Yesterday, 02:54 PM
Interlude: The Night After Day 6
Saturday, 23 May 2020 – 10:52 p.m. to 4:19 a.m.
Nikhil’s room was a small, stuffy box at the end of the service balcony, separated from the main flat by a thin plywood door that never quite closed right.
The air smelled of his mother’s cooking and the faint, lingering dampness of Mumbai’s endless monsoon season, even though the rains had stopped months ago.
He lay on his thin cotton mattress, shirtless in the heat, one arm thrown over his eyes, the other hand clenched into a fist against his stomach.
The day had been a slow, deliberate torture.
Radha Ma’am had been worse than ever.
Not just strict—cruel, in that quiet way she had always been best at.
The ruler tapping like a countdown to execution.
The voice that could turn a boy’s blood to ice.
The eyes that met his only to look through him, as if yesterday had been a fever dream she had already forgotten.
He had waited all day for a sign.
A glance that lingered too long.
A word whispered when Lakshmi turned her back.
Something to say, *It’s still real. The panty, the legs open, the way I let you look—it wasn’t a mistake.*
Nothing.
By 5:45 p.m., when she had dismissed him with “Pack your books. You’re done,” he had felt the last thread snap.
It’s over.
She regretted it.
The moment the panty hit the floor, shame had flooded her.
Today was her way of erasing it, of rebuilding the wall between teacher and student before it crumbled completely.
Tomorrow’s revision test would be the final nail.
Three hours of her sitting across from him, ruler in hand, voice like frost, eyes saying *Forget it ever happened.*
His chest ached with something sharper than disappointment—humiliation, the kind that burned slow and deep.
He had dared to believe, for one stupid afternoon, that the woman who had terrorised him for fourteen years wanted him to see her naked.
Wanted him to look between her legs and not look away.
And now?
Now he was just the same frightened boy who used to stand outside the staff room holding his ears.
He rolled onto his side, pressed his face into the pillow, and let the tears come hot and silent.
*Stupid. So stupid.*
*She’s thirty-six, married, a teacher. You’re nineteen, her student, the maid’s son. It was lockdown boredom. That’s all.*
The fantasies that had kept him up for two nights (her on her knees, her mouth open, whispering his name) twisted into something ugly.
Now he imagined her tomorrow:
Looking at him with pity.
Saying, *Yesterday was a mistake. It never happened.*
He curled tighter, the ache in his chest spreading to his throat.
Across the thin wall, in the master bedroom, Radha sat cross-legged on the edge of the king-size bed, the sheet pulled up to her waist like a shield.
The room smelled of jasmine incense and the faint, metallic tang of her own anxiety.
She had been ice all day because she had to be.
But now, alone in the dark, the mask cracked.
She hugged her knees to her chest, rested her forehead against them, and let the truth spill out in whispers.
*What am I doing?*
Yesterday she had crossed a line she could never uncross.
The panty on the floor.
The way his eyes had widened, hungry and terrified at once.
The way her body had throbbed under that gaze, freer than it had felt in years.
She had wanted it.
Wanted the humiliation of being naked in front of the boy she had ruled with fear.
Wanted to see if he would dare to take what she offered.
But today, seeing the hope flicker in his eyes only to stamp it out herself, she had felt something new: guilt.
He was so young.
Nineteen, yes, but still the boy who used to tremble when she raised her voice.
Still the boy whose mother scrubbed her floors.
What if tomorrow he froze?
What if the power she had handed him was too heavy, and he dropped it like a hot coal?
Or worse: what if he took it, and it changed everything forever?
She lifted her head, stared at the shadowed wall where her husband’s photo hung (smiling in his navy uniform, oblivious).
There was no turning back.
But she could control the pace.
She decided, there in the quiet, that tomorrow she would test him first.
Casual.
Natural.
She would ask about Ludo over breakfast, when Lakshmi was in the kitchen.
“Still playing board games to pass the time?”
Watch his eyes.
See if the spark was there, or if today’s ice had doused it.
If he looked away, if he stammered “No, Ma’am,” then she would let it die.
Let the panty moment be the end, a secret shame she would carry alone.
But if his eyes lit up (if he swallowed hard and whispered “Yes”), then she would know.
Then, when Lakshmi left at 1:30, she would walk in wearing only the navy saree, nothing underneath.
Stand in the doorway.
Let it fall just enough to remind him.
And then… she would wait.
Let him decide if he wanted to touch, to lead, to take.
She was the teacher who had knelt in her mind a thousand times already.
She could wait one more day to see if the student would dare to rule.
She lay back, pulled the sheet over her, and closed her eyes.
Tomorrow she would check the waters.
Tomorrow she would know if the boy who had once feared her
was ready to own her.
Or if the game had ended before it truly began.
The night stretched on, hot and uncertain.
Two people, ten metres apart, both wide awake, both terrified of the same question:
What happens when the door closes tomorrow… and the pretending finally ends?
Nikhil whispered into his pillow one last time, voice breaking:
*It’s over. She’s done with me.*
Radha whispered into the dark, voice steady but small:
*Tomorrow, baby. Show me if you want it too.*
Neither knew the other was awake.
