divya

[కుమార్]

Divya turned quickly toward the gate, cheeks burning from the beggar’s open stare, the two rotis now in his trembling hands.

‎She wanted to disappear back inside — fast, before the shame could sink any deeper.

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‎But as she pivoted, the old man moved faster than she expected.

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‎His free hand — gnarled, dirt-blackened, calloused from years on the road — shot out and landed a firm, deliberate slap on her ass.

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‎The sound cracked softly in the quiet night — palm against thin cotton nighty, the fabric doing nothing to cushion the sting.

‎ Her body jolted forward half a step, breasts bouncing visibly under the tight white material.

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‎Divya froze. Shocked. Breath knocked out of her in a sharp gasp.

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‎She spun back to face him, eyes wide, one hand instinctively flying to cover her backside as if she could erase the contact.

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‎The beggar didn’t flinch. Didn’t apologize. Just stood there under the flickering street lamp, rheumy eyes still locked on her body.

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‎His cracked voice rasped out, low and matter-of-fact:

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‎“Roz bus stop pe dekhta hoon tujhe, beti. Tu kabhi nahi dekhti mujhe. Aaj pehli baar… nazar mili.”

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‎Divya stared at him.

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‎Really looked.

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‎His tattered kurta hung .

‎Gray hair matted with dust and grease. Skin cracked and blackened from sun and exposure. Bare feet caked in road grime. The same crooked stick in one hand, the two rotis clutched in the other like treasures.

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‎He was old — older than Beedaa.

‎Yet the slap had been bold. Possessive. The same kind of boldness she’d felt from Beedaa days ago.

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‎Her stomach twisted — a sick mix of shock, humiliation, and that same traitorous heat she hated herself for feeling.

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‎She didn’t shout. Didn’t slap him back. Didn’t call for help.

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‎She just looked at his dirty body one long second longer — the filth, the poverty, the hunger in his eyes that wasn’t only for food — then turned without a word.

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‎She hurried back through the gate.

‎. The iron bars clanged shut behind her. She bolted the front door, leaned against it, breathing hard.

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‎Her ass still stung — a warm, tingling imprint of his rough palm.

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‎

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‎---He sees me every day at the bus stop---

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‎The thought made her skin crawl. All those mornings — saree neatly dbangd, pallu pinned, walking to catch the bus to the convent — she’d never noticed him.

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‎ Never looked at the old beggar sitting on the pavement corner, stick across his lap. But he’d noticed her. Watched her. Every day.

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‎And tonight… he touched her.