04-02-2026, 05:09 PM
Beedaa leaned in a fraction closer in the narrow kitchen doorway, his broad frame blocking most of the light from the living room.
The air between them felt thicker now, charged.
Monu’s soft toy sounds drifted in from the other room like background static — innocent, oblivious.
His gravel voice dropped even lower, almost intimate, the kind of whisper meant only for her ears.
“Bhabhi… aap itni sundar ho, itni seedhi-saadi dikhti ho… lekin college ke dino mein toh zaroor kuch ladke line maarte honge na? Koi special friend tha kya? Jo raat ko phone pe baatein karta tha… ya kabhi haath pakad ke chhup kar milta tha?”
He paused, letting the question hang. His eyes flicked down to her lips, then back up, searching for any flicker of guilt or memory.
Divya’s fingers tightened on the edge of the counter until her knuckles turned white.
Her face flushed hot — not just embarrassment, but a deeper shame mixed with something electric. She kept her back to him, staring at the gas stove like it held the answer.
She swallowed hard, voice coming out small but steady.
“Nahi… aisa kuch nahi tha.”
Beedaa let out a low, knowing chuckle — not mocking, but amused, like he’d expected exactly that answer.
“Sachchi? College ki ladkiyan… sabki koi na koi kahani hoti hai. Kabhi boyfriend, kabhi secret crush, kabhi woh ‘sirf dost’ wala jo haath pakad leta tha library ke peeche. Aap bilkul alag thi kya? Koi bhi nahi?”
Divya turned her head just enough so he could see half her profile — cheek burning red, eyes downcast, lashes trembling.
“Main… traditional family se hoon. Papa bahut strict the. College mein bhi sirf padhai, ghar, aur mandir. Koi boyfriend nahi. Koi… aisa rishta nahi. Kabhi haath bhi nahi pakda kisi ne college days mein.”
Her voice cracked the tiniest bit on the last words.
It was the truth — painfully pure. She had been the good girl, the one who blushed at even a boy’s casual “hi,” who walked home with her dupatta pinned tight, who dreamed only of the day a decent man like Ranjith would come ask her father for her hand.
But saying it out loud now, with this 60-year-old rowdy standing inches behind her, felt different.
Vulnerable. Like she was confessing something far dirtier than any made-up college fling.
Beedaa stayed silent for a long beat. Then he shifted — took half a step nearer. His chest almost brushed her back. She could feel the rough fabric of his vest against her saree-covered shoulder blade.
“Toh… pehli baar kisi ne haath pakda toh Ranjith ne hi pakda hoga?” His tone was soft now, almost gentle — but the question carried teeth. “Pehli baar kisi ne chhua… pehli baar kisi ne chuma… sab kuch pehli baar usi ke saath?”
Divya’s breath hitched audibly. She nodded once — barely perceptible.
“Haan… sab kuch pehli baar… sirf unke saath.”
Beedaa exhaled slowly through his nose, like a man savoring a victory he hadn’t even fought for yet.
“Bahut achha, bhabhi. Bahut pavitra. Bilkul… naya saaman.”
His rough hand finally moved — not grabbing, not forcing — just settling lightly on her hip from behind. Palm wide, fingers splayed over the soft curve where saree met skin. The calluses scbangd gently through the thin fabric. He didn’t squeeze. Just rested there. Claiming space.
The air between them felt thicker now, charged.
Monu’s soft toy sounds drifted in from the other room like background static — innocent, oblivious.
His gravel voice dropped even lower, almost intimate, the kind of whisper meant only for her ears.
“Bhabhi… aap itni sundar ho, itni seedhi-saadi dikhti ho… lekin college ke dino mein toh zaroor kuch ladke line maarte honge na? Koi special friend tha kya? Jo raat ko phone pe baatein karta tha… ya kabhi haath pakad ke chhup kar milta tha?”
He paused, letting the question hang. His eyes flicked down to her lips, then back up, searching for any flicker of guilt or memory.
Divya’s fingers tightened on the edge of the counter until her knuckles turned white.
Her face flushed hot — not just embarrassment, but a deeper shame mixed with something electric. She kept her back to him, staring at the gas stove like it held the answer.
She swallowed hard, voice coming out small but steady.
“Nahi… aisa kuch nahi tha.”
Beedaa let out a low, knowing chuckle — not mocking, but amused, like he’d expected exactly that answer.
“Sachchi? College ki ladkiyan… sabki koi na koi kahani hoti hai. Kabhi boyfriend, kabhi secret crush, kabhi woh ‘sirf dost’ wala jo haath pakad leta tha library ke peeche. Aap bilkul alag thi kya? Koi bhi nahi?”
Divya turned her head just enough so he could see half her profile — cheek burning red, eyes downcast, lashes trembling.
“Main… traditional family se hoon. Papa bahut strict the. College mein bhi sirf padhai, ghar, aur mandir. Koi boyfriend nahi. Koi… aisa rishta nahi. Kabhi haath bhi nahi pakda kisi ne college days mein.”
Her voice cracked the tiniest bit on the last words.
It was the truth — painfully pure. She had been the good girl, the one who blushed at even a boy’s casual “hi,” who walked home with her dupatta pinned tight, who dreamed only of the day a decent man like Ranjith would come ask her father for her hand.
But saying it out loud now, with this 60-year-old rowdy standing inches behind her, felt different.
Vulnerable. Like she was confessing something far dirtier than any made-up college fling.
Beedaa stayed silent for a long beat. Then he shifted — took half a step nearer. His chest almost brushed her back. She could feel the rough fabric of his vest against her saree-covered shoulder blade.
“Toh… pehli baar kisi ne haath pakda toh Ranjith ne hi pakda hoga?” His tone was soft now, almost gentle — but the question carried teeth. “Pehli baar kisi ne chhua… pehli baar kisi ne chuma… sab kuch pehli baar usi ke saath?”
Divya’s breath hitched audibly. She nodded once — barely perceptible.
“Haan… sab kuch pehli baar… sirf unke saath.”
Beedaa exhaled slowly through his nose, like a man savoring a victory he hadn’t even fought for yet.
“Bahut achha, bhabhi. Bahut pavitra. Bilkul… naya saaman.”
His rough hand finally moved — not grabbing, not forcing — just settling lightly on her hip from behind. Palm wide, fingers splayed over the soft curve where saree met skin. The calluses scbangd gently through the thin fabric. He didn’t squeeze. Just rested there. Claiming space.
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