Yesterday, 04:47 PM
The college day finally ended. Devika gathered her things, her mind still troubled by the practical class. Pathan and Vishnu's predatory behavior had left her feeling exposed and vulnerable again, despite her attempts to maintain professional composure. As she walked to the parking area, dark clouds gathered overhead, promising heavy rain.
When she reached her scooter, she inserted the key and turned it. Nothing happened. She tried again, pressing the starter button repeatedly, but the engine refused to come alive. Frustrated, she checked the fuel tank—it was half full. Something else was wrong.
"Not today of all days," she muttered, looking up at the darkening sky.
After several more failed attempts, Devika reluctantly accepted her situation. She'd have to take the bus home. Glancing at her watch, she realized the next local bus would arrive in about ten minutes. With a sigh, she adjusted her bag across her shoulder and headed toward the bus stop.
The thought of taking public transportation made her uneasy. It had been years since she'd traveled by bus in a city. In Kerala, she'd always had her father's car or Rajeevan would drive her. Since coming to Pune, her scooter had been her only mode of transport.
A few drops of rain began to fall as she reached the bus stop. Several people were already waiting—laborers returning from work, a few college students, and old men with weathered faces. When the bus finally arrived, it was already crowded. Devika hesitated, then joined the pushing throng entering through the door.
Inside, bodies pressed against her from all directions. The humid air was thick with the smell of sweat, cheap cologne, and wet clothes. She clutched her bag tightly to her chest, trying to maintain some personal space as she moved deeper into the bus.
"Madam, please move inside!" the conductor shouted over the noise.
Devika pushed further in, finding herself surrounded almost entirely by men. She grabbed a overhead bar for support as the bus lurched forward. Almost immediately, she felt numerous eyes turn in her direction. Her elegant saree and sophisticated appearance clearly marked her as different from the usual passengers.
"College professor," she heard someone whisper. "Looks like Kerala."
She kept her eyes fixed straight ahead, maintaining a neutral expression despite her discomfort. The bus jolted over a pothole, causing everyone to sway. Devika steadied herself, gripping the bar tighter.
As the journey continued, she became aware of an elderly man, perhaps in his sixties, gradually making his way toward her through the crowd. He had gray hair and wore simple cotton clothes that had seen better days. His weathered face bore deep wrinkles, especially around his eyes.
Eventually, he positioned himself directly behind her. Devika tried to shift forward, but the crowded bus offered nowhere to go. At first, she thought nothing of it—the bus was packed, after all. But then she felt him standing unnecessarily close, his breath faintly reaching the back of her neck.
When the bus took a sharp turn, everyone lurched sideways. The old man stumbled against her, his front pressing firmly against her back. Devika stiffened, expecting him to move away immediately with an apology. Instead, he remained pressed against her for several seconds longer than necessary.
She turned her head, giving him a sharp, disapproving look. Their eyes met briefly. His were rheumy with age but held a glint that made her uncomfortable.
"Sorry, daughter," he mumbled in Hindi. "Bus is too crowded. No place to stand properly."
Devika faced forward again, trying to dismiss the incident. Perhaps she was being oversensitive after the day's events with Pathan and Vishnu.
The bus hit another bump. This time, she distinctly felt the man's groin press against her backside, lingering there even after the bus stabilized. Heat rose to her cheeks—partly from embarrassment, partly from anger. Was this deliberate? From an elderly man who could be her grandfather?
She shifted her position, trying to create distance between them, but the press of bodies around made it impossible. The man coughed softly, adjusting his position—moving slightly closer rather than away.
When the bus braked suddenly at the next stop, he collided with her again. This time, there was no mistaking his intentional movement—the slight circular motion of his hips as he pressed against her.
Devika turned around fully, her eyes flashing with indignation.
"Excuse me," she said coldly in English, loud enough for nearby passengers to hear.
The old man's face arranged itself into an expression of innocent confusion. "What happened, madam? Bus is moving, I am old man. Cannot stand properly."
Several passengers glanced their way, then quickly averted their eyes, unwilling to get involved.
Devika considered creating a scene, calling out his behavior publicly. But something held her back. The crowd seemed indifferent. Would they believe a well-dressed woman over a harmless-looking elderly man? Would they dismiss her as overreacting?
She turned away again, jaw clenched, heart pounding. The remainder of the journey stretched before her like an eternity. The old man remained behind her, seemingly emboldened by her silence. Each time the bus swerved or stopped, she felt his body against hers—deliberate, testing her limits.
