25-06-2025, 11:35 PM
(This post was last modified: 26-06-2025, 08:20 AM by prady12191. Edited 1 time in total. Edited 1 time in total.)
The rain hammered against them like angry fists, each droplet another reminder of Devika's predicament. She stood beside Ganapathi in the flooded street, her shopping bag clutched to her chest, the weight of what had just transpired between them in the auto heavier than the water-logged fabric clinging to her skin. Around them, the other passengers dispersed into the darkness, leaving them alone in the storm's fury, the broken-down auto-rickshaw tilting pathetically behind them.
Ganapathi's body still thrummed with the memory of her weight on his lap—the soft pressure of her thighs, the heat where their bodies had connected despite the damp clothes between them. His hands tingled with the ghost-sensation of her waist beneath his fingers. He stole glances at her in the darkness, her saree now a second skin revealing every curve he'd just been exploring.
"What do we do now?" Devika finally asked, her voice barely audible above the storm. Water streamed down her face, collecting at the tip of her nose, the edge of her chin. "I'm kilometers from my apartment."
Lightning flashed, illuminating the worry etched across her features. In that brief, electric moment, Ganapathi's eyes traveled from her face down to where her saree clung to her breasts, her stomach, her hips. The wet fabric rendered her nearly transparent, the outline of her undergarments visible beneath.
"Madam, don't worry," he said, stepping closer to her. "Actually, we are very lucky."
"Lucky?" she repeated, disbelief coloring her voice. "We're stranded in a flood, Ganapathi."
"No, no. We are near my house," he said, pointing down a narrow lane to their right. "Just five minutes walking. You can come, dry yourself, wait until storm passes."
Devika's stomach clenched at the suggestion. The thought of entering Ganapathi's home—being alone with him in a private space after what had just happened in the auto—sent waves of anxiety through her body. Yet the alternatives seemed nonexistent. The rain showed no signs of stopping, her clothes were soaked through, and no transportation was available.
"I don't know if that's appropriate," she began, even as another crack of thunder emphasized the futility of her hesitation.
"What choice do we have, madam?" Ganapathi's voice softened, taking on the reasonable tone he used when assisting faculty at the college. "You will get sick standing in this rain. My home is not fancy like yours, but it is dry."
"How far did you say?" she asked, already knowing she would accept.
"Five minutes only," he repeated, producing a small folding umbrella from his bag. "I have umbrella also. See? God is looking after us."
He opened the umbrella, holding it over her with a gesture that might have seemed chivalrous under different circumstances. "Come, madam. This way."
Devika hesitated one final moment, then stepped under the umbrella's inadequate shelter. The space forced them to walk close together, his arm occasionally brushing against hers as they navigated the flooded lane. The umbrella provided little actual protection—the wind whipped rain against them from all angles, and water continued to splash up from the street with each step.
"Hold my arm," Ganapathi suggested as Devika stumbled on a submerged pothole. "Road is very bad here."
Reluctantly, she placed her hand on his forearm, feeling the surprising firmness of muscle beneath his wet shirt. Sixty years old or not, the man had strength built from years of physical labor.
"Almost there," he said, his voice carrying a note of excitement that made her nervous. "Just around this corner."
Her saree whipped around her legs in the wind, the wet fabric catching between her thighs with each step. Twice the pallu flew completely off her shoulder, slapping against Ganapathi's face before she could grab it. The second time, his hand closed over hers as they both reached for the fabric, his fingers pressing firmly against her knuckles.
"Sorry," she murmured, tugging the pallu back across her chest where it promptly clung to her curves, outlining her breasts more prominently than if she'd worn nothing at all.
"Here we are," Ganapathi announced finally, stopping before a small concrete building tucked between a tailor shop and what appeared to be a warehouse. He fumbled with keys, his hands shaking either from cold or anticipation, before pushing open a weathered wooden door. "Please, madam. Come inside."
Devika stepped across the threshold into darkness so complete she couldn't see her hand before her face. The smell hit her immediately—a mixture of stale cigarettes, paan, sweat, and something else, something distinctly male. She stood motionless, dripping onto the floor, as Ganapathi moved around behind her.
"Power is gone," he explained unnecessarily. "Wait one minute. I have candles."
She heard him shuffling in the darkness, followed by the scratch of a match. A small flame erupted, illuminating his face from below like a storyteller preparing to share ghost tales. He lit a thick candle, then another, placing them on different surfaces around what she could now see was a small, cluttered room.
As the space gradually revealed itself in the wavering candlelight, Devika took in her surroundings with growing discomfort. Ganapathi's home was essentially two rooms with what appeared to be a small kitchen alcove and a door that presumably led to a bathroom. The main room where they stood was dominated by a narrow bed pushed against one wall, its sheets rumpled and stained. Clothes lay scattered across every surface—shirts hanging from nails in the wall, pants dbangd over a chair, and—she averted her eyes quickly—what appeared to be underwear tossed carelessly on the floor.
The walls bore the evidence of years of paan-chewing—reddish-brown stains splattered near the corners where he had apparently spat without concern. A calendar featuring a barely-dressed actress hung above the bed, its corners curling with age and humidity.
"Sorry for mess," Ganapathi said, following her gaze around the room. "I was not expecting beautiful professor to visit my humble home."
"It's... fine," Devika replied, trying to keep the dismay from her voice. "Thank you for the shelter."
