23-07-2026, 04:19 PM
The knock came at 7:42 AM.
Three sharp raps. Then silence. Then three more.
Devika didn't hear them. Her body lay sprawled across the bed like a woman pulled from deep water—one arm flung above her head, saree twisted around her torso in a wrinkled mess, her hair escaped from its bun and spread across the pillow in dark tangled waves. Her lips were swollen. Parted. A faint bruise marked the curve of her neck where Kulkarni's mouth had been.
The knocking stopped.
A key scbangd in the lock. The door opened.
Arjun stepped inside, laptop bag slung over his shoulder, dark circles under his eyes. He'd been at the office since yesterday afternoon—eighteen straight hours debugging a production server crash that took down three client environments across the US East Coast. His shirt was wrinkled, collar open, tie stuffed in his pocket.
"Devika?"
No response.
He set his bag down on the dining table. Walked to the bedroom. Pushed open the door.
She lay there. Dead to the world.
His face softened. Poor thing. She'd been alone all night again. Probably stayed up waiting for him, watching those Malayalam serials she liked, eating dinner by herself at the small table meant for two.
He noticed the wrinkled saree. The damp blouse. The faint flush still visible on her throat and collarbones. She must have fallen asleep without changing—too tired, too lonely, too bored to bother.
I need to make more time for her, he thought. Same thought he had every week. Same thought that dissolved like sugar in water the moment his phone buzzed with another Slack notification.
He bent down. Pressed his lips to her forehead. She was warm. Smelled different somehow—something musky underneath the jasmine, something heavy and animal that he couldn't place. He dismissed it. Straightened up.
Went to the bathroom. Showered. Changed into fresh clothes.
When he came out, she was awake. Sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at her hands. Her hair hung around her face like a curtain.
"Morning." He smiled. "Sorry I didn't call. Server went down at—"
"I know."
Two words. Flat. Empty.
He paused. "You okay? You look tired."
She stood. Walked past him to the kitchen without meeting his eyes. Her body moved with a strange heaviness—not the graceful sway he was used to, but something sluggish. Reluctant.
"I went shopping with Saradha yesterday," she said, pulling out the rice container. "Came back late. Couldn't sleep properly after that."
"Shopping? What did you buy?"
"Nothing. Just looked around."
He accepted this without question. Sat at the dining table. Opened his laptop. Checked emails while she cooked.
Devika stood at the stove, stirring sambar with mechanical precision. Her hands moved but her mind was elsewhere—replaying every moment from last night. Kulkarni's mouth on her breasts. His cock stretching her open. The way he'd held her afterward, whispering things Arjun never whispered.
Stop it. Stop thinking about it. Your husband is right there.
She ladled rice onto a plate. Poured sambar over it. Added a piece of papad. Placed it in front of Arjun with the bare minimum of care—no pickle arranged neatly on the side, no yogurt in the small steel bowl, no banana leaf underneath the way she usually served.
Arjun didn't notice. He ate with one hand, scrolled his phone with the other.
"This sambar is good, Devi."
"Mm."
She sat across from him. Didn't eat. Just watched him shovel food into his mouth while reading some email about sprint planning or deployment cycles or whatever meaningless thing consumed his life.
You were gone all night. You left me alone in this empty flat. And you don't even ask what I did. Don't even wonder why your wife smells like another man's sweat.
Arjun looked up. Caught her staring.
"What?"
"Nothing."
He reached across the table. Squeezed her hand. "I know this has been hard, Devi. The night shifts will end soon. Just a few more days, okay? Then I'll be home every evening. We can go out. Watch a movie. Whatever you want."
She pulled her hand away. Stood up. Began washing dishes.
"Sure," she said to the running water.
The day passed like wet cement—slow, heavy, suffocating.
Arjun slept until noon. Woke up. Left for office by two. Kissed her cheek at the door. Said he'd be back by ten tonight, no night shift.
Devika didn't visit Kulkarni. Didn't knock on his door. Didn't even look at it as she walked past to throw garbage down the chute.
She couldn't face him. Not yet. Not while Arjun's forehead kiss still lingered on her skin like an accusation.
