Yesterday, 04:52 PM
The classroom emptied, leaving Devika alone with the abandoned diagrams on the whiteboard. She gathered her materials slowly, her mind replaying the morning's conversation with Vishnu and Pathan. Their compliments still echoed—beautiful, intelligent, understanding—words Rajeevan hadn't used in months.
She walked toward the staff room, intending to collect her bag, but paused mid-corridor. Saradha's voice whispered through her memory: "You're beautiful, Devika. These men—all ages, all types—they're dying for you. Your husband ignores what they desperately want."
Devika's hand tightened on her bag strap. The bus incident flashed through her mind—the old man's desperate, hungry touch, his trembling fingers on her waist, his hoarse whisper against her ear. She'd felt violated then, terrified. But now, remembering Saradha's words, a different interpretation surfaced: He wanted me so badly he couldn't control himself.
Her feet carried her to the parking area where her scooter waited. She inserted the key, ready to return to her empty apartment. But something made her pause.
How much did that old man want me? The thought materialized unbidden. Enough to risk everything on a crowded bus. Enough to lose control completely.
Devika pulled the key from the ignition and walked back toward the college gates. Her heart hammered as she approached the bus stop, the same one where she'd waited that fateful day. The afternoon sun beat down on the concrete, and familiar sounds filled the air—hawkers calling out, autorickshaws honking, the distant rumble of approaching buses.
Devika's inner voice: What am I doing? This is madness. I should go home.
But she stayed, her pallu clutched tight against the breeze, her eyes scanning each approaching bus. The first two passed—wrong routes. The third slowed, and Devika recognized it immediately. The same battered exterior, the same cramped interior packed with laborers and daily-wage workers.
She boarded, dropping coins into the conductor's hand without meeting his eyes. The bus interior smelled of sweat, beedi smoke, and cheap cologne—the scent of men who worked with their hands, who lived in cramped quarters, who never touched women like her.
Devika moved toward the middle section, gripping the overhead bar. The bus lurched forward, and bodies pressed close on all sides. She told herself she wouldn't see him, that he probably took this route only occasionally.
Devika's inner voice: He won't be here. I can just ride to the next stop and get off. This was foolish—
Pressure bloomed against her back. Not the accidental jostle of crowded transit, but deliberate presence. Devika's breath caught. She turned her head slightly and met familiar eyes—the same old man from before, his weathered face creasing into a slow, knowing smile.
Old man: "Back again, madam? Couldn't stay away?"
Devika arranged her face into mock anger, her eyebrows drawing together even as her pulse quickened.
Devika: "Don't flatter yourself. This is my route bus."
Old man: "Is it now?" His smile widened. "Strange how you never took it after that day. Until today."
She opened her mouth to protest, but he shifted closer, eliminating the small gap between them. The crowd surged as more passengers boarded, pressing everyone tighter together.
Devika: "Stay back. The crowd isn't that bad."
Old man: "Can't, madam. Too many people behind me."
It was true—new passengers pushed from the rear, creating a solid wall of bodies. But Devika sensed his deliberate positioning, the way he angled his body to maximize contact with hers.
He leaned close to her ear, inhaling deeply.
Old man: "That smell... you just came from work, didn't you? Sweat mixed with perfume. Drives me mad, madam. Absolutely mad."
Devika's inner voice: Oh god, he didn't even touch me yet. Just my smell makes him crazy. Thank you, Saradha, for helping me understand men better.
His hand found hers on the overhead bar, his rough fingers covering her smooth ones. Devika's first instinct was to pull away, but she hesitated. She'd come here deliberately, hadn't she? Some part of her wanted this—wanted to feel desired again, wanted confirmation of her power.
She left her hand where it was.
The old man's breathing quickened. His other hand moved to her waist, testing, waiting for her to slap it away. When she didn't, his fingers spread wider, claiming the curve of her hip through her saree.
Something hard pressed against Devika's rear—unmistakable evidence of his arousal. Her eyes widened, heat flooding her cheeks. But she didn't move away.
Emboldened by her stillness, his hands traveled upward. His fingers found her armpit, still damp from the afternoon heat, and lingered there with possessive pressure. Then his touch glided across her ribcage, feeling each breath she took. Finally, both hands settled on her saree-dbangd hips, gripping them slowly, deliberately.
Devika: "What are you doing?"
Her voice came out breathless rather than angry. He heard the difference.