"Please, sit," he offered, hastily clearing clothes from the room's only chair. "I will make tea."
"Your home is quite... cozy," she commented, carefully lowering herself onto the chair. Her wet saree made a squelching sound as she sat.
Ganapathi paused in his movements, turning to look at her with an expression that mingled pride and embarrassment. "It is small, yes. But enough for one man." A shadow passed over his face. "It was not always just me here."
"Oh?" Devika said, recognizing the opening to a personal story but unsure if she wanted to hear it.
"My wife," he said, striking a match to light a small gas stove. "She left me when I was forty. Twenty years ago now."
The unexpected revelation caught Devika off guard. "I'm sorry to hear that."
"She went with cloth merchant," he continued, his voice flat. "Younger man. More money. Left me alone." He filled a kettle with water, his back to her. "Sometimes life gives surprises we don't want, yes?"
The simple statement struck a chord deep within Devika. Wasn't that precisely her situation with Anand? A husband who had chosen others, leaving her essentially alone?
"Yes," she agreed softly. "Sometimes it does."
Ganapathi turned, his eyes meeting hers across the small room. In the candlelight, something passed between them—a recognition, a shared understanding of abandonment that transcended their different stations in life.
"We are same, madam," he said quietly. "Different, but same."
Devika said nothing, but felt a strange heat rising within her that had nothing to do with the close, humid air of the small room. This unexpected connection with Ganapathi—this man whose hands had been exploring her body just minutes before—unsettled her more than his touch had.
Outside, the rain continued its assault, trapping them together in this intimate space, with nowhere to go and nothing to do but wait out the storm.
The rain outside intensified, beating against the tin roof like impatient fingers. Devika sipped the sweet, over-steeped tea Ganapathi had prepared, the warmth traveling through her chilled body even as her wet clothes clung uncomfortably to her skin. Each shift in her seat sent cold droplets sliding down her back, her spine, between her breasts. She sneezed suddenly, the sound sharp in the small room.
"You see?" Ganapathi said, concern lacing his voice. "Already catching cold. You cannot go out in this weather, madam. Storm is getting worse."
As if to emphasize his point, lightning flashed, illuminating the room more brightly than the candles, followed by thunder so close it made the windows rattle. Devika glanced toward the door, her last hope of escape fading with each passing minute.
"Perhaps it will let up soon," she suggested weakly, wrapping her arms around herself as a shiver passed through her body.
Ganapathi shook his head, moving to the window to peer through a gap in the threadbare curtains. "Radio said storm all night. Very dangerous to walk now. Water level rising." He turned back to her, his expression serious beneath his wet beard. "You must stay here, madam. No choice."
The finality of his statement settled over Devika like a weight. She was trapped here, in this small, intimate space with a man who had touched her so inappropriately just an hour ago. A man whose eyes still carried that hungry look whenever they moved over her body.
"You cannot sit in wet clothes all night," Ganapathi continued, moving toward a metal trunk in the corner. "You will become very sick."
He knelt before the trunk, opening it with reverent slowness. From within, he pulled out a carefully folded bundle of fabric—a saree in deep red with gold border, followed by a matching petticoat and blouse.
"My wife's clothes," he explained, his voice softening as he held them out to her. "She left many things behind. These will fit you, I think. Similar size."
Devika stared at the offered garments, unsure how to respond. The intimacy of wearing another woman's clothes—especially the wife of this man—felt strangely invasive. Yet the chill of her wet saree against her skin made the decision for her.
"Thank you," she said finally, accepting the bundle. "That's very kind."
"Not kind, madam. Necessary." He handed her a faded but clean towel. "You can change in there." He pointed to the second room. "There is lock on door. No one will disturb you."
The implication that there could be others to disturb her in this small home where they were clearly alone struck her as odd, but she simply nodded and moved toward the indicated door. Inside, she found a smaller room that appeared to serve as both storage space and occasional bedroom, with a narrow cot pushed against one wall and stacks of books and papers occupying most of the remaining floor space.
Devika closed the door, sliding the simple bolt lock into place with a soft click that offered more psychological than actual security. By the weak light of a single candle Ganapathi had placed on a shelf, she began the uncomfortable process of unwrapping her soaked saree.
The wet silk clung to her body, resisting her efforts to unwind it. She tugged at the fabric where it adhered to her skin, peeling it away inch by inch until it finally came free, falling to the floor with a heavy, sodden sound. Her blouse followed, the sleeveless cotton plastered to her arms and back, requiring her to peel it off like a second skin.
Standing in just her petticoat and undergarments, Devika assessed her situation with growing dismay. Everything was drenched—her petticoat so wet it dripped onto the floor, her bra soaked through, the cotton panties beneath clinging uncomfortably to her most intimate places. She couldn't possibly put dry clothes over such wet undergarments.
"What choice do I have?" she whispered to herself, unhooking her bra with fingers stiff from cold. The wet fabric released her breasts, which felt heavier somehow without their usual support, the nipples tightening in the relatively cooler air of the room.
She slipped her thumbs into the waistband of her panties, hesitating briefly before pushing them down her legs. The fabric made a soft, sucking sound as it released her skin, joining the pile of wet clothes at her feet. Standing completely naked in a stranger's home, Devika felt a vulnerability that went beyond physical exposure. She quickly used the towel to dry herself, the rough fabric awakening her skin as she rubbed it over her arms, her breasts, her stomach, between her legs.