Devika's mind raced. If she confronted him more aggressively, the entire bus would turn to watch the spectacle. She'd become the center of unwanted attention, possibly viewed as hysterical. Yet remaining silent made her complicit in her own violation, however minor it might seem to others.
The rain was falling heavily now, drumming against the roof of the bus. Water leaked through a crack in the window, forming a small puddle by her feet. The windshield wipers fought a losing battle against the downpour, squeaking rhythmically.
Devika kept her face impassive, but inside, a quiet fury was building. This old man—like Pathan, like Vishnu, like so many others—assumed her body was available for his pleasure, however fleeting. That her discomfort was irrelevant compared to his desire.
Her stop was approaching. Just a few more minutes of this humiliation, and she could escape. The old man leaned forward slightly, as if reading the destination board, his body pressing more firmly against hers.
"Next stop is mine too," he whispered, his breath hot against her ear.
Devika remained stone-faced, refusing to acknowledge him. The bus slowed, approaching her stop. She prepared to move toward the exit, silently vowing that tomorrow, she would fix her scooter or take a auto-rickshaw, no matter the cost.
As the bus lurched to a halt, she stepped forward, finally breaking contact with her tormentor. Freedom was just steps away. But as she moved toward the exit, she felt a hand brush deliberately across her waist—a final violation before she could escape.
The bus lurched around another corner, throwing passengers against each other. Devika braced herself against the overhead rail, her knuckles whitening with the effort. The old man behind her used the momentum as an excuse, pressing his body deliberately against hers. His chest made contact with her back, the fabric of his cotton kurta thin enough that she could feel the contours of his body.
Devika tensed but remained silent. His breath came in hot, uneven puffs against her neck—the distinctive sour-sweet smell of paan mixed with tobacco making her nostrils flare with disgust. She could taste the scent on the back of her tongue, acrid and intrusive.
Another jolt, another "accidental" bump. This time, his pelvis pressed firmly against her backside, lingering there with deliberate pressure. Devika shot a sharp look over her shoulder, her eyes flashing with anger.
The man's weathered face arranged itself into an expression of innocence. "Sorry, madam," he mumbled, but made no effort to create distance between them.
Devika faced forward again, wondering why she didn't simply create a scene. The answer troubled her—a strange, perverse curiosity had taken root. How far would this elderly man go in a crowded public bus? The thought repulsed her, yet she found herself waiting, observing his boldness with detached fascination.
The man, emboldened by her silence, moved his hand to the metal bar where hers gripped for support. His rough, calloused fingers inched closer until they brushed against hers.
Devika glared at him again, pulling her hand forward along the bar. But space was limited, and the old man simply followed, his fingers trailing after hers like predators pursuing prey. When she could move no further, his fingers settled against hers again, this time applying gentle pressure.
"Such soft hands," he whispered, his voice barely audible above the bus's engine and the patter of rain against the windows.
A drop of sweat trickled down Devika's back despite the air conditioning. The day's exertions had left damp patches under her arms, visible as darker blotches on her blouse. She noticed the man's gaze drawn to them, his eyes widening with an almost feral intensity.
He leaned in, ostensibly to keep his balance as the bus swerved, his face coming close to her shoulder. Devika felt him inhale deeply, his nostrils flaring as he took in her scent—the mixture of jasmine perfume, coconut oil, and the natural musk of her body after a long workday.
"You smell so sweet," he murmured directly into her ear, his voice dropping to ensure only she could hear. "Like a woman should smell. So sexy."
The blatant declaration froze Devika in place. There was no mistaking his intentions now, no possibility of misinterpretation. His words—direct and vulgar—confirmed what his actions had suggested.
A confusing sensation coursed through her body. Revulsion, certainly—but also a disturbing thrill at witnessing such raw, unfiltered desire. This man, old enough to be her father, perhaps even grandfather, was risking public humiliation just to press against her, to smell her, to feel her warmth.
Devika's body betrayed her in that moment. Instead of the slap he deserved, instead of the public shaming she could have unleashed, she found herself standing rigid, unwilling to escalate but equally unwilling to move away. It wasn't attraction—far from it—but a kind of morbid fascination, a clinical interest in observing male desire in its most unvarnished form.
She turned her head slightly, fixing him with a stern, unyielding stare. The look communicated clear displeasure, a boundary firmly drawn. Yet she said nothing. No verbal protest passed her lips.
