01-07-2025, 10:06 PM
(This post was last modified: 01-07-2025, 10:08 PM by prady12191. Edited 1 time in total. Edited 1 time in total.)
# Scene 1
The parathas sizzled on the small iron pan, golden-brown spots forming on their surface as the aroma of spiced potatoes filled the cramped kitchen. Devika watched Ganapathi's weathered hands flip them with practiced ease, the same hands that had kneaded her flesh minutes earlier now returning to more innocent labor. Outside, the storm continued its assault, rain drumming against the tin roof like impatient fingers, while inside, a different kind of tension hung in the air—unspoken, unacknowledged, but present in every careful movement they made around each other.
They ate at a small wooden table that Ganapathi had unfolded from against the wall, sitting across from each other, their knees occasionally brushing in the confined space. Candlelight flickered between them, casting dancing shadows across their faces, hiding as much as it revealed. Devika tore a piece of paratha, bringing it to her lips with fingers still faintly stained with blue ink. She chewed slowly, aware of Ganapathi's eyes following the movement of her jaw, lingering on her mouth.
The silence grew heavy, punctuated only by the sounds of eating and the persistent patter of rain. Ganapathi seemed content to watch her, his own food secondary to the feast his eyes made of her presence in his home, at his table, wearing his wife's clothes.
"The paratha is good," Devika finally said, needing to break the charged silence. "Very tasty."
Ganapathi's face creased into a smile, revealing teeth stained from years of paan-chewing. "Yes," he agreed, his voice low and intimate in the small space. "Added flavors from hips."
The crude reference to their earlier encounter in the kitchen—his hands on her waist, kneading her flesh as thoroughly as they had kneaded the dough—sent heat flooding through her body. She should have been offended, should have rebuked him for his presumptuousness. Instead, she found herself smiling back, a conspirator in this strange intimacy they had created.
"I never knew cooking could be such a... physical activity," she replied, surprising herself with her boldness.
"Best cooking happens when bodies work together," Ganapathi said, his eyes holding hers across the small flame between them. "Like husband and wife making life together in kitchen."
The comparison struck her as both inappropriate and oddly touching. This man—this elderly peon who cleaned the corridors she walked through each day—had shown her more desire in one evening than Anand had in years of marriage.
Lightning flashed, illuminating the small room more brightly than the candles, followed by a growl of thunder that seemed to shake the very foundations of the modest dwelling. Devika glanced toward the window, where rain continued to lash against the glass.
"We should sleep," she said, setting down her last piece of paratha. "It's getting late, and the storm shows no sign of stopping."
Ganapathi nodded, wiping his hands on a small cloth. "Yes, madam. You must be tired." He hesitated, glancing toward the door that led to the bedroom. "There is only one bed in my home."
"Oh," Devika said, the implications of their situation suddenly crystallizing. Of course there would be only one bed—this was a bachelor's dwelling, not designed for guests.
"You can take bed," Ganapathi continued, gesturing toward the bedroom. "I will sleep here on floor."
"No, that's not necessary," she protested. "I can sleep out here. It's your home, your bed."
"Not possible," he said firmly, shaking his head. "You are guest today. In my culture, guest is like god. You must take bed." His voice softened. "Besides, floor is not good for beautiful woman's back. Old man like me used to hardship."
There was something disarming about his insistence, about the strange chivalry that existed alongside his earlier desire. Devika found herself nodding, accepting his sacrifice even as guilt pricked at her conscience.
"Thank you," she said simply.
Ganapathi rose, clearing their plates with efficient movements. Then he led her to the bedroom, lighting another candle inside. He pulled fresh sheets from a small trunk—carefully preserved linens that appeared newer than anything else in the modest home.
"Clean sheets," he explained, unfolding them over the narrow bed. "Kept for special occasions."
Devika watched as he prepared the bed for her, his movements methodical and practiced. There was something touching about his efforts to make her comfortable, to offer the best of his meager possessions. Yet she couldn't help wondering if this solicitousness was genuine or merely a performance designed to impress her—a courtesy he might never have extended to the wife who had abandoned him for another man.
As if responding to her thoughts, the lights suddenly flickered on, electricity returning as unexpectedly as it had departed. The harsh bulb hanging from the ceiling cast the room in stark relief, exposing the shabby corners that candlelight had kindly concealed.
"Ah! Power is back," Ganapathi said, blinking in the sudden brightness. He gestured toward a small switch near the bed. "You can turn off when ready to sleep."
He moved toward the door, pausing at the threshold. "Good night, madam," he said, his voice carrying a note of reluctance. "If you need anything, I am just outside."
"Good night, Ganapathi," she replied. "And thank you again."
He nodded, closing the door behind him with a soft click that seemed to echo in the small room.
Alone at last, Devika sat on the edge of the bed, running her fingers over the clean but worn sheets. There was something profoundly strange about preparing to sleep in another man's bed—a bed where he had lain night after night, year after year. The knowledge felt intimate in a way that even his touch had not.
She switched off the light, preferring the gentle anonymity of candlelight. As she lay back against the pillow, her mind wandered to the peculiar path her life had taken these past weeks. Three older men—Ramlal, Seenu, and now Ganapathi—had crossed boundaries with her that she would never have imagined permitting before.
All three shared certain qualities: their age, their lower social position relative to hers, their habit of chewing paan that left their teeth stained red. In Kerala, she had always found paan-chewing repulsive, the red-stained teeth a mark of lower class and questionable hygiene. Yet now these three men had tasted her skin with those same paan-stained mouths, had marked her body with their desire.