She cleaned the flat instead. Swept. Mopped. Scrubbed the bathroom tiles until her knuckles ached. Washed every dish, every glass, every steel plate. Organized the spice rack alphabetically. Rearranged the bedroom cupboard. Folded all of Arjun's shirts.
Penance through housework. The oldest trick in a guilty wife's book.
By evening, the flat was spotless. And Devika was empty.
She sat on the sofa. Watched a serial. Didn't register a single scene.
Arjun came home at ten. They ate dinner. He talked about some new project—something about migrating databases to AWS. She nodded in the right places. Said "hmm" and "oh" and "that's good" when pauses demanded responses.
They went to bed.
He fell asleep in four minutes. She counted.
She lay awake. Staring at the ceiling. Listening to him snore.
Her body was quiet. The guilt had suppressed everything—every nerve, every need, every pulse of desire. She felt hollow. Scbangd clean.
Good, she thought. This is what I deserve. Emptiness.
She slept.
The next day Arjun's night shifts officially ended. He left at 8:30 in the morning with his laptop bag and a cheerful "bye, Devi!" and returned at 9:15 PM, tired but present. They had dinner together. Talked about calling his parents this weekend. He showed her photos of a two-bedroom flat in Baner that his colleague was selling.
Normal. Safe. Suffocating.
That night they lay side by side. His arm dbangd over her waist. His breathing slow and even within minutes.
Devika pressed her thighs together under the blanket and willed her body to stay silent.
It obeyed. Barely.
But bodies have memories that shame cannot erase.
On the third morning after that night with Kulkarni, Devika woke up wet.
Not just damp. Soaked. Her inner thighs slick, her cotton nightgown clinging to her skin, her nipples hard against the thin fabric. She'd dreamed—fragmented, vivid, obscene dreams. Kulkarni's thick fingers inside her. His tongue on her navel. The weight of him pressing her into the mattress.
She lay there, breathing hard. Arjun had already left for work. The flat was empty. Morning sun sliced through the curtain gap and fell across her body in a warm stripe.
Her hand drifted downward. Stopped at her belly.
No. I'm not doing this.
She got up. Showered. Cold water. Scrubbed herself raw.
But by noon, it was back. That low, persistent throb between her legs. That hollow ache that household chores couldn't fill.
She found herself standing in the bedroom, phone in hand, scrolling through images she'd never searched for before. Couples. Positions. Things she'd seen Kulkarni do to her—and things she hadn't tried yet.
A woman bent over a kitchen counter, saree bunched at her waist. A man behind her, gripping her hips.
Devika's breath quickened.
Another image. A woman on top, riding, her head thrown back, pallu sliding off her shoulder.
I want to try that. On top. Controlling the pace. Making him look up at me.
Another. Against a wall. Standing. Her leg hooked over his hip.
That too. With my back against the cold wall and his mouth on my throat and—
She dropped the phone on the bed. Pressed both palms to her face.
What is happening to me? One night with that old man and I've become this... this...
She couldn't finish the thought. Because the word that came to mind wasn't an insult. It was a confession.
Hungry.
She was hungry.
And the only person who could feed her was on the other side of that wall.
She changed into a fresh saree—the mint green one that Kulkarni once said made her look like a garden in monsoon. Dbangd it the way Saradha had taught her: low at the waist, deep at the navel. Pinned the pallu loosely. Let her hair down.
Checked herself in the mirror.
For whom are you dressing up, Devika?
She ignored the question. Walked to the front door. Opened it.
And found Kulkarni's door locked. Dark. No light behind the frosted glass panel.
She stood in the corridor for a full minute, confused. He was always home during the day. Always on his chair, reading his newspaper, drinking his chai. Waiting for her.
Her phone buzzed. A WhatsApp message.
Kulkarni Kaka: Beta, going to Satara. My cousin's wife passed away. Will be gone for some days. Take care of yourself.
The floor dropped out from under her.
She read the message three times. Each time, the disappointment sank deeper—past her chest, past her stomach, settling between her legs where it burned.
Some days. How many days? Three? Five? A week?
She typed back: Oh no, kaka. I'm so sorry to hear that. Please take care. When will you come back?
His reply came twenty minutes later: Will see. Family matters. Don't worry about me.