The old man's eyes gleamed with understanding—not of her disgust, but of what he perceived as silent permission to continue. His lips curled into a slight smile, revealing paan-stained teeth.
The bus continued its journey through rain-slicked streets, every pothole and turn bringing new contact between them. Devika remained stoic, her face a mask of indifference even as her mind raced with conflicting thoughts.
Was this what Saradha had meant about power? Not just wielding it actively, but observing how desperately men pursued even the illusion of intimacy? This pathetic old man would remember this encounter for weeks, perhaps months—while for her, it would be forgotten by evening, merged with all the other unwanted attentions she navigated daily.
As her stop approached, Devika prepared to exit, gathering her bag closer. The old man sensed her imminent departure and pressed closer one final time, his breathing quickening against her neck.
"Next time wear perfume here," he whispered, his finger briefly touching the hollow of her throat. "For me."
Devika watched the doors slide open at her stop, hesitating for just a moment before stepping off the bus. The rain had turned to a light drizzle, dampening her saree and sticking the fabric to her ankles. Behind her, she felt the old man shift forward, clearly intending to follow.
She stepped away quickly, deliberately turning toward the narrow lane that would take her home rather than waiting for the pedestrian crossing. From the corner of her eye, she saw him hovering at the bus door, his weathered face frozen in disappointment when the driver honked impatiently and closed the doors. The bus pulled away, leaving him pressed against the window, his eyes following her until the vehicle turned the corner.
Devika wrapped her arms around herself as she walked through the puddle-strewn lane. Her apartment was just five minutes away, but the journey stretched before her as her mind replayed the incident. Why had she remained silent? She, who had stood up to Seenu, who had confronted Rajeevan about his infidelity, had allowed this stranger's violations without protest.
"I should have slapped him," she muttered, stepping around a deep puddle. "Should have shouted, made everyone look."
Yet something had held her back—not fear exactly, but a strange, detached curiosity. She had wanted to observe how far he would go, as if studying a specimen under her laboratory microscope. The realization disturbed her more than the man's actions
Devika's footsteps dragged as she approached her apartment building, her body and mind equally exhausted from the day's events. The rain had stopped, leaving behind puddles that reflected the streetlights in shimmering patterns. As she neared the entrance, Ramlal straightened his posture, his weathered face breaking into an eager smile.
"Good evening, Madam. Rain has made everything wet. You are safe?" His eyes lingered on her damp saree, clinging to her curves where the moisture had seeped through.
"I'm fine," she replied curtly, avoiding his gaze. Her encounter with the elderly man on the bus had left her wary of all male attention, particularly from men his age.
As she climbed the stairs to her floor, she felt eyes on her from across the landing. Milind Kulkarni stood in his doorway, pretending to check his mail. His gaze slid over her body with practiced subtlety, lingering on her waist where his hands had been just yesterday. Devika quickened her pace, pretending not to notice him.
Inside her apartment, she locked the door and leaned against it, exhaling heavily. The silence enveloped her—a reminder of her solitude in this city of predators. She moved to the window, drawing the curtains closed against the night and any watching eyes.
Sinking onto her bed, Devika stared at the ceiling fan rotating lazily above. How had her life become this gauntlet of male desire? Seenu at college, watching her through CCTV cameras. Ramlal at the entrance, his rheumy eyes following her movements. Milind Kulkarni with his "medical massage" that was anything but professional. Pathan and Vishnu in the practical class, finding excuses to brush against her. And now random strangers on buses, emboldened by her silence.
"They're all old enough to be my father," she whispered to the empty room, disgust and confusion mingling in her voice. Even the two students were taking advantage of Seenu's "special practical class" arrangement—a trap she couldn't escape without risking her position at the college.
Her phone lay on the bedside table, Rajeevan's contact information visible when she picked it up. Her finger hovered over the call button. Perhaps she should apologize for their fight, try to salvage what remained of their marriage. But the memory of the video—his arm around another woman, their laughter intermingling—stopped her cold.
"Why should I apologize when he's the one who betrayed our vows?" she asked herself, setting the phone down without making the call.
Devika moved to the bathroom, peeling off her damp saree and blouse. As she stood before the mirror, she examined her reflection—the body that had become both her prison and her currency in this new life. So many eyes had claimed pieces of her today, leaving her feeling fragmented and dispersed among their hungry gazes.
