23-06-2025, 12:20 AM
The morning sun slanted through Devika's bedroom window, illuminating dust motes that danced in the golden light. She stirred beneath tangled sheets, her body languid and heavy from the previous night's revelations. A dull, pleasant ache lingered between her thighs, a physical reminder of pleasures discovered in the privacy of darkness. She had slept dreamlessly, deeply, her body exhausted by release after months of unconscious tension.
The sharp rap at her door startled her from half-sleep. Devika blinked, disoriented, as the sound came again—more insistent this time. She fumbled for her phone. Ten o'clock. She never slept this late, not even on Sundays.
"Coming," she called, her voice rough with sleep. She grabbed the nearest saree—the one she'd discarded on the floor last night—and hastily wrapped it around herself, not bothering with the precise pleats and tucks her usual public appearance demanded. She didn't even glance in the mirror as she hurried to the door, though she did pause to run fingers through her tangled hair.
Ramlal stood in the corridor, a small package clutched in his weathered hands. His eyes widened slightly as they took in her appearance—hair tousled, saree dbangd haphazardly over her petticoat, the edge trailing on the floor behind her. The skin beneath her eyes looked bruised with exhaustion, yet there was a strange glow to her, a softness that hadn't been there before.
"Good morning, Devika," he said, his voice carefully neutral despite the riot of memories that flashed through his mind—her legs spread wide on the sofa, her fingers moving between them, her head thrown back in ecstasy. "A courier came for you."
Devika reached for the package, suddenly aware of her disheveled state. Heat climbed her neck as she wondered if Ramlal could somehow see the evidence of last night written on her face, in the looseness of her limbs, the heaviness of her gaze.
"Thank you," she managed, her fingers brushing his as she took the package. The brief contact sent an electric current through her, an echo of the pleasure she'd discovered hours earlier. "Is there... do I need to sign something?"
"No, no." Ramlal's eyes dropped to her feet, then rose slowly, lingering momentarily at the gap where her hastily wrapped saree revealed a sliver of midriff. "I signed for you already. Thought you might still be... resting."
Something in his tone—a knowing edge, an intimacy that hadn't been there before—made Devika suddenly, acutely self-conscious. Could he know? Had he heard her through the walls? Impossible. Her apartment was at the end of the corridor, and she'd been careful to keep her voice down. Mostly.
"Yes, I... I slept late," she admitted, clutching the package to her chest like a shield. "Thank you for bringing this up."
Ramlal nodded, his face inscrutable. "Of course. Good day, Devika." He turned to leave, his movements oddly stiff.
Devika closed the door, turning the lock with shaking fingers. She leaned against it, the cool wood a balm against her flushed skin. "What's wrong with me?" she whispered to the empty apartment. Her body felt different somehow—more alive, more sensitive, as if every nerve ending had been awakened by her explorations the night before.
She set the package on her coffee table without looking at it and sank onto the sofa—the same sofa where she had discovered a pleasure so intense it had bordered on pain. The television stood dark and silent across from her, the DVD player still holding evidence of her night's activities.
"I watched it," she said aloud, as if speaking the words might help her process the reality of what she'd done. "I watched old men having sex with young women." She pressed her hands to her hot cheeks. "And I liked it."
The scenes replayed in her mind—the silver-haired man with his mouth between the woman's thighs, the woman astride him, controlling their pace, their pleasure. Images that had shocked her at first viewing now returned with a different charge, colored by her own response to them.
"It was like watching Ramlal," she admitted to herself, the truth of it shocking in its clarity. "Like seeing what might happen if we..." She couldn't complete the thought aloud, but her mind had no such restraint.
She imagined Ramlal's hands on her body, not measuring for blouses but exploring for pleasure. His calloused palms would rasp against her skin, creating friction that sent shivers down her spine. In her mind's eye, she saw him lifting her—despite his age, he was wiry and strong from years of physical labor. He would hoist her up, hands cupping her buttocks, her legs wrapping around his narrow hips.
"Would he be able to hold me like that?" she wondered, her breath coming faster. "Against a wall, my saree hiked up around my waist, my legs bare and spread for him?"
She pictured it—her back pressed against cool plaster, Ramlal's body hot against her front, his mouth on her neck, her collarbone, dipping lower to taste the swell of her breasts above her blouse. Would he taste of paan, that sweet-spicy flavor she sometimes caught on his breath when he stood too close?
"If I kissed him," she whispered, her fingers unconsciously rising to touch her lips, "would his mouth be stained red from betel juice? Would our tongues tangle like the couples in the film, wet and desperate and hungry?"
