01-04-2025, 11:45 AM
Main Characters:
Sakshi (~25 years old) – A young wife and mother rediscovering her sensuality and inner fire. Complex, intelligent, and fiercely aware of her own desires. The story centers on her journey of awakening.
Ramu (~65 years old) – An older widower and father of the landlord. Quiet, watchful, and haunted by memories of his late wife, also named Sakshi. His growing attraction to Sakshi sets off an intimate, taboo connection.
Murugan (~27 years old) – Sakshi’s husband. Traditional, emotionally distant, and often unaware of Sakshi’s emotional and physical needs.
Meena (~25 years old) – Sakshi’s closest friend and confidante. Witty, bold, and unfiltered. Meena serves as the emotional and comic relief, often acting as Sakshi’s mirror and cheerleader.
Janani & Arun – The landlords. Janani is Arun’s wife and Ramu’s daughter-in-law. She notices the chemistry between Sakshi and Ramu but frames it with teasing and subtle remarks.
Ramu’s Late Wife (Sakshi) – Though deceased, her memory casts a long shadow over Ramu’s affections. She shared the same name as Sakshi, creating layered emotional echoes throughout the story.
Sakshi’s Son – whose presence grounds Sakshi in domestic reality but also amplifies the tension between her roles as mother, wife, and woman.
---------------
The thick smell of paint and old wood still lingered in the stairwell as Sakshi carried her two-year-old son up to the first floor of their new rental. The iron gate creaked open, revealing the narrow corridor leading to their portion. Her husband, Murugan, followed with a rolled-up mat under one arm and a bag of kitchen utensils in the other.
"Careful with that, kanna," Sakshi called out, glancing back at her son toddling across the chipped tiles. "Don’t touch the wall, it's still wet!"
Murugan exhaled sharply, sweat lining his forehead. "Phew! This house smells like it's been locked up for years. But at least it's spacious."
"You just like it because the kitchen is far from the bedroom. No more sambar smell waking you up," she teased, placing a hand on her hip.
"No, no," Murugan grinned, "I like it because now I can chase you around that hallway without your amma hearing us."
"Aiyo! Behave, husband! Our son’s watching," she whispered with mock scandal, though the blush on her cheeks was real.
He leaned in, whispering, "Let him watch. He should know how much his appa loves his amma."
She rolled her eyes. "Romantic fool. You’re more tired than loving right now. You’ve been sweating like you ran the marathon."
"For you, I'd run two," Murugan said dramatically, placing a hand over his chest. Inside, he was thinking: Damn, she still looks fine even in that crumpled old nightie. How do I focus on work with this woman parading around the house?
Sakshi caught his lingering stare and smirked. He thinks I don’t know. I can still make him trip over his tongue. Good.
The first floor was quiet, the corridor half-lit by the dying afternoon sun. Sakshi noticed a closed wooden door at the far end with a rusted nameplate that simply read: Ramu. A muted hum came from behind it—TV perhaps, or some old devotional song on loop.
She didn't dwell long. The first few days passed in a blur. Mornings were the same: she woke at dawn, cooked idlis and sambar, packed lunch for Murugan who left sharply at 8:30am to catch his local train to the port. Then she bathed her son, played with him, sometimes video-called her sister, folded laundry, browsed random reels, cleaned corners already clean. The rhythm of her life had changed, but the notes felt strangely familiar.
Yet, something shifted.
There was a presence—unspoken, but real.
She began to sense it on the third day.
A feeling.
Eyes.
Not heavy or perverse. Curious. Constant.
She’d stand near the balcony folding clothes and suddenly feel heat on her back, a tingle on the nape of her neck. When she turned, no one. But a curtain might sway from the room at the end. Once, a cough broke the silence, too intentional to be random. Her heart skipped.
That night, after putting her son to bed, she entered the bedroom where Murugan was lying shirtless, his phone lighting up his face. He scrolled absently.
"There’s an old man in the next room. The owner's father. Seems quiet. But I think he watches me sometimes," she said, adjusting her bun in front of the dresser.
Murugan chuckled. "Of course he does. If I was an old man stuck in one room and saw you walking around in your low-waist nightie... I’d stare too."
She smacked his arm with a cushion. "Dei! Stupid. I’m serious."
He grabbed the pillow and grinned, tugging her onto the bed. "Okay, okay. But maybe he’s just lonely. Watching people is a way to feel less dead inside."
"Hmm," she murmured, snuggling beside him. Or maybe he’s watching me for more than loneliness. And why does that idea stir something in me?
Her breath slowed. But the pulse between her legs didn’t.
The next morning, as she adjusted her saree in front of the mirror, the doorbell rang. Her son ran to open it.
"Vanakkam, ma," said a woman in her late thirties, holding a tiffin box. "I’m Janani. We stay downstairs—my husband owns the house. Just thought I’d come welcome you."
