sleeveless style would suit you," he replied, his fingers trailing lightly over her skin. "The fabric must complement such softness."
Devika should have stopped him. Should have reminded him of his place, of the professional boundary they were rapidly dissolving. Instead, she heard herself ask, "Am I soft enough?"
Their eyes met in the mirror, the question hanging between them like a thread about to snap. "Yes," Ramlal whispered. "Softer than anything I have ever touched. Any man would feel blessed to touch such skin."
The words sent heat pooling low in Devika's belly, a sensation she hadn't felt in longer than she cared to admit. Without conscious thought, she pressed back against him more deliberately, feeling his hardness against her. A small, desperate sound escaped her throat.
"Your husband," Ramlal said, his hands moving to her waist, hovering just above the fabric of her saree. "He is a fool to leave this. To betray this. What kind of man does such a thing?"
"Touch me," Devika whispered, the words torn from some place deep inside her that had been silent for too long. "I want to feel your hands on my waist."
Ramlal's fingers descended, pressing gently into the fabric-covered flesh of her hips. "So soft," he murmured, his voice thick with wonder. "So perfectly curved."
His hands moved with surprising confidence now, shaped by decades of appreciating women from afar. They curved around her hips, squeezing gently, before sliding forward to the flat plane of her stomach where her navel lay partly exposed by the saree's dbang.
"Your husband," Ramlal said again, his voice rough with emotion. "What a fool. What an idiot to leave something so precious."
One finger dared to probe her navel, circling the small depression. "Deep and soft," he murmured, the words carrying a double meaning that made Devika's knees weaken.
She leaned back against him, her head falling against his shoulder, her hands reaching behind to grasp his thighs for support. "Oh, fuck," she breathed, the profanity foreign on her tongue but perfectly expressing the storm of sensation overwhelming her.
Ramlal seized the moment, his lips finding the side of her neck, pressing against the damp skin with unexpected tenderness. He inhaled deeply, as if trying to capture her essence, before his tongue darted out to taste the salt of her skin. His hands continued their exploration, one sliding up toward the underside of her breast, the other splayed across her abdomen, holding her against him.
Devika felt herself surrendering, melting into his touch, her body responding with an eagerness that shocked her. She could feel wetness gathering between her thighs, her pulse pounding in her ears, every nerve ending alive with sensation.
Then, like a splash of cold water, reality intruded—the face in the mirror was not her husband's but a stranger's, an old man's, someone who had no right to touch her this way. What was she doing? What had she become?
With a gasp, she pulled away, stumbling slightly as she put distance between them. Ramlal stood frozen, his hands still extended, his expression a mixture of desire and dismay.
"I'm sorry," he said immediately, lowering his arms. "I should not have... This was unforgivable."
"No," Devika said, wrapping her arms around herself. "It was my fault. I asked you to touch me. I don't know what I was thinking."
They stood in awkward silence, neither able to meet the other's eyes. The intimate moment had shattered, leaving only confusion and shame in its wake.
"Perhaps we should finish the measurements another time," Ramlal suggested, his voice strained.
"No," Devika said firmly, reaching for her pallu and dbanging it over her shoulder with shaking hands. "We've come this far. Let's complete what we started—the measurements, I mean."
They returned to the living room, the bedroom suddenly too charged with memory to remain there. Ramlal completed the remaining measurements with mechanical efficiency, no longer lingering, no longer commenting on her softness or beauty. His hands trembled slightly but remained professional, the tape measure creating a barrier between his skin and hers.
When he finally folded the measuring tape and tucked it into his pocket, the relief in his posture was palpable. "I will find someone to stitch these blouses for you," he said, not meeting her eyes. "A proper tailor with a shop."
"But you have the measurements," Devika protested. "Couldn't you do it?"
Ramlal shook his head. "My hands are no longer steady enough for fine work. I would not do justice to such beautiful fabric. Or to..." He trailed off, leaving the compliment unfinished.
"I understand," she said softly. "Thank you for your help today."
He nodded, moving toward the door with the careful dignity of a man trying to salvage his pride. "I should go. My measurements are complete."
"Ramlal-ji," Devika called as he reached for the handle. "What happened... it was not your fault. I've been... confused since learning about my husband. Please don't feel ashamed."
