05-02-2026, 01:50 PM
Beedaa slipped into the narrow gali of the slum like he belonged there — which he did. The air was thick with the smell of frying onions, diesel from passing autos, and the faint tang of open drains.
A group of his usual crew lounged outside a tea stall: three younger rowdies in vests and lungis, chewing paan, playing cards on an upturned crate.
One of them — a skinny guy named Chhotu — spotted him first and waved him over.
“Beedaa bhai! Suno zara… aaj market mein badi dhoom machi hai. Jewelry shop loot li gayi thi dopahar mein. security officer ne teen-four bande pakad liye hain. Sabko thok rahe hain station pe.”
Beedaa paused mid-step. His scarred face didn’t change — no surprise, no worry. He just listened, eyes half-lidded, chewing slowly on the last bit of paan in his mouth.
“Kaun pakda gaya?” he asked quietly.
“Woh Aslam aur uske do yaar. Bol rahe hain Aslam ne hi plan banaya tha. saab khud lead kar rahe the raid.”
Beedaa’s jaw tightened for half a second — the name “saab” hit like a dull blade. Ranjith.
The same man whose wife he’d spent .
He spat red paan juice into the gutter.
Then, without a word, he turned toward his tin-roofed shack at the end of the gali. Inside, he grabbed a small canvas bag — old, patched, containing a few clothes, some cash rolled tight with a rubber band, a spare beedi packet, and a rusted knife wrapped in cloth.
Chhotu followed him to the door.
“Bhai, kahan ja rahe ho? security officer aa rahi hai kya?”
Beedaa slung the bag over his shoulder.
“Nahi. Bas thoda door ja raha hoon. Gaon ke paas. Kuch din rukunga. Yahan garmi zyada ho gayi hai.”
He didn’t explain more. Didn’t need to. The crew knew better than to ask twice.
Beedaa walked out of the slum without looking back — past the tea stall, past the flickering tube-lights, past the narrow path that led to the middle-class colony .
He headed toward the main road, caught a shared auto toward the nearest village outskirts, disappearing into the evening haze.
Meanwhile, back in the house…
Ranjith returned home around 7:30 PM. The theft case had wrapped up faster than expected — suspects in custody, statements recorded, paperwork pending. He parked the bike, removed his helmet, and stepped inside quietly.
The house smelled of reheated dal and fresh rotis. Monu was on the floor with his coloring book. Divya was in the kitchen, back to him, stirring something unnecessary on the stove.
He didn’t say anything about morning. Didn’t mention the back path. Didn’t ask why the bathroom door had been half-open. Didn’t ask why her cheeks flushed every time their eyes met for more than two seconds.
He just said, normal voice:
“Main aa gaya.”
Divya froze for half a heartbeat. Her fingers tightened on the ladle. She turned slowly, forced a small smile — the same one she’d worn all afternoon.
“Haan… dinner taiyaar hai. Aap fresh ho jao.”
She couldn’t look him in the eyes for longer than a glance.
Every time she did, shame flooded her: the memory of Beedaa’s thick size stretching her, his victorious smile, the hot flood inside her, the slap on her back at the gate.
She felt exposed — even in her fully dbangd saree, even with the mangalsutra sitting perfectly straight.
Ranjith nodded. Took off his shirt, hung it on the hook, went to wash up. No questions. No tension in his voice. Just quiet.
Dinner passed in near silence — Monu chattering about scho.ol, Ranjith answering in short sentences, Divya serving extra rotis to both of them without meeting anyone’s gaze.
After plates were cleared, Monu tugged at Ranjith’s sleeve.
“Papa! Movie dekhne chalte hain? Aaj new cartoon aa raha hai theatre mein!”
Ranjith looked at Divya.
“Chaloge?”
Divya shook her head quickly — too quickly.
“Nahi… thak gayi hoon. Tum dono jao. Main ghar pe hi hoon.”
Ranjith studied her face for a long second — nothing readable in his eyes.
“Theek hai. Hum dono jaate hain. Jaldi aa jayenge.”
He took Monu’s hand. They left — bike engine fading down the lane.
The house fell silent.
Divya stood in the hall for a full minute after they left. Then she exhaled — long, shaky — like she’d been holding her breath since lunchtime.
--He doesn’t know. He can’t know. If he knew… he would have said something. Done something.---
Relief washed over her — guilty, sweet relief.
She felt free for the first time all day. No eyes watching her every move. No questions she couldn’t answer.
She went to the bathroom — the same one — locked the door this time. Took another bath: hot water this time, scrubbing until her skin turned pink, trying to wash away the afternoon. She stepped out, dried herself, slipped into a simple cotton nighty — light blue, knee-length, modest. No bra underneath. Hair loose, still damp.
She lay down on the sofa in the hall — lights dim, TV off. Exhaustion hit her all at once. The ache between her legs had dulled to a faint throb. Her mind replayed flashes: Beedaa’s size, his strokes, his release inside her, his slap at the gate, his words — “saab bahut lucky hai.”
She pulled a thin blanket over herself. Closed her eyes.
Sleep came fast.