Short. Distracted. Not the Kulkarni who whispered dirty things against her ear. Not the man who held her all night. Just a distant uncle sending a polite notification.
Devika locked her door. Sat on the sofa. Stared at the blank TV screen.
The ache between her legs pulsed. Demanding. Insistent.
He's gone. He's actually gone.
She felt something she hadn't expected. Not relief. Not gratitude for the breathing room.
Rage.
Irrational, childish, burning rage. He'd opened something inside her—some door she didn't know existed—and then walked away. Left her standing in the doorframe with her body on fire and no way to put it out.
By evening, desperation won.
Arjun left for office at the usual time. The flat emptied. The silence pressed in.
Devika locked the bedroom door. Drew the curtains. Sat on the bed with her phone.
She found a video. South Indian couple. The woman wore a half-saree. The man was older, grey-haired, thick-bodied. Close enough.
Her hand slipped under her saree. Fingers found the wet fabric of her panties. Pushed it aside. Touched herself.
She watched the screen. Tried to sync her movements to the woman's moans. Circled her clit. Dipped two fingers inside.
Nothing.
Well—not nothing. Sensation, yes. Warmth. Friction. But it was like eating rice without salt. The mechanics were correct. The satisfaction was absent.
She tried harder. Faster. Changed the angle. Watched a different video—rougher, louder.
Her fingers weren't enough. Too small. Too familiar. They didn't stretch her the way Kulkarni had. Didn't fill that deep spot he'd found with his thick old cock.
She stopped. Panting. Frustrated. Slick fingers glistening.
Her eyes fell on the kitchen counter. On the vegetables she'd bought yesterday.
No. Absolutely not. That's—
Ten minutes later she was on the bed with a cucumber between her legs.
Cold. Rigid. Wrong shape. She pushed it inside, wincing at the unyielding hardness. Moved it in and out. Tried to imagine it was him.
But cucumbers don't breathe against your neck. Don't whisper filthy things in Marathi. Don't grip your hips with rough old hands that smell like sandalwood and newspaper ink.
She pulled it out. Threw it across the room. It hit the wall and rolled under the dresser.
Lay on her back. Stared at the ceiling fan going round and round and round.
I need him. God help me, I need that old man.
That night, she tried Arjun.
He came home at nine. Ate dinner. She'd made his favourite—fish curry with tapioca. Wore her good nightgown, the one with thin straps that showed her shoulders. Dabbed jasmine oil behind her ears.
They sat on the sofa watching television. She leaned into him. Put her head on his shoulder. Let her hand rest on his thigh.
"Arjun..."
"Hmm?" His eyes stayed on the screen. Some cricket highlights.
"Can we talk?"
"Ya, tell me."
"Not talk-talk. Just... be together. Like before."
He looked at her. Smiled. Kissed her temple. "We are together, Devi."
She turned her face up. Kissed his jaw. His neck. Her hand slid higher on his thigh.
He stiffened. "Devi, I—"
"Please." The word came out smaller than she intended. Almost a whisper.
He caught her hand. Held it. Gentle but firm.
"I'm really tired, kannu. Full day meetings. And tomorrow early morning there's a release call at six AM. I need to sleep."
"Just for a little while. We haven't... in so long."
He sighed. That specific sigh that IT husbands perfect—the one that means I love you but the production server loves me more.
"Weekend, okay? Saturday night. I'll be free. We'll order food. Watch a movie. Everything."
He kissed her forehead. That same sexless, fraternal, utterly insufficient forehead kiss.
"Goodnight, Devi. Love you."
He went to bed. Was asleep in four minutes. She counted again.
Devika sat on the sofa for another ten minutes. Then walked to the bathroom. Locked the door. Sat on the cold tile floor.
And cried.
Not loud. Not dramatic. Just silent tears rolling down her cheeks and dropping onto her nightgown, darkening the fabric in small circles. She pressed her fist against her mouth to muffle the sounds.
My husband won't touch me. The man who will is two hundred kilometres away at a funeral. And I'm sitting on a bathroom floor at eleven PM crying because I can't stop wanting an old man's cock inside me.
She cried until she ran out of tears. Then washed her face. Went to bed. Lay next to her snoring husband.