"Oh! Thank you akka, very kind of you." Sakshi smiled, letting her in.
They sat down on the floor mat. Her son climbed into her lap.
"And that room at the end... someone stays there? I noticed it's always closed," Sakshi asked casually, watching Janani's eyes.
Janani’s smile shifted slightly. "That’s Appa’s room. Ramu. My father-in-law. He doesn’t go out much, health and all... mostly keeps to himself."
"He watches a lot of TV, huh?" Sakshi asked with a teasing smile.
Janani chuckled, but it felt restrained. "He’s old, lonely. He may come up to talk sometime. Don’t mind him."
Sakshi’s eyes lingered on the shut door. Lonely men can be strange. But maybe he’s just... human. Just looking. Maybe I’m imagining things.
That evening, while chopping onions, Murugan came from behind and wrapped his arms around her waist.
"Mmm... you smell like tamarind and coconut. Sexy combo."
"Yuck! You’re such a kitchen pervert," she laughed, trying to shake him off.
"I like all your flavors. Even sambhar sweat."
She smirked. "Go take a shower before I throw rasam at you."
He leaned in and whispered, "Just promise me one thing. Don’t let that old man out-stare me."
"Jealous, are we?"
"Damn right. I earned the right to look."
She winked. "Earn it again tonight."
But even as they laughed, her eyes flicked toward the corridor.
The curtain moved.
And the next morning, when she walked to the terrace to shake the dust from her bedsheet, she saw it again. The window. That slight parting.
Ramu.
He didn’t look away.
And Sakshi, heart beating wild, didn’t either.
She folded the bedsheet slower than usual, back arched slightly, her saree inching up as she reached for the rail.
A quiet thrill danced along her skin.
Eyes.
Yes.
She knew they were there now.
And part of her... was starting to enjoy it.
Ramu hadn’t left his room for more than twenty minutes at a time in nearly five years. Not since his wife passed. The small, upper-room apartment had become his whole world. A single bed with faded blue sheets. A wooden table cluttered with pill bottles, a steel tumbler, old magazines. The air was always a little musty, the scent of old sandalwood mingled with camphor and body heat. The window faced the common corridor, and that was enough. It gave him a glimpse of the world without needing to step into it.
He sat most mornings in his easy chair, lungi pulled up to his knees, watching the corridor like a sentry. His hearing had dulled, but his eyes had grown sharper—trained by solitude, focused by years of silence. He'd watch ants crawl across the tiles, birds dance on the railings, spiders building futures in ceiling corners. His muscles ached from lack of use, but his eyes drank in every inch of movement that passed outside his door.
And now, something else had entered his line of sight.
A woman.
Sakshi.
Her presence was a ripple in his stagnant pond.
He had first seen her silhouette through the frosted glass of her kitchen window, moving like steam from boiling rice. She laughed easily. Walked barefoot. Her hips swayed like a lullaby meant to hush the ache in his loins. The first time he truly saw her—standing in her doorway, backlit by morning sun, hair dripping from a recent bath—he thought he was dreaming.
She was not like the others who came and went. She wore cotton sarees that clung in the breeze. Nighties that were cut just an inch too low. And her voice... even when scolding her child, there was honey coating every word.
Ramu had seen beauty before. He had taken a wife, made children, known the sound of moans in dark rooms. He had lived in another time where his body had purpose, where his hands were strong and his nights full. But this was different. This was cruelly alive. Temptation wrapped in mundane domesticity. He didn’t want to fuck her at first—he wanted to understand her. Until understanding became obsession.
And so he watched.
When she stepped onto the terrace with her laundry basket, his curtain swayed. When she bent to pick up her son’s toy, his lungs held air like it was sacred. When she laughed on the phone, he closed his eyes just to picture the curve of her lips. He began to notice the way she tied her saree, the tug at the waist knot, the dip in the blouse neckline, how her back flexed when she stretched while drying clothes.
He never meant to linger.
But each day, his eyes betrayed him.
He began to memorize her routine like prayer:
8:00 am – she swept the front door with one hand while holding her son in the other.
9:15 – she washed clothes, kneeling near the tap, sleeves wet and clinging.
12:30 – she napped on the floor mat near the window, her saree hiked slightly above the knee.
Ramu sat in the shadows, time flowing around him, untouched.
His son, Selvam, rarely visited the room. Janani sometimes brought food, left without asking questions. Ramu preferred it that way. People had stopped trying to fix him years ago. But this woman... she stirred something that had long calcified.
Desire. Curiosity. Hunger.
And perhaps—madness.
He once stepped close enough to the curtain that her scent caught him—turmeric, coconut oil, a hint of sweat. His cock twitched, thick and slow, as if remembering a life it had nearly forgotten. He felt ashamed. But not enough to stop. He stood behind the curtain, barely breathing, letting her scent flood his sinuses.