Still, she had maintained one critical boundary—her lips remained unkissed. In her mind, a kiss on the lips represented an intimacy that transcended the physical, a gateway to deeper connection that she wasn't prepared to cross. Anand had never been much of a kisser, offering only brief, dry pecks during their infrequent lovemaking.
But her mind drifted to a pornographic film she had glimpsed once, where the actors had engaged in passionate kissing—open mouths, exploring tongues, an exchange of saliva that seemed both repulsive and magnetically compelling. The thought of such a kiss with any of these men—of Ganapathi's paan-flavored tongue pushing into her mouth, of the mingled taste of spices and tobacco—made her shudder with a confused mixture of disgust and forbidden curiosity.
She pressed her face into the pillow, trying to escape her own thoughts. The clean sheets carried a faint scent of sunshine and cheap detergent, a small kindness in this strange night that seemed determined to unravel everything she had once believed about herself.
# Scene 2
In the narrow hallway, Ganapathi lay on his thin mat, sleep a distant possibility. His body still hummed with the memory of Devika's flesh beneath his fingers—the soft give of her waist, the generous curve of her hips, the silken texture of skin so different from his rough hands. Never in his sixty years had he imagined such fortune, that a woman like her—educated, refined, beautiful—would allow his touch, would arch into his caresses as if hungry for more. The storm outside mirrored the tempest within him, desire coursing through his veins with each crash of thunder, each flash of lightning illuminating fantasies he could no longer contain.
He shifted on the hard floor, the thin mat offering little comfort to his aging bones. Yet physical discomfort was nothing compared to the exquisite torture of knowing she lay just behind that door, wrapped in his sheets, her body still clad in his wife's clothes. The thought made him harden instantly—the professor wearing garments that had once belonged to the woman who had abandoned him, as if the universe had granted him a replacement far superior to what he had lost.
Since joining the college weeks ago, Devika had occupied his thoughts daily. He had watched her walk through corridors, the elegant sway of her saree-dbangd hips mesmerizing him from afar. He had imagined scenarios where they might speak, might touch, but never had he dared hope for what this night had brought—her weight on his lap in the auto, her body pressed against his in the kitchen, her permission to explore her waist and hips with hungry hands.
His hand slipped beneath his lungi almost of its own accord, finding the hardness there. He wrapped weathered fingers around himself, his breathing quickening as he began to stroke. His mind filled with images of Devika—not as she had been moments ago in his kitchen, but as she might be if circumstances were different. He imagined her saree falling away completely, imagined her turning to face him, placing his hands on the fullness of her breasts instead of just her waist.
"Devika," he whispered into the darkness, his hand moving faster. "Beautiful Devika."
The sensation built quickly, his body responding to fantasies he'd harbored since first seeing her. In his mind, she was no longer a respected professor but a woman surrendering to desire, begging for his touch, moaning his name as he claimed her. His breathing grew ragged, his strokes more urgent, the thunder outside providing cover for the soft moans that escaped his lips.
In the bedroom, Devika had finally drifted into uneasy sleep, wrapped tightly in the borrowed bedsheet. The unfamiliar surroundings—the slightly musty smell of the pillow, the narrowness of the bed, the persistent sound of rain—had made slumber elusive. But exhaustion had eventually overcome discomfort, pulling her into shallow dreams.
A deafening crack of thunder, so close it seemed to split the air directly above the small house, jolted her awake. She sat up with a gasp, heart pounding painfully against her ribs, disoriented in the unfamiliar darkness. Another flash of lightning illuminated the small room, casting strange shadows across the walls before plunging her back into blackness.
Fear—primal and overwhelming—gripped her chest. Since childhood, thunderstorms had terrified her, the unpredictable violence of nature's fury reducing her to a trembling child regardless of her adult rationality. In her apartment, she would have turned on all the lights, played music to drown out the thunder, called her friend Saradha for distraction. Here, she had none of those comforts.
Another thunderclap shook the small house, and Devika found herself on her feet, moving toward the door before conscious thought could intervene. She needed company, needed the reassurance of another human presence to anchor her against the storm's fury. Her hand found the doorknob, turning it quietly as she stepped into the hallway.
The space was dimly lit by a small emergency lamp Ganapathi had placed on a shelf. In its faint glow, she saw him immediately—lying on his mat, one hand moving rhythmically beneath his lungi, his face contorted in an expression of pleasure. The sounds coming from him were unmistakable, as was the name that fell from his lips: "Devika... yes... beautiful Devika."
She froze, her fear of the storm momentarily displaced by shock. She had never witnessed a man pleasuring himself before—not her husband, not anyone. The raw intimacy of the moment, the knowledge that she was the object of his fantasy, sent conflicting waves of disgust and aroused curiosity through her body.
Ganapathi continued, unaware of her presence, his movements growing more urgent. Devika knew she should retreat, should return to the bedroom and pretend she'd seen nothing. Yet she remained rooted to the spot, a strange fascination overcoming her initial shock. There was something compelling about his unfiltered desire, about being wanted with such desperation that he would seek release in this furtive, solitary way.
Another crash of thunder broke the spell. Devika jumped, a small sound escaping her lips. Realizing she couldn't continue watching undetected, she cleared her throat deliberately. "Hmm, hmm."
Ganapathi's reaction was immediate—his body jerking upright, hand withdrawing from his lungi with panicked speed, eyes wide with horror as they found her standing in the doorway. "Madam!" he gasped, scrambling to adjust his clothing. "I—I didn't—"
"The climate seems to be having quite an effect," Devika said, summoning a strained smile, attempting to navigate this excruciating moment with whatever dignity she could muster.
"Sorry, madam," Ganapathi stammered, his face contorted with shame. "I didn't notice you there. I thought you were sleeping."