Didn't sleep until three AM.
Three sharp raps. Then silence. Then three more.
Devika didn't hear them. Her body lay sprawled across the bed like a woman pulled from deep water—one arm flung above her head, saree twisted around her torso in a wrinkled mess, her hair escaped from its bun and spread across the pillow in dark tangled waves. Her lips were swollen. Parted. A faint bruise marked the curve of her neck where Kulkarni's mouth had been.
The knocking stopped.
A key scbangd in the lock. The door opened.
Arjun stepped inside, laptop bag slung over his shoulder, dark circles under his eyes. He'd been at the office since yesterday afternoon—eighteen straight hours debugging a production server crash that took down three client environments across the US East Coast. His shirt was wrinkled, collar open, tie stuffed in his pocket.
"Devika?"
No response.
He set his bag down on the dining table. Walked to the bedroom. Pushed open the door.
She lay there. Dead to the world.
His face softened. Poor thing. She'd been alone all night again. Probably stayed up waiting for him, watching those Malayalam serials she liked, eating dinner by herself at the small table meant for two.
He noticed the wrinkled saree. The damp blouse. The faint flush still visible on her throat and collarbones. She must have fallen asleep without changing—too tired, too lonely, too bored to bother.
I need to make more time for her, he thought. Same thought he had every week. Same thought that dissolved like sugar in water the moment his phone buzzed with another Slack notification.
He bent down. Pressed his lips to her forehead. She was warm. Smelled different somehow—something musky underneath the jasmine, something heavy and animal that he couldn't place. He dismissed it. Straightened up.
Went to the bathroom. Showered. Changed into fresh clothes.
When he came out, she was awake. Sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at her hands. Her hair hung around her face like a curtain.
"Morning." He smiled. "Sorry I didn't call. Server went down at—"
"I know."
Two words. Flat. Empty.
He paused. "You okay? You look tired."
She stood. Walked past him to the kitchen without meeting his eyes. Her body moved with a strange heaviness—not the graceful sway he was used to, but something sluggish. Reluctant.
"I went shopping with Saradha yesterday," she said, pulling out the rice container. "Came back late. Couldn't sleep properly after that."
"Shopping? What did you buy?"
"Nothing. Just looked around."
He accepted this without question. Sat at the dining table. Opened his laptop. Checked emails while she cooked.
Devika stood at the stove, stirring sambar with mechanical precision. Her hands moved but her mind was elsewhere—replaying every moment from last night. Kulkarni's mouth on her breasts. His cock stretching her open. The way he'd held her afterward, whispering things Arjun never whispered.
Stop it. Stop thinking about it. Your husband is right there.
She ladled rice onto a plate. Poured sambar over it. Added a piece of papad. Placed it in front of Arjun with the bare minimum of care—no pickle arranged neatly on the side, no yogurt in the small steel bowl, no banana leaf underneath the way she usually served.
Arjun didn't notice. He ate with one hand, scrolled his phone with the other.
"This sambar is good, Devi."
"Mm."
She sat across from him. Didn't eat. Just watched him shovel food into his mouth while reading some email about sprint planning or deployment cycles or whatever meaningless thing consumed his life.
You were gone all night. You left me alone in this empty flat. And you don't even ask what I did. Don't even wonder why your wife smells like another man's sweat.
Arjun looked up. Caught her staring.
"What?"
"Nothing."
He reached across the table. Squeezed her hand. "I know this has been hard, Devi. The night shifts will end soon. Just a few more days, okay? Then I'll be home every evening. We can go out. Watch a movie. Whatever you want."
She pulled her hand away. Stood up. Began washing dishes.
"Sure," she said to the running water.
The day passed like wet cement—slow, heavy, suffocating.
Arjun slept until noon. Woke up. Left for office by two. Kissed her cheek at the door. Said he'd be back by ten tonight, no night shift.
Devika didn't visit Kulkarni. Didn't knock on his door. Didn't even look at it as she walked past to throw garbage down the chute.
She couldn't face him. Not yet. Not while Arjun's forehead kiss still lingered on her skin like an accusation.
