04-02-2026, 10:05 AM
As they stepped out of the mandir gates, prasad packets in hand and Monu munching on a peda, Ranjith suddenly paused.
His eyes narrowed across the road — there, leaning against a parked auto-rickshaw, was beedaa.
The 60-year-old slum veteran looked rougher up close in daylight: silver-streaked hair unkempt, faded vest clinging to his still-broad chest, old scars catching the sun, arms crossed with those faded tattoos peeking out.
A fresh paan stain darkened his lower lip, and the faint smell of beedi smoke and sweat drifted even from a distance. He wasn't begging or causing trouble — just standing there, watching the temple crowd with that same unreadable intensity.
Ranjith, ever the cop with a sense of duty (and perhaps a twinge of guilt over the false arrest), straightened up. "Ek minute," he told Divya and Monu, then walked over briskly.
"beedaa" Ranjith called out, voice firm but not hostile.
beedaa turned slowly, eyes flicking from Ranjith to Divya behind him. "Aaj mera birthday hai. Ghar aao, khana kha lo saath mein. Galti ho gayi thi us din — ab bitterness nahi rakhna chahiye. Chalo."
beeda's gaze lingered on Divya for a beat too long — taking in her elegant maroon saree with the gold border hugging her figure, the way the pallu dbangd modestly yet couldn't hide the soft swell of her breasts, the sindoor bright against her forehead, mangalsutra gleaming.
Then he met Ranjith's eyes again, a slow nod. "Theek hai, saab. Birthday hai toh aata hoon." His voice was gravelly, low, carrying years of street life.
Divya's stomach twisted. She forced a polite smile, but inside she recoiled. Beeda's body looked dirty to her — sweat-streaked skin, grime under his nails, the musky, unwashed scent that hit her even from afar.
The contrast was stark: Ranjith clean-shaven, uniform crisp even off-duty today; beedaa raw, aged, unpolished. She didn't want him in their home, near their things, near Monu.
But Ranjith had already invited him — hospitality, pride, whatever it was — and she couldn't protest without explanation.
His eyes narrowed across the road — there, leaning against a parked auto-rickshaw, was beedaa.
The 60-year-old slum veteran looked rougher up close in daylight: silver-streaked hair unkempt, faded vest clinging to his still-broad chest, old scars catching the sun, arms crossed with those faded tattoos peeking out.
A fresh paan stain darkened his lower lip, and the faint smell of beedi smoke and sweat drifted even from a distance. He wasn't begging or causing trouble — just standing there, watching the temple crowd with that same unreadable intensity.
Ranjith, ever the cop with a sense of duty (and perhaps a twinge of guilt over the false arrest), straightened up. "Ek minute," he told Divya and Monu, then walked over briskly.
"beedaa" Ranjith called out, voice firm but not hostile.
beedaa turned slowly, eyes flicking from Ranjith to Divya behind him. "Aaj mera birthday hai. Ghar aao, khana kha lo saath mein. Galti ho gayi thi us din — ab bitterness nahi rakhna chahiye. Chalo."
beeda's gaze lingered on Divya for a beat too long — taking in her elegant maroon saree with the gold border hugging her figure, the way the pallu dbangd modestly yet couldn't hide the soft swell of her breasts, the sindoor bright against her forehead, mangalsutra gleaming.
Then he met Ranjith's eyes again, a slow nod. "Theek hai, saab. Birthday hai toh aata hoon." His voice was gravelly, low, carrying years of street life.
Divya's stomach twisted. She forced a polite smile, but inside she recoiled. Beeda's body looked dirty to her — sweat-streaked skin, grime under his nails, the musky, unwashed scent that hit her even from afar.
The contrast was stark: Ranjith clean-shaven, uniform crisp even off-duty today; beedaa raw, aged, unpolished. She didn't want him in their home, near their things, near Monu.
But Ranjith had already invited him — hospitality, pride, whatever it was — and she couldn't protest without explanation.
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