She folded her wet undergarments and tucked them into her shopping bag, where they immediately began to dampen the paper. Looking around, she spotted a length of rope strung across one corner of the room, apparently for this very purpose. She hung her wet saree, blouse, and petticoat over it, hoping they might dry at least partially by morning.
Turning to the clothes Ganapathi had provided, Devika first examined the petticoat. It was made of thin cotton, clearly well-worn, with an elastic waistband that had lost much of its stretch. When she stepped into it, she discovered it was several inches shorter than what she was accustomed to, reaching only to mid-calf rather than ankle-length. Worse, the loosened elastic meant she had to secure it lower on her hips to keep it from sliding down altogether, leaving her navel and several inches of her midriff exposed.
"This can't be right," she muttered, trying to tug the petticoat higher, but it simply wouldn't stay.
Next came the blouse—and here Devika's dismay deepened. It was a North Indian-style latkan blouse, sleeveless with a deep U-shaped back that was meant to be secured by just two ties—one at the neck and one at the waist. The front was modestly high-necked, but the design provided almost no coverage for the back.
Devika held it against her chest, already anticipating the problem. Without a bra, her breasts would be unconfined beneath the thin fabric. Yet there was no alternative.
She slipped her arms through the sleeveless openings, pulling the blouse across her chest. The fabric was tighter than she expected, pressing her breasts together and upward, creating a fullness that would be visible even through the saree. Reaching behind her, she struggled to tie the strings that would hold the blouse closed. The top tie near her neck was manageable, but the lower one at her waist proved almost impossible to secure from that angle.
After several frustrated attempts, she managed a loose knot that she knew would not hold for long. The blouse gaped open between the two ties, exposing most of her back all the way down to where the petticoat sat low on her hips.
"This is impossible," she whispered, but her options had run out.
Finally, she wrapped the saree around herself, its unfamiliar stiffness suggesting it had rarely been worn. The fabric was silk, but heavier than her own preference, with elaborate gold zari work along the border. When she tried to tuck it into the petticoat, she discovered another problem—the lower position of the petticoat meant the saree would reveal more of her midriff than she had ever displayed publicly, the edge sitting a full two inches below her navel.
With no mirror to check her appearance, Devika could only hope the overall effect wasn't as revealing as it felt. She arranged the pallu over her shoulder, acutely aware of how the blouse fabric pulled tight across her unbound breasts with every movement. Taking a deep breath, she unlocked the door and stepped back into the main room.
Ganapathi had changed as well, his wet uniform replaced by a faded lungi and loose cotton shirt. He stood near the stove, his back to her as he prepared something in a small pot. At the sound of the door, he turned—and froze, the spoon in his hand suspended in mid-air, his mouth falling open in an expression of undisguised shock.
"I—" he began, but words seemed to fail him as his eyes traveled from her face downward, lingering on the exposed curve of her midriff, the way the blouse clung to her breasts, the shadow of her nipples visible beneath the thin fabric.
"The petticoat is a bit short," Devika explained awkwardly, tugging at the saree to try to cover more of her exposed waist. The movement only caused the barely-secured blouse to shift, the lower tie loosening further.
"You look..." Ganapathi swallowed visibly, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "Like goddess."
The naked admiration in his voice made her cheeks warm. She stood in the center of the room, hyperaware of every inch of exposed skin, of the way the candlelight played across her body, casting shadows that seemed to emphasize rather than conceal.
"The saree is beautiful," she said, attempting to direct his attention to the garment rather than what it revealed. "Your wife had good taste."
"Never looked like this on her," he said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "You wear it like north Indian film star. So beautiful."
In the dim light, Devika saw something in his eyes that went beyond simple appreciation—a hunger, yes, but also something like reverence. As if the sight of her in his wife's clothes fulfilled some long-held fantasy.
"Thank you for lending them to me," she said, crossing her arms over her chest, only to realize the movement pulled the blouse tighter across her breasts. She quickly dropped her arms to her sides again.
"The dress was waiting for you," Ganapathi said, his words carrying a weight she couldn't quite interpret. "All these years, it was waiting for someone worthy to wear it."
"You remind me of her," Ganapathi said softly, his eyes still moving over Devika's form in the borrowed clothes. He settled back onto his bed, leaving the room's only chair for her. "My wife. When she was young." The words hung in the air between them, loaded with memories Devika had no desire to hear, yet couldn't escape.
"I'm sure we're very different," she replied, perching on the edge of the chair, acutely aware of how the saree gaped at her midriff when she sat. Her fingers tugged uselessly at the fabric, trying to cover the exposed skin.
"No, no. Similar." Ganapathi's head tilted, studying her with unsettling intensity. "Same curves. Same grace when walking. Same fire in eyes." He tapped his temple. "I remember everything about her, even after twenty years."
Devika shifted uncomfortably, disliking being compared to a woman she'd never met, especially by a man who had touched her so intimately just hours before. "It's strange to hear you say that."
"Why strange?" he asked, genuine curiosity in his voice.
"Because—" she hesitated, searching for words that wouldn't offend. "We don't know each other well. These comparisons feel very personal."
Ganapathi laughed, a surprisingly warm sound in the small room. "Madam, after what happened in auto, we are not strangers anymore." His directness startled her. "Besides, when storm traps two people together, they should talk, yes? Pass the time."
Outside, rain continued to batter the tin roof, punctuated by occasional thunder. The candles guttered in a draft from the window, sending shadows dancing across Ganapathi's weathered face.