"Tomorrow," she promised her reflection, "tomorrow will be different." But even as she spoke the words, uncertainty clouded her resolve. In this web of manipulation and desire, she was both spider and fly—and she wasn't sure which role would ultimately consume her.
When she reached her scooter, she inserted the key and turned it. Nothing happened. She tried again, pressing the starter button repeatedly, but the engine refused to come alive. Frustrated, she checked the fuel tank—it was half full. Something else was wrong.
"Not today of all days," she muttered, looking up at the darkening sky.
After several more failed attempts, Devika reluctantly accepted her situation. She'd have to take the bus home. Glancing at her watch, she realized the next local bus would arrive in about ten minutes. With a sigh, she adjusted her bag across her shoulder and headed toward the bus stop.
The thought of taking public transportation made her uneasy. It had been years since she'd traveled by bus in a city. In Kerala, she'd always had her father's car or Rajeevan would drive her. Since coming to Pune, her scooter had been her only mode of transport.
A few drops of rain began to fall as she reached the bus stop. Several people were already waiting—laborers returning from work, a few college students, and old men with weathered faces. When the bus finally arrived, it was already crowded. Devika hesitated, then joined the pushing throng entering through the door.
Inside, bodies pressed against her from all directions. The humid air was thick with the smell of sweat, cheap cologne, and wet clothes. She clutched her bag tightly to her chest, trying to maintain some personal space as she moved deeper into the bus.
"Madam, please move inside!" the conductor shouted over the noise.
Devika pushed further in, finding herself surrounded almost entirely by men. She grabbed a overhead bar for support as the bus lurched forward. Almost immediately, she felt numerous eyes turn in her direction. Her elegant saree and sophisticated appearance clearly marked her as different from the usual passengers.
"College professor," she heard someone whisper. "Looks like Kerala."
She kept her eyes fixed straight ahead, maintaining a neutral expression despite her discomfort. The bus jolted over a pothole, causing everyone to sway. Devika steadied herself, gripping the bar tighter.
As the journey continued, she became aware of an elderly man, perhaps in his sixties, gradually making his way toward her through the crowd. He had gray hair and wore simple cotton clothes that had seen better days. His weathered face bore deep wrinkles, especially around his eyes.
Eventually, he positioned himself directly behind her. Devika tried to shift forward, but the crowded bus offered nowhere to go. At first, she thought nothing of it—the bus was packed, after all. But then she felt him standing unnecessarily close, his breath faintly reaching the back of her neck.
When the bus took a sharp turn, everyone lurched sideways. The old man stumbled against her, his front pressing firmly against her back. Devika stiffened, expecting him to move away immediately with an apology. Instead, he remained pressed against her for several seconds longer than necessary.
She turned her head, giving him a sharp, disapproving look. Their eyes met briefly. His were rheumy with age but held a glint that made her uncomfortable.
"Sorry, daughter," he mumbled in Hindi. "Bus is too crowded. No place to stand properly."
Devika faced forward again, trying to dismiss the incident. Perhaps she was being oversensitive after the day's events with Pathan and Vishnu.
The bus hit another bump. This time, she distinctly felt the man's groin press against her backside, lingering there even after the bus stabilized. Heat rose to her cheeks—partly from embarrassment, partly from anger. Was this deliberate? From an elderly man who could be her grandfather?
She shifted her position, trying to create distance between them, but the press of bodies around made it impossible. The man coughed softly, adjusting his position—moving slightly closer rather than away.
When the bus braked suddenly at the next stop, he collided with her again. This time, there was no mistaking his intentional movement—the slight circular motion of his hips as he pressed against her.
Devika turned around fully, her eyes flashing with indignation.
"Excuse me," she said coldly in English, loud enough for nearby passengers to hear.
The old man's face arranged itself into an expression of innocent confusion. "What happened, madam? Bus is moving, I am old man. Cannot stand properly."
Several passengers glanced their way, then quickly averted their eyes, unwilling to get involved.
Devika considered creating a scene, calling out his behavior publicly. But something held her back. The crowd seemed indifferent. Would they believe a well-dressed woman over a harmless-looking elderly man? Would they dismiss her as overreacting?
She turned away again, jaw clenched, heart pounding. The remainder of the journey stretched before her like an eternity. The old man remained behind her, seemingly emboldened by her silence. Each time the bus swerved or stopped, she felt his body against hers—deliberate, testing her limits.
Devika's mind raced. If she confronted him more aggressively, the entire bus would turn to watch the spectacle. She'd become the center of unwanted attention, possibly viewed as hysterical. Yet remaining silent made her complicit in her own violation, however minor it might seem to others.
