05-02-2026, 03:52 PM
Five minutes passed in heavy silence.
Then shouts erupted from down the lane.
Sharp. Angry. Male.
She lifted her head.
The voices carried clearly in the quiet night:
“Arre bewakoof! Maine bola na paisa mat maang!”
A dull thud — flesh hitting flesh.
Another shout, louder:
“Idiot! Chal yahan se bhag!”
Divya stood up slowly.
Her nighty felt even thinner now, the fabric sticking to her skin.
She went to gate.
Two houses down, under the same flickering streetlamp, the scene unfolded.
The owner of the house — a middle-aged man in a vest and lungi, pot-bellied, furious — had the old beggar by the collar of his tattered kurta.
He slapped him hard across the face — open palm, no hesitation.
The beggar staggered but didn’t fall.
His body — though filthy, thin, bent with age — was surprisingly solid.
Years on the road had hardened muscle under the dirt and rags.
He straightened slowly.
The owner shoved him again.
“Chal nikal yahan se! Roz aa ke tang karta hai! Poli.ce ko bulaunga!”
The beggar didn’t reply. Didn’t beg. Just stared at the man with those rheumy eyes — no fear, no anger, just blank endurance. Then he turned, shuffled away down the lane.
Divya watched.
She should have closed the curtain. Gone back to the table. Pretended nothing happened.
But she didn’t.
The beggar kept walking.
Then — halfway between the two houses — he stopped.
Turned.
Looked straight at her house.
At her.
He shuffled back — slow, deliberate steps — until he reached her gate.
Divya’s breath caught.
Then shouts erupted from down the lane.
Sharp. Angry. Male.
She lifted her head.
The voices carried clearly in the quiet night:
“Arre bewakoof! Maine bola na paisa mat maang!”
A dull thud — flesh hitting flesh.
Another shout, louder:
“Idiot! Chal yahan se bhag!”
Divya stood up slowly.
Her nighty felt even thinner now, the fabric sticking to her skin.
She went to gate.
Two houses down, under the same flickering streetlamp, the scene unfolded.
The owner of the house — a middle-aged man in a vest and lungi, pot-bellied, furious — had the old beggar by the collar of his tattered kurta.
He slapped him hard across the face — open palm, no hesitation.
The beggar staggered but didn’t fall.
His body — though filthy, thin, bent with age — was surprisingly solid.
Years on the road had hardened muscle under the dirt and rags.
He straightened slowly.
The owner shoved him again.
“Chal nikal yahan se! Roz aa ke tang karta hai! Poli.ce ko bulaunga!”
The beggar didn’t reply. Didn’t beg. Just stared at the man with those rheumy eyes — no fear, no anger, just blank endurance. Then he turned, shuffled away down the lane.
Divya watched.
She should have closed the curtain. Gone back to the table. Pretended nothing happened.
But she didn’t.
The beggar kept walking.
Then — halfway between the two houses — he stopped.
Turned.
Looked straight at her house.
At her.
He shuffled back — slow, deliberate steps — until he reached her gate.
Divya’s breath caught.
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