"Tell me about your life, madam," he said, leaning forward slightly. "You know I am just poor peon, alone since wife left. But you—beautiful professor from Kerala—your story must be more interesting."
Devika considered deflecting, keeping the conversation impersonal, but something in the simplicity of his request disarmed her. Perhaps it was the storm, creating a bubble of intimacy around them. Perhaps it was the vulnerability of wearing this stranger's wife's clothes. Whatever the reason, she found herself responding.
"My life is not so interesting," she began. "I was born in Kerala, educated there. Moved to Pune for this position at the college."
"And your husband?" Ganapathi asked. "He is in Pune also?"
The question sent a familiar pain through her chest. "No," she said softly. "He works in Dubai."
"Ah, foreign country!" Ganapathi nodded appreciatively. "Big job there? Engineer? Doctor?"
"Finance," she replied shortly. "He's been there three years now."
Ganapathi's brow furrowed. "Three years? He visits often?"
"Not really." The words came out clipped.
"You must miss him very much," he said, his tone surprisingly gentle.
Something in his kindness broke through her reserve. Or perhaps it was simply the absurdity of the situation—sitting half-dressed in a strange man's home during a storm, discussing her marriage with a college peon who had groped her hours earlier.
"We're not really in touch anymore," she admitted, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. "He has... other interests there."
"Other interests?" Ganapathi repeated, confusion evident in his voice.
"Other women," Devika clarified, her voice hardening. "Many of them, apparently."
Ganapathi's eyes widened behind his thick glasses. "Your husband is with other women? But how is this possible?" His hands gestured expansively toward her. "Look at you! So beautiful, so educated. What kind of man leaves this for other women?"
The raw indignation in his voice startled her. It was the same reaction Saradha had shown, but somehow coming from this man—this stranger—it felt more genuine, less practiced.
"These things happen," she said, echoing what her mother had told her when she'd finally confessed Anand's infidelities. "We can't control others' choices."
"But it is madness!" Ganapathi insisted, genuine disbelief written across his face. "Your husband must be blind or—what is word?—psycho! Not knowing value of what he has."
Despite herself, Devika felt a small smile tug at her lips. "Psycho. Yes, that's the word."
"Such men deserve nothing," Ganapathi continued, warming to his topic. "God gives them pearl, they throw it away for glass pieces." He shook his head in disgust. "My wife left me for richer man. At least I understand this reason. Money is strong pull. But your husband—what reason he can have?"
"I don't know," Devika admitted, the question she'd asked herself countless times now hanging between them. "Perhaps he grew bored. Perhaps I wasn't enough."
"Not enough?" Ganapathi's voice rose in disbelief. "Madam, you are too much woman for simple man to handle! This is real problem."
His unexpected compliment, delivered with such conviction, drew a genuine laugh from her. "That's a very kind way to look at it."
"Not kind. Truth." His eyes held hers steadily. "Some men afraid of strong women. They run to weak ones who don't challenge them." He tapped his chest. "Weak men, madam. Not worth your tears."
A shiver ran through Devika's body—from the cold or from his words, she wasn't sure. Her arms prickled with goosebumps, the thin blouse offering little warmth in the damp night air.
"You are cold," Ganapathi observed, rising from the bed. "Wait." He moved to a small cabinet, pulling out a faded flannel shirt. "Here. Not fancy, but warm."
Devika accepted the shirt, dbanging it around her shoulders like a shawl. The fabric carried his scent—a mixture of paan, cheap soap, and male sweat. She should have found it repulsive, but there was something oddly comforting in its earthy reality.
"Thank you," she said, pulling the shirt tighter around her shoulders.
Ganapathi returned to his seat on the bed, his expression growing more serious. "Madam, I must say something." He looked down at his hands, suddenly appearing older, more vulnerable. "About what happened in auto. My behavior was... not good."
The sudden change of topic caught her off guard. "It's fine," she said automatically. "The circumstances were unusual."
"No, not fine." He shook his head firmly. "I touched you without permission. Very wrong." His eyes met hers again, genuine regret visible in their depths. "But I want you to know—it was not disrespect. It was..." he searched for words, "overwhelming."
"Overwhelming?" she repeated, unsure what he meant.
"Yes." He nodded emphatically. "You are very beautiful woman, madam. Very sexy, very curvy. When such woman sits on lap, especially in wet clothes..." He spread his hands helplessly. "No man can resist. Not possible."
Heat crept up Devika's neck at his blunt assessment. No one had ever described her so directly to her face before—not even Anand in their most intimate moments. "Ganapathi, I don't think we should discuss—"
"I know, I know," he interrupted. "Not appropriate. But I must explain. You are so soft, madam. Your waist, your hips." His hands moved in the air, tracing her shape from memory. "When I touched, I couldn't stop. Like magnet pulling my hands. I am sorry if I pressed too hard, left marks maybe."
"Please," she said, her voice strained. "Let's not talk about that."
Ganapathi nodded, though his eyes still carried that same hunger as they moved over her form. "As you wish. I just wanted to say sorry. Not for feeling desire—this is natural. But for acting without permission."
The room fell silent except for the patter of rain and occasional rumble of distant thunder. Devika tugged Ganapathi's shirt tighter around her shoulders, inhaling its scent unconsciously. The strange intimacy of wearing his wife's clothes beneath his shirt, of sitting in his private space discussing their failed marriages, created a connection she hadn't anticipated when she'd first stepped into the auto that evening.
