08-08-2026, 11:48 PM
The morning light crept through the curtain gap like an uninvited guest. Devika heard the front door close at 8:32 AM—the familiar sequence of Arjun's departure: laptop bag zip, shoe shuffle, keys jingling, door click, silence.
She lay still for five minutes. Listening. Making sure.
Then the silence pressed in. Heavy. Alive. Wrapping around her like the thin nightgown that clung to her body in the morning heat.
She stared at the ceiling fan. Its three blades cut lazy circles through the warm air, casting rotating shadows across her body. Her hair was loose, spread across the pillow in tangled waves. The nightgown—a faded peach cotton thing with thin straps—had ridden up in the night, bunched around her upper thighs.
How did I become this?
The question wasn't new. She'd asked it yesterday. The day before. Every morning since Kulkarni left for Satara. But today the question carried weight—the accumulated tonnage of sleepless nights, of that temple kiss still burning on her mouth, of the video sitting in her phone's recently deleted folder like a loaded gun in a drawer she kept opening.
Six months ago I was grinding chutney in Amma's kitchen. Listening to Suprabhatam. Reading Ramayana before bed. I didn't know what my own body could feel. Didn't know what an orgasm sounded like, tasted like, felt like when it ripped through me so hard I forgot my own name.
Her hand moved.
She didn't decide it. Didn't plan it. Her fingers drifted downward like water finding its level—sliding over the cotton nightgown, over the flat stretch of her stomach, settling between her thighs.
She pressed.
Through the fabric. Palm cupping herself. The thin cotton already warm from her skin, already carrying the faint dampness that had been there since she woke from dreams she couldn't fully remember but whose residue clung to her body like monsoon humidity.
She rubbed. Slow circles through the nightgown. The cotton bunched and shifted against her, creating friction that was almost enough—almost—but not quite—never quite—
This is Kulkarni's fault.
The thought came hot. Furious.
That dirty old man. That grey-mustached, pot-bellied, spectacle-wearing pervert. He did this to me. Opened me up like a locked room and showed me what was inside—all the colors, all the heat, all the wanting—and then what? Packed a bag and went to Satara. "Make your own chai, beta." As if what he put inside me was chai. As if I could brew it myself on the stove and pour it into a steel cup and sip it while reading the newspaper like some satisfied old widow.
Her fingers pressed harder. The heel of her palm grinding against her mound through damp cotton.
And Arjun. My dear, precious, hardworking husband. Who sleeps in four minutes. Who offers me weekends like a project manager scheduling a review meeting. "Saturday night, Devi. We'll order food." Order food. As if my body is hungry for biryani. As if what I need can be delivered by Swiggy in thirty minutes or free.
She was wet now. The nightgown fabric dark between her thighs. Her breathing shallow, mouth open, lower lip caught between her teeth.
Kulkarni showed me what I was missing. One night. One single night of his body on mine, inside mine, and now I can't unknow it. Can't unfeel it. Can't go back to being the girl who thought sex was something you endured for three minutes while your husband grunted and rolled over.
He showed me joy. Real joy. The kind that starts in your toes and climbs through your bones and explodes behind your eyes like festival fireworks. And then he LEFT. Just packed up and left me here—hungry, wet, desperate, grinding against my own hand like a—
She pulled her hand away. Sat up.
The orgasm hadn't come. Wouldn't come. Not from this. Not from her own insufficient fingers on the wrong side of fabric.
Her body throbbed. Unsatisfied. Angry.
She looked at the nightstand. Her phone sat face-down where she'd left it last night. Face-down, but not silent. Not forgotten. Inside it, buried in a folder she'd refused to permanently delete, a thirty-one-second video waited with the patience of a snake in tall grass.
She picked up the phone. Turned it over. The screen lit up—7% battery. She plugged in the charger. Sat cross-legged on the bed. Nightgown pooled between her thighs.
The video.
She opened the file manager. Tapped through to Recently Deleted. There it was. Grey rectangle. Play button. Thirty-one seconds.
Rajendran's body in dim light. Saradha's shaky phone camera. The cleaning maid bent over a cot.
I'm not watching this because I want Rajendran. I'm watching this because I need to see— I need to know if— I need—
Her thumb hovered over the play button. Her heart pounded in her ears.
What kind of woman watches a video of an old temple priest having sex? The same kind who sleeps with a sixty-seven-year-old neighbor. The same kind who grinds against her mattress thinking about rough hands and kumkum-stained foreheads. That kind.