The rain was falling heavily now, drumming against the roof of the bus. Water leaked through a crack in the window, forming a small puddle by her feet. The windshield wipers fought a losing battle against the downpour, squeaking rhythmically.
Devika kept her face impassive, but inside, a quiet fury was building. This old man—like Pathan, like Vishnu, like so many others—assumed her body was available for his pleasure, however fleeting. That her discomfort was irrelevant compared to his desire.
Her stop was approaching. Just a few more minutes of this humiliation, and she could escape. The old man leaned forward slightly, as if reading the destination board, his body pressing more firmly against hers.
"Next stop is mine too," he whispered, his breath hot against her ear.
Devika remained stone-faced, refusing to acknowledge him. The bus slowed, approaching her stop. She prepared to move toward the exit, silently vowing that tomorrow, she would fix her scooter or take a auto-rickshaw, no matter the cost.
As the bus lurched to a halt, she stepped forward, finally breaking contact with her tormentor. Freedom was just steps away. But as she moved toward the exit, she felt a hand brush deliberately across her waist—a final violation before she could escape.
The bus lurched around another corner, throwing passengers against each other. Devika braced herself against the overhead rail, her knuckles whitening with the effort. The old man behind her used the momentum as an excuse, pressing his body deliberately against hers. His chest made contact with her back, the fabric of his cotton kurta thin enough that she could feel the contours of his body.
Devika tensed but remained silent. His breath came in hot, uneven puffs against her neck—the distinctive sour-sweet smell of paan mixed with tobacco making her nostrils flare with disgust. She could taste the scent on the back of her tongue, acrid and intrusive.
Another jolt, another "accidental" bump. This time, his pelvis pressed firmly against her backside, lingering there with deliberate pressure. Devika shot a sharp look over her shoulder, her eyes flashing with anger.
The man's weathered face arranged itself into an expression of innocence. "Sorry, madam," he mumbled, but made no effort to create distance between them.
Devika faced forward again, wondering why she didn't simply create a scene. The answer troubled her—a strange, perverse curiosity had taken root. How far would this elderly man go in a crowded public bus? The thought repulsed her, yet she found herself waiting, observing his boldness with detached fascination.
The man, emboldened by her silence, moved his hand to the metal bar where hers gripped for support. His rough, calloused fingers inched closer until they brushed against hers.
Devika glared at him again, pulling her hand forward along the bar. But space was limited, and the old man simply followed, his fingers trailing after hers like predators pursuing prey. When she could move no further, his fingers settled against hers again, this time applying gentle pressure.
"Such soft hands," he whispered, his voice barely audible above the bus's engine and the patter of rain against the windows.
A drop of sweat trickled down Devika's back despite the air conditioning. The day's exertions had left damp patches under her arms, visible as darker blotches on her blouse. She noticed the man's gaze drawn to them, his eyes widening with an almost feral intensity.
He leaned in, ostensibly to keep his balance as the bus swerved, his face coming close to her shoulder. Devika felt him inhale deeply, his nostrils flaring as he took in her scent—the mixture of jasmine perfume, coconut oil, and the natural musk of her body after a long workday.
"You smell so sweet," he murmured directly into her ear, his voice dropping to ensure only she could hear. "Like a woman should smell. So sexy."
The blatant declaration froze Devika in place. There was no mistaking his intentions now, no possibility of misinterpretation. His words—direct and vulgar—confirmed what his actions had suggested.
A confusing sensation coursed through her body. Revulsion, certainly—but also a disturbing thrill at witnessing such raw, unfiltered desire. This man, old enough to be her father, perhaps even grandfather, was risking public humiliation just to press against her, to smell her, to feel her warmth.
Devika's body betrayed her in that moment. Instead of the slap he deserved, instead of the public shaming she could have unleashed, she found herself standing rigid, unwilling to escalate but equally unwilling to move away. It wasn't attraction—far from it—but a kind of morbid fascination, a clinical interest in observing male desire in its most unvarnished form.
She turned her head slightly, fixing him with a stern, unyielding stare. The look communicated clear displeasure, a boundary firmly drawn. Yet she said nothing. No verbal protest passed her lips.
The old man's eyes gleamed with understanding—not of her disgust, but of what he perceived as silent permission to continue. His lips curled into a slight smile, revealing paan-stained teeth.