He turned to face her, his weathered features arranged in a sad smile. "I am not ashamed of wanting you," he said simply. "Any man would. I am only sorry if I made you uncomfortable in your own home."
"You didn't," she assured him, though the words felt insufficient against the complexity of what had transpired between them.
With a final nod, Ramlal slipped out the door, leaving Devika alone with the echo of his touch still tingling on her skin and the knowledge that something fundamental had shifted within her—boundaries crossed that could never be reestablished, desires awakened that could never be put back to sleep.
She sank onto the sofa, fingers tracing the places his hands had been, wondering what kind of woman she was becoming in the aftermath of betrayal. Not the dutiful wife she had been, certainly. But who, then? And what would she do with this new, unfamiliar self who could respond so eagerly to an old man's touch simply because he looked at her with genuine desire?
The questions hung unanswered in the quiet apartment as afternoon light slanted through the windows, illuminating the notepad where Ramlal had recorded her measurements—numbers that would transform into blouses that would, in turn, transform her. Measurements of a body that had, for one reckless moment, remembered what it meant to be desired.
Devika nodded, setting her teacup aside. A sudden awareness of what she had invited—this man into her home, to touch her body under the guise of measurements—sent heat crawling up her neck.
"I have a mirror," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. "But it's in my bedroom. The only full-length one in the apartment."
The words hung between them, weighted with implication. Her bedroom—the most private space in her small domain, the room where she slept alone while her husband entertained other women half a world away.
"If that is uncomfortable," Ramlal began, "perhaps we could—"
"No, it's fine," Devika interrupted, rising from the sofa with sudden determination. "It's just a room. And we're just taking measurements."
She led the way down the short hallway, hyperaware of Ramlal's footsteps behind her. The bedroom door stood ajar, and she pushed it open to reveal the neat space beyond—her bed made with precision, a few books stacked on the nightstand, and a full-length mirror mounted on the wall beside her wardrobe.
Ramlal hesitated at the threshold, as if crossing it required special permission.
"This is the first time I've had a man in my bedroom since coming to Pune," Devika said, the confession slipping out unbidden. "My husband has never even seen this apartment."
"I am honored by your trust," Ramlal replied, his voice soft as he finally stepped inside. He stood awkwardly near the door, the measuring tape twisted between his fingers. "Though perhaps I should not be here."
"Why not? You're helping me." Devika moved to stand before the mirror, straightening her shoulders. "Besides, what does propriety matter now? My husband is with other women while I'm alone in a strange city. I think I'm entitled to bend a few rules."
Ramlal nodded, approaching her with cautious steps. In the mirror's reflection, they made an odd pair—her in her gold saree, still youthful despite the shadows beneath her eyes; him in his faded clothes, white-haired and weathered, yet standing straight with newfound purpose.
"We should begin," he said, untwisting the measuring tape. Then he paused, indecision clear in his eyes. "Madam—Devika—I must say something that may seem improper."
She met his gaze in the mirror. "Go ahead."
"For accurate measurements, especially for sleeveless blouses, I cannot measure over the pallu of your saree." His words came carefully, as if navigating a minefield. "The fabric adds bulk that would make the measurements incorrect."
Devika's fingers tightened around the edge of her pallu where it dbangd across her shoulder and chest. Of course he was right—she'd known this was coming, had prepared herself for it, yet the reality of standing before this man without the modest covering sent a tremor through her hands.
"I understand," she said, forcing confidence into her voice. "It's no different than at a tailor's shop, is it?"
"No different," Ramlal agreed, though the flush creeping up his neck belied his words.
With deliberate movements, Devika unwound the pallu from her shoulder, folding it neatly before dbanging it over a nearby chair. She stood before the mirror in her simple cotton blouse and the lower half of her saree, the border still wrapped securely around her waist. The absence of the pallu left her shoulders and arms bare, the modest neckline of her blouse suddenly seeming more revealing without the additional layer.
In the mirror, she caught Ramlal's expression—a flash of naked admiration quickly collegeed into professional detachment. But not before she saw it, not before it registered like a small flame kindled in her chest. How long had it been since a man had looked at her that way? Since Anand had regarded her with desire rather than suspicion or indifference?