Her thumb descended. One millimeter from the screen.
Kulkarni Kaka calling...
The notification banner slid down from the top of the screen, covering the video thumbnail. His name. His photo—the small round-spectacled face she'd set as his contact picture months ago.
The phone vibrated in her hand.
Devika stared at the screen.
NOW? You're calling NOW? After five days of "will take time" and "make your own chai" and one-line replies that made me feel like a stray cat begging at a closed kitchen door—NOW you call?
The rage she'd been directing at her own body pivoted like a compass needle finding north. It locked onto his name.
She pressed the red button. Call rejected.
Set the phone down. Crossed her arms.
It rang again. Kulkarni Kaka calling. The same photo. The same vibration.
She cut it.
The phone buzzed. WhatsApp message.
Kulkarni Kaka: Beta, why not picking up? I want to talk.
She looked at the screen. Saw the message. Didn't open it. Let the blue ticks stay grey.
Another buzz.
Kulkarni Kaka: Devika? Are you angry with me?
Grey ticks. Unread.
Kulkarni Kaka: I know I didn't call for few days. Family situation was very difficult here. Please understand.
Grey ticks.
Kulkarni Kaka: At least tell me you are okay. I am worried about you.
Grey ticks. Devika bit her lip. A small, involuntary smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
Let him worry. Let him sit there in Satara staring at his phone the way I've been staring at mine for five days. Let him feel what it's like to be ignored.
Kulkarni Kaka: Devika please. Don't do this. I know I made mistake by not calling. I am sorry.
She picked up the phone. Opened the chat. Typed.
Devika: K.
Sent. One letter. Cold as marble.
The three dots appeared instantly. He was typing fast—she could almost see his thick old fingers jabbing at the phone screen, spectacles sliding down his nose.
Kulkarni Kaka: K matlab? What K? I am saying sorry and you are giving me K? Beta, at least talk to me properly.
Devika: Busy.
Kulkarni Kaka: Busy with what? It's morning. Arjun is at office. What are you doing that you can't talk to your kaka for 2 minutes?
Devika: My things.
Kulkarni Kaka: Devika... please. Don't be like this. I am feeling very bad here. Whole funeral time I was thinking about you only. Every night I am lying on that old cot in my cousin's house thinking about you. How you looked that night. How you smelled. Your hair on my pillow.
She read this twice. Her jaw softened. Her crossed arms loosened.
But she held firm.
Devika: Then why you didn't call?
Kulkarni Kaka: Because 20 relatives were around me 24 hours. Sleeping in same room. Eating together. I couldn't even go to bathroom without someone asking where I am going. How could I call you? What would I say in front of everyone?
Devika: You could have messaged properly. Not one line replies like I am some stranger.
Kulkarni Kaka: You are right. I was wrong. I should have messaged more. I should have made you feel that I am thinking about you. I failed. I accept.
Devika: Hmm.
Kulkarni Kaka: Please Devika. I want to hear your voice. Just 5 minutes. Can I call? Please?
She stared at the message. Her thumb tapped the edge of the phone case. A rhythm. Fast.
Devika: No. Not now.
Kulkarni Kaka: Then when?
Devika: I'll see.
Kulkarni Kaka: Devika... you are making this old man beg. You know that?
Devika: Good. Now you know how it feels.
A pause. Long. The three dots appeared and disappeared three times. He was deleting and retyping.
Kulkarni Kaka: I deserve that. You are right. I left you alone. After that night... after everything we shared... I should have been there for you. Even if only through messages. I was selfish and stupid.
She softened. Couldn't help it. The admission cracked something in her chest.
Devika: You were very stupid.
Kulkarni Kaka: The stupidest man in Maharashtra.
Devika: In all of India.
Kulkarni Kaka: In the whole world. Satisfied?
Devika: No. Universe.
Kulkarni Kaka: ? Ok. Stupidest man in the universe. Now please. Let me call. My heart is paining to hear your voice, Devika.
Her smile broke through. She covered her mouth with her free hand, as though someone might see.
Devika: Your heart is paining or something else?
Kulkarni Kaka: Everything is paining. Heart. Head. And... other things also. You know which things.
Devika: I don't know. Tell me.
Kulkarni Kaka: On call I will tell. Not on chat. Some things need voice. Please, Devika.
She typed: Maybe later. I'm still angry.
Kulkarni Kaka: How much later? One hour? Two?