The thought should have disgusted her—this proper Kerala woman imagining herself kissing an aging security guard, tasting tobacco and betel on his tongue. Instead, it sent a fresh surge of heat between her thighs, an answering clench of muscles still sensitive from the night before.
"And his..." She swallowed, unable to say the word even alone. "Would he be like the man in the film? Long and thick and hard for me?" She imagined herself kneeling before Ramlal as the woman had knelt before the silver-haired man, taking him into her mouth, tasting his desire for her.
Her hand slid beneath the loose folds of her saree, finding the dampness that had gathered there at her own imaginings. "Oh god," she breathed, shocked at how quickly her body had responded, how ready she was again despite the multiple releases of the previous night.
She snatched her hand away as if burned, rising from the sofa in a swift, jerky movement. "What's happening to me?" she demanded of her empty apartment. "He's a dirty old man. A security guard. How can I be thinking these things?"
But her body didn't care about Ramlal's age, his status, the betel stains on his teeth. It remembered only the gentle reverence of his hands as they measured her, the heat of his breath against her neck, the hardness she had felt pressing against her when she leaned back into him.
"No," she said firmly, gathering the loose end of her saree and tucking it properly at her waist. "This has to stop. I need to keep my distance from him."
Yet even as she made this resolution, folding it neatly into the practical corner of her mind where she stored all her proper decisions, another part of her—a part newly awakened and hungry for experience—whispered that it was too late. The door to these desires had been opened, and no amount of propriety or self-discipline would easily close it again.
Devika moved to the bathroom, shedding her hastily donned saree, avoiding her reflection in the mirror. She would shower, dress properly, reclaim her dignity and control. But first, she would remove the DVD from the player and hide it deep in her drawer, a secret treasure she could return to when night fell again and propriety gave way to newly discovered hunger.
Evening settled over Pune like a silk veil, the heat of the day giving way to a gentle warmth that clung to Devika's skin as she moved restlessly through her apartment. She had spent the day in a state of nervous energy, alternately cleaning already spotless surfaces and attempting to grade papers, her concentration fragmenting each time her mind drifted to the morning's encounter with Ramlal—and the shameful fantasies that had followed. She had just settled at her dining table with a cup of tea when a soft knock at her door made her freeze, the familiar pattern instantly recognizable.
"Just a moment," she called, smoothing her saree—properly dbangd now, every pleat in place—and checking her reflection in the small mirror near the entryway. This time, she was prepared, composed, the picture of propriety. No hint remained of the disheveled woman who had answered the door that morning.
She opened the door to find Ramlal standing there, a brown paper package clutched in his hands. Unlike his usual security uniform, he wore civilian clothes—a faded but clean button-down shirt and loose cotton pants that hung from his thin frame.
"Your blouses, Devika," he said, extending the package toward her. "My friend finished them today. I told him it was urgent."
Devika blinked in surprise. "So quickly? I didn't expect them for several days at least."
"My friend owes me favors," Ramlal explained, a hint of pride entering his voice. "When I ask, he makes time." Something in his tone suggested the effort he had gone to, the strings pulled to expedite her order.
"Thank you," she said, accepting the package, her fingers careful not to brush against his this time. "How much do I owe you for the tailoring?"
Ramlal waved a dismissive hand. "Nothing. My friend did this as kindness to me."
An awkward silence fell between them, Ramlal lingering in the doorway rather than turning to leave. Devika clutched the package to her chest, uncertain what to say next.
"Is there something else?" she finally asked, her voice stiffer than she'd intended.
Ramlal shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his eyes darting past her into the apartment before settling back on her face. "I thought perhaps... you might want to try them on. To see if they fit correctly." A beat passed. "Sometimes adjustments are needed."
Devika felt heat rise to her face. The thought of undressing with Ramlal waiting outside her bedroom door sent a jolt of both alarm and something darker, more primal through her body.
"That won't be necessary," she said quickly. "I'm sure they're fine. If there are any issues, I can have them adjusted elsewhere."
Hurt flashed across Ramlal's weathered face, there and gone so quickly she might have imagined it. "Of course. I just wanted to be sure you were satisfied."
The word "satisfied" hung in the air between them, charged with unintended meaning. Devika's mind flashed to the previous night, to the pleasure she had found by her own hand while watching strangers on her television screen, to the fantasies of this very man that had followed in the morning light.
"I appreciate your concern," she said, her voice slightly breathless. "But I'm sure everything will be fine. Thank you again for arranging this so quickly."