Ramlal's eyes traveled the length of her reflection, taking in the curve of her waist where the saree hugged her hips, the soft flesh above the blouse's edge, the slight swell of her breasts visible now without the pallu's concealment. He swallowed hard, and Devika watched the movement of his Adam's apple with a strange fascination.
"You are—" he began, then stopped himself. "Forgive me. I am here as a tailor, not to... I should focus on the measurements."
Devika felt a curious power in his discomfort, in the knowledge that her body could affect this man so visibly. "It's all right," she said softly. "I know I'm not as young as I once was."
"No," Ramlal said, meeting her eyes in the mirror with unexpected directness. "You are a woman in her fullness. Not a girl. There is a difference."
The compliment, delivered with such simple honesty, warmed her in ways she hadn't anticipated. Anand's flattery had always been calculated, designed to achieve some end. Ramlal's words felt raw, unvarnished—truth pried from a reluctant tongue.
"Thank you," she whispered. "Shall we begin?"
Ramlal nodded, unrolling the measuring tape with hands that trembled slightly. He stepped closer, and Devika could smell the faint scent of betel nut on his breath, mingled with the cheap soap he'd used to wash.
"I will need to measure from both front and back for precision," he explained, his professional demeanor reasserting itself. "The same measurement from different angles ensures the blouse will fit perfectly."
"I understand," she said, standing straighter. "Whatever you need to do."
He positioned himself before her, so close she could feel the heat radiating from his body. "First, the bust measurement," he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper.
Ramlal raised the tape, his arms extending around her in a gesture that mimicked an embrace. The tape circled her chest, his knuckles brushing against the sides of her breasts as he brought the ends together in front. Devika held her breath, acutely aware of his proximity, of the slight pressure of the tape against her breasts, of how his eyes focused intently on the numbers rather than on her face.
"Is this tight enough?" he asked, pulling the tape snug. "For sleeveless blouses, the fit must be precise."
"A little tighter," she heard herself say, though the tape already pressed firmly against her. "The blouses should be fitted."
He tightened the tape another fraction, and Devika felt her breasts compress slightly under the pressure. From his vantage point, she knew he could see down the modest neckline of her blouse, could glimpse the shadow between her breasts.
"Like this?" he asked, his voice hoarse.
"Yes," she whispered. "That's right."
Ramlal's eyes flickered from the tape to her face, then down to where the measurement pressed against her body. He noted the number in the small notebook she'd provided, his writing surprisingly neat for his age.
"Now the underbust," he said, lowering the tape to the band of her blouse. Again his fingers brushed against her, this time along the sensitive skin beneath her breasts. The contact, though professional in intent, sent a small shiver through her that she couldn't suppress.
Ramlal noticed, his eyes lifting to hers in the mirror. "Are you cold?"
"No," she admitted, unable to fabricate a convenient lie. "Just... it's been a while since... since anyone has touched me."
The confession hung in the air between them, too honest, too revealing. Ramlal's hands stilled, the tape measure taut against her ribs.
"Your husband is a fool," he said simply, then returned to his task, noting the measurement without further comment.
Next came the shoulder width, Ramlal stretching the tape from one shoulder to the other across her upper back. His fingers rested lightly on her bare skin, the touch impersonal yet somehow intimate in the quiet bedroom. Devika watched his face in the mirror—the concentration in his eyes, the slight parting of his lips as he worked.
"For sleeveless blouses, we must measure the armhole precisely," he explained, moving to her side. "Please raise your arm slightly."
Devika obeyed, lifting her arm to create space. Ramlal carefully positioned the tape around her armpit, his fingers unavoidably touching the side of her breast as he completed the circle. Despite the professional necessity, the contact felt illicit, forbidden. She felt her nipples tighten beneath her blouse, responding to his proximity in ways that both embarrassed and excited her.
If Ramlal noticed the change, he gave no indication, focusing on the tape with exaggerated attention. "This measurement is very important," he murmured. "If the armhole is too tight, the blouse will bind. Too loose, and it will gap when you move."
He repeated the process on her other arm, his touch growing minutely more confident, lingering a moment longer than strictly necessary. Devika found herself holding her breath again, waiting for each new contact, each professional touch that somehow felt increasingly less professional with each passing moment.