He whispered her name the first time alone.
"Sakshi."
It sat on his tongue like a forgotten spice.
What are you doing to me, girl? You're just a tenant. Just another woman passing through. But why do I feel like the walls shake when you walk?
I should look away. I should shut the window, pull the curtain. But then I hear your anklets. I see the wet fabric of your saree hugging you after washing. I see that curve—divine, obscene, so full of life it makes my bones hurt.
I thought I was dead below the waist. Thought I'd buried all that with my Sakshi. But now... now I wake up in the night, aching. Remembering how it felt to press my mouth to soft skin. To feel a woman squirm beneath me. Your name slips into my dreams like a thief.
He began to fantasize. Her in his room. Her sitting on his bed. Her voice calling his name, softer this time. He'd imagine her standing by the window, lifting her arms, baring her underarms to him—smooth and scented. He'd imagine bending and kissing her there, letting her sweat mingle with his breath.
He’d stroke himself slowly some nights, not even needing to touch. Just the memory of her walking past his door, just the scent left lingering in the corridor after she passed, was enough.
She had not looked at him yet. Not directly. But he knew she felt him. Saw her back stiffen, her fingers pause, her saree adjusted with care when she thought no one watched.
You know, don’t you? You're teasing me. You lift your arms slowly when you tie your hair. You stand in that patch of sunlight by the balcony a little too long. You want me to burn.
And I do, Sakshi. I burn. Every day I sit here and rot, but now you've poured kerosene over my ash and struck a match. I hate you for it. I thank you for it.
Ramu’s hands weren’t what they used to be. They trembled when he held a spoon. But his cock still remembered. His breath still shortened at the right images. He thought about inviting her in, leaving the door half-open one day, seeing if curiosity would push her past the threshold.
He never would. Not yet. But he played the scenario in his mind over and over.
And so, Ramu sat.
Watching.
Waiting.
Breathing.
Alive, once more.
It was a Sunday morning, two weeks after the family had moved in. The sun poured like gold through the hallway windows, catching dust motes mid-flight. The smell of dosa batter sizzling on the pan drifted through the air. Birds chattered from the neem tree that leaned into the balcony. ???
Sakshi was at the stove, flipping dosas while Murugan sat on the floor mat in the living room with their son, stacking plastic cups into a tower. ????
There was a knock on the door. ???
Three slow, deliberate raps. ???
"Must be Janani akka," Sakshi said, wiping her hands on her saree. She walked over and opened the door. ?♀️??
But it wasn’t Janani. ???
Ramu stood there, in a freshly pressed white shirt and lungi, his hair combed back, cheeks shaved. He held a small steel bowl in both hands, its contents covered with a lid. ???
"Vanakkam," he said in a gravelly voice that still carried strength beneath the years. "Thought I’d bring some pongal. Made extra today." ?️?✨
Sakshi blinked, a little surprised. It was the first time she’d seen him this close. Up close, his presence was different—not frail, but weighty. His eyes didn’t dart; they lingered. ?️??
"Ayyo, thank you, uncle! So kind of you. Please, come in," she said, stepping aside. ???
Murugan looked up and rose to his feet quickly. "Oh! Vanakkam, sir. You must be... uncle from next door? Janani madam mentioned you." ?♂️???️
"Yes, yes. Ramu," the old man said, handing the bowl to Sakshi. "I stay just there. The room at the end. Been meaning to come say hello, but old bones take time." ?️??
"You came at the perfect time," Sakshi said, smiling. "Breakfast is ready. Won’t you join us?" ??️?
Ramu looked hesitant. "No no, I don’t want to intrude. Just wanted to greet you properly." ?♂️??
"Nonsense," Murugan said. "You’re not intruding at all. We’re new here. It’s an honour to meet the man of the house. Please, have a seat." ?????
Ramu’s eyes briefly flicked to Sakshi again—her oiled hair tied in a thick braid, her blouse clinging ever so slightly under the ceiling fan’s breeze. ?️??
"Well... maybe just a little while," he said. ⏳??
They all sat cross-legged on the mat, and Sakshi brought plates over. She served him first. ?️??
"Sambhar or chutney, uncle?" ❓??
"Both, if you don’t mind," he said, watching her hands closely as she poured. "You’re very graceful in the kitchen. Reminds me of my wife." ????️
Murugan smiled. "She’s the best cook in her whole family. I got lucky." ???
Ramu’s laugh was low. "You surely did." ????
Their son crawled into Sakshi’s lap and stared at the old man with wide eyes. ???
"Who this, Amma?" ??️?
"This is Ramu thatha," she said, brushing his hair back. "He lives just down the hall. Say hi." ???