Ramlal nodded, finally seeming to accept his dismissal, though he made no move to leave. "You're welcome, Devika." Her name in his mouth still carried that hint of reverence, of forbidden intimacy.
"One more thing," she said, the words tumbling out before she could reconsider. "When we're in public—in the courtyard, or when others might hear—please call me 'madam.' It's more... appropriate."
Confusion clouded his eyes. "But when we are alone...?"
"When we're alone, Devika is fine," she conceded, not examining too closely why she allowed this familiarity behind closed doors. "But outside, it's better if we maintain proper... distance."
"As you wish," he said, his expression unreadable. "Good evening, then." He turned to go, his shoulders slightly stooped, smaller somehow than when he had arrived.
"Good evening, Ramlal-ji," she replied softly, closing the door with a gentle click.
Alone again, Devika leaned against the door, the package of blouses clutched to her chest like a shield. What was she doing? Setting boundaries was sensible, necessary—but part of her recognized she was trying to build walls against a flood that had already breached her defenses.
With a small shake of her head, she moved to her bedroom, setting the package on her bed and carefully unwrapping it. Inside lay four blouses in the jewel-toned silks she had chosen—emerald, sapphire, ruby, and a deep amethyst. Each was expertly stitched, the sleeveless design elegant in its simplicity, with necklines lower than any she had worn before.
Devika hesitated only briefly before removing her conventional blouse and saree, standing in just her petticoat before the mirror. She selected the emerald blouse first, slipping it over her head, the cool silk sliding against her skin like water. She turned to examine herself in the mirror and caught her breath.
The woman who stared back at her was both familiar and strange—recognizably Devika Nair, professor of biology, yet transformed by the cut of fabric that revealed her arms, the dip of the neckline that hinted at the swell of her breasts. The blouse fitted perfectly, skimming her curves without clinging, the rich color making her skin glow with warmth.
She tried each blouse in turn, marveling at how accurately Ramlal had translated his measurements into these garments that seemed made for her body. The ruby silk made her lips look fuller, darker without any cosmetics. The sapphire brought out hidden depths in her eyes. The amethyst lent her an almost regal air.
"Perfect," she whispered, turning to examine the back of the final blouse, where the tailored darts emphasized the narrowness of her waist. She had specified a lower neckline, and the tailor had obliged—not scandalously low, but enough to reveal the gentle curve where her breasts began, a hint of cleavage that would be visible depending on how she dbangd her saree.
As she removed the amethyst blouse, folding it carefully with the others, Devika found herself whispering a thank you to Ramlal—not just for expediting the tailoring, but for seeing her as she had not seen herself. For his hands that had measured her body with such care, his eyes that had appreciated what they saw without judgment or expectation.
"Stop it," she scolded herself, returning the blouses to their wrapping. "He's just the security guard who happened to have tailoring experience. Nothing more."
But as she prepared for bed that night, the image of herself in those blouses lingered in her mind—not just how she looked, but how she had felt wearing them. Confident. Desirable. Bold in a way Devika Nair, proper Kerala woman, had never allowed herself to be.
Tomorrow, she decided, she would wear one to work. The sapphire, perhaps, with a navy blue saree that would complement it perfectly. And if her arms felt bare, exposed after years of modest coverage—well, that was simply the price of becoming the woman she was choosing to be.
Monday morning dawned clear and bright, sunlight streaming through Devika's bathroom window as she stood before the mirror, razor in hand. She had risen earlier than usual, allowing herself extra time for this new ritual—one she had performed before, but never with such deliberate intent. The sleeveless blouse hanging on the bathroom door demanded it; arms exposed would mean underarms visible. Such a small thing, this removal of hair, yet it felt significant, symbolic of the larger transformation taking place within her.
She raised her arm, examining the dark growth that had accumulated in the weeks since she'd last bothered with this task. Who would see her underarms in Pune, after all, when her blouses always had sleeves? But now, everything was changing.
The razor glided over her skin, revealing smooth patches between lingering wisps of black hair. She worked carefully, rinsing the blade between strokes, watching her reflection with a critical eye. When she finished, she ran her fingers over the slightly damp skin—not perfectly smooth as the women in advertisements, but real, with small patches that added a certain rawness, an authenticity to her presentation.
"Better," she murmured, setting down the razor and reaching for her small collection of cosmetics—rarely used for daily wear, reserved typically for special occasions. Today felt like an occasion, though she couldn't have named exactly what she was celebrating.