Devika: When I feel like it.
Kulkarni Kaka: You are killing me slowly, beta.
Devika: Good. Die slowly. You deserve it.
She lay still for five minutes. Listening. Making sure.
Then the silence pressed in. Heavy. Alive. Wrapping around her like the thin nightgown that clung to her body in the morning heat.
She stared at the ceiling fan. Its three blades cut lazy circles through the warm air, casting rotating shadows across her body. Her hair was loose, spread across the pillow in tangled waves. The nightgown—a faded peach cotton thing with thin straps—had ridden up in the night, bunched around her upper thighs.
How did I become this?
The question wasn't new. She'd asked it yesterday. The day before. Every morning since Kulkarni left for Satara. But today the question carried weight—the accumulated tonnage of sleepless nights, of that temple kiss still burning on her mouth, of the video sitting in her phone's recently deleted folder like a loaded gun in a drawer she kept opening.
Six months ago I was grinding chutney in Amma's kitchen. Listening to Suprabhatam. Reading Ramayana before bed. I didn't know what my own body could feel. Didn't know what an orgasm sounded like, tasted like, felt like when it ripped through me so hard I forgot my own name.
Her hand moved.
She didn't decide it. Didn't plan it. Her fingers drifted downward like water finding its level—sliding over the cotton nightgown, over the flat stretch of her stomach, settling between her thighs.
She pressed.
Through the fabric. Palm cupping herself. The thin cotton already warm from her skin, already carrying the faint dampness that had been there since she woke from dreams she couldn't fully remember but whose residue clung to her body like monsoon humidity.
She rubbed. Slow circles through the nightgown. The cotton bunched and shifted against her, creating friction that was almost enough—almost—but not quite—never quite—
This is Kulkarni's fault.
The thought came hot. Furious.
That dirty old man. That grey-mustached, pot-bellied, spectacle-wearing pervert. He did this to me. Opened me up like a locked room and showed me what was inside—all the colors, all the heat, all the wanting—and then what? Packed a bag and went to Satara. "Make your own chai, beta." As if what he put inside me was chai. As if I could brew it myself on the stove and pour it into a steel cup and sip it while reading the newspaper like some satisfied old widow.
Her fingers pressed harder. The heel of her palm grinding against her mound through damp cotton.
And Arjun. My dear, precious, hardworking husband. Who sleeps in four minutes. Who offers me weekends like a project manager scheduling a review meeting. "Saturday night, Devi. We'll order food." Order food. As if my body is hungry for biryani. As if what I need can be delivered by Swiggy in thirty minutes or free.
She was wet now. The nightgown fabric dark between her thighs. Her breathing shallow, mouth open, lower lip caught between her teeth.
Kulkarni showed me what I was missing. One night. One single night of his body on mine, inside mine, and now I can't unknow it. Can't unfeel it. Can't go back to being the girl who thought sex was something you endured for three minutes while your husband grunted and rolled over.
He showed me joy. Real joy. The kind that starts in your toes and climbs through your bones and explodes behind your eyes like festival fireworks. And then he LEFT. Just packed up and left me here—hungry, wet, desperate, grinding against my own hand like a—
She pulled her hand away. Sat up.
The orgasm hadn't come. Wouldn't come. Not from this. Not from her own insufficient fingers on the wrong side of fabric.
Her body throbbed. Unsatisfied. Angry.
She looked at the nightstand. Her phone sat face-down where she'd left it last night. Face-down, but not silent. Not forgotten. Inside it, buried in a folder she'd refused to permanently delete, a thirty-one-second video waited with the patience of a snake in tall grass.
She picked up the phone. Turned it over. The screen lit up—7% battery. She plugged in the charger. Sat cross-legged on the bed. Nightgown pooled between her thighs.
The video.
She opened the file manager. Tapped through to Recently Deleted. There it was. Grey rectangle. Play button. Thirty-one seconds.
Rajendran's body in dim light. Saradha's shaky phone camera. The cleaning maid bent over a cot.
I'm not watching this because I want Rajendran. I'm watching this because I need to see— I need to know if— I need—
Her thumb hovered over the play button. Her heart pounded in her ears.
What kind of woman watches a video of an old temple priest having sex? The same kind who sleeps with a sixty-seven-year-old neighbor. The same kind who grinds against her mattress thinking about rough hands and kumkum-stained foreheads. That kind.
Her thumb descended. One millimeter from the screen.
Kulkarni Kaka calling...