"Now, the front neck depth," Ramlal said, hesitating slightly. This measurement would require him to place the tape at the base of her throat and extend it down toward her cleavage—the most intimate contact yet.
"Is something wrong?" Devika asked, noting his hesitation.
"No, nothing," he replied quickly. "Just... this measurement determines how low the neckline will be."
He positioned the tape at her collarbone, drawing it downward between her breasts. The cool metal end of the tape pressed against her skin, stopping at a modest depth that would reveal nothing more than her current blouse.
"Is this deep enough?" he asked, his eyes meeting hers in the mirror.
Devika studied her reflection, the tape disappearing between the swells of her breasts. "A little lower," she heard herself say. "I want something... different from what I usually wear."
Ramlal's eyebrows rose slightly, but he obediently lowered the tape another half-inch, his fingertip pressing gently into the beginning of her cleavage. "Here?"
"Yes," she breathed, her chest rising and falling more rapidly than normal. "That's right."
He noted the measurement, his handwriting becoming less steady. The air in the bedroom seemed to thicken, charged with unspoken possibilities that neither of them had anticipated when they began.
"Now we should take the same measurements from behind," Ramlal said, moving to stand behind her. "For consistency."
In the mirror, Devika watched him position himself at her back, close enough that she could feel his breath stir the loose strands of hair at her nape. His reflection looked different somehow—less the bent old security guard and more a man with purpose, with hidden depths she hadn't considered before.
As he raised the tape to measure her back, Devika felt something press against her—a firmness that could only be one thing. Ramlal had become aroused, his body betraying his professional demeanor. She should have been offended, should have stepped away immediately. Instead, she found herself shifting slightly, pressing back against him in a movement so subtle it could have been accidental.
Ramlal froze, his eyes meeting hers in the mirror with a mixture of shame and undisguised want. "Forgive me," he whispered. "I am an old man, but still a man."
"There's nothing to forgive," Devika replied, her voice low. Something wild and unfamiliar had awakened in her—a recklessness born of betrayal and loneliness, a desire to feel wanted after learning how thoroughly her husband had discarded her.
Ramlal inhaled deeply, his nose close to her hair. "Your scent," he murmured. "Jasmine. So lovely."
"Thank you," she replied, offering him a shy smile in the mirror instead of the rebuke he clearly expected.
Emboldened by her response, he carefully gathered her hair in his hands, moving it over one shoulder to expose the nape of her neck. "For the back measurements," he explained, though both knew it was unnecessary.
The tape measure pressed against her upper back, but Devika was more aware of Ramlal's proximity, of the heat of his body behind hers, of how his eyes in the mirror had darkened with desire.
"Such a beautiful back," he murmured, the tape sliding down her spine. "So elegant. So clean."
"Are you measuring or admiring?" Devika asked, surprising herself with the teasing note in her voice.
"Both," Ramlal admitted, his honesty disarming. "I cannot help myself. I have never seen such beauty up close. Not in all my years."
He set the tape aside suddenly, his weathered hands coming to rest lightly on her bare arms. The contact sent a shock through Devika's system, so different from the impersonal touch of the measuring process.
"What are you doing?" she asked, though she made no move to pull away.
"Feeling how the sleeveless style would suit you," he replied, his fingers trailing lightly over her skin. "The fabric must complement such softness."
Devika should have stopped him. Should have reminded him of his place, of the professional boundary they were rapidly dissolving. Instead, she heard herself ask, "Am I soft enough?"
Their eyes met in the mirror, the question hanging between them like a thread about to snap. "Yes," Ramlal whispered. "Softer than anything I have ever touched. Any man would feel blessed to touch such skin."
The words sent heat pooling low in Devika's belly, a sensation she hadn't felt in longer than she cared to admit. Without conscious thought, she pressed back against him more deliberately, feeling his hardness against her. A small, desperate sound escaped her throat.
"Your husband," Ramlal said, his hands moving to her waist, hovering just above the fabric of her saree. "He is a fool to leave this. To betray this. What kind of man does such a thing?"
"Touch me," Devika whispered, the words torn from some place deep inside her that had been silent for too long. "I want to feel your hands on my waist."
Ramlal's fingers descended, pressing gently into the fabric-covered flesh of her hips. "So soft," he murmured, his voice thick with wonder. "So perfectly curved."