A touch of kohl to define her eyes, a hint of color on her lips—not the bright red of her fantasies, but a subtle pink that enhanced her natural shade. She worked methodically, the familiar actions grounding her as she prepared for the unfamiliar sensation of walking through the world with her arms bare.
The sapphire blouse waited on its hanger, the silk catching the morning light, almost luminescent against the white bathroom walls. Devika slipped it over her head, the cool fabric settling against her skin with whispered promises of transformation. She turned before the mirror, examining herself from different angles—the cut of the armholes revealing the gentle curve where her arm met her shoulder, the neckline dipping just enough to suggest rather than display the fullness of her breasts.
"I look..." She paused, searching for the right word. Not provocative—the blouse was too tasteful for that. Not immodest—her curves were suggested rather than flaunted. "I look confident," she decided finally, turning to examine her profile.
Yet despite this assessment, Devika felt anything but confident as she selected a navy blue saree with a silver border, dbanging it with practiced ease over the new blouse. Almost unconsciously, she adjusted the pallu to cover her arms, the familiar weight of fabric offering security against judging eyes.
"Ridiculous," she chided herself, examining the end result in her full-length mirror. "What's the point of a sleeveless blouse if you're going to hide your arms?" Still, she left the pallu in place, a compromise between the woman she had been and the one she was becoming.
As Devika stepped into the corridor, lecture notes tucked into her bag alongside student papers she'd finally managed to grade, she felt oddly exposed despite the conservative dbang of her saree. The knowledge of what lay beneath—the bare arms, the lower neckline—was enough to make her heart beat faster, her palms slightly damp with nervous perspiration.
She descended the stairs, each step measured and deliberate, aware of the sway of fabric around her ankles, the whisper of silk against her skin. At the bottom of the stairwell, she paused, drawing a deep breath before pushing open the door to the courtyard.
Ramlal stood at his usual post near the security booth, scanning the morning newspaper with idle attention. He looked up at the sound of the door, his weathered face lighting with that particular warmth he reserved only for her.
"Good morning, madam," he called, emphasis on the formal address they had discussed, though his eyes held a private acknowledgment of their more intimate connection.
Devika nodded in greeting, her hand unconsciously tightening on the pallu dbangd over her shoulder. She had nearly reached the gate when something made her pause—a sudden conviction that this moment mattered, that the choices she made now would echo forward into the woman she was becoming.
With deliberate movements, she turned back toward Ramlal, who watched her with curious eyes. Maintaining eye contact, she slowly unwound the pallu from her shoulder, letting the fabric fall to dbang across her body in its intended fashion, leaving her arms bare in the morning light.
Ramlal's breath caught visibly, his eyes widening as they traced the newly revealed contours of her arms—the elegant line from shoulder to elbow, the delicate wrist, the soft skin of her underarm visible when she adjusted her bag on her shoulder.
A silent message passed between them—her gesture conveying both gratitude for his role in this transformation and a quiet pride in her own boldness. She offered a small nod, a slight smile curving her lips as she held his gaze.
"Perfect," she said softly, the word carrying across the quiet courtyard. "The measurements were perfect."
Ramlal stood straighter, pride evident in the set of his shoulders, in the slight lift of his chin. "I am pleased you are satisfied, madam," he replied, his voice carrying the formal address while his eyes spoke a more intimate language.
With a final nod, Devika turned and continued toward the gate, aware of Ramlal's gaze following her, feeling it like a physical touch against her bare skin. She didn't look back, but her posture shifted subtly—shoulders squaring, chin lifting, hips swaying with a new awareness of her body's power.
As she disappeared from view, Ramlal remained standing, newspaper forgotten in his hand. The image of Devika's bare arms—smooth brown skin catching the morning light, the gentle curve where her underarm met her breast, the slight flex of muscle as she adjusted her bag—was seared into his memory with perfect clarity.
"Such a woman," he murmured to himself, sinking back into his chair. His eyes remained fixed on the gate where she had vanished, as if her phantom still lingered there. "If a man wants to marry, he should marry a woman like that. Or else stay without marrying."
He closed his eyes briefly, remembering the deliberate way she had revealed herself to him—not to the world, not to the other residents hurrying past on their morning commutes, but to him specifically. A private display meant for his eyes alone.
"Will I ever feel those arms?" he wondered, his rough palm opening and closing as if remembering the softness of her skin beneath his fingers as he had measured her. "Will she ever allow me to touch her again?"