"I was," she confirmed, stepping further into the room, pretending interest in the rain visible through the window rather than looking at him directly. "Were you thinking of some actress?"
The question surprised even herself—a peculiar mixture of genuine curiosity and desire to ease his embarrassment by acknowledging rather than ignoring what she'd witnessed.
Ganapathi's response came without hesitation, despite his evident mortification. "No, madam. Why would I think of actresses with fake beauty when you are here?"
The blunt honesty of his answer sent a flush of heat through her body. She should have been offended, should have been disgusted that this aging peon was using her image for his pleasure. Instead, she felt a forbidden thrill, a dark satisfaction in being desired so completely.
"Why aren't you sleeping, madam?" he asked, clearly eager to change the subject.
Devika fumbled for words, her original purpose in seeking him out suddenly difficult to articulate. "I—the thunder," she finally managed, another crash from outside punctuating her words. "Since childhood, I've had this terrible fear of thunderstorms."
"Ah," Ganapathi nodded, his expression softening with understanding. "It's natural to have such fears. Many people do."
Lightning flashed again, illuminating the small space with harsh white light. Devika flinched visibly, her body tensing as she waited for the inevitable thunder that followed seconds later. She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly feeling vulnerable in a way that had nothing to do with her state of dress or what she had just witnessed.
"I can't sleep alone," she admitted, the words emerging more desperate than intended. "Not with the storm like this."
The implication hung in the air between them, neither acknowledging the odd intimacy of the situation—her having caught him masturbating to thoughts of her, now seeking his protection against childish fears.
"I know this is strange," she continued, her voice small against the drumming rain. "But would it be okay if I slept out here? Near you?"
Ganapathi couldn't hide his astonishment, his eyes widening behind his thick glasses. A beautiful professor, the same woman who had been the object of his fantasy moments earlier, was asking permission to sleep beside him. He swallowed hard, trying to comprehend this unexpected turn of events.
"You want to sleep here? Next to me?" he asked, disbelief evident in each word.
"If that's all right," she replied, another crash of thunder causing her to start. "I just—I can't be alone right now."
Ganapathi nodded slowly, still looking bewildered by her request. "I have no problem, madam," he said carefully. "If you are okay with that."
His emphasis on her comfort, his apparent concern that she might be compromising herself for him rather than the other way around, touched something in Devika. Even in this most awkward of moments, even after what she had witnessed, he maintained a strange kind of respect for her boundaries.
"Thank you," she whispered, relief flooding through her as another flash of lightning illuminated his weathered face.
# Scene 3
Devika lowered herself to the floor beside Ganapathi, the thin mat offering little cushioning against the hard concrete beneath. She sat with her knees drawn to her chest, the bedsheet wrapped tightly around her shoulders, a fragile barrier between them. "Thank you," she said softly. "Now I can sleep." The storm continued its assault outside, rain lashing against the windows, but already its terror had diminished with the simple comfort of human proximity. She stretched out beside him, maintaining a careful distance, their bodies like parallel lines not meant to touch.
They lay facing each other in the dim light of the emergency lamp, Ganapathi's weathered face mere inches from hers. The arrangement felt startlingly intimate—more so, somehow, than when his hands had explored her waist in the kitchen. This quiet sharing of space, of breath, of vulnerability, crossed boundaries that physical touch alone could not breach.
Devika closed her eyes, attempting to ignore the strangeness of lying beside a man who was neither her husband nor family. The floor was hard beneath her hip, the thin mat providing minimal comfort. She shifted slightly, trying to find a position that wouldn't leave her aching by morning.
"Your face is very charming in this light," Ganapathi said suddenly, his voice barely audible above the rain.
Devika's eyes snapped open to find him watching her intently, his gaze traveling over her features with unconcealed admiration. Despite everything that had passed between them—his hands on her body, her witnessing his most private moment—this quiet study of her face felt unexpectedly intimate.
"You should sleep," she replied, uncomfortable with his scrutiny yet strangely flattered. "Not stare at me."
"How can I sleep?" he asked simply. "When beautiful professor is lying next to me? This is better than dreams."
A small smile curved her lips despite herself. "You need to sleep, not flirt," she admonished gently.
They lapsed into silence, both attempting to find comfort on the unyielding floor. The storm showed no signs of abating, rain hammering against the tin roof in persistent waves. Occasional flashes of lightning illuminated the small space, followed by the rumble of thunder that made Devika instinctively edge closer to Ganapathi's solid presence.
After several minutes, she noticed his body trembling slightly. At first, she thought it might be suppressed desire, some continuation of what she had interrupted earlier. But as she watched him more closely, she realized he was shivering from cold. While she lay wrapped in the bedsheet, he had nothing but his thin clothes to protect him from the chill that accompanied the storm.
"Ganapathi," she called softly. "You're cold."
He shook his head, though another shiver belied his denial. "No problem, madam. I'm fine."
"You're shivering," she insisted. "Here, take the bedsheet. It's yours anyway."
"No, no," he refused immediately. "You keep it. I cannot take from you."
"Please," Devika said, already beginning to unwrap the sheet from around herself. "I can manage without it. You take it."
"Madam," Ganapathi's voice grew firmer. "I am used to sleeping on platforms at railway station during my younger days. This is luxury for me." His teeth chattered slightly, undermining his stoic claim.
Devika frowned, unwilling to accept his sacrifice. The thought of him shivering through the night while she remained comfortable struck her as deeply wrong. Yet she also recognized the chill in the air, knew she would be equally cold without the covering.
A solution presented itself in her mind—obvious yet audacious. Her heart began to race as she contemplated suggesting it, knowing it would cross yet another boundary in their rapidly evolving relationship. She took a deep breath, steadying herself for what she was about to propose.