His hands moved with surprising confidence now, shaped by decades of appreciating women from afar. They curved around her hips, squeezing gently, before sliding forward to the flat plane of her stomach where her navel lay partly exposed by the saree's dbang.
"Your husband," Ramlal said again, his voice rough with emotion. "What a fool. What an idiot to leave something so precious."
One finger dared to probe her navel, circling the small depression. "Deep and soft," he murmured, the words carrying a double meaning that made Devika's knees weaken.
She leaned back against him, her head falling against his shoulder, her hands reaching behind to grasp his thighs for support. "Oh, fuck," she breathed, the profanity foreign on her tongue but perfectly expressing the storm of sensation overwhelming her.
Ramlal seized the moment, his lips finding the side of her neck, pressing against the damp skin with unexpected tenderness. He inhaled deeply, as if trying to capture her essence, before his tongue darted out to taste the salt of her skin. His hands continued their exploration, one sliding up toward the underside of her breast, the other splayed across her abdomen, holding her against him.
Devika felt herself surrendering, melting into his touch, her body responding with an eagerness that shocked her. She could feel wetness gathering between her thighs, her pulse pounding in her ears, every nerve ending alive with sensation.
Then, like a splash of cold water, reality intruded—the face in the mirror was not her husband's but a stranger's, an old man's, someone who had no right to touch her this way. What was she doing? What had she become?
With a gasp, she pulled away, stumbling slightly as she put distance between them. Ramlal stood frozen, his hands still extended, his expression a mixture of desire and dismay.
"I'm sorry," he said immediately, lowering his arms. "I should not have... This was unforgivable."
"No," Devika said, wrapping her arms around herself. "It was my fault. I asked you to touch me. I don't know what I was thinking."
They stood in awkward silence, neither able to meet the other's eyes. The intimate moment had shattered, leaving only confusion and shame in its wake.
"Perhaps we should finish the measurements another time," Ramlal suggested, his voice strained.
"No," Devika said firmly, reaching for her pallu and dbanging it over her shoulder with shaking hands. "We've come this far. Let's complete what we started—the measurements, I mean."
They returned to the living room, the bedroom suddenly too charged with memory to remain there. Ramlal completed the remaining measurements with mechanical efficiency, no longer lingering, no longer commenting on her softness or beauty. His hands trembled slightly but remained professional, the tape measure creating a barrier between his skin and hers.
When he finally folded the measuring tape and tucked it into his pocket, the relief in his posture was palpable. "I will find someone to stitch these blouses for you," he said, not meeting her eyes. "A proper tailor with a shop."
"But you have the measurements," Devika protested. "Couldn't you do it?"
Ramlal shook his head. "My hands are no longer steady enough for fine work. I would not do justice to such beautiful fabric. Or to..." He trailed off, leaving the compliment unfinished.
"I understand," she said softly. "Thank you for your help today."
He nodded, moving toward the door with the careful dignity of a man trying to salvage his pride. "I should go. My measurements are complete."
"Ramlal-ji," Devika called as he reached for the handle. "What happened... it was not your fault. I've been... confused since learning about my husband. Please don't feel ashamed."
He turned to face her, his weathered features arranged in a sad smile. "I am not ashamed of wanting you," he said simply. "Any man would. I am only sorry if I made you uncomfortable in your own home."
"You didn't," she assured him, though the words felt insufficient against the complexity of what had transpired between them.
With a final nod, Ramlal slipped out the door, leaving Devika alone with the echo of his touch still tingling on her skin and the knowledge that something fundamental had shifted within her—boundaries crossed that could never be reestablished, desires awakened that could never be put back to sleep.
She sank onto the sofa, fingers tracing the places his hands had been, wondering what kind of woman she was becoming in the aftermath of betrayal. Not the dutiful wife she had been, certainly. But who, then? And what would she do with this new, unfamiliar self who could respond so eagerly to an old man's touch simply because he looked at her with genuine desire?
The questions hung unanswered in the quiet apartment as afternoon light slanted through the windows, illuminating the notepad where Ramlal had recorded her measurements—numbers that would transform into blouses that would, in turn, transform her. Measurements of a body that had, for one reckless moment, remembered what it meant to be desired.
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