The question hung unanswered in the morning air as Ramlal returned to his duties, the newspaper reopened though his eyes skimmed unseeing over the headlines. His mind remained with Devika—her tentative smile, her bare arms, and the promise they held of a woman emerging from constraints both external and self-imposed, blossoming into something bold and beautiful and utterly captivating.
The sharp rap at her door startled her from half-sleep. Devika blinked, disoriented, as the sound came again—more insistent this time. She fumbled for her phone. Ten o'clock. She never slept this late, not even on Sundays.
"Coming," she called, her voice rough with sleep. She grabbed the nearest saree—the one she'd discarded on the floor last night—and hastily wrapped it around herself, not bothering with the precise pleats and tucks her usual public appearance demanded. She didn't even glance in the mirror as she hurried to the door, though she did pause to run fingers through her tangled hair.
Ramlal stood in the corridor, a small package clutched in his weathered hands. His eyes widened slightly as they took in her appearance—hair tousled, saree dbangd haphazardly over her petticoat, the edge trailing on the floor behind her. The skin beneath her eyes looked bruised with exhaustion, yet there was a strange glow to her, a softness that hadn't been there before.
"Good morning, Devika," he said, his voice carefully neutral despite the riot of memories that flashed through his mind—her legs spread wide on the sofa, her fingers moving between them, her head thrown back in ecstasy. "A courier came for you."
Devika reached for the package, suddenly aware of her disheveled state. Heat climbed her neck as she wondered if Ramlal could somehow see the evidence of last night written on her face, in the looseness of her limbs, the heaviness of her gaze.
"Thank you," she managed, her fingers brushing his as she took the package. The brief contact sent an electric current through her, an echo of the pleasure she'd discovered hours earlier. "Is there... do I need to sign something?"
"No, no." Ramlal's eyes dropped to her feet, then rose slowly, lingering momentarily at the gap where her hastily wrapped saree revealed a sliver of midriff. "I signed for you already. Thought you might still be... resting."
Something in his tone—a knowing edge, an intimacy that hadn't been there before—made Devika suddenly, acutely self-conscious. Could he know? Had he heard her through the walls? Impossible. Her apartment was at the end of the corridor, and she'd been careful to keep her voice down. Mostly.
"Yes, I... I slept late," she admitted, clutching the package to her chest like a shield. "Thank you for bringing this up."
Ramlal nodded, his face inscrutable. "Of course. Good day, Devika." He turned to leave, his movements oddly stiff.
Devika closed the door, turning the lock with shaking fingers. She leaned against it, the cool wood a balm against her flushed skin. "What's wrong with me?" she whispered to the empty apartment. Her body felt different somehow—more alive, more sensitive, as if every nerve ending had been awakened by her explorations the night before.
She set the package on her coffee table without looking at it and sank onto the sofa—the same sofa where she had discovered a pleasure so intense it had bordered on pain. The television stood dark and silent across from her, the DVD player still holding evidence of her night's activities.
"I watched it," she said aloud, as if speaking the words might help her process the reality of what she'd done. "I watched old men having sex with young women." She pressed her hands to her hot cheeks. "And I liked it."
The scenes replayed in her mind—the silver-haired man with his mouth between the woman's thighs, the woman astride him, controlling their pace, their pleasure. Images that had shocked her at first viewing now returned with a different charge, colored by her own response to them.
"It was like watching Ramlal," she admitted to herself, the truth of it shocking in its clarity. "Like seeing what might happen if we..." She couldn't complete the thought aloud, but her mind had no such restraint.
She imagined Ramlal's hands on her body, not measuring for blouses but exploring for pleasure. His calloused palms would rasp against her skin, creating friction that sent shivers down her spine. In her mind's eye, she saw him lifting her—despite his age, he was wiry and strong from years of physical labor. He would hoist her up, hands cupping her buttocks, her legs wrapping around his narrow hips.
"Would he be able to hold me like that?" she wondered, her breath coming faster. "Against a wall, my saree hiked up around my waist, my legs bare and spread for him?"
She pictured it—her back pressed against cool plaster, Ramlal's body hot against her front, his mouth on her neck, her collarbone, dipping lower to taste the swell of her breasts above her blouse. Would he taste of paan, that sweet-spicy flavor she sometimes caught on his breath when he stood too close?
"If I kissed him," she whispered, her fingers unconsciously rising to touch her lips, "would his mouth be stained red from betel juice? Would our tongues tangle like the couples in the film, wet and desperate and hungry?"
The thought should have disgusted her—this proper Kerala woman imagining herself kissing an aging security guard, tasting tobacco and betel on his tongue. Instead, it sent a fresh surge of heat between her thighs, an answering clench of muscles still sensitive from the night before.
