05-02-2026, 02:37 PM
Two days after Ranjith left for his parents’ village — a sudden, short trip he’d mentioned only the night before, something about his mother’s health check-up and “just three-four days” — the house felt emptier than usual.
Ranjith had kissed Divya’s forehead before leaving at dawn, told Monu to be good for Mummy, and ridden off on his bike without any extra words. No lingering look. No unspoken question hanging in the air. Just gone.
Divya spent the first day and a half in the same careful rhythm: convent in the morning, Monu’s college drop-off and pickup, cooking simple meals, folding laundry with mechanical precision. The shame still sat heavy in her chest — quieter now, but never gone — like a stone she carried everywhere.
By the second night — around 8 PM — Monu had eaten his dinner (roti-sabzi, extra ghee on his roti the way he liked), brushed his teeth, said goodnight to Papa’s photo on the wall, and fallen asleep in his small bed with his favorite stuffed tiger tucked under his arm.
The house was silent except for the low hum of the ceiling fan and the distant bark of a street dog.
Divya went to the bathroom — the same one — locked the door this time without thinking. She took a long bath: hot water poured slowly over her shoulders, steam clouding the small mirror.
She scrubbed gently, almost tenderly, as if trying to forgive her own skin.
When she stepped out, she dried herself and slipped into a tight white nighty she rarely wore — thin cotton, sleeveless, knee-length but clinging to every curve from the dampness of her skin.
The fabric was semi-sheer in the right light; her dark nipples showed faintly through it, the outline of her breasts clear, no bra underneath.
She didn’t notice — or told herself she didn’t — how the nighty rode up slightly when she moved.
She came into the hall, switched on the single tube light above the dining table, and sat down with the stack of question papers from her convent class.
Red pen in hand, she began correcting — circling mistakes, writing short remarks in neat Hindi and English.
“Very good effort.”
“Try to write full sentences.”
“Neat handwriting, keep it up.”
Her hair was still damp, loose over one shoulder, a few strands sticking to her neck. The nighty’s neckline dipped low when she leaned forward to read the next answer.
Her mangalsutra rested between her breasts, gold chain catching the tube light.
Ranjith had kissed Divya’s forehead before leaving at dawn, told Monu to be good for Mummy, and ridden off on his bike without any extra words. No lingering look. No unspoken question hanging in the air. Just gone.
Divya spent the first day and a half in the same careful rhythm: convent in the morning, Monu’s college drop-off and pickup, cooking simple meals, folding laundry with mechanical precision. The shame still sat heavy in her chest — quieter now, but never gone — like a stone she carried everywhere.
By the second night — around 8 PM — Monu had eaten his dinner (roti-sabzi, extra ghee on his roti the way he liked), brushed his teeth, said goodnight to Papa’s photo on the wall, and fallen asleep in his small bed with his favorite stuffed tiger tucked under his arm.
The house was silent except for the low hum of the ceiling fan and the distant bark of a street dog.
Divya went to the bathroom — the same one — locked the door this time without thinking. She took a long bath: hot water poured slowly over her shoulders, steam clouding the small mirror.
She scrubbed gently, almost tenderly, as if trying to forgive her own skin.
When she stepped out, she dried herself and slipped into a tight white nighty she rarely wore — thin cotton, sleeveless, knee-length but clinging to every curve from the dampness of her skin.
The fabric was semi-sheer in the right light; her dark nipples showed faintly through it, the outline of her breasts clear, no bra underneath.
She didn’t notice — or told herself she didn’t — how the nighty rode up slightly when she moved.
She came into the hall, switched on the single tube light above the dining table, and sat down with the stack of question papers from her convent class.
Red pen in hand, she began correcting — circling mistakes, writing short remarks in neat Hindi and English.
“Very good effort.”
“Try to write full sentences.”
“Neat handwriting, keep it up.”
Her hair was still damp, loose over one shoulder, a few strands sticking to her neck. The nighty’s neckline dipped low when she leaned forward to read the next answer.
Her mangalsutra rested between her breasts, gold chain catching the tube light.
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