"If you don't mind," she began, her voice emerging higher than normal, "we could share the bedsheet."
Ganapathi's eyes widened, magnified behind his thick glasses. "Share?" he repeated, as if uncertain he had heard correctly.
"Yes, share," she confirmed, forcing her voice to remain steady. "There's room enough for both of us under one sheet."
He stared at her in obvious disbelief, his expression suggesting he was searching for some hidden meaning in her offer. "You want to share bedsheet with me?"
"Yes," she said simply. "I don't want to see someone shivering in cold. If you don't like the idea, then we can both go without. I'll be cold too."
She began unwrapping the sheet again, making good on her threat. Ganapathi's hand shot out, stopping her with a gentle touch on her arm.
"No, madam, please. You don't need to be cold." He hesitated, conflict evident in his expression. "But what if someone finds out? They will talk badly about you."
Devika hadn't expected this concern for her reputation, this protective instinct from a man she had caught pleasuring himself to thoughts of her just minutes earlier. Something softened within her.
"No one will know about this," she assured him. "It's just about staying warm."
Ganapathi nodded slowly, his expression still cautious. "Okay, then. We will share."
A smile touched Devika's lips, relieved by his agreement. "Come," she said, lifting the edge of the bedsheet in invitation.
He moved closer with obvious trepidation, sliding carefully beneath the offered covering. They lay facing each other, their bodies still maintaining a small distance, hands folded awkwardly against their own chests. Their fingertips brushed occasionally, each contact sending a small jolt through Devika's body. Despite the increased proximity, the sheet pulled tight between them, creating gaps where cold air seeped in.
"This isn't working," Devika observed after a moment. "The sheet can't cover us both with this gap between us."
Ganapathi remained silent, clearly unwilling to suggest the obvious solution. Devika took another deep breath, gathering her courage for what came next.
"I'll turn around," she said decisively. "And you can... hold me from behind. That way we'll both fit under the sheet."
The silence that followed her suggestion felt weighted with meaning, with possibility. She could almost hear Ganapathi's rapid heartbeat matching her own.
"Like... cuddling?" he asked finally, his voice rough with suppressed emotion.
"Yes," she confirmed, already turning away from him, presenting her back. "It's the only practical solution."
She positioned herself with her back toward him, waiting. Ganapathi moved closer but didn't make contact, hovering just behind her as if afraid to cross this final threshold.
"Hug me," Devika instructed, her voice betraying more impatience than she intended. When he still hesitated, she added, "Hold me like a husband hugs a wife when they cuddle."
The comparison fell from her lips before she could consider its implications, its inappropriateness. She heard Ganapathi's sharp intake of breath, felt him freeze behind her.
"Please don't talk, just hold me," she amended quickly, embarrassed by her own words. Without waiting for his response, she reached back, found his arm, and pulled it around her waist, pressing herself backward until her body met his.
The contact was electric—her back against his chest, her buttocks nestled against his groin, his arm encircling her waist over the dbangd saree. Ganapathi released a shaky breath against her neck as his body molded to hers, his arm tightening instinctively around her middle.
Almost immediately, she felt him hardening against her, his body's response to their proximity impossible to hide in this position. He began to pull away, clearly embarrassed, but Devika held his arm firmly in place.
"It's okay," she whispered. "I understand. No man can control that when... when holding someone like me."
Her acknowledgment seemed to both embarrass and relieve him. Ganapathi relaxed slightly, his face settling against the back of her neck, his breath warm against her skin. He held her with surprising gentleness, his hand resting carefully at her waist, maintaining the most respectful embrace possible given their intimate position.
The storm outside seemed to recede further into the background, replaced by the sound of their breathing gradually synchronizing, by the warmth building between their bodies. Devika felt safer than she had all night, the thunder no longer causing her to flinch. There was something profoundly comforting about being held this way—something she had missed during the long months of Anand's absence.
A feeling of gratitude washed over her—for Ganapathi's respectful embrace, for his earlier attentions to her body, for the way he maintained boundaries even in his obvious desire. Acting on impulse, she covered his hand with hers where it rested at her waist. Then, slowly, deliberately, she guided it beneath the edge of her saree, placing his palm against the bare skin of her stomach.
Ganapathi's breath caught, his body tensing behind her. "Madam," he whispered, the word somewhere between question and reverence.
"Shh," she soothed, keeping her hand over his, holding it in place against her skin. "Just feel the warmth. Hold your hand still."
His palm was hot against her belly, his fingers splayed just below her navel. Unlike earlier in the kitchen, he made no attempt to explore or caress, keeping his hand motionless as instructed. The restraint touched her deeply—this man who desired her so intensely was willing to accept whatever boundaries she established, finding gratitude in the small intimacies she allowed rather than pushing for more.
She felt his face press more firmly against her neck, his breath evening out as he relaxed into their embrace. His thumb moved once, almost imperceptibly, tracing the edge of her navel before returning to stillness. The small gesture sent ripples of pleasure through her body, but she made no comment, allowing him this tiny liberty.
As they lay entwined on the thin mat, the storm gradually receding into the distance, Devika found herself thinking that this moment—this simple act of being held by someone who desired her, who saw her—felt more intimate than anything she had experienced in years of marriage. Here, on a hard floor in a humble dwelling, with rain pattering against the roof and thunder rumbling in the distance, she had found a connection she hadn't realized she was missing.
She drifted toward sleep, Ganapathi's hand warm against her skin, his breathing deep and regular against her neck. Their unlikely intimacy, born of storm and circumstance, carried her gently into dreams that for once contained no thunder, no fear, only the quiet certainty of being truly held.
