08-08-2026, 11:43 PM
Devika reached Flat 2B. Fumbled the spare key from under the doormat. Got inside. Locked the door. Chain latched. Dead bolt turned.
She dropped the grocery bags on the kitchen floor. Leaned against the wall. Slid down until she was sitting on the cold tiles, knees drawn up, wet saree pooling around her like spilled ink.
Her heart was a fist, punching her ribs from the inside.
He kissed me. That creepy old temple priest kissed me. Grabbed me. Put his mouth on mine.
She touched her lips. Pressed her fingertips against them. The pressure still lingered—his dry, rough lips, the scratch of stubble, the brief shocking warmth of his mouth before her hand connected with his cheek.
Why didn't I scream?
The temple was in the courtyard. Flats surrounded it on three sides. One good scream and ten windows would have opened. Ten faces peering down. Ten witnesses.
Why didn't I hit him harder?
Her palm had barely made contact. A baby's slap. The kind of slap you gave someone you were annoyed with—not afraid of.
Why am I not calling the apartment committee right now? Why am I not dialing 100? Why am I sitting here on a wet floor touching my lips like a stupid girl in a stupid movie?
She knew why. The answer sat in her stomach like a swallowed ember.
Because reporting him meant questions. Questions meant attention. Attention meant people looking at her—at her life, at her flat, at the locked door next to hers, at the old man who lived behind it. And if anyone looked closely enough, they'd find more than Rajendran's stolen kiss.
They'd find Kulkarni.
I can't report him. Because reporting him exposes me. Because I've already crossed too many lines to stand on the right side of one.
The irony was so perfect it made her want to laugh.
She stood. Peeled off her wet saree. Showered. Changed into a dry nightgown. Toweled her hair. Made tea.
Normal things. Sequential things. Things that kept her hands busy and her mind from replaying the weight of his arms around her waist.
At eleven PM, she sat on the bed. Phone in hand.
She opened WhatsApp. Scrolled to Saradha's chat. Something tugged at her—a memory. The video.
I deleted it.
She had. She remembered pressing delete, watching the grey rectangle vanish.
But.
She opened her phone's file manager. Tapped the three-dot menu. Scrolled down.
Recently Deleted.
The folder sat there like a trapdoor she'd forgotten to nail shut. Thirty-day recovery window. She tapped it.
The video was there. Grey rectangle. Play button. Thirty-one seconds. Thumbnail still too small to make out details.
Her thumb hovered over the delete-permanently button.
One second.
Two.
Five.
She locked the phone. Set it face-down on the nightstand.
Breathed. Hard. Through her mouth. The sound filled the silent bedroom like wind through a cracked window.
The front door opened. Keys. Laptop bag on the dining table.
Arjun appeared in the bedroom doorway. His face was tired—the usual fatigue—but something in his expression shifted when he saw her. Concern. Worry.
"Devi? You look—" He stepped closer. Studied her face. "Are you sick? Your eyes are red."
"I'm fine."
"You don't look fine. You look like you've been—"
"I got caught in rain coming back from shopping. Headache. That's all."
He pressed his palm to her forehead. Cool against her warm skin.
"No fever. Should I make you tea?"
"Already had."
"Okay." He sat on the bed. Untied his shoes. "You sure you're okay? You seem... disturbed."
Devika pulled the blanket over her legs. Arranged the pillow. Lay down with her back to him.
"I'm fine, Arjun. Just tired. Long day."
He changed. Brushed his teeth. Got into bed beside her. His arm found its usual place across her waist.
"Goodnight, Devi."
"Goodnight."
Four minutes. Snoring.
Devika lay awake. Eyes open in the dark. His arm warm and heavy across her body—the arm of a husband who loved her, who worked himself hollow for their future, who kissed her forehead every morning and fell asleep in four minutes every night.
Her lips still tasted like camphor.
The phone sat face-down on the nightstand. Thirty-one seconds of video waiting in a folder she'd refused to empty.