His fingers found the edge of her saree at her waist and began pulling it downward, inch by careful inch. Devika felt the fabric loosening, felt cool air touching skin that should remain covered. Her heart hammered as he peeled the saree away, exposing her smooth hips to his gaze—though the crowd blocked everyone else's view.
Devika's inner voice: Oh my god... he's so bold... he's really exposing my bare hips in public...
Old man: "Your silky hips, madam... perfect to hold."
His growl vibrated against her shoulder blade as his palms claimed her exposed flesh possessively. Devika felt his calloused hands drinking in her warmth, his breathing heavy and desperate.
Movement caught her eye—two young men watching from a few feet away, their eyes locked on the old man's hands on her bare skin. Panic spiked through her arousal.
Devika: "People are watching us."
Old man: "Let them watch. No one will do anything. This is Pune—these things happen on buses. Everyone knows. And everyone knows what happens if they interfere with men like me."
Devika absorbed this information, shocked. He's someone powerful in this area. Someone people fear.
His hands squeezed her hips gently, then pulled at the skin, testing its softness. Devika bit her lip to suppress a gasp.
Devika: "Shhh..."
Her palms moved to his hands, intending to push them away. But his grip proved too strong. She found herself simply holding his hands as they explored her, her fingers resting atop his as if she couldn't bear to let go.
He cupped her hips fully now, then let his hands wander forward to the softness of her belly. Her trembling hands followed his movement, maintaining contact as if magnetized.
Through the saree still covering her front, he pulled her backward into his body. Devika collided with his chest, feeling every inch of his hardness pressed against her rear. She tried to move forward, creating distance, but he pulled again. The saree tightened, the fabric straining.
Devika: "Please..."
But she didn't finish the plea. Didn't specify whether she wanted him to stop or continue.
His grip was iron. Her other hand joined the first, both palms now trying unsuccessfully to remove his hands from her body. But he was too strong, too determined. Devika's resistance melted into mere theater—a show for the watching passengers, perhaps for herself.
He closed the remaining gap between them completely, pressing his body flush against hers. Then he buried his face in her bare shoulder, inhaling deeply. The movement shifted her blouse slightly, and his eyes caught sight of her black bra strap.
Old man's inner voice: A conservative-looking Kerala woman in my hands. I can't believe my luck.
He pressed his face harder against her shoulder, his nose and mouth touching her skin directly. The scent of her sweat mixed with jasmine filled his senses.
Old man: "Beautiful women like you shouldn't wear sarees so high, hiding your assets. Poor people like us never get to touch beautiful women. We can only watch from far away. Women like you should satisfy us by showing what god gave you. Make poor men like us happy."
As he spoke, his hands began searching for her saree tuck at her waist. Devika caught hold of both his hands firmly.
Devika: "What are you doing now?"
Old man: "Don't fear, madam. Just lowering your pallu a little. Just to see your navel."
Devika: "No! You can't—"
But he didn't listen. His fingers found the tucked edge of her saree and pulled it deliberately downward. The fabric loosened, sliding lower on her hips, exposing several more inches of her midriff. Her navel appeared, a small indentation in smooth skin.
His hands covered the newly exposed area, hiding it from view behind the saree's outer layer. To observers, it looked innocent—just a man steadying a woman on a crowded bus. But underneath, his finger found her navel, circling it slowly.
A shiver passed through Devika's entire body. His touch on her navel felt electric, intimate in a way she'd never experienced. She wondered at his daring, at her own acceptance.
Old man's inner voice: Oh my god... so round... so sexy in my hands...
He was the first man besides Rajeevan to ever touch her navel. The realization sent conflicting waves of guilt and excitement through her.
His hardness crushed against her rear, the pressure increasing as he ground subtly against her. Devika could feel every ridge, every pulse through their layers of clothing.
Old man: "Who are you? Your smell, your hips, your navel, the way you wrap your saree... you can't be from Pune."
Devika: "I'm... I'm from Kerala."
Old man: "Ah! Kerala woman! I knew it. You Kerala women are gems for low-class men like us. So proper-looking, so traditional. But underneath..."
He didn't finish the sentence. Instead, he leaned close to her ear and licked the outer shell slowly, deliberately. Then his teeth caught her earlobe, nipping gently.
Devika: "You're going too far!"
Old man: "Adjust a little, madam. I need something from you. To remember you by."
Devika: "You're not my lover or husband. I can't share private things with you."