"And his..." She swallowed, unable to say the word even alone. "Would he be like the man in the film? Long and thick and hard for me?" She imagined herself kneeling before Ramlal as the woman had knelt before the silver-haired man, taking him into her mouth, tasting his desire for her.
Her hand slid beneath the loose folds of her saree, finding the dampness that had gathered there at her own imaginings. "Oh god," she breathed, shocked at how quickly her body had responded, how ready she was again despite the multiple releases of the previous night.
She snatched her hand away as if burned, rising from the sofa in a swift, jerky movement. "What's happening to me?" she demanded of her empty apartment. "He's a dirty old man. A security guard. How can I be thinking these things?"
But her body didn't care about Ramlal's age, his status, the betel stains on his teeth. It remembered only the gentle reverence of his hands as they measured her, the heat of his breath against her neck, the hardness she had felt pressing against her when she leaned back into him.
"No," she said firmly, gathering the loose end of her saree and tucking it properly at her waist. "This has to stop. I need to keep my distance from him."
Yet even as she made this resolution, folding it neatly into the practical corner of her mind where she stored all her proper decisions, another part of her—a part newly awakened and hungry for experience—whispered that it was too late. The door to these desires had been opened, and no amount of propriety or self-discipline would easily close it again.
Devika moved to the bathroom, shedding her hastily donned saree, avoiding her reflection in the mirror. She would shower, dress properly, reclaim her dignity and control. But first, she would remove the DVD from the player and hide it deep in her drawer, a secret treasure she could return to when night fell again and propriety gave way to newly discovered hunger.
Evening settled over Pune like a silk veil, the heat of the day giving way to a gentle warmth that clung to Devika's skin as she moved restlessly through her apartment. She had spent the day in a state of nervous energy, alternately cleaning already spotless surfaces and attempting to grade papers, her concentration fragmenting each time her mind drifted to the morning's encounter with Ramlal—and the shameful fantasies that had followed. She had just settled at her dining table with a cup of tea when a soft knock at her door made her freeze, the familiar pattern instantly recognizable.
"Just a moment," she called, smoothing her saree—properly dbangd now, every pleat in place—and checking her reflection in the small mirror near the entryway. This time, she was prepared, composed, the picture of propriety. No hint remained of the disheveled woman who had answered the door that morning.
She opened the door to find Ramlal standing there, a brown paper package clutched in his hands. Unlike his usual security uniform, he wore civilian clothes—a faded but clean button-down shirt and loose cotton pants that hung from his thin frame.
"Your blouses, Devika," he said, extending the package toward her. "My friend finished them today. I told him it was urgent."
Devika blinked in surprise. "So quickly? I didn't expect them for several days at least."
"My friend owes me favors," Ramlal explained, a hint of pride entering his voice. "When I ask, he makes time." Something in his tone suggested the effort he had gone to, the strings pulled to expedite her order.
"Thank you," she said, accepting the package, her fingers careful not to brush against his this time. "How much do I owe you for the tailoring?"
Ramlal waved a dismissive hand. "Nothing. My friend did this as kindness to me."
An awkward silence fell between them, Ramlal lingering in the doorway rather than turning to leave. Devika clutched the package to her chest, uncertain what to say next.
"Is there something else?" she finally asked, her voice stiffer than she'd intended.
Ramlal shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his eyes darting past her into the apartment before settling back on her face. "I thought perhaps... you might want to try them on. To see if they fit correctly." A beat passed. "Sometimes adjustments are needed."
Devika felt heat rise to her face. The thought of undressing with Ramlal waiting outside her bedroom door sent a jolt of both alarm and something darker, more primal through her body.
"That won't be necessary," she said quickly. "I'm sure they're fine. If there are any issues, I can have them adjusted elsewhere."
Hurt flashed across Ramlal's weathered face, there and gone so quickly she might have imagined it. "Of course. I just wanted to be sure you were satisfied."
The word "satisfied" hung in the air between them, charged with unintended meaning. Devika's mind flashed to the previous night, to the pleasure she had found by her own hand while watching strangers on her television screen, to the fantasies of this very man that had followed in the morning light.
"I appreciate your concern," she said, her voice slightly breathless. "But I'm sure everything will be fine. Thank you again for arranging this so quickly."
Ramlal nodded, finally seeming to accept his dismissal, though he made no move to leave. "You're welcome, Devika." Her name in his mouth still carried that hint of reverence, of forbidden intimacy.