When Ranjith and Monu returned around 10 PM — movie over, Monu half-asleep on his father’s shoulder — they found her curled on the sofa.
A group of his usual crew lounged outside a tea stall: three younger rowdies in vests and lungis, chewing paan, playing cards on an upturned crate.
One of them — a skinny guy named Chhotu — spotted him first and waved him over.
“Beedaa bhai! Suno zara… aaj market mein badi dhoom machi hai. Jewelry shop loot li gayi thi dopahar mein. security officer ne teen-four bande pakad liye hain. Sabko thok rahe hain station pe.”
Beedaa paused mid-step. His scarred face didn’t change — no surprise, no worry. He just listened, eyes half-lidded, chewing slowly on the last bit of paan in his mouth.
“Kaun pakda gaya?” he asked quietly.
“Woh Aslam aur uske do yaar. Bol rahe hain Aslam ne hi plan banaya tha. saab khud lead kar rahe the raid.”
Beedaa’s jaw tightened for half a second — the name “saab” hit like a dull blade. Ranjith.
The same man whose wife he’d spent .
He spat red paan juice into the gutter.
Then, without a word, he turned toward his tin-roofed shack at the end of the gali. Inside, he grabbed a small canvas bag — old, patched, containing a few clothes, some cash rolled tight with a rubber band, a spare beedi packet, and a rusted knife wrapped in cloth.
Chhotu followed him to the door.
“Bhai, kahan ja rahe ho? security officer aa rahi hai kya?”
Beedaa slung the bag over his shoulder.
“Nahi. Bas thoda door ja raha hoon. Gaon ke paas. Kuch din rukunga. Yahan garmi zyada ho gayi hai.”
He didn’t explain more. Didn’t need to. The crew knew better than to ask twice.
Beedaa walked out of the slum without looking back — past the tea stall, past the flickering tube-lights, past the narrow path that led to the middle-class colony .
He headed toward the main road, caught a shared auto toward the nearest village outskirts, disappearing into the evening haze.
Meanwhile, back in the house…
Ranjith returned home around 7:30 PM. The theft case had wrapped up faster than expected — suspects in custody, statements recorded, paperwork pending. He parked the bike, removed his helmet, and stepped inside quietly.
The house smelled of reheated dal and fresh rotis. Monu was on the floor with his coloring book. Divya was in the kitchen, back to him, stirring something unnecessary on the stove.
He didn’t say anything about morning. Didn’t mention the back path. Didn’t ask why the bathroom door had been half-open. Didn’t ask why her cheeks flushed every time their eyes met for more than two seconds.
He just said, normal voice:
“Main aa gaya.”
Divya froze for half a heartbeat. Her fingers tightened on the ladle. She turned slowly, forced a small smile — the same one she’d worn all afternoon.
“Haan… dinner taiyaar hai. Aap fresh ho jao.”
She couldn’t look him in the eyes for longer than a glance.
Every time she did, shame flooded her: the memory of Beedaa’s thick size stretching her, his victorious smile, the hot flood inside her, the slap on her back at the gate.
She felt exposed — even in her fully dbangd saree, even with the mangalsutra sitting perfectly straight.
Ranjith nodded. Took off his shirt, hung it on the hook, went to wash up. No questions. No tension in his voice. Just quiet.
Dinner passed in near silence — Monu chattering about scho.ol, Ranjith answering in short sentences, Divya serving extra rotis to both of them without meeting anyone’s gaze.
After plates were cleared, Monu tugged at Ranjith’s sleeve.
“Papa! Movie dekhne chalte hain? Aaj new cartoon aa raha hai theatre mein!”
Ranjith looked at Divya.
“Chaloge?”
Divya shook her head quickly — too quickly.
“Nahi… thak gayi hoon. Tum dono jao. Main ghar pe hi hoon.”
Ranjith studied her face for a long second — nothing readable in his eyes.
“Theek hai. Hum dono jaate hain. Jaldi aa jayenge.”
He took Monu’s hand. They left — bike engine fading down the lane.
The house fell silent.
Divya stood in the hall for a full minute after they left. Then she exhaled — long, shaky — like she’d been holding her breath since lunchtime.
--He doesn’t know. He can’t know. If he knew… he would have said something. Done something.---
Relief washed over her — guilty, sweet relief.
She felt free for the first time all day. No eyes watching her every move. No questions she couldn’t answer.
She went to the bathroom — the same one — locked the door this time. Took another bath: hot water this time, scrubbing until her skin turned pink, trying to wash away the afternoon. She stepped out, dried herself, slipped into a simple cotton nighty — light blue, knee-length, modest. No bra underneath. Hair loose, still damp.
She lay down on the sofa in the hall — lights dim, TV off. Exhaustion hit her all at once. The ache between her legs had dulled to a faint throb. Her mind replayed flashes: Beedaa’s size, his strokes, his release inside her, his slap at the gate, his words — “saab bahut lucky hai.”
She pulled a thin blanket over herself. Closed her eyes.
Sleep came fast.
When Ranjith and Monu returned around 10 PM — movie over, Monu half-asleep on his father’s shoulder — they found her curled on the sofa.
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