Neither knew how wrong they were.
Saturday, 23 May 2020 – 10:52 p.m. to 4:19 a.m.
Nikhil’s room was a small, stuffy box at the end of the service balcony, separated from the main flat by a thin plywood door that never quite closed right.
The air smelled of his mother’s cooking and the faint, lingering dampness of Mumbai’s endless monsoon season, even though the rains had stopped months ago.
He lay on his thin cotton mattress, shirtless in the heat, one arm thrown over his eyes, the other hand clenched into a fist against his stomach.
The day had been a slow, deliberate torture.
Radha Ma’am had been worse than ever.
Not just strict—cruel, in that quiet way she had always been best at.
The ruler tapping like a countdown to execution.
The voice that could turn a boy’s blood to ice.
The eyes that met his only to look through him, as if yesterday had been a fever dream she had already forgotten.
He had waited all day for a sign.
A glance that lingered too long.
A word whispered when Lakshmi turned her back.
Something to say, *It’s still real. The panty, the legs open, the way I let you look—it wasn’t a mistake.*
Nothing.
By 5:45 p.m., when she had dismissed him with “Pack your books. You’re done,” he had felt the last thread snap.
It’s over.
She regretted it.
The moment the panty hit the floor, shame had flooded her.
Today was her way of erasing it, of rebuilding the wall between teacher and student before it crumbled completely.
Tomorrow’s revision test would be the final nail.
Three hours of her sitting across from him, ruler in hand, voice like frost, eyes saying *Forget it ever happened.*
His chest ached with something sharper than disappointment—humiliation, the kind that burned slow and deep.
He had dared to believe, for one stupid afternoon, that the woman who had terrorised him for fourteen years wanted him to see her naked.
Wanted him to look between her legs and not look away.
And now?
Now he was just the same frightened boy who used to stand outside the staff room holding his ears.
He rolled onto his side, pressed his face into the pillow, and let the tears come hot and silent.
*Stupid. So stupid.*
*She’s thirty-six, married, a teacher. You’re nineteen, her student, the maid’s son. It was lockdown boredom. That’s all.*
The fantasies that had kept him up for two nights (her on her knees, her mouth open, whispering his name) twisted into something ugly.
Now he imagined her tomorrow:
Looking at him with pity.
Saying, *Yesterday was a mistake. It never happened.*
He curled tighter, the ache in his chest spreading to his throat.
Across the thin wall, in the master bedroom, Radha sat cross-legged on the edge of the king-size bed, the sheet pulled up to her waist like a shield.
The room smelled of jasmine incense and the faint, metallic tang of her own anxiety.
She had been ice all day because she had to be.
But now, alone in the dark, the mask cracked.
She hugged her knees to her chest, rested her forehead against them, and let the truth spill out in whispers.
*What am I doing?*
Yesterday she had crossed a line she could never uncross.
The panty on the floor.
The way his eyes had widened, hungry and terrified at once.
The way her body had throbbed under that gaze, freer than it had felt in years.
She had wanted it.
Wanted the humiliation of being naked in front of the boy she had ruled with fear.
Wanted to see if he would dare to take what she offered.
But today, seeing the hope flicker in his eyes only to stamp it out herself, she had felt something new: guilt.
He was so young.
Nineteen, yes, but still the boy who used to tremble when she raised her voice.
Still the boy whose mother scrubbed her floors.
What if tomorrow he froze?
What if the power she had handed him was too heavy, and he dropped it like a hot coal?
Or worse: what if he took it, and it changed everything forever?
She lifted her head, stared at the shadowed wall where her husband’s photo hung (smiling in his navy uniform, oblivious).
There was no turning back.
But she could control the pace.
She decided, there in the quiet, that tomorrow she would test him first.
Casual.
Natural.
She would ask about Ludo over breakfast, when Lakshmi was in the kitchen.
“Still playing board games to pass the time?”
Watch his eyes.
See if the spark was there, or if today’s ice had doused it.
If he looked away, if he stammered “No, Ma’am,” then she would let it die.
Let the panty moment be the end, a secret shame she would carry alone.
But if his eyes lit up (if he swallowed hard and whispered “Yes”), then she would know.
Then, when Lakshmi left at 1:30, she would walk in wearing only the navy saree, nothing underneath.
Stand in the doorway.
Let it fall just enough to remind him.
And then… she would wait.
Let him decide if he wanted to touch, to lead, to take.
She was the teacher who had knelt in her mind a thousand times already.
She could wait one more day to see if the student would dare to rule.
She lay back, pulled the sheet over her, and closed her eyes.
Tomorrow she would check the waters.
Tomorrow she would know if the boy who had once feared her
was ready to own her.
Or if the game had ended before it truly began.
The night stretched on, hot and uncertain.
Two people, ten metres apart, both wide awake, both terrified of the same question:
What happens when the door closes tomorrow… and the pretending finally ends?
Nikhil whispered into his pillow one last time, voice breaking:
*It’s over. She’s done with me.*
Radha whispered into the dark, voice steady but small:
*Tomorrow, baby. Show me if you want it too.*
Neither knew the other was awake.
Neither knew how wrong they were.
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