"One more thing," she said, the words tumbling out before she could reconsider. "When we're in public—in the courtyard, or when others might hear—please call me 'madam.' It's more... appropriate."
Confusion clouded his eyes. "But when we are alone...?"
"When we're alone, Devika is fine," she conceded, not examining too closely why she allowed this familiarity behind closed doors. "But outside, it's better if we maintain proper... distance."
"As you wish," he said, his expression unreadable. "Good evening, then." He turned to go, his shoulders slightly stooped, smaller somehow than when he had arrived.
"Good evening, Ramlal-ji," she replied softly, closing the door with a gentle click.
Alone again, Devika leaned against the door, the package of blouses clutched to her chest like a shield. What was she doing? Setting boundaries was sensible, necessary—but part of her recognized she was trying to build walls against a flood that had already breached her defenses.
With a small shake of her head, she moved to her bedroom, setting the package on her bed and carefully unwrapping it. Inside lay four blouses in the jewel-toned silks she had chosen—emerald, sapphire, ruby, and a deep amethyst. Each was expertly stitched, the sleeveless design elegant in its simplicity, with necklines lower than any she had worn before.
Devika hesitated only briefly before removing her conventional blouse and saree, standing in just her petticoat before the mirror. She selected the emerald blouse first, slipping it over her head, the cool silk sliding against her skin like water. She turned to examine herself in the mirror and caught her breath.
The woman who stared back at her was both familiar and strange—recognizably Devika Nair, professor of biology, yet transformed by the cut of fabric that revealed her arms, the dip of the neckline that hinted at the swell of her breasts. The blouse fitted perfectly, skimming her curves without clinging, the rich color making her skin glow with warmth.
She tried each blouse in turn, marveling at how accurately Ramlal had translated his measurements into these garments that seemed made for her body. The ruby silk made her lips look fuller, darker without any cosmetics. The sapphire brought out hidden depths in her eyes. The amethyst lent her an almost regal air.
"Perfect," she whispered, turning to examine the back of the final blouse, where the tailored darts emphasized the narrowness of her waist. She had specified a lower neckline, and the tailor had obliged—not scandalously low, but enough to reveal the gentle curve where her breasts began, a hint of cleavage that would be visible depending on how she dbangd her saree.
As she removed the amethyst blouse, folding it carefully with the others, Devika found herself whispering a thank you to Ramlal—not just for expediting the tailoring, but for seeing her as she had not seen herself. For his hands that had measured her body with such care, his eyes that had appreciated what they saw without judgment or expectation.
"Stop it," she scolded herself, returning the blouses to their wrapping. "He's just the security guard who happened to have tailoring experience. Nothing more."
But as she prepared for bed that night, the image of herself in those blouses lingered in her mind—not just how she looked, but how she had felt wearing them. Confident. Desirable. Bold in a way Devika Nair, proper Kerala woman, had never allowed herself to be.
Tomorrow, she decided, she would wear one to work. The sapphire, perhaps, with a navy blue saree that would complement it perfectly. And if her arms felt bare, exposed after years of modest coverage—well, that was simply the price of becoming the woman she was choosing to be.
Monday morning dawned clear and bright, sunlight streaming through Devika's bathroom window as she stood before the mirror, razor in hand. She had risen earlier than usual, allowing herself extra time for this new ritual—one she had performed before, but never with such deliberate intent. The sleeveless blouse hanging on the bathroom door demanded it; arms exposed would mean underarms visible. Such a small thing, this removal of hair, yet it felt significant, symbolic of the larger transformation taking place within her.
She raised her arm, examining the dark growth that had accumulated in the weeks since she'd last bothered with this task. Who would see her underarms in Pune, after all, when her blouses always had sleeves? But now, everything was changing.
The razor glided over her skin, revealing smooth patches between lingering wisps of black hair. She worked carefully, rinsing the blade between strokes, watching her reflection with a critical eye. When she finished, she ran her fingers over the slightly damp skin—not perfectly smooth as the women in advertisements, but real, with small patches that added a certain rawness, an authenticity to her presentation.
"Better," she murmured, setting down the razor and reaching for her small collection of cosmetics—rarely used for daily wear, reserved typically for special occasions. Today felt like an occasion, though she couldn't have named exactly what she was celebrating.
A touch of kohl to define her eyes, a hint of color on her lips—not the bright red of her fantasies, but a subtle pink that enhanced her natural shade. She worked methodically, the familiar actions grounding her as she prepared for the unfamiliar sensation of walking through the world with her arms bare.
