[shaalu_re]

Ajay took a bath and came out. Meera was already dressed. Meera was still naked and looking for something.

“I’m going to the temple,” she said.

He asked like this? she said chee.. dont be so shamelss

Ajay nodded, still half in the fog of the morning they had just shared. He dressed quickly in a formal shirt and trousers, kissed her cheek, and left for the new office.

She wore a simple white churidar—plain kurti, matching pant, and a light white shawl dbangd over her shoulders.

Meera reached the temple by mid-morning. After the short prayer she collected the prasad and sat for a while in the open yard under the shade of an old peepal tree. The air smelled of camphor and fresh flowers.

A young man in a plain white shirt approached her.

“Sister, can you help us for a little while? We are short of people for serving food today.”

Meera looked at the long rows of devotees already seated on the floor. She nodded.

“I can help.”

They handed her two steel vessels. The white shawl kept slipping from her shoulders as she moved. An elderly woman taking care of the serving area noticed and smiled.

“Leave it here, beta. It will only trouble you.”

Meera folded the shawl and placed it on the wooden desk, then began serving.

She moved down the rows, bending to place rice, sambar, and vegetables onto the leaf plates. Each time she leaned forward the neckline of the kurti shifted. The her cleavage was visible as she bend down moment, the white fabric of her bra pressing against the thin cloth. When she straightened, the weight of them settled again with a quiet bounce.

Most people kept their eyes on the food. A few did not they noticed the show.

One man in particular watched her openly. His name was Divakar. He looked to be in his late fifties, clean-shaven, with the calm posture of someone who had money and time. As Meera bent in front of him to serve the rice, his gaze dropped for a second too long to the open neckline, evaluating her boobs in bra, then lifted quickly to her face. The contrast troubled him—an almost angelic face above the sudden, unintentional display of soft flesh. He could not decide whether look at her boobs or angelic face.

When the serving was finished, several people thanked her. Divakar waited until the others had moved away before he spoke.

“I haven’t seen you here before.”

“We came only recently,” Meera answered. “My husband and I.”

He registered the word *husband* but did not linger on it.

“I am one of the trustees,” he said. “Retired now. I have a few flats on the outskirts—rented out. Most of the year I stay outside the country. Only come for these temple matters.”

They spoke for a few more minutes—ordinary things, the weather, how the city had changed. Meera kept her answers polite and short. When the conversation naturally ended she collected her shawl, smiled once, and left.

On the auto ride back she took out her phone and called Thomas.

“Sir, I’ve been thinking about the offer. I can’t take up the role right now. There are some family commitments.”

Thomas’s voice came warm and slightly teasing.

“Family planning, is it? You can do that and still work here, you know.”

Meera laughed softly. “Not that, sir. My husband has just joined a new office. We are still settling into the city. I don’t think I can give the work the attention it needs at the moment.”

There was a short pause.

“All right,” Thomas said. “The door stays open. Whenever you feel ready, call me.”

Meera ended the call and looked out at the passing streets.

She did not want to go near Anaavaran again. Somewhere in the country her own body still existed on large hoardings and in printed catalogues. The thought that one day someone might look from the photograph to her face and recognise the connection was enough. Distance felt safer.

By the time the auto stopped in front of their building, she had already decided: for now, the quieter life was the one she would keep.