Outside, the storm showed no signs of abating, rain drumming steadily against the roof. Inside, a different kind of tempest brewed—one of confused emotions, unexpected connections, and a heat that had nothing to do with the humid night air.
Ganapathi's body still thrummed with the memory of her weight on his lap—the soft pressure of her thighs, the heat where their bodies had connected despite the damp clothes between them. His hands tingled with the ghost-sensation of her waist beneath his fingers. He stole glances at her in the darkness, her saree now a second skin revealing every curve he'd just been exploring.
"What do we do now?" Devika finally asked, her voice barely audible above the storm. Water streamed down her face, collecting at the tip of her nose, the edge of her chin. "I'm kilometers from my apartment."
Lightning flashed, illuminating the worry etched across her features. In that brief, electric moment, Ganapathi's eyes traveled from her face down to where her saree clung to her breasts, her stomach, her hips. The wet fabric rendered her nearly transparent, the outline of her undergarments visible beneath.
"Madam, don't worry," he said, stepping closer to her. "Actually, we are very lucky."
"Lucky?" she repeated, disbelief coloring her voice. "We're stranded in a flood, Ganapathi."
"No, no. We are near my house," he said, pointing down a narrow lane to their right. "Just five minutes walking. You can come, dry yourself, wait until storm passes."
Devika's stomach clenched at the suggestion. The thought of entering Ganapathi's home—being alone with him in a private space after what had just happened in the auto—sent waves of anxiety through her body. Yet the alternatives seemed nonexistent. The rain showed no signs of stopping, her clothes were soaked through, and no transportation was available.
"I don't know if that's appropriate," she began, even as another crack of thunder emphasized the futility of her hesitation.
"What choice do we have, madam?" Ganapathi's voice softened, taking on the reasonable tone he used when assisting faculty at the college. "You will get sick standing in this rain. My home is not fancy like yours, but it is dry."
"How far did you say?" she asked, already knowing she would accept.
"Five minutes only," he repeated, producing a small folding umbrella from his bag. "I have umbrella also. See? God is looking after us."
He opened the umbrella, holding it over her with a gesture that might have seemed chivalrous under different circumstances. "Come, madam. This way."
Devika hesitated one final moment, then stepped under the umbrella's inadequate shelter. The space forced them to walk close together, his arm occasionally brushing against hers as they navigated the flooded lane. The umbrella provided little actual protection—the wind whipped rain against them from all angles, and water continued to splash up from the street with each step.
"Hold my arm," Ganapathi suggested as Devika stumbled on a submerged pothole. "Road is very bad here."
Reluctantly, she placed her hand on his forearm, feeling the surprising firmness of muscle beneath his wet shirt. Sixty years old or not, the man had strength built from years of physical labor.
"Almost there," he said, his voice carrying a note of excitement that made her nervous. "Just around this corner."
Her saree whipped around her legs in the wind, the wet fabric catching between her thighs with each step. Twice the pallu flew completely off her shoulder, slapping against Ganapathi's face before she could grab it. The second time, his hand closed over hers as they both reached for the fabric, his fingers pressing firmly against her knuckles.
"Sorry," she murmured, tugging the pallu back across her chest where it promptly clung to her curves, outlining her breasts more prominently than if she'd worn nothing at all.
"Here we are," Ganapathi announced finally, stopping before a small concrete building tucked between a tailor shop and what appeared to be a warehouse. He fumbled with keys, his hands shaking either from cold or anticipation, before pushing open a weathered wooden door. "Please, madam. Come inside."
Devika stepped across the threshold into darkness so complete she couldn't see her hand before her face. The smell hit her immediately—a mixture of stale cigarettes, paan, sweat, and something else, something distinctly male. She stood motionless, dripping onto the floor, as Ganapathi moved around behind her.
"Power is gone," he explained unnecessarily. "Wait one minute. I have candles."
She heard him shuffling in the darkness, followed by the scratch of a match. A small flame erupted, illuminating his face from below like a storyteller preparing to share ghost tales. He lit a thick candle, then another, placing them on different surfaces around what she could now see was a small, cluttered room.
As the space gradually revealed itself in the wavering candlelight, Devika took in her surroundings with growing discomfort. Ganapathi's home was essentially two rooms with what appeared to be a small kitchen alcove and a door that presumably led to a bathroom. The main room where they stood was dominated by a narrow bed pushed against one wall, its sheets rumpled and stained. Clothes lay scattered across every surface—shirts hanging from nails in the wall, pants dbangd over a chair, and—she averted her eyes quickly—what appeared to be underwear tossed carelessly on the floor.
The walls bore the evidence of years of paan-chewing—reddish-brown stains splattered near the corners where he had apparently spat without concern. A calendar featuring a barely-dressed actress hung above the bed, its corners curling with age and humidity.
"Sorry for mess," Ganapathi said, following her gaze around the room. "I was not expecting beautiful professor to visit my humble home."
"It's... fine," Devika replied, trying to keep the dismay from her voice. "Thank you for the shelter."
"Please, sit," he offered, hastily clearing clothes from the room's only chair. "I will make tea."
"Your home is quite... cozy," she commented, carefully lowering herself onto the chair. Her wet saree made a squelching sound as she sat.
Ganapathi paused in his movements, turning to look at her with an expression that mingled pride and embarrassment. "It is small, yes. But enough for one man." A shadow passed over his face. "It was not always just me here."