The notification banner slid down from the top of the screen, covering the video thumbnail. His name. His photo—the small round-spectacled face she'd set as his contact picture months ago.
The phone vibrated in her hand.
Devika stared at the screen.
NOW? You're calling NOW? After five days of "will take time" and "make your own chai" and one-line replies that made me feel like a stray cat begging at a closed kitchen door—NOW you call?
The rage she'd been directing at her own body pivoted like a compass needle finding north. It locked onto his name.
She pressed the red button. Call rejected.
Set the phone down. Crossed her arms.
It rang again. Kulkarni Kaka calling. The same photo. The same vibration.
She cut it.
The phone buzzed. WhatsApp message.
Kulkarni Kaka: Beta, why not picking up? I want to talk.
She looked at the screen. Saw the message. Didn't open it. Let the blue ticks stay grey.
Another buzz.
Kulkarni Kaka: Devika? Are you angry with me?
Grey ticks. Unread.
Kulkarni Kaka: I know I didn't call for few days. Family situation was very difficult here. Please understand.
Grey ticks.
Kulkarni Kaka: At least tell me you are okay. I am worried about you.
Grey ticks. Devika bit her lip. A small, involuntary smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
Let him worry. Let him sit there in Satara staring at his phone the way I've been staring at mine for five days. Let him feel what it's like to be ignored.
Kulkarni Kaka: Devika please. Don't do this. I know I made mistake by not calling. I am sorry.
She picked up the phone. Opened the chat. Typed.
Devika: K.
Sent. One letter. Cold as marble.
The three dots appeared instantly. He was typing fast—she could almost see his thick old fingers jabbing at the phone screen, spectacles sliding down his nose.
Kulkarni Kaka: K matlab? What K? I am saying sorry and you are giving me K? Beta, at least talk to me properly.
Devika: Busy.
Kulkarni Kaka: Busy with what? It's morning. Arjun is at office. What are you doing that you can't talk to your kaka for 2 minutes?
Devika: My things.
Kulkarni Kaka: Devika... please. Don't be like this. I am feeling very bad here. Whole funeral time I was thinking about you only. Every night I am lying on that old cot in my cousin's house thinking about you. How you looked that night. How you smelled. Your hair on my pillow.
She read this twice. Her jaw softened. Her crossed arms loosened.
But she held firm.
Devika: Then why you didn't call?
Kulkarni Kaka: Because 20 relatives were around me 24 hours. Sleeping in same room. Eating together. I couldn't even go to bathroom without someone asking where I am going. How could I call you? What would I say in front of everyone?
Devika: You could have messaged properly. Not one line replies like I am some stranger.
Kulkarni Kaka: You are right. I was wrong. I should have messaged more. I should have made you feel that I am thinking about you. I failed. I accept.
Devika: Hmm.
Kulkarni Kaka: Please Devika. I want to hear your voice. Just 5 minutes. Can I call? Please?
She stared at the message. Her thumb tapped the edge of the phone case. A rhythm. Fast.
Devika: No. Not now.
Kulkarni Kaka: Then when?
Devika: I'll see.
Kulkarni Kaka: Devika... you are making this old man beg. You know that?
Devika: Good. Now you know how it feels.
A pause. Long. The three dots appeared and disappeared three times. He was deleting and retyping.
Kulkarni Kaka: I deserve that. You are right. I left you alone. After that night... after everything we shared... I should have been there for you. Even if only through messages. I was selfish and stupid.
She softened. Couldn't help it. The admission cracked something in her chest.
Devika: You were very stupid.
Kulkarni Kaka: The stupidest man in Maharashtra.
Devika: In all of India.
Kulkarni Kaka: In the whole world. Satisfied?
Devika: No. Universe.
Kulkarni Kaka: ? Ok. Stupidest man in the universe. Now please. Let me call. My heart is paining to hear your voice, Devika.
Her smile broke through. She covered her mouth with her free hand, as though someone might see.
Devika: Your heart is paining or something else?
Kulkarni Kaka: Everything is paining. Heart. Head. And... other things also. You know which things.
Devika: I don't know. Tell me.
Kulkarni Kaka: On call I will tell. Not on chat. Some things need voice. Please, Devika.
She typed: Maybe later. I'm still angry.
Kulkarni Kaka: How much later? One hour? Two?
Devika: When I feel like it.
Kulkarni Kaka: You are killing me slowly, beta.
Devika: Good. Die slowly. You deserve it.
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