04-02-2026, 05:16 PM
Beedaa’s rough palm finally settled on Divya’s hip — warm, heavy, possessive. The calluses scbangd lightly against the thin fabric of her saree, fingers splaying just enough to feel the soft give of her flesh beneath.
For one suspended heartbeat, the kitchen seemed to shrink to nothing but the heat of his body behind her, the faint musk of paan and smoke wrapping around her like smoke.
Then Divya snapped.
Her body went rigid. The flush of shame and unwanted heat on her cheeks twisted into something sharper — anger, pure and protective.
She spun around fast, saree pallu whipping against his arm, eyes blazing up at him.
“Hat jaiye!” she hissed, voice low but fierce, so Monu in the next room wouldn’t hear. Her hand shot up and shoved his wrist away hard — not strong enough to hurt a man like him, but enough to make her meaning crystal clear. “Yeh kya kar rahe ho? Ghar mein… mere pati ke ghar mein!”
Beedaa didn’t flinch. He simply let his hand fall back to his side, eyebrows lifting slightly in mild surprise — like a predator who’d expected a rabbit to bolt, not bare teeth.
But he didn’t step closer. He just stood there, arms loose now, watching her with those dark, unreadable eyes.
Divya’s chest heaved. Her voice trembled with rage and the effort to keep it controlled.
“Aap yahan sirf khana khane aaye the. Ranjith ji ne bulaaya tha… izzat se. Aur aap… aap yeh sab? Main koi… koi aisi aurat nahi hoon jo aapke saamne jhuk jaaye. College mein bhi nahi, kabhi nahi. Aur ab bhi nahi.”
She pointed toward the front door, finger shaking but steady in direction.
“Bahariye. Abhi. Ranjith ji aate hi honge. Agar unhone aapko yahan dekha… aur yeh sab suna… toh aapki jaan bhi mushkil se bachegi. Jaaiye!”
Beedaa studied her for a long moment — the fire in her eyes, the way her mangalsutra rose and fell with each angry breath, the sindoor still perfect on her forehead like a mark of everything she refused to let him touch. Slowly, a small, crooked smile tugged at the corner of his scarred mouth. Not mocking. Almost… respectful. Or amused by her defiance.
“Theek hai, bhabhi,” he said quietly, voice gravel-soft. “Gussa mat karo. Main ja raha hoon.”
He turned without another word. Walked through the living room — nodded once at Monu, who looked up wide-eyed but said nothing — and stepped out the front door. It clicked shut behind him with a soft finality.
Divya stood frozen in the kitchen doorway for several seconds, breathing hard. Her hand came up to press against her hip — right where his touch had been. The skin still tingled, warm from the brief contact. She hated it. Hated that part of her body remembered the roughness even now.
She hurried to the sink, splashed cold water on her face, wiped it roughly with the end of her pallu. Then she straightened her saree, smoothed her hair, forced her expression calm. Monu called from the living room, “Mummy, uncle chale gaye?”
“Haan beta… uncle ko jaldi kaam tha,” she answered, voice steadier than she felt.
For one suspended heartbeat, the kitchen seemed to shrink to nothing but the heat of his body behind her, the faint musk of paan and smoke wrapping around her like smoke.
Then Divya snapped.
Her body went rigid. The flush of shame and unwanted heat on her cheeks twisted into something sharper — anger, pure and protective.
She spun around fast, saree pallu whipping against his arm, eyes blazing up at him.
“Hat jaiye!” she hissed, voice low but fierce, so Monu in the next room wouldn’t hear. Her hand shot up and shoved his wrist away hard — not strong enough to hurt a man like him, but enough to make her meaning crystal clear. “Yeh kya kar rahe ho? Ghar mein… mere pati ke ghar mein!”
Beedaa didn’t flinch. He simply let his hand fall back to his side, eyebrows lifting slightly in mild surprise — like a predator who’d expected a rabbit to bolt, not bare teeth.
But he didn’t step closer. He just stood there, arms loose now, watching her with those dark, unreadable eyes.
Divya’s chest heaved. Her voice trembled with rage and the effort to keep it controlled.
“Aap yahan sirf khana khane aaye the. Ranjith ji ne bulaaya tha… izzat se. Aur aap… aap yeh sab? Main koi… koi aisi aurat nahi hoon jo aapke saamne jhuk jaaye. College mein bhi nahi, kabhi nahi. Aur ab bhi nahi.”
She pointed toward the front door, finger shaking but steady in direction.
“Bahariye. Abhi. Ranjith ji aate hi honge. Agar unhone aapko yahan dekha… aur yeh sab suna… toh aapki jaan bhi mushkil se bachegi. Jaaiye!”
Beedaa studied her for a long moment — the fire in her eyes, the way her mangalsutra rose and fell with each angry breath, the sindoor still perfect on her forehead like a mark of everything she refused to let him touch. Slowly, a small, crooked smile tugged at the corner of his scarred mouth. Not mocking. Almost… respectful. Or amused by her defiance.
“Theek hai, bhabhi,” he said quietly, voice gravel-soft. “Gussa mat karo. Main ja raha hoon.”
He turned without another word. Walked through the living room — nodded once at Monu, who looked up wide-eyed but said nothing — and stepped out the front door. It clicked shut behind him with a soft finality.
Divya stood frozen in the kitchen doorway for several seconds, breathing hard. Her hand came up to press against her hip — right where his touch had been. The skin still tingled, warm from the brief contact. She hated it. Hated that part of her body remembered the roughness even now.
She hurried to the sink, splashed cold water on her face, wiped it roughly with the end of her pallu. Then she straightened her saree, smoothed her hair, forced her expression calm. Monu called from the living room, “Mummy, uncle chale gaye?”
“Haan beta… uncle ko jaldi kaam tha,” she answered, voice steadier than she felt.
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