She cleaned the flat instead. Swept. Mopped. Scrubbed the bathroom tiles until her knuckles ached. Washed every dish, every glass, every steel plate. Organized the spice rack alphabetically. Rearranged the bedroom cupboard. Folded all of Arjun's shirts.
Penance through housework. The oldest trick in a guilty wife's book.
By evening, the flat was spotless. And Devika was empty.
She sat on the sofa. Watched a serial. Didn't register a single scene.
Arjun came home at ten. They ate dinner. He talked about some new project—something about migrating databases to AWS. She nodded in the right places. Said "hmm" and "oh" and "that's good" when pauses demanded responses.
They went to bed.
He fell asleep in four minutes. She counted.
She lay awake. Staring at the ceiling. Listening to him snore.
Her body was quiet. The guilt had suppressed everything—every nerve, every need, every pulse of desire. She felt hollow. Scbangd clean.
Good, she thought. This is what I deserve. Emptiness.
She slept.
The next day Arjun's night shifts officially ended. He left at 8:30 in the morning with his laptop bag and a cheerful "bye, Devi!" and returned at 9:15 PM, tired but present. They had dinner together. Talked about calling his parents this weekend. He showed her photos of a two-bedroom flat in Baner that his colleague was selling.
Normal. Safe. Suffocating.
That night they lay side by side. His arm dbangd over her waist. His breathing slow and even within minutes.
Devika pressed her thighs together under the blanket and willed her body to stay silent.
It obeyed. Barely.
But bodies have memories that shame cannot erase.
On the third morning after that night with Kulkarni, Devika woke up wet.
Not just damp. Soaked. Her inner thighs slick, her cotton nightgown clinging to her skin, her nipples hard against the thin fabric. She'd dreamed—fragmented, vivid, obscene dreams. Kulkarni's thick fingers inside her. His tongue on her navel. The weight of him pressing her into the mattress.
She lay there, breathing hard. Arjun had already left for work. The flat was empty. Morning sun sliced through the curtain gap and fell across her body in a warm stripe.
Her hand drifted downward. Stopped at her belly.
No. I'm not doing this.
She got up. Showered. Cold water. Scrubbed herself raw.
But by noon, it was back. That low, persistent throb between her legs. That hollow ache that household chores couldn't fill.
She found herself standing in the bedroom, phone in hand, scrolling through images she'd never searched for before. Couples. Positions. Things she'd seen Kulkarni do to her—and things she hadn't tried yet.
A woman bent over a kitchen counter, saree bunched at her waist. A man behind her, gripping her hips.
Devika's breath quickened.
Another image. A woman on top, riding, her head thrown back, pallu sliding off her shoulder.
I want to try that. On top. Controlling the pace. Making him look up at me.
Another. Against a wall. Standing. Her leg hooked over his hip.
That too. With my back against the cold wall and his mouth on my throat and—
She dropped the phone on the bed. Pressed both palms to her face.
What is happening to me? One night with that old man and I've become this... this...
She couldn't finish the thought. Because the word that came to mind wasn't an insult. It was a confession.
Hungry.
She was hungry.
And the only person who could feed her was on the other side of that wall.
She changed into a fresh saree—the mint green one that Kulkarni once said made her look like a garden in monsoon. Dbangd it the way Saradha had taught her: low at the waist, deep at the navel. Pinned the pallu loosely. Let her hair down.
Checked herself in the mirror.
For whom are you dressing up, Devika?
She ignored the question. Walked to the front door. Opened it.
And found Kulkarni's door locked. Dark. No light behind the frosted glass panel.
She stood in the corridor for a full minute, confused. He was always home during the day. Always on his chair, reading his newspaper, drinking his chai. Waiting for her.
Her phone buzzed. A WhatsApp message.
Kulkarni Kaka: Beta, going to Satara. My cousin's wife passed away. Will be gone for some days. Take care of yourself.
The floor dropped out from under her.
She read the message three times. Each time, the disappointment sank deeper—past her chest, past her stomach, settling between her legs where it burned.
Some days. How many days? Three? Five? A week?
She typed back: Oh no, kaka. I'm so sorry to hear that. Please take care. When will you come back?
His reply came twenty minutes later: Will see. Family matters. Don't worry about me.