The parathas sizzled on the small iron pan, golden-brown spots forming on their surface as the aroma of spiced potatoes filled the cramped kitchen. Devika watched Ganapathi's weathered hands flip them with practiced ease, the same hands that had kneaded her flesh minutes earlier now returning to more innocent labor. Outside, the storm continued its assault, rain drumming against the tin roof like impatient fingers, while inside, a different kind of tension hung in the air—unspoken, unacknowledged, but present in every careful movement they made around each other.
They ate at a small wooden table that Ganapathi had unfolded from against the wall, sitting across from each other, their knees occasionally brushing in the confined space. Candlelight flickered between them, casting dancing shadows across their faces, hiding as much as it revealed. Devika tore a piece of paratha, bringing it to her lips with fingers still faintly stained with blue ink. She chewed slowly, aware of Ganapathi's eyes following the movement of her jaw, lingering on her mouth.
The silence grew heavy, punctuated only by the sounds of eating and the persistent patter of rain. Ganapathi seemed content to watch her, his own food secondary to the feast his eyes made of her presence in his home, at his table, wearing his wife's clothes.
"The paratha is good," Devika finally said, needing to break the charged silence. "Very tasty."
Ganapathi's face creased into a smile, revealing teeth stained from years of paan-chewing. "Yes," he agreed, his voice low and intimate in the small space. "Added flavors from hips."
The crude reference to their earlier encounter in the kitchen—his hands on her waist, kneading her flesh as thoroughly as they had kneaded the dough—sent heat flooding through her body. She should have been offended, should have rebuked him for his presumptuousness. Instead, she found herself smiling back, a conspirator in this strange intimacy they had created.
"I never knew cooking could be such a... physical activity," she replied, surprising herself with her boldness.
"Best cooking happens when bodies work together," Ganapathi said, his eyes holding hers across the small flame between them. "Like husband and wife making life together in kitchen."
The comparison struck her as both inappropriate and oddly touching. This man—this elderly peon who cleaned the corridors she walked through each day—had shown her more desire in one evening than Anand had in years of marriage.
Lightning flashed, illuminating the small room more brightly than the candles, followed by a growl of thunder that seemed to shake the very foundations of the modest dwelling. Devika glanced toward the window, where rain continued to lash against the glass.
"We should sleep," she said, setting down her last piece of paratha. "It's getting late, and the storm shows no sign of stopping."
Ganapathi nodded, wiping his hands on a small cloth. "Yes, madam. You must be tired." He hesitated, glancing toward the door that led to the bedroom. "There is only one bed in my home."
"Oh," Devika said, the implications of their situation suddenly crystallizing. Of course there would be only one bed—this was a bachelor's dwelling, not designed for guests.
"You can take bed," Ganapathi continued, gesturing toward the bedroom. "I will sleep here on floor."
"No, that's not necessary," she protested. "I can sleep out here. It's your home, your bed."
"Not possible," he said firmly, shaking his head. "You are guest today. In my culture, guest is like god. You must take bed." His voice softened. "Besides, floor is not good for beautiful woman's back. Old man like me used to hardship."
There was something disarming about his insistence, about the strange chivalry that existed alongside his earlier desire. Devika found herself nodding, accepting his sacrifice even as guilt pricked at her conscience.
"Thank you," she said simply.
Ganapathi rose, clearing their plates with efficient movements. Then he led her to the bedroom, lighting another candle inside. He pulled fresh sheets from a small trunk—carefully preserved linens that appeared newer than anything else in the modest home.
"Clean sheets," he explained, unfolding them over the narrow bed. "Kept for special occasions."
Devika watched as he prepared the bed for her, his movements methodical and practiced. There was something touching about his efforts to make her comfortable, to offer the best of his meager possessions. Yet she couldn't help wondering if this solicitousness was genuine or merely a performance designed to impress her—a courtesy he might never have extended to the wife who had abandoned him for another man.
As if responding to her thoughts, the lights suddenly flickered on, electricity returning as unexpectedly as it had departed. The harsh bulb hanging from the ceiling cast the room in stark relief, exposing the shabby corners that candlelight had kindly concealed.
"Ah! Power is back," Ganapathi said, blinking in the sudden brightness. He gestured toward a small switch near the bed. "You can turn off when ready to sleep."
He moved toward the door, pausing at the threshold. "Good night, madam," he said, his voice carrying a note of reluctance. "If you need anything, I am just outside."
"Good night, Ganapathi," she replied. "And thank you again."
He nodded, closing the door behind him with a soft click that seemed to echo in the small room.
Alone at last, Devika sat on the edge of the bed, running her fingers over the clean but worn sheets. There was something profoundly strange about preparing to sleep in another man's bed—a bed where he had lain night after night, year after year. The knowledge felt intimate in a way that even his touch had not.
She switched off the light, preferring the gentle anonymity of candlelight. As she lay back against the pillow, her mind wandered to the peculiar path her life had taken these past weeks. Three older men—Ramlal, Seenu, and now Ganapathi—had crossed boundaries with her that she would never have imagined permitting before.
All three shared certain qualities: their age, their lower social position relative to hers, their habit of chewing paan that left their teeth stained red. In Kerala, she had always found paan-chewing repulsive, the red-stained teeth a mark of lower class and questionable hygiene. Yet now these three men had tasted her skin with those same paan-stained mouths, had marked her body with their desire.
Still, she had maintained one critical boundary—her lips remained unkissed. In her mind, a kiss on the lips represented an intimacy that transcended the physical, a gateway to deeper connection that she wasn't prepared to cross. Anand had never been much of a kisser, offering only brief, dry pecks during their infrequent lovemaking.
