07-10-2025, 01:40 AM
(This post was last modified: 08-10-2025, 10:26 AM by Deeraaan. Edited 1 time in total. Edited 1 time in total.)
The monsoon had left Kolkata's streets slick and steaming, the air thick with jasmine and decay. Inside the marble-floored foyer of the Roy mansion, Mrs. Indrani Roy adjusted a strand of pearls at her throat, her silk sari whispering as she moved toward the disturbance at the gate. A figure hunched in the downpour, skeletal and dripping, one arm clutched awkwardly against his chest like a broken bird's wing.
"Babu, have mercy," the man rasped, his voice raw as gravel under a boot. Water streamed from his threadbare shirt, pooling around bare feet crusted with dirt. "The truck... it crushed my hand." He uncurled his fingers just enough to reveal swollen, purple knuckles glistening in the porch light.
Indrani’s lips tightened. Disgust warred with duty—charity was expected of the Roys, pillars of Kolkata’s elite. Behind her, her daughter-in-law, Aparna, peered over her shoulder, plump fingers twisting the gold bangles on her wrist. "He’ll die out here, Ma," Aparna murmured, her doe eyes wide with performative pity.
The servants had gathered silently, their expressions unreadable. It was old Subodh, the gardener, who broke the stillness. "He’s no beggar, Memsaab," he said softly. "Saw him near the docks last week. Ran when the security officer vans came."
But Indrani waved him off. "Bring him to the servants' quarters. And fetch Dr. Mukherjee." Her gaze lingered on the intruder’s sunken cheeks, the fever-bright eyes that darted from her jewels to Aparna’s full hips. A tremor of unease prickled her spine—something feral in that stare, like a street dog eyeing meat.
In the cramped, damp servants' quarters, the man called himself Ratan. He sat hunched on a cot, Dr. Mukherjee's thick fingers prodding the grotesque swelling of his hand. Ratan hissed through yellowed teeth, his gaze darting past the doctor's shoulder to where Aparna lingered near the doorway. Her silk kurta clung to the curve of her waist, the damp monsoon air making the fabric sheer where it stretched across her breasts. She shifted, uncomfortable under his unblinking stare, yet didn't leave. "Will he recover, Doctor?" she asked, her voice soft with a concern that felt rehearsed.
"Broken metacarpals," Dr. Mukherjee grunted, splinting the mangled hand with rough efficiency. "He'll need weeks of rest. No work." He packed his bag, casting a dismissive glance at Ratan's gaunt frame and threadbare clothes. "Keep it clean, or gangrene sets in." As the doctor left, Ratan slumped back, feigning exhaustion. His eyes, however, tracked Aparna's every movement – the nervous flutter of her hands smoothing her sari, the slight part of her lips as she breathed. He let a whimper escape. "Water... please, Memsaab?"
Aparna hesitated, glancing towards the main house where her husband, Vikram, would be engrossed in his ledgers. Duty warred with instinct. Finally, she poured water from a clay pot into a tin cup. Her fingers brushed his as she handed it over, a fleeting, electric contact. Ratan drank slowly, letting water trickle down his chin onto his filthy shirt, his gaze locked on hers. "You are... kind," he rasped, imbuing the words with a raw vulnerability that belied the calculation behind his sunken eyes. "Like a goddess."
Later that night, the mansion slept under the drumming rain. Ratan slipped from his cot, his broken hand a dull, manageable throb. He moved with unsettling silence, a shadow flitting past the snoring cook. His destination: the family wing. He paused outside Aparna's bedroom door, pressing his ear against the heavy teak. Inside, the rhythmic murmur of Vikram’s snoring was punctuated by Aparna’s restless sigh. Ratan’s lips curled into a thin, predatory smile. He traced a filthy fingernail down the polished wood, leaving an invisible mark. Then, soundless as smoke, he retreated, melting back into the servants' quarters before dawn’s first grey light touched the high windows. The hunt had begun.