"Oh?" Devika said, recognizing the opening to a personal story but unsure if she wanted to hear it.
"My wife," he said, striking a match to light a small gas stove. "She left me when I was forty. Twenty years ago now."
The unexpected revelation caught Devika off guard. "I'm sorry to hear that."
"She went with cloth merchant," he continued, his voice flat. "Younger man. More money. Left me alone." He filled a kettle with water, his back to her. "Sometimes life gives surprises we don't want, yes?"
The simple statement struck a chord deep within Devika. Wasn't that precisely her situation with Anand? A husband who had chosen others, leaving her essentially alone?
"Yes," she agreed softly. "Sometimes it does."
Ganapathi turned, his eyes meeting hers across the small room. In the candlelight, something passed between them—a recognition, a shared understanding of abandonment that transcended their different stations in life.
"We are same, madam," he said quietly. "Different, but same."
Devika said nothing, but felt a strange heat rising within her that had nothing to do with the close, humid air of the small room. This unexpected connection with Ganapathi—this man whose hands had been exploring her body just minutes before—unsettled her more than his touch had.
Outside, the rain continued its assault, trapping them together in this intimate space, with nowhere to go and nothing to do but wait out the storm.
The rain outside intensified, beating against the tin roof like impatient fingers. Devika sipped the sweet, over-steeped tea Ganapathi had prepared, the warmth traveling through her chilled body even as her wet clothes clung uncomfortably to her skin. Each shift in her seat sent cold droplets sliding down her back, her spine, between her breasts. She sneezed suddenly, the sound sharp in the small room.
"You see?" Ganapathi said, concern lacing his voice. "Already catching cold. You cannot go out in this weather, madam. Storm is getting worse."
As if to emphasize his point, lightning flashed, illuminating the room more brightly than the candles, followed by thunder so close it made the windows rattle. Devika glanced toward the door, her last hope of escape fading with each passing minute.
"Perhaps it will let up soon," she suggested weakly, wrapping her arms around herself as a shiver passed through her body.
Ganapathi shook his head, moving to the window to peer through a gap in the threadbare curtains. "Radio said storm all night. Very dangerous to walk now. Water level rising." He turned back to her, his expression serious beneath his wet beard. "You must stay here, madam. No choice."
The finality of his statement settled over Devika like a weight. She was trapped here, in this small, intimate space with a man who had touched her so inappropriately just an hour ago. A man whose eyes still carried that hungry look whenever they moved over her body.
"You cannot sit in wet clothes all night," Ganapathi continued, moving toward a metal trunk in the corner. "You will become very sick."
He knelt before the trunk, opening it with reverent slowness. From within, he pulled out a carefully folded bundle of fabric—a saree in deep red with gold border, followed by a matching petticoat and blouse.
"My wife's clothes," he explained, his voice softening as he held them out to her. "She left many things behind. These will fit you, I think. Similar size."
Devika stared at the offered garments, unsure how to respond. The intimacy of wearing another woman's clothes—especially the wife of this man—felt strangely invasive. Yet the chill of her wet saree against her skin made the decision for her.
"Thank you," she said finally, accepting the bundle. "That's very kind."
"Not kind, madam. Necessary." He handed her a faded but clean towel. "You can change in there." He pointed to the second room. "There is lock on door. No one will disturb you."
The implication that there could be others to disturb her in this small home where they were clearly alone struck her as odd, but she simply nodded and moved toward the indicated door. Inside, she found a smaller room that appeared to serve as both storage space and occasional bedroom, with a narrow cot pushed against one wall and stacks of books and papers occupying most of the remaining floor space.
Devika closed the door, sliding the simple bolt lock into place with a soft click that offered more psychological than actual security. By the weak light of a single candle Ganapathi had placed on a shelf, she began the uncomfortable process of unwrapping her soaked saree.
The wet silk clung to her body, resisting her efforts to unwind it. She tugged at the fabric where it adhered to her skin, peeling it away inch by inch until it finally came free, falling to the floor with a heavy, sodden sound. Her blouse followed, the sleeveless cotton plastered to her arms and back, requiring her to peel it off like a second skin.
Standing in just her petticoat and undergarments, Devika assessed her situation with growing dismay. Everything was drenched—her petticoat so wet it dripped onto the floor, her bra soaked through, the cotton panties beneath clinging uncomfortably to her most intimate places. She couldn't possibly put dry clothes over such wet undergarments.
"What choice do I have?" she whispered to herself, unhooking her bra with fingers stiff from cold. The wet fabric released her breasts, which felt heavier somehow without their usual support, the nipples tightening in the relatively cooler air of the room.
She slipped her thumbs into the waistband of her panties, hesitating briefly before pushing them down her legs. The fabric made a soft, sucking sound as it released her skin, joining the pile of wet clothes at her feet. Standing completely naked in a stranger's home, Devika felt a vulnerability that went beyond physical exposure. She quickly used the towel to dry herself, the rough fabric awakening her skin as she rubbed it over her arms, her breasts, her stomach, between her legs.
She folded her wet undergarments and tucked them into her shopping bag, where they immediately began to dampen the paper. Looking around, she spotted a length of rope strung across one corner of the room, apparently for this very purpose. She hung her wet saree, blouse, and petticoat over it, hoping they might dry at least partially by morning.