But her mind drifted to a pornographic film she had glimpsed once, where the actors had engaged in passionate kissing—open mouths, exploring tongues, an exchange of saliva that seemed both repulsive and magnetically compelling. The thought of such a kiss with any of these men—of Ganapathi's paan-flavored tongue pushing into her mouth, of the mingled taste of spices and tobacco—made her shudder with a confused mixture of disgust and forbidden curiosity.
She pressed her face into the pillow, trying to escape her own thoughts. The clean sheets carried a faint scent of sunshine and cheap detergent, a small kindness in this strange night that seemed determined to unravel everything she had once believed about herself.
# Scene 2
In the narrow hallway, Ganapathi lay on his thin mat, sleep a distant possibility. His body still hummed with the memory of Devika's flesh beneath his fingers—the soft give of her waist, the generous curve of her hips, the silken texture of skin so different from his rough hands. Never in his sixty years had he imagined such fortune, that a woman like her—educated, refined, beautiful—would allow his touch, would arch into his caresses as if hungry for more. The storm outside mirrored the tempest within him, desire coursing through his veins with each crash of thunder, each flash of lightning illuminating fantasies he could no longer contain.
He shifted on the hard floor, the thin mat offering little comfort to his aging bones. Yet physical discomfort was nothing compared to the exquisite torture of knowing she lay just behind that door, wrapped in his sheets, her body still clad in his wife's clothes. The thought made him harden instantly—the professor wearing garments that had once belonged to the woman who had abandoned him, as if the universe had granted him a replacement far superior to what he had lost.
Since joining the college weeks ago, Devika had occupied his thoughts daily. He had watched her walk through corridors, the elegant sway of her saree-dbangd hips mesmerizing him from afar. He had imagined scenarios where they might speak, might touch, but never had he dared hope for what this night had brought—her weight on his lap in the auto, her body pressed against his in the kitchen, her permission to explore her waist and hips with hungry hands.
His hand slipped beneath his lungi almost of its own accord, finding the hardness there. He wrapped weathered fingers around himself, his breathing quickening as he began to stroke. His mind filled with images of Devika—not as she had been moments ago in his kitchen, but as she might be if circumstances were different. He imagined her saree falling away completely, imagined her turning to face him, placing his hands on the fullness of her breasts instead of just her waist.
"Devika," he whispered into the darkness, his hand moving faster. "Beautiful Devika."
The sensation built quickly, his body responding to fantasies he'd harbored since first seeing her. In his mind, she was no longer a respected professor but a woman surrendering to desire, begging for his touch, moaning his name as he claimed her. His breathing grew ragged, his strokes more urgent, the thunder outside providing cover for the soft moans that escaped his lips.
In the bedroom, Devika had finally drifted into uneasy sleep, wrapped tightly in the borrowed bedsheet. The unfamiliar surroundings—the slightly musty smell of the pillow, the narrowness of the bed, the persistent sound of rain—had made slumber elusive. But exhaustion had eventually overcome discomfort, pulling her into shallow dreams.
A deafening crack of thunder, so close it seemed to split the air directly above the small house, jolted her awake. She sat up with a gasp, heart pounding painfully against her ribs, disoriented in the unfamiliar darkness. Another flash of lightning illuminated the small room, casting strange shadows across the walls before plunging her back into blackness.
Fear—primal and overwhelming—gripped her chest. Since childhood, thunderstorms had terrified her, the unpredictable violence of nature's fury reducing her to a trembling child regardless of her adult rationality. In her apartment, she would have turned on all the lights, played music to drown out the thunder, called her friend Saradha for distraction. Here, she had none of those comforts.
Another thunderclap shook the small house, and Devika found herself on her feet, moving toward the door before conscious thought could intervene. She needed company, needed the reassurance of another human presence to anchor her against the storm's fury. Her hand found the doorknob, turning it quietly as she stepped into the hallway.
The space was dimly lit by a small emergency lamp Ganapathi had placed on a shelf. In its faint glow, she saw him immediately—lying on his mat, one hand moving rhythmically beneath his lungi, his face contorted in an expression of pleasure. The sounds coming from him were unmistakable, as was the name that fell from his lips: "Devika... yes... beautiful Devika."
She froze, her fear of the storm momentarily displaced by shock. She had never witnessed a man pleasuring himself before—not her husband, not anyone. The raw intimacy of the moment, the knowledge that she was the object of his fantasy, sent conflicting waves of disgust and aroused curiosity through her body.
Ganapathi continued, unaware of her presence, his movements growing more urgent. Devika knew she should retreat, should return to the bedroom and pretend she'd seen nothing. Yet she remained rooted to the spot, a strange fascination overcoming her initial shock. There was something compelling about his unfiltered desire, about being wanted with such desperation that he would seek release in this furtive, solitary way.
Another crash of thunder broke the spell. Devika jumped, a small sound escaping her lips. Realizing she couldn't continue watching undetected, she cleared her throat deliberately. "Hmm, hmm."
Ganapathi's reaction was immediate—his body jerking upright, hand withdrawing from his lungi with panicked speed, eyes wide with horror as they found her standing in the doorway. "Madam!" he gasped, scrambling to adjust his clothing. "I—I didn't—"
"The climate seems to be having quite an effect," Devika said, summoning a strained smile, attempting to navigate this excruciating moment with whatever dignity she could muster.
"Sorry, madam," Ganapathi stammered, his face contorted with shame. "I didn't notice you there. I thought you were sleeping."
"I was," she confirmed, stepping further into the room, pretending interest in the rain visible through the window rather than looking at him directly. "Were you thinking of some actress?"