The bus continued its journey through rain-slicked streets, every pothole and turn bringing new contact between them. Devika remained stoic, her face a mask of indifference even as her mind raced with conflicting thoughts.
Was this what Saradha had meant about power? Not just wielding it actively, but observing how desperately men pursued even the illusion of intimacy? This pathetic old man would remember this encounter for weeks, perhaps months—while for her, it would be forgotten by evening, merged with all the other unwanted attentions she navigated daily.
As her stop approached, Devika prepared to exit, gathering her bag closer. The old man sensed her imminent departure and pressed closer one final time, his breathing quickening against her neck.
"Next time wear perfume here," he whispered, his finger briefly touching the hollow of her throat. "For me."
Devika watched the doors slide open at her stop, hesitating for just a moment before stepping off the bus. The rain had turned to a light drizzle, dampening her saree and sticking the fabric to her ankles. Behind her, she felt the old man shift forward, clearly intending to follow.
She stepped away quickly, deliberately turning toward the narrow lane that would take her home rather than waiting for the pedestrian crossing. From the corner of her eye, she saw him hovering at the bus door, his weathered face frozen in disappointment when the driver honked impatiently and closed the doors. The bus pulled away, leaving him pressed against the window, his eyes following her until the vehicle turned the corner.
Devika wrapped her arms around herself as she walked through the puddle-strewn lane. Her apartment was just five minutes away, but the journey stretched before her as her mind replayed the incident. Why had she remained silent? She, who had stood up to Seenu, who had confronted Rajeevan about his infidelity, had allowed this stranger's violations without protest.
"I should have slapped him," she muttered, stepping around a deep puddle. "Should have shouted, made everyone look."
Yet something had held her back—not fear exactly, but a strange, detached curiosity. She had wanted to observe how far he would go, as if studying a specimen under her laboratory microscope. The realization disturbed her more than the man's actions
Devika's footsteps dragged as she approached her apartment building, her body and mind equally exhausted from the day's events. The rain had stopped, leaving behind puddles that reflected the streetlights in shimmering patterns. As she neared the entrance, Ramlal straightened his posture, his weathered face breaking into an eager smile.
"Good evening, Madam. Rain has made everything wet. You are safe?" His eyes lingered on her damp saree, clinging to her curves where the moisture had seeped through.
"I'm fine," she replied curtly, avoiding his gaze. Her encounter with the elderly man on the bus had left her wary of all male attention, particularly from men his age.
As she climbed the stairs to her floor, she felt eyes on her from across the landing. Milind Kulkarni stood in his doorway, pretending to check his mail. His gaze slid over her body with practiced subtlety, lingering on her waist where his hands had been just yesterday. Devika quickened her pace, pretending not to notice him.
Inside her apartment, she locked the door and leaned against it, exhaling heavily. The silence enveloped her—a reminder of her solitude in this city of predators. She moved to the window, drawing the curtains closed against the night and any watching eyes.
Sinking onto her bed, Devika stared at the ceiling fan rotating lazily above. How had her life become this gauntlet of male desire? Seenu at college, watching her through CCTV cameras. Ramlal at the entrance, his rheumy eyes following her movements. Milind Kulkarni with his "medical massage" that was anything but professional. Pathan and Vishnu in the practical class, finding excuses to brush against her. And now random strangers on buses, emboldened by her silence.
"They're all old enough to be my father," she whispered to the empty room, disgust and confusion mingling in her voice. Even the two students were taking advantage of Seenu's "special practical class" arrangement—a trap she couldn't escape without risking her position at the college.
Her phone lay on the bedside table, Rajeevan's contact information visible when she picked it up. Her finger hovered over the call button. Perhaps she should apologize for their fight, try to salvage what remained of their marriage. But the memory of the video—his arm around another woman, their laughter intermingling—stopped her cold.
"Why should I apologize when he's the one who betrayed our vows?" she asked herself, setting the phone down without making the call.
Devika moved to the bathroom, peeling off her damp saree and blouse. As she stood before the mirror, she examined her reflection—the body that had become both her prison and her currency in this new life. So many eyes had claimed pieces of her today, leaving her feeling fragmented and dispersed among their hungry gazes.
"Tomorrow," she promised her reflection, "tomorrow will be different." But even as she spoke the words, uncertainty clouded her resolve. In this web of manipulation and desire, she was both spider and fly—and she wasn't sure which role would ultimately consume her.
![[+]](https://xossipy.com/themes/sharepoint/collapse_collapsed.png)