Old man: "I love your smell. I need something that carries it. Please, madam."
His fingers slipped beneath the loosened edge of her blouse, finding her thin black bra strap. He held it firmly, giving a gentle tug that tightened her bra, lifting her breasts slightly.
Devika understood his implication immediately. He wanted her bra. Her undergarment. The most intimate item of clothing she wore.
Devika's inner voice: What do I do? I can't give him that!
She fumbled in her purse with shaking hands and pulled out her handkerchief—the one she'd used to wipe her face and neck throughout the day.
Devika: "Here. Take this. It's... it's been with me all day. It has my scent."
The old man accepted it gratefully, bringing it immediately to his nose. He inhaled deeply, his eyes closing in pleasure. But then he looked at her with cunning.
Old man: "It needs more."
Before she could ask what he meant, he lifted her arm and pressed the handkerchief into the damp warmth of her armpit. The intimate gesture shocked her into stillness. He held it there for several seconds, soaking the fabric with her sweat, then withdrew it and inhaled again.
Old man: "Now it's perfect. More sexy. More you."
The bus began slowing—approaching a stop. Devika realized this was her chance to escape. She gave him a firm push, arranging her face into mock annoyance even as her body trembled with confused arousal.
Devika: "Enough! This is my stop."
She moved toward the door, adjusting her saree hastily to cover her exposed midriff. As she stepped down to the pavement, she glanced back one final time. The old man stood at the window, her handkerchief pressed to his nose, his eyes locked on her with unmistakable hunger.
The bus pulled away, and Devika stood alone on the roadside, her heart racing, her body still tingling from his touches. What had she done? Why had she allowed it? More troubling—why had she sought it out?
Saradha's voice echoed again: "Embrace it, Devika. Use their desire. Control it rather than being controlled by it."
But was this control? Standing on a street corner with her midriff still tingling from a stranger's touch, her handkerchief—intimate with her scent—now in his possession?
Devika wrapped her arms around herself and began walking, unsure whether she felt degraded or strangely empowered. One thing was certain: the proper Kerala wife was disappearing piece by piece, replaced by someone she barely recognized.
Someone who boarded crowded buses deliberately.
Someone who allowed strange men to expose her hips.
Someone who gave away her sweat-soaked handkerchief as a trophy.
The afternoon sun beat down as Devika made her way home, her mind churning with questions she wasn't ready to answer.
She walked toward the staff room, intending to collect her bag, but paused mid-corridor. Saradha's voice whispered through her memory: "You're beautiful, Devika. These men—all ages, all types—they're dying for you. Your husband ignores what they desperately want."
Devika's hand tightened on her bag strap. The bus incident flashed through her mind—the old man's desperate, hungry touch, his trembling fingers on her waist, his hoarse whisper against her ear. She'd felt violated then, terrified. But now, remembering Saradha's words, a different interpretation surfaced: He wanted me so badly he couldn't control himself.
Her feet carried her to the parking area where her scooter waited. She inserted the key, ready to return to her empty apartment. But something made her pause.
How much did that old man want me? The thought materialized unbidden. Enough to risk everything on a crowded bus. Enough to lose control completely.
Devika pulled the key from the ignition and walked back toward the college gates. Her heart hammered as she approached the bus stop, the same one where she'd waited that fateful day. The afternoon sun beat down on the concrete, and familiar sounds filled the air—hawkers calling out, autorickshaws honking, the distant rumble of approaching buses.
Devika's inner voice: What am I doing? This is madness. I should go home.
But she stayed, her pallu clutched tight against the breeze, her eyes scanning each approaching bus. The first two passed—wrong routes. The third slowed, and Devika recognized it immediately. The same battered exterior, the same cramped interior packed with laborers and daily-wage workers.
She boarded, dropping coins into the conductor's hand without meeting his eyes. The bus interior smelled of sweat, beedi smoke, and cheap cologne—the scent of men who worked with their hands, who lived in cramped quarters, who never touched women like her.
Devika moved toward the middle section, gripping the overhead bar. The bus lurched forward, and bodies pressed close on all sides. She told herself she wouldn't see him, that he probably took this route only occasionally.
Devika's inner voice: He won't be here. I can just ride to the next stop and get off. This was foolish—
Pressure bloomed against her back. Not the accidental jostle of crowded transit, but deliberate presence. Devika's breath caught. She turned her head slightly and met familiar eyes—the same old man from before, his weathered face creasing into a slow, knowing smile.