The question surprised even herself—a peculiar mixture of genuine curiosity and desire to ease his embarrassment by acknowledging rather than ignoring what she'd witnessed.
Ganapathi's response came without hesitation, despite his evident mortification. "No, madam. Why would I think of actresses with fake beauty when you are here?"
The blunt honesty of his answer sent a flush of heat through her body. She should have been offended, should have been disgusted that this aging peon was using her image for his pleasure. Instead, she felt a forbidden thrill, a dark satisfaction in being desired so completely.
"Why aren't you sleeping, madam?" he asked, clearly eager to change the subject.
Devika fumbled for words, her original purpose in seeking him out suddenly difficult to articulate. "I—the thunder," she finally managed, another crash from outside punctuating her words. "Since childhood, I've had this terrible fear of thunderstorms."
"Ah," Ganapathi nodded, his expression softening with understanding. "It's natural to have such fears. Many people do."
Lightning flashed again, illuminating the small space with harsh white light. Devika flinched visibly, her body tensing as she waited for the inevitable thunder that followed seconds later. She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly feeling vulnerable in a way that had nothing to do with her state of dress or what she had just witnessed.
"I can't sleep alone," she admitted, the words emerging more desperate than intended. "Not with the storm like this."
The implication hung in the air between them, neither acknowledging the odd intimacy of the situation—her having caught him masturbating to thoughts of her, now seeking his protection against childish fears.
"I know this is strange," she continued, her voice small against the drumming rain. "But would it be okay if I slept out here? Near you?"
Ganapathi couldn't hide his astonishment, his eyes widening behind his thick glasses. A beautiful professor, the same woman who had been the object of his fantasy moments earlier, was asking permission to sleep beside him. He swallowed hard, trying to comprehend this unexpected turn of events.
"You want to sleep here? Next to me?" he asked, disbelief evident in each word.
"If that's all right," she replied, another crash of thunder causing her to start. "I just—I can't be alone right now."
Ganapathi nodded slowly, still looking bewildered by her request. "I have no problem, madam," he said carefully. "If you are okay with that."
His emphasis on her comfort, his apparent concern that she might be compromising herself for him rather than the other way around, touched something in Devika. Even in this most awkward of moments, even after what she had witnessed, he maintained a strange kind of respect for her boundaries.
"Thank you," she whispered, relief flooding through her as another flash of lightning illuminated his weathered face.
# Scene 3
Devika lowered herself to the floor beside Ganapathi, the thin mat offering little cushioning against the hard concrete beneath. She sat with her knees drawn to her chest, the bedsheet wrapped tightly around her shoulders, a fragile barrier between them. "Thank you," she said softly. "Now I can sleep." The storm continued its assault outside, rain lashing against the windows, but already its terror had diminished with the simple comfort of human proximity. She stretched out beside him, maintaining a careful distance, their bodies like parallel lines not meant to touch.
They lay facing each other in the dim light of the emergency lamp, Ganapathi's weathered face mere inches from hers. The arrangement felt startlingly intimate—more so, somehow, than when his hands had explored her waist in the kitchen. This quiet sharing of space, of breath, of vulnerability, crossed boundaries that physical touch alone could not breach.
Devika closed her eyes, attempting to ignore the strangeness of lying beside a man who was neither her husband nor family. The floor was hard beneath her hip, the thin mat providing minimal comfort. She shifted slightly, trying to find a position that wouldn't leave her aching by morning.
"Your face is very charming in this light," Ganapathi said suddenly, his voice barely audible above the rain.
Devika's eyes snapped open to find him watching her intently, his gaze traveling over her features with unconcealed admiration. Despite everything that had passed between them—his hands on her body, her witnessing his most private moment—this quiet study of her face felt unexpectedly intimate.
"You should sleep," she replied, uncomfortable with his scrutiny yet strangely flattered. "Not stare at me."
"How can I sleep?" he asked simply. "When beautiful professor is lying next to me? This is better than dreams."
A small smile curved her lips despite herself. "You need to sleep, not flirt," she admonished gently.
They lapsed into silence, both attempting to find comfort on the unyielding floor. The storm showed no signs of abating, rain hammering against the tin roof in persistent waves. Occasional flashes of lightning illuminated the small space, followed by the rumble of thunder that made Devika instinctively edge closer to Ganapathi's solid presence.
After several minutes, she noticed his body trembling slightly. At first, she thought it might be suppressed desire, some continuation of what she had interrupted earlier. But as she watched him more closely, she realized he was shivering from cold. While she lay wrapped in the bedsheet, he had nothing but his thin clothes to protect him from the chill that accompanied the storm.
"Ganapathi," she called softly. "You're cold."
He shook his head, though another shiver belied his denial. "No problem, madam. I'm fine."
"You're shivering," she insisted. "Here, take the bedsheet. It's yours anyway."
"No, no," he refused immediately. "You keep it. I cannot take from you."
"Please," Devika said, already beginning to unwrap the sheet from around herself. "I can manage without it. You take it."
"Madam," Ganapathi's voice grew firmer. "I am used to sleeping on platforms at railway station during my younger days. This is luxury for me." His teeth chattered slightly, undermining his stoic claim.
Devika frowned, unwilling to accept his sacrifice. The thought of him shivering through the night while she remained comfortable struck her as deeply wrong. Yet she also recognized the chill in the air, knew she would be equally cold without the covering.
A solution presented itself in her mind—obvious yet audacious. Her heart began to race as she contemplated suggesting it, knowing it would cross yet another boundary in their rapidly evolving relationship. She took a deep breath, steadying herself for what she was about to propose.
"If you don't mind," she began, her voice emerging higher than normal, "we could share the bedsheet."