Short. Distracted. Not the Kulkarni who whispered dirty things against her ear. Not the man who held her all night. Just a distant uncle sending a polite notification.
Devika locked her door. Sat on the sofa. Stared at the blank TV screen.
The ache between her legs pulsed. Demanding. Insistent.
He's gone. He's actually gone.
She felt something she hadn't expected. Not relief. Not gratitude for the breathing room.
Rage.
Irrational, childish, burning rage. He'd opened something inside her—some door she didn't know existed—and then walked away. Left her standing in the doorframe with her body on fire and no way to put it out.
By evening, desperation won.
Arjun left for office at the usual time. The flat emptied. The silence pressed in.
Devika locked the bedroom door. Drew the curtains. Sat on the bed with her phone.
She found a video. South Indian couple. The woman wore a half-saree. The man was older, grey-haired, thick-bodied. Close enough.
Her hand slipped under her saree. Fingers found the wet fabric of her panties. Pushed it aside. Touched herself.
She watched the screen. Tried to sync her movements to the woman's moans. Circled her clit. Dipped two fingers inside.
Nothing.
Well—not nothing. Sensation, yes. Warmth. Friction. But it was like eating rice without salt. The mechanics were correct. The satisfaction was absent.
She tried harder. Faster. Changed the angle. Watched a different video—rougher, louder.
Her fingers weren't enough. Too small. Too familiar. They didn't stretch her the way Kulkarni had. Didn't fill that deep spot he'd found with his thick old cock.
She stopped. Panting. Frustrated. Slick fingers glistening.
Her eyes fell on the kitchen counter. On the vegetables she'd bought yesterday.
No. Absolutely not. That's—
Ten minutes later she was on the bed with a cucumber between her legs.
Cold. Rigid. Wrong shape. She pushed it inside, wincing at the unyielding hardness. Moved it in and out. Tried to imagine it was him.
But cucumbers don't breathe against your neck. Don't whisper filthy things in Marathi. Don't grip your hips with rough old hands that smell like sandalwood and newspaper ink.
She pulled it out. Threw it across the room. It hit the wall and rolled under the dresser.
Lay on her back. Stared at the ceiling fan going round and round and round.
I need him. God help me, I need that old man.
That night, she tried Arjun.
He came home at nine. Ate dinner. She'd made his favourite—fish curry with tapioca. Wore her good nightgown, the one with thin straps that showed her shoulders. Dabbed jasmine oil behind her ears.
They sat on the sofa watching television. She leaned into him. Put her head on his shoulder. Let her hand rest on his thigh.
"Arjun..."
"Hmm?" His eyes stayed on the screen. Some cricket highlights.
"Can we talk?"
"Ya, tell me."
"Not talk-talk. Just... be together. Like before."
He looked at her. Smiled. Kissed her temple. "We are together, Devi."
She turned her face up. Kissed his jaw. His neck. Her hand slid higher on his thigh.
He stiffened. "Devi, I—"
"Please." The word came out smaller than she intended. Almost a whisper.
He caught her hand. Held it. Gentle but firm.
"I'm really tired, kannu. Full day meetings. And tomorrow early morning there's a release call at six AM. I need to sleep."
"Just for a little while. We haven't... in so long."
He sighed. That specific sigh that IT husbands perfect—the one that means I love you but the production server loves me more.
"Weekend, okay? Saturday night. I'll be free. We'll order food. Watch a movie. Everything."
He kissed her forehead. That same sexless, fraternal, utterly insufficient forehead kiss.
"Goodnight, Devi. Love you."
He went to bed. Was asleep in four minutes. She counted again.
Devika sat on the sofa for another ten minutes. Then walked to the bathroom. Locked the door. Sat on the cold tile floor.
And cried.
Not loud. Not dramatic. Just silent tears rolling down her cheeks and dropping onto her nightgown, darkening the fabric in small circles. She pressed her fist against her mouth to muffle the sounds.
My husband won't touch me. The man who will is two hundred kilometres away at a funeral. And I'm sitting on a bathroom floor at eleven PM crying because I can't stop wanting an old man's cock inside me.
She cried until she ran out of tears. Then washed her face. Went to bed. Lay next to her snoring husband.
Didn't sleep until three AM.
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