Old man: "Back again, madam? Couldn't stay away?"
Devika arranged her face into mock anger, her eyebrows drawing together even as her pulse quickened.
Devika: "Don't flatter yourself. This is my route bus."
Old man: "Is it now?" His smile widened. "Strange how you never took it after that day. Until today."
She opened her mouth to protest, but he shifted closer, eliminating the small gap between them. The crowd surged as more passengers boarded, pressing everyone tighter together.
Devika: "Stay back. The crowd isn't that bad."
Old man: "Can't, madam. Too many people behind me."
It was true—new passengers pushed from the rear, creating a solid wall of bodies. But Devika sensed his deliberate positioning, the way he angled his body to maximize contact with hers.
He leaned close to her ear, inhaling deeply.
Old man: "That smell... you just came from work, didn't you? Sweat mixed with perfume. Drives me mad, madam. Absolutely mad."
Devika's inner voice: Oh god, he didn't even touch me yet. Just my smell makes him crazy. Thank you, Saradha, for helping me understand men better.
His hand found hers on the overhead bar, his rough fingers covering her smooth ones. Devika's first instinct was to pull away, but she hesitated. She'd come here deliberately, hadn't she? Some part of her wanted this—wanted to feel desired again, wanted confirmation of her power.
She left her hand where it was.
The old man's breathing quickened. His other hand moved to her waist, testing, waiting for her to slap it away. When she didn't, his fingers spread wider, claiming the curve of her hip through her saree.
Something hard pressed against Devika's rear—unmistakable evidence of his arousal. Her eyes widened, heat flooding her cheeks. But she didn't move away.
Emboldened by her stillness, his hands traveled upward. His fingers found her armpit, still damp from the afternoon heat, and lingered there with possessive pressure. Then his touch glided across her ribcage, feeling each breath she took. Finally, both hands settled on her saree-dbangd hips, gripping them slowly, deliberately.
Devika: "What are you doing?"
Her voice came out breathless rather than angry. He heard the difference.
His fingers found the edge of her saree at her waist and began pulling it downward, inch by careful inch. Devika felt the fabric loosening, felt cool air touching skin that should remain covered. Her heart hammered as he peeled the saree away, exposing her smooth hips to his gaze—though the crowd blocked everyone else's view.
Devika's inner voice: Oh my god... he's so bold... he's really exposing my bare hips in public...
Old man: "Your silky hips, madam... perfect to hold."
His growl vibrated against her shoulder blade as his palms claimed her exposed flesh possessively. Devika felt his calloused hands drinking in her warmth, his breathing heavy and desperate.
Movement caught her eye—two young men watching from a few feet away, their eyes locked on the old man's hands on her bare skin. Panic spiked through her arousal.
Devika: "People are watching us."
Old man: "Let them watch. No one will do anything. This is Pune—these things happen on buses. Everyone knows. And everyone knows what happens if they interfere with men like me."
Devika absorbed this information, shocked. He's someone powerful in this area. Someone people fear.
His hands squeezed her hips gently, then pulled at the skin, testing its softness. Devika bit her lip to suppress a gasp.
Devika: "Shhh..."
Her palms moved to his hands, intending to push them away. But his grip proved too strong. She found herself simply holding his hands as they explored her, her fingers resting atop his as if she couldn't bear to let go.
He cupped her hips fully now, then let his hands wander forward to the softness of her belly. Her trembling hands followed his movement, maintaining contact as if magnetized.
Through the saree still covering her front, he pulled her backward into his body. Devika collided with his chest, feeling every inch of his hardness pressed against her rear. She tried to move forward, creating distance, but he pulled again. The saree tightened, the fabric straining.
Devika: "Please..."
But she didn't finish the plea. Didn't specify whether she wanted him to stop or continue.
His grip was iron. Her other hand joined the first, both palms now trying unsuccessfully to remove his hands from her body. But he was too strong, too determined. Devika's resistance melted into mere theater—a show for the watching passengers, perhaps for herself.
He closed the remaining gap between them completely, pressing his body flush against hers. Then he buried his face in her bare shoulder, inhaling deeply. The movement shifted her blouse slightly, and his eyes caught sight of her black bra strap.
Old man's inner voice: A conservative-looking Kerala woman in my hands. I can't believe my luck.
He pressed his face harder against her shoulder, his nose and mouth touching her skin directly. The scent of her sweat mixed with jasmine filled his senses.