The sapphire blouse waited on its hanger, the silk catching the morning light, almost luminescent against the white bathroom walls. Devika slipped it over her head, the cool fabric settling against her skin with whispered promises of transformation. She turned before the mirror, examining herself from different angles—the cut of the armholes revealing the gentle curve where her arm met her shoulder, the neckline dipping just enough to suggest rather than display the fullness of her breasts.
"I look..." She paused, searching for the right word. Not provocative—the blouse was too tasteful for that. Not immodest—her curves were suggested rather than flaunted. "I look confident," she decided finally, turning to examine her profile.
Yet despite this assessment, Devika felt anything but confident as she selected a navy blue saree with a silver border, dbanging it with practiced ease over the new blouse. Almost unconsciously, she adjusted the pallu to cover her arms, the familiar weight of fabric offering security against judging eyes.
"Ridiculous," she chided herself, examining the end result in her full-length mirror. "What's the point of a sleeveless blouse if you're going to hide your arms?" Still, she left the pallu in place, a compromise between the woman she had been and the one she was becoming.
As Devika stepped into the corridor, lecture notes tucked into her bag alongside student papers she'd finally managed to grade, she felt oddly exposed despite the conservative dbang of her saree. The knowledge of what lay beneath—the bare arms, the lower neckline—was enough to make her heart beat faster, her palms slightly damp with nervous perspiration.
She descended the stairs, each step measured and deliberate, aware of the sway of fabric around her ankles, the whisper of silk against her skin. At the bottom of the stairwell, she paused, drawing a deep breath before pushing open the door to the courtyard.
Ramlal stood at his usual post near the security booth, scanning the morning newspaper with idle attention. He looked up at the sound of the door, his weathered face lighting with that particular warmth he reserved only for her.
"Good morning, madam," he called, emphasis on the formal address they had discussed, though his eyes held a private acknowledgment of their more intimate connection.
Devika nodded in greeting, her hand unconsciously tightening on the pallu dbangd over her shoulder. She had nearly reached the gate when something made her pause—a sudden conviction that this moment mattered, that the choices she made now would echo forward into the woman she was becoming.
With deliberate movements, she turned back toward Ramlal, who watched her with curious eyes. Maintaining eye contact, she slowly unwound the pallu from her shoulder, letting the fabric fall to dbang across her body in its intended fashion, leaving her arms bare in the morning light.
Ramlal's breath caught visibly, his eyes widening as they traced the newly revealed contours of her arms—the elegant line from shoulder to elbow, the delicate wrist, the soft skin of her underarm visible when she adjusted her bag on her shoulder.
A silent message passed between them—her gesture conveying both gratitude for his role in this transformation and a quiet pride in her own boldness. She offered a small nod, a slight smile curving her lips as she held his gaze.
"Perfect," she said softly, the word carrying across the quiet courtyard. "The measurements were perfect."
Ramlal stood straighter, pride evident in the set of his shoulders, in the slight lift of his chin. "I am pleased you are satisfied, madam," he replied, his voice carrying the formal address while his eyes spoke a more intimate language.
With a final nod, Devika turned and continued toward the gate, aware of Ramlal's gaze following her, feeling it like a physical touch against her bare skin. She didn't look back, but her posture shifted subtly—shoulders squaring, chin lifting, hips swaying with a new awareness of her body's power.
As she disappeared from view, Ramlal remained standing, newspaper forgotten in his hand. The image of Devika's bare arms—smooth brown skin catching the morning light, the gentle curve where her underarm met her breast, the slight flex of muscle as she adjusted her bag—was seared into his memory with perfect clarity.
"Such a woman," he murmured to himself, sinking back into his chair. His eyes remained fixed on the gate where she had vanished, as if her phantom still lingered there. "If a man wants to marry, he should marry a woman like that. Or else stay without marrying."
He closed his eyes briefly, remembering the deliberate way she had revealed herself to him—not to the world, not to the other residents hurrying past on their morning commutes, but to him specifically. A private display meant for his eyes alone.
"Will I ever feel those arms?" he wondered, his rough palm opening and closing as if remembering the softness of her skin beneath his fingers as he had measured her. "Will she ever allow me to touch her again?"
The question hung unanswered in the morning air as Ramlal returned to his duties, the newspaper reopened though his eyes skimmed unseeing over the headlines. His mind remained with Devika—her tentative smile, her bare arms, and the promise they held of a woman emerging from constraints both external and self-imposed, blossoming into something bold and beautiful and utterly captivating.
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