The rain hammered the windows. The ceiling fan turned. Arjun snored.
The day ended.
She dropped the grocery bags on the kitchen floor. Leaned against the wall. Slid down until she was sitting on the cold tiles, knees drawn up, wet saree pooling around her like spilled ink.
Her heart was a fist, punching her ribs from the inside.
He kissed me. That creepy old temple priest kissed me. Grabbed me. Put his mouth on mine.
She touched her lips. Pressed her fingertips against them. The pressure still lingered—his dry, rough lips, the scratch of stubble, the brief shocking warmth of his mouth before her hand connected with his cheek.
Why didn't I scream?
The temple was in the courtyard. Flats surrounded it on three sides. One good scream and ten windows would have opened. Ten faces peering down. Ten witnesses.
Why didn't I hit him harder?
Her palm had barely made contact. A baby's slap. The kind of slap you gave someone you were annoyed with—not afraid of.
Why am I not calling the apartment committee right now? Why am I not dialing 100? Why am I sitting here on a wet floor touching my lips like a stupid girl in a stupid movie?
She knew why. The answer sat in her stomach like a swallowed ember.
Because reporting him meant questions. Questions meant attention. Attention meant people looking at her—at her life, at her flat, at the locked door next to hers, at the old man who lived behind it. And if anyone looked closely enough, they'd find more than Rajendran's stolen kiss.
They'd find Kulkarni.
I can't report him. Because reporting him exposes me. Because I've already crossed too many lines to stand on the right side of one.
The irony was so perfect it made her want to laugh.
She stood. Peeled off her wet saree. Showered. Changed into a dry nightgown. Toweled her hair. Made tea.
Normal things. Sequential things. Things that kept her hands busy and her mind from replaying the weight of his arms around her waist.
At eleven PM, she sat on the bed. Phone in hand.
She opened WhatsApp. Scrolled to Saradha's chat. Something tugged at her—a memory. The video.
I deleted it.
She had. She remembered pressing delete, watching the grey rectangle vanish.
But.
She opened her phone's file manager. Tapped the three-dot menu. Scrolled down.
Recently Deleted.
The folder sat there like a trapdoor she'd forgotten to nail shut. Thirty-day recovery window. She tapped it.
The video was there. Grey rectangle. Play button. Thirty-one seconds. Thumbnail still too small to make out details.
Her thumb hovered over the delete-permanently button.
One second.
Two.
Five.
She locked the phone. Set it face-down on the nightstand.
Breathed. Hard. Through her mouth. The sound filled the silent bedroom like wind through a cracked window.
The front door opened. Keys. Laptop bag on the dining table.
Arjun appeared in the bedroom doorway. His face was tired—the usual fatigue—but something in his expression shifted when he saw her. Concern. Worry.
"Devi? You look—" He stepped closer. Studied her face. "Are you sick? Your eyes are red."
"I'm fine."
"You don't look fine. You look like you've been—"
"I got caught in rain coming back from shopping. Headache. That's all."
He pressed his palm to her forehead. Cool against her warm skin.
"No fever. Should I make you tea?"
"Already had."
"Okay." He sat on the bed. Untied his shoes. "You sure you're okay? You seem... disturbed."
Devika pulled the blanket over her legs. Arranged the pillow. Lay down with her back to him.
"I'm fine, Arjun. Just tired. Long day."
He changed. Brushed his teeth. Got into bed beside her. His arm found its usual place across her waist.
"Goodnight, Devi."
"Goodnight."
Four minutes. Snoring.
Devika lay awake. Eyes open in the dark. His arm warm and heavy across her body—the arm of a husband who loved her, who worked himself hollow for their future, who kissed her forehead every morning and fell asleep in four minutes every night.
Her lips still tasted like camphor.
The phone sat face-down on the nightstand. Thirty-one seconds of video waiting in a folder she'd refused to empty.
The rain hammered the windows. The ceiling fan turned. Arjun snored.
The day ended.
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