Old man: "Beautiful women like you shouldn't wear sarees so high, hiding your assets. Poor people like us never get to touch beautiful women. We can only watch from far away. Women like you should satisfy us by showing what god gave you. Make poor men like us happy."
As he spoke, his hands began searching for her saree tuck at her waist. Devika caught hold of both his hands firmly.
Devika: "What are you doing now?"
Old man: "Don't fear, madam. Just lowering your pallu a little. Just to see your navel."
Devika: "No! You can't—"
But he didn't listen. His fingers found the tucked edge of her saree and pulled it deliberately downward. The fabric loosened, sliding lower on her hips, exposing several more inches of her midriff. Her navel appeared, a small indentation in smooth skin.
His hands covered the newly exposed area, hiding it from view behind the saree's outer layer. To observers, it looked innocent—just a man steadying a woman on a crowded bus. But underneath, his finger found her navel, circling it slowly.
A shiver passed through Devika's entire body. His touch on her navel felt electric, intimate in a way she'd never experienced. She wondered at his daring, at her own acceptance.
Old man's inner voice: Oh my god... so round... so sexy in my hands...
He was the first man besides Rajeevan to ever touch her navel. The realization sent conflicting waves of guilt and excitement through her.
His hardness crushed against her rear, the pressure increasing as he ground subtly against her. Devika could feel every ridge, every pulse through their layers of clothing.
Old man: "Who are you? Your smell, your hips, your navel, the way you wrap your saree... you can't be from Pune."
Devika: "I'm... I'm from Kerala."
Old man: "Ah! Kerala woman! I knew it. You Kerala women are gems for low-class men like us. So proper-looking, so traditional. But underneath..."
He didn't finish the sentence. Instead, he leaned close to her ear and licked the outer shell slowly, deliberately. Then his teeth caught her earlobe, nipping gently.
Devika: "You're going too far!"
Old man: "Adjust a little, madam. I need something from you. To remember you by."
Devika: "You're not my lover or husband. I can't share private things with you."
Old man: "I love your smell. I need something that carries it. Please, madam."
His fingers slipped beneath the loosened edge of her blouse, finding her thin black bra strap. He held it firmly, giving a gentle tug that tightened her bra, lifting her breasts slightly.
Devika understood his implication immediately. He wanted her bra. Her undergarment. The most intimate item of clothing she wore.
Devika's inner voice: What do I do? I can't give him that!
She fumbled in her purse with shaking hands and pulled out her handkerchief—the one she'd used to wipe her face and neck throughout the day.
Devika: "Here. Take this. It's... it's been with me all day. It has my scent."
The old man accepted it gratefully, bringing it immediately to his nose. He inhaled deeply, his eyes closing in pleasure. But then he looked at her with cunning.
Old man: "It needs more."
Before she could ask what he meant, he lifted her arm and pressed the handkerchief into the damp warmth of her armpit. The intimate gesture shocked her into stillness. He held it there for several seconds, soaking the fabric with her sweat, then withdrew it and inhaled again.
Old man: "Now it's perfect. More sexy. More you."
The bus began slowing—approaching a stop. Devika realized this was her chance to escape. She gave him a firm push, arranging her face into mock annoyance even as her body trembled with confused arousal.
Devika: "Enough! This is my stop."
She moved toward the door, adjusting her saree hastily to cover her exposed midriff. As she stepped down to the pavement, she glanced back one final time. The old man stood at the window, her handkerchief pressed to his nose, his eyes locked on her with unmistakable hunger.
The bus pulled away, and Devika stood alone on the roadside, her heart racing, her body still tingling from his touches. What had she done? Why had she allowed it? More troubling—why had she sought it out?
Saradha's voice echoed again: "Embrace it, Devika. Use their desire. Control it rather than being controlled by it."
But was this control? Standing on a street corner with her midriff still tingling from a stranger's touch, her handkerchief—intimate with her scent—now in his possession?
Devika wrapped her arms around herself and began walking, unsure whether she felt degraded or strangely empowered. One thing was certain: the proper Kerala wife was disappearing piece by piece, replaced by someone she barely recognized.
Someone who boarded crowded buses deliberately.
Someone who allowed strange men to expose her hips.
Someone who gave away her sweat-soaked handkerchief as a trophy.
The afternoon sun beat down as Devika made her way home, her mind churning with questions she wasn't ready to answer.
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