Days blurred into a performance of pathetic gratitude. Ratan shuffled through chores assigned out of pity – polishing silverware under Subodh’s suspicious gaze, sorting lentils with clumsy fingers. He made himself small, harmless, his eyes perpetually downcast. Yet, his presence seeped into the household’s rhythm. He’d "accidentally" brush against Aparna’s arm as she passed, his touch lingering a fraction too long. He’d catch her eye when Vikram droned on about business, offering a fleeting, conspiratorial look of shared boredom that made her flush and glance away. He spoke little, but when he did, his voice was a raspy whisper laden with suggestive undertones masked as reverence. "The rain makes the garden smell like jasmine, Memsaab," he’d murmur as she walked by, watching her hips sway. "Like your perfume."
The heat intensified, clinging like wet silk. Indrani Roy found him one afternoon near the verandah, ostensibly tending to wilting orchids. Sweat plastered his thin shirt to his bony frame. He looked up, meeting her imperious gaze not with submission, but with a startling intensity. "Forgive me, Memsaab," he breathed, his voice thick. "The heat... it reminds me of the fever that took my mother." He let his gaze drop, feigning weakness, swaying slightly. A flicker of something – not pity, but a primal recognition – crossed Indrani’s stern face before she snapped, "Get back to work!" Yet she watched his retreating figure, the sharp angles of his shoulders, the deliberate slowness of his walk, long after he vanished into the shadows.
The monsoon broke violently one evening. Thunder shook the mansion. Vikram was stranded at his club. In the dimly lit drawing room, Indrani sipped brandy, her posture rigid. Aparna paced nervously, her silk nightgown clinging damply. Ratan appeared silently in the doorway, holding a flickering kerosene lamp. "The storm," he rasped, his eyes gleaming in the low light, darting between the two women. "It frightens you." It wasn't a question. He took a hesitant step forward, the lamp casting long, dancing shadows that accentuated the hollows of his cheeks and the unsettling hunger in his stare. The air crackled, thick with the storm’s fury and something else, unspoken, dangerous. Aparna’s breath hitched. Indrani’s knuckles whitened around her glass. He stood poised, the ugly intruder in their sanctuary, sensing the fragile dam of their propriety beginning to strain.
"Babu, have mercy," the man rasped, his voice raw as gravel under a boot. Water streamed from his threadbare shirt, pooling around bare feet crusted with dirt. "The truck... it crushed my hand." He uncurled his fingers just enough to reveal swollen, purple knuckles glistening in the porch light.
Indrani’s lips tightened. Disgust warred with duty—charity was expected of the Roys, pillars of Kolkata’s elite. Behind her, her daughter-in-law, Aparna, peered over her shoulder, plump fingers twisting the gold bangles on her wrist. "He’ll die out here, Ma," Aparna murmured, her doe eyes wide with performative pity.
The servants had gathered silently, their expressions unreadable. It was old Subodh, the gardener, who broke the stillness. "He’s no beggar, Memsaab," he said softly. "Saw him near the docks last week. Ran when the security officer vans came."
But Indrani waved him off. "Bring him to the servants' quarters. And fetch Dr. Mukherjee." Her gaze lingered on the intruder’s sunken cheeks, the fever-bright eyes that darted from her jewels to Aparna’s full hips. A tremor of unease prickled her spine—something feral in that stare, like a street dog eyeing meat.
In the cramped, damp servants' quarters, the man called himself Ratan. He sat hunched on a cot, Dr. Mukherjee's thick fingers prodding the grotesque swelling of his hand. Ratan hissed through yellowed teeth, his gaze darting past the doctor's shoulder to where Aparna lingered near the doorway. Her silk kurta clung to the curve of her waist, the damp monsoon air making the fabric sheer where it stretched across her breasts. She shifted, uncomfortable under his unblinking stare, yet didn't leave. "Will he recover, Doctor?" she asked, her voice soft with a concern that felt rehearsed.