Turning to the clothes Ganapathi had provided, Devika first examined the petticoat. It was made of thin cotton, clearly well-worn, with an elastic waistband that had lost much of its stretch. When she stepped into it, she discovered it was several inches shorter than what she was accustomed to, reaching only to mid-calf rather than ankle-length. Worse, the loosened elastic meant she had to secure it lower on her hips to keep it from sliding down altogether, leaving her navel and several inches of her midriff exposed.
"This can't be right," she muttered, trying to tug the petticoat higher, but it simply wouldn't stay.
Next came the blouse—and here Devika's dismay deepened. It was a North Indian-style latkan blouse, sleeveless with a deep U-shaped back that was meant to be secured by just two ties—one at the neck and one at the waist. The front was modestly high-necked, but the design provided almost no coverage for the back.
Devika held it against her chest, already anticipating the problem. Without a bra, her breasts would be unconfined beneath the thin fabric. Yet there was no alternative.
She slipped her arms through the sleeveless openings, pulling the blouse across her chest. The fabric was tighter than she expected, pressing her breasts together and upward, creating a fullness that would be visible even through the saree. Reaching behind her, she struggled to tie the strings that would hold the blouse closed. The top tie near her neck was manageable, but the lower one at her waist proved almost impossible to secure from that angle.
After several frustrated attempts, she managed a loose knot that she knew would not hold for long. The blouse gaped open between the two ties, exposing most of her back all the way down to where the petticoat sat low on her hips.
"This is impossible," she whispered, but her options had run out.
Finally, she wrapped the saree around herself, its unfamiliar stiffness suggesting it had rarely been worn. The fabric was silk, but heavier than her own preference, with elaborate gold zari work along the border. When she tried to tuck it into the petticoat, she discovered another problem—the lower position of the petticoat meant the saree would reveal more of her midriff than she had ever displayed publicly, the edge sitting a full two inches below her navel.
With no mirror to check her appearance, Devika could only hope the overall effect wasn't as revealing as it felt. She arranged the pallu over her shoulder, acutely aware of how the blouse fabric pulled tight across her unbound breasts with every movement. Taking a deep breath, she unlocked the door and stepped back into the main room.
Ganapathi had changed as well, his wet uniform replaced by a faded lungi and loose cotton shirt. He stood near the stove, his back to her as he prepared something in a small pot. At the sound of the door, he turned—and froze, the spoon in his hand suspended in mid-air, his mouth falling open in an expression of undisguised shock.
"I—" he began, but words seemed to fail him as his eyes traveled from her face downward, lingering on the exposed curve of her midriff, the way the blouse clung to her breasts, the shadow of her nipples visible beneath the thin fabric.
"The petticoat is a bit short," Devika explained awkwardly, tugging at the saree to try to cover more of her exposed waist. The movement only caused the barely-secured blouse to shift, the lower tie loosening further.
"You look..." Ganapathi swallowed visibly, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "Like goddess."
The naked admiration in his voice made her cheeks warm. She stood in the center of the room, hyperaware of every inch of exposed skin, of the way the candlelight played across her body, casting shadows that seemed to emphasize rather than conceal.
"The saree is beautiful," she said, attempting to direct his attention to the garment rather than what it revealed. "Your wife had good taste."
"Never looked like this on her," he said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "You wear it like north Indian film star. So beautiful."
In the dim light, Devika saw something in his eyes that went beyond simple appreciation—a hunger, yes, but also something like reverence. As if the sight of her in his wife's clothes fulfilled some long-held fantasy.
"Thank you for lending them to me," she said, crossing her arms over her chest, only to realize the movement pulled the blouse tighter across her breasts. She quickly dropped her arms to her sides again.
"The dress was waiting for you," Ganapathi said, his words carrying a weight she couldn't quite interpret. "All these years, it was waiting for someone worthy to wear it."
"You remind me of her," Ganapathi said softly, his eyes still moving over Devika's form in the borrowed clothes. He settled back onto his bed, leaving the room's only chair for her. "My wife. When she was young." The words hung in the air between them, loaded with memories Devika had no desire to hear, yet couldn't escape.
"I'm sure we're very different," she replied, perching on the edge of the chair, acutely aware of how the saree gaped at her midriff when she sat. Her fingers tugged uselessly at the fabric, trying to cover the exposed skin.
"No, no. Similar." Ganapathi's head tilted, studying her with unsettling intensity. "Same curves. Same grace when walking. Same fire in eyes." He tapped his temple. "I remember everything about her, even after twenty years."
Devika shifted uncomfortably, disliking being compared to a woman she'd never met, especially by a man who had touched her so intimately just hours before. "It's strange to hear you say that."
"Why strange?" he asked, genuine curiosity in his voice.
"Because—" she hesitated, searching for words that wouldn't offend. "We don't know each other well. These comparisons feel very personal."
Ganapathi laughed, a surprisingly warm sound in the small room. "Madam, after what happened in auto, we are not strangers anymore." His directness startled her. "Besides, when storm traps two people together, they should talk, yes? Pass the time."
Outside, rain continued to batter the tin roof, punctuated by occasional thunder. The candles guttered in a draft from the window, sending shadows dancing across Ganapathi's weathered face.
"Tell me about your life, madam," he said, leaning forward slightly. "You know I am just poor peon, alone since wife left. But you—beautiful professor from Kerala—your story must be more interesting."
