04-02-2026, 09:28 AM
Divya never breathed a word about the water tanker incident to Ranjith.
How could she? The way the driver's rough hand had "accidentally" brushed her wet waist while handing back the bucket, the smirk on his face as her soaked saree clung like a second skin, outlining every curve she usually kept hidden under modest pallus... it replayed in her mind at the worst times. In the shower, while cooking, even when Ranjith was making love to her gently like always. She pushed it down, told herself it was nothing, just embarrassment. But the heat it stirred refused to fade. She stayed quieter those days, more dutiful — extra attentive to Ranjith when he came home exhausted, hoping guilt would drown the memory.
one day Ranjith arrested a rowdy.
His name was beedaa — a notorious small-time thief from the nearby slum, known for snatching chains, breaking into parked scooters, and roughing up anyone who resisted. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a scar across his cheek, , always in a dirty vest and lungi, chewing paan like he owned the streets. The locals feared him more than they respected the security officer sometimes.
Ranjith got the tip early morning — beedaa had hit an elderly couple's house the night before, stolen gold bangles and cash.
Ranjith, with two constables, raided the slum gali where beedaa hid. It was quick and brutal: he tried to run, jumped over a wall, but Ranjith tackled him hard into the muddy lane. Punches flew — beedaa landed a few wild ones, but Ranjith's training won out.
He cuffed him roughly, knee on his back, reading rights while the slum crowd gathered, murmuring. "Chor pakda gaya... SI saab ne mar diya isko."
Ranjith just tightened the cuffs, hauled him up, and shoved him into the jeep. Back at the station, he personally interrogated beedaa — no mercy, slapping him when he lied, extracting confession and recovery of the stolen items.
By evening, Karim was in lockup, case filed, and Ranjith came home late, knuckles bruised, uniform dusty, but satisfied. "Ek aur gunda andar," he told Divya proudly over dinner, ruffling Monu's hair. "Ab yeh area thoda safe rahega."
Divya listened, nodding, serving him extra rotis, her eyes downcast. She felt a strange mix — pride in her husband's bravery, yes... but also something darker twisting inside. beedaa. She had seen him before, lounging near the water tap, eyes following women openly. Once or twice their gazes had locked when she passed the slum edge — bold, hungry stares that made her quicken her step. Now he was locked up because of Ranjith. The man who protected her world had caged the man who represented everything forbidden and raw on the other side.
Divya never breathed a word about the water tanker incident to Ranjith.
How could she? The way the driver's rough hand had "accidentally" brushed her wet waist while handing back the bucket, the smirk on his face as her soaked saree clung like a second skin, outlining every curve she usually kept hidden under modest pallus... it replayed in her mind at the worst times. In the shower, while cooking, even when Ranjith was making love to her gently like always. She pushed it down, told herself it was nothing, just embarrassment. But the heat it stirred refused to fade. She stayed quieter those days, more dutiful — extra attentive to Ranjith when he came home exhausted, hoping guilt would drown the memory.
one day Ranjith arrested a rowdy.
His name was beedaa — a notorious small-time thief from the nearby slum, known for snatching chains, breaking into parked scooters, and roughing up anyone who resisted. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a scar across his cheek, , always in a dirty vest and lungi, chewing paan like he owned the streets. The locals feared him more than they respected the security officer sometimes.
Ranjith got the tip early morning — beedaa had hit an elderly couple's house the night before, stolen gold bangles and cash.
Ranjith, with two constables, raided the slum gali where beedaa hid. It was quick and brutal: he tried to run, jumped over a wall, but Ranjith tackled him hard into the muddy lane. Punches flew — beedaa landed a few wild ones, but Ranjith's training won out.
He cuffed him roughly, knee on his back, reading rights while the slum crowd gathered, murmuring. "Chor pakda gaya... SI saab ne mar diya isko."
Ranjith just tightened the cuffs, hauled him up, and shoved him into the jeep. Back at the station, he personally interrogated beedaa — no mercy, slapping him when he lied, extracting confession and recovery of the stolen items.
By evening, Karim was in lockup, case filed, and Ranjith came home late, knuckles bruised, uniform dusty, but satisfied. "Ek aur gunda andar," he told Divya proudly over dinner, ruffling Monu's hair. "Ab yeh area thoda safe rahega."
Divya listened, nodding, serving him extra rotis, her eyes downcast. She felt a strange mix — pride in her husband's bravery, yes... but also something darker twisting inside. beedaa. She had seen him before, lounging near the water tap, eyes following women openly. Once or twice their gazes had locked when she passed the slum edge — bold, hungry stares that made her quicken her step. Now he was locked up because of Ranjith. The man who protected her world had caged the man who represented everything forbidden and raw on the other side.
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