"Broken metacarpals," Dr. Mukherjee grunted, splinting the mangled hand with rough efficiency. "He'll need weeks of rest. No work." He packed his bag, casting a dismissive glance at Ratan's gaunt frame and threadbare clothes. "Keep it clean, or gangrene sets in." As the doctor left, Ratan slumped back, feigning exhaustion. His eyes, however, tracked Aparna's every movement – the nervous flutter of her hands smoothing her sari, the slight part of her lips as she breathed. He let a whimper escape. "Water... please, Memsaab?"
Aparna hesitated, glancing towards the main house where her husband, Vikram, would be engrossed in his ledgers. Duty warred with instinct. Finally, she poured water from a clay pot into a tin cup. Her fingers brushed his as she handed it over, a fleeting, electric contact. Ratan drank slowly, letting water trickle down his chin onto his filthy shirt, his gaze locked on hers. "You are... kind," he rasped, imbuing the words with a raw vulnerability that belied the calculation behind his sunken eyes. "Like a goddess."
Later that night, the mansion slept under the drumming rain. Ratan slipped from his cot, his broken hand a dull, manageable throb. He moved with unsettling silence, a shadow flitting past the snoring cook. His destination: the family wing. He paused outside Aparna's bedroom door, pressing his ear against the heavy teak. Inside, the rhythmic murmur of Vikram’s snoring was punctuated by Aparna’s restless sigh. Ratan’s lips curled into a thin, predatory smile. He traced a filthy fingernail down the polished wood, leaving an invisible mark. Then, soundless as smoke, he retreated, melting back into the servants' quarters before dawn’s first grey light touched the high windows. The hunt had begun.
Days blurred into a performance of pathetic gratitude. Ratan shuffled through chores assigned out of pity – polishing silverware under Subodh’s suspicious gaze, sorting lentils with clumsy fingers. He made himself small, harmless, his eyes perpetually downcast. Yet, his presence seeped into the household’s rhythm. He’d "accidentally" brush against Aparna’s arm as she passed, his touch lingering a fraction too long. He’d catch her eye when Vikram droned on about business, offering a fleeting, conspiratorial look of shared boredom that made her flush and glance away. He spoke little, but when he did, his voice was a raspy whisper laden with suggestive undertones masked as reverence. "The rain makes the garden smell like jasmine, Memsaab," he’d murmur as she walked by, watching her hips sway. "Like your perfume."
The heat intensified, clinging like wet silk. Indrani Roy found him one afternoon near the verandah, ostensibly tending to wilting orchids. Sweat plastered his thin shirt to his bony frame. He looked up, meeting her imperious gaze not with submission, but with a startling intensity. "Forgive me, Memsaab," he breathed, his voice thick. "The heat... it reminds me of the fever that took my mother." He let his gaze drop, feigning weakness, swaying slightly. A flicker of something – not pity, but a primal recognition – crossed Indrani’s stern face before she snapped, "Get back to work!" Yet she watched his retreating figure, the sharp angles of his shoulders, the deliberate slowness of his walk, long after he vanished into the shadows.
The monsoon broke violently one evening. Thunder shook the mansion. Vikram was stranded at his club. In the dimly lit drawing room, Indrani sipped brandy, her posture rigid. Aparna paced nervously, her silk nightgown clinging damply. Ratan appeared silently in the doorway, holding a flickering kerosene lamp. "The storm," he rasped, his eyes gleaming in the low light, darting between the two women. "It frightens you." It wasn't a question. He took a hesitant step forward, the lamp casting long, dancing shadows that accentuated the hollows of his cheeks and the unsettling hunger in his stare. The air crackled, thick with the storm’s fury and something else, unspoken, dangerous. Aparna’s breath hitched. Indrani’s knuckles whitened around her glass. He stood poised, the ugly intruder in their sanctuary, sensing the fragile dam of their propriety beginning to strain.
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