Devika considered deflecting, keeping the conversation impersonal, but something in the simplicity of his request disarmed her. Perhaps it was the storm, creating a bubble of intimacy around them. Perhaps it was the vulnerability of wearing this stranger's wife's clothes. Whatever the reason, she found herself responding.
"My life is not so interesting," she began. "I was born in Kerala, educated there. Moved to Pune for this position at the college."
"And your husband?" Ganapathi asked. "He is in Pune also?"
The question sent a familiar pain through her chest. "No," she said softly. "He works in Dubai."
"Ah, foreign country!" Ganapathi nodded appreciatively. "Big job there? Engineer? Doctor?"
"Finance," she replied shortly. "He's been there three years now."
Ganapathi's brow furrowed. "Three years? He visits often?"
"Not really." The words came out clipped.
"You must miss him very much," he said, his tone surprisingly gentle.
Something in his kindness broke through her reserve. Or perhaps it was simply the absurdity of the situation—sitting half-dressed in a strange man's home during a storm, discussing her marriage with a college peon who had groped her hours earlier.
"We're not really in touch anymore," she admitted, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. "He has... other interests there."
"Other interests?" Ganapathi repeated, confusion evident in his voice.
"Other women," Devika clarified, her voice hardening. "Many of them, apparently."
Ganapathi's eyes widened behind his thick glasses. "Your husband is with other women? But how is this possible?" His hands gestured expansively toward her. "Look at you! So beautiful, so educated. What kind of man leaves this for other women?"
The raw indignation in his voice startled her. It was the same reaction Saradha had shown, but somehow coming from this man—this stranger—it felt more genuine, less practiced.
"These things happen," she said, echoing what her mother had told her when she'd finally confessed Anand's infidelities. "We can't control others' choices."
"But it is madness!" Ganapathi insisted, genuine disbelief written across his face. "Your husband must be blind or—what is word?—psycho! Not knowing value of what he has."
Despite herself, Devika felt a small smile tug at her lips. "Psycho. Yes, that's the word."
"Such men deserve nothing," Ganapathi continued, warming to his topic. "God gives them pearl, they throw it away for glass pieces." He shook his head in disgust. "My wife left me for richer man. At least I understand this reason. Money is strong pull. But your husband—what reason he can have?"
"I don't know," Devika admitted, the question she'd asked herself countless times now hanging between them. "Perhaps he grew bored. Perhaps I wasn't enough."
"Not enough?" Ganapathi's voice rose in disbelief. "Madam, you are too much woman for simple man to handle! This is real problem."
His unexpected compliment, delivered with such conviction, drew a genuine laugh from her. "That's a very kind way to look at it."
"Not kind. Truth." His eyes held hers steadily. "Some men afraid of strong women. They run to weak ones who don't challenge them." He tapped his chest. "Weak men, madam. Not worth your tears."
A shiver ran through Devika's body—from the cold or from his words, she wasn't sure. Her arms prickled with goosebumps, the thin blouse offering little warmth in the damp night air.
"You are cold," Ganapathi observed, rising from the bed. "Wait." He moved to a small cabinet, pulling out a faded flannel shirt. "Here. Not fancy, but warm."
Devika accepted the shirt, dbanging it around her shoulders like a shawl. The fabric carried his scent—a mixture of paan, cheap soap, and male sweat. She should have found it repulsive, but there was something oddly comforting in its earthy reality.
"Thank you," she said, pulling the shirt tighter around her shoulders.
Ganapathi returned to his seat on the bed, his expression growing more serious. "Madam, I must say something." He looked down at his hands, suddenly appearing older, more vulnerable. "About what happened in auto. My behavior was... not good."
The sudden change of topic caught her off guard. "It's fine," she said automatically. "The circumstances were unusual."
"No, not fine." He shook his head firmly. "I touched you without permission. Very wrong." His eyes met hers again, genuine regret visible in their depths. "But I want you to know—it was not disrespect. It was..." he searched for words, "overwhelming."
"Overwhelming?" she repeated, unsure what he meant.
"Yes." He nodded emphatically. "You are very beautiful woman, madam. Very sexy, very curvy. When such woman sits on lap, especially in wet clothes..." He spread his hands helplessly. "No man can resist. Not possible."
Heat crept up Devika's neck at his blunt assessment. No one had ever described her so directly to her face before—not even Anand in their most intimate moments. "Ganapathi, I don't think we should discuss—"
"I know, I know," he interrupted. "Not appropriate. But I must explain. You are so soft, madam. Your waist, your hips." His hands moved in the air, tracing her shape from memory. "When I touched, I couldn't stop. Like magnet pulling my hands. I am sorry if I pressed too hard, left marks maybe."
"Please," she said, her voice strained. "Let's not talk about that."
Ganapathi nodded, though his eyes still carried that same hunger as they moved over her form. "As you wish. I just wanted to say sorry. Not for feeling desire—this is natural. But for acting without permission."
The room fell silent except for the patter of rain and occasional rumble of distant thunder. Devika tugged Ganapathi's shirt tighter around her shoulders, inhaling its scent unconsciously. The strange intimacy of wearing his wife's clothes beneath his shirt, of sitting in his private space discussing their failed marriages, created a connection she hadn't anticipated when she'd first stepped into the auto that evening.
Outside, the storm showed no signs of abating, rain drumming steadily against the roof. Inside, a different kind of tempest brewed—one of confused emotions, unexpected connections, and a heat that had nothing to do with the humid night air.
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