Ganapathi's eyes widened, magnified behind his thick glasses. "Share?" he repeated, as if uncertain he had heard correctly.
"Yes, share," she confirmed, forcing her voice to remain steady. "There's room enough for both of us under one sheet."
He stared at her in obvious disbelief, his expression suggesting he was searching for some hidden meaning in her offer. "You want to share bedsheet with me?"
"Yes," she said simply. "I don't want to see someone shivering in cold. If you don't like the idea, then we can both go without. I'll be cold too."
She began unwrapping the sheet again, making good on her threat. Ganapathi's hand shot out, stopping her with a gentle touch on her arm.
"No, madam, please. You don't need to be cold." He hesitated, conflict evident in his expression. "But what if someone finds out? They will talk badly about you."
Devika hadn't expected this concern for her reputation, this protective instinct from a man she had caught pleasuring himself to thoughts of her just minutes earlier. Something softened within her.
"No one will know about this," she assured him. "It's just about staying warm."
Ganapathi nodded slowly, his expression still cautious. "Okay, then. We will share."
A smile touched Devika's lips, relieved by his agreement. "Come," she said, lifting the edge of the bedsheet in invitation.
He moved closer with obvious trepidation, sliding carefully beneath the offered covering. They lay facing each other, their bodies still maintaining a small distance, hands folded awkwardly against their own chests. Their fingertips brushed occasionally, each contact sending a small jolt through Devika's body. Despite the increased proximity, the sheet pulled tight between them, creating gaps where cold air seeped in.
"This isn't working," Devika observed after a moment. "The sheet can't cover us both with this gap between us."
Ganapathi remained silent, clearly unwilling to suggest the obvious solution. Devika took another deep breath, gathering her courage for what came next.
"I'll turn around," she said decisively. "And you can... hold me from behind. That way we'll both fit under the sheet."
The silence that followed her suggestion felt weighted with meaning, with possibility. She could almost hear Ganapathi's rapid heartbeat matching her own.
"Like... cuddling?" he asked finally, his voice rough with suppressed emotion.
"Yes," she confirmed, already turning away from him, presenting her back. "It's the only practical solution."
She positioned herself with her back toward him, waiting. Ganapathi moved closer but didn't make contact, hovering just behind her as if afraid to cross this final threshold.
"Hug me," Devika instructed, her voice betraying more impatience than she intended. When he still hesitated, she added, "Hold me like a husband hugs a wife when they cuddle."
The comparison fell from her lips before she could consider its implications, its inappropriateness. She heard Ganapathi's sharp intake of breath, felt him freeze behind her.
"Please don't talk, just hold me," she amended quickly, embarrassed by her own words. Without waiting for his response, she reached back, found his arm, and pulled it around her waist, pressing herself backward until her body met his.
The contact was electric—her back against his chest, her buttocks nestled against his groin, his arm encircling her waist over the dbangd saree. Ganapathi released a shaky breath against her neck as his body molded to hers, his arm tightening instinctively around her middle.
Almost immediately, she felt him hardening against her, his body's response to their proximity impossible to hide in this position. He began to pull away, clearly embarrassed, but Devika held his arm firmly in place.
"It's okay," she whispered. "I understand. No man can control that when... when holding someone like me."
Her acknowledgment seemed to both embarrass and relieve him. Ganapathi relaxed slightly, his face settling against the back of her neck, his breath warm against her skin. He held her with surprising gentleness, his hand resting carefully at her waist, maintaining the most respectful embrace possible given their intimate position.
The storm outside seemed to recede further into the background, replaced by the sound of their breathing gradually synchronizing, by the warmth building between their bodies. Devika felt safer than she had all night, the thunder no longer causing her to flinch. There was something profoundly comforting about being held this way—something she had missed during the long months of Anand's absence.
A feeling of gratitude washed over her—for Ganapathi's respectful embrace, for his earlier attentions to her body, for the way he maintained boundaries even in his obvious desire. Acting on impulse, she covered his hand with hers where it rested at her waist. Then, slowly, deliberately, she guided it beneath the edge of her saree, placing his palm against the bare skin of her stomach.
Ganapathi's breath caught, his body tensing behind her. "Madam," he whispered, the word somewhere between question and reverence.
"Shh," she soothed, keeping her hand over his, holding it in place against her skin. "Just feel the warmth. Hold your hand still."
His palm was hot against her belly, his fingers splayed just below her navel. Unlike earlier in the kitchen, he made no attempt to explore or caress, keeping his hand motionless as instructed. The restraint touched her deeply—this man who desired her so intensely was willing to accept whatever boundaries she established, finding gratitude in the small intimacies she allowed rather than pushing for more.
She felt his face press more firmly against her neck, his breath evening out as he relaxed into their embrace. His thumb moved once, almost imperceptibly, tracing the edge of her navel before returning to stillness. The small gesture sent ripples of pleasure through her body, but she made no comment, allowing him this tiny liberty.
As they lay entwined on the thin mat, the storm gradually receding into the distance, Devika found herself thinking that this moment—this simple act of being held by someone who desired her, who saw her—felt more intimate than anything she had experienced in years of marriage. Here, on a hard floor in a humble dwelling, with rain pattering against the roof and thunder rumbling in the distance, she had found a connection she hadn't realized she was missing.
She drifted toward sleep, Ganapathi's hand warm against her skin, his breathing deep and regular against her neck. Their unlikely intimacy, born of storm and circumstance, carried her gently into dreams that for once contained no thunder, no fear, only the quiet certainty of being truly held.
![[+]](https://xossipy.com/themes/sharepoint/collapse_collapsed.png)