"Hi, thatha!" ????
Ramu smiled, eyes softening. "Hello, kanna. You’re a strong boy. You eat well, huh?" ??️?
"He eats only if I dance first," Sakshi said with mock exasperation. ???
Everyone laughed. Ramu’s gaze lingered again. The sound of her laugh. The way her nose crinkled. He swallowed a lump in his throat that wasn’t from dosa. ???
After a while, he rose slowly. "I should leave you to your morning. Thank you for the company." ⌛?♂️?️
"No uncle, thank you for coming," Murugan said. ???
"Come any time, thatha," Sakshi added. ???
Ramu turned at the door and gave her a look—one that wasn’t inappropriate, but full of a quiet hunger. ???
"I just might," he said. Then walked back into the corridor, steps slow, but heart beating loud. ?♂️??️
Sakshi (~25 years old) – A young wife and mother rediscovering her sensuality and inner fire. Complex, intelligent, and fiercely aware of her own desires. The story centers on her journey of awakening.
Ramu (~65 years old) – An older widower and father of the landlord. Quiet, watchful, and haunted by memories of his late wife, also named Sakshi. His growing attraction to Sakshi sets off an intimate, taboo connection.
Murugan (~27 years old) – Sakshi’s husband. Traditional, emotionally distant, and often unaware of Sakshi’s emotional and physical needs.
Meena (~25 years old) – Sakshi’s closest friend and confidante. Witty, bold, and unfiltered. Meena serves as the emotional and comic relief, often acting as Sakshi’s mirror and cheerleader.
Janani & Arun – The landlords. Janani is Arun’s wife and Ramu’s daughter-in-law. She notices the chemistry between Sakshi and Ramu but frames it with teasing and subtle remarks.
Ramu’s Late Wife (Sakshi) – Though deceased, her memory casts a long shadow over Ramu’s affections. She shared the same name as Sakshi, creating layered emotional echoes throughout the story.
Sakshi’s Son – whose presence grounds Sakshi in domestic reality but also amplifies the tension between her roles as mother, wife, and woman.
---------------
The thick smell of paint and old wood still lingered in the stairwell as Sakshi carried her two-year-old son up to the first floor of their new rental. The iron gate creaked open, revealing the narrow corridor leading to their portion. Her husband, Murugan, followed with a rolled-up mat under one arm and a bag of kitchen utensils in the other.
"Careful with that, kanna," Sakshi called out, glancing back at her son toddling across the chipped tiles. "Don’t touch the wall, it's still wet!"
Murugan exhaled sharply, sweat lining his forehead. "Phew! This house smells like it's been locked up for years. But at least it's spacious."
"You just like it because the kitchen is far from the bedroom. No more sambar smell waking you up," she teased, placing a hand on her hip.
"No, no," Murugan grinned, "I like it because now I can chase you around that hallway without your amma hearing us."
"Aiyo! Behave, husband! Our son’s watching," she whispered with mock scandal, though the blush on her cheeks was real.
He leaned in, whispering, "Let him watch. He should know how much his appa loves his amma."
She rolled her eyes. "Romantic fool. You’re more tired than loving right now. You’ve been sweating like you ran the marathon."
"For you, I'd run two," Murugan said dramatically, placing a hand over his chest. Inside, he was thinking: Damn, she still looks fine even in that crumpled old nightie. How do I focus on work with this woman parading around the house?
Sakshi caught his lingering stare and smirked. He thinks I don’t know. I can still make him trip over his tongue. Good.
The first floor was quiet, the corridor half-lit by the dying afternoon sun. Sakshi noticed a closed wooden door at the far end with a rusted nameplate that simply read: Ramu. A muted hum came from behind it—TV perhaps, or some old devotional song on loop.
She didn't dwell long. The first few days passed in a blur. Mornings were the same: she woke at dawn, cooked idlis and sambar, packed lunch for Murugan who left sharply at 8:30am to catch his local train to the port. Then she bathed her son, played with him, sometimes video-called her sister, folded laundry, browsed random reels, cleaned corners already clean. The rhythm of her life had changed, but the notes felt strangely familiar.
Yet, something shifted.
There was a presence—unspoken, but real.
She began to sense it on the third day.
A feeling.
Eyes.
Not heavy or perverse. Curious. Constant.
She’d stand near the balcony folding clothes and suddenly feel heat on her back, a tingle on the nape of her neck. When she turned, no one. But a curtain might sway from the room at the end. Once, a cough broke the silence, too intentional to be random. Her heart skipped.
That night, after putting her son to bed, she entered the bedroom where Murugan was lying shirtless, his phone lighting up his face. He scrolled absently.
"There’s an old man in the next room. The owner's father. Seems quiet. But I think he watches me sometimes," she said, adjusting her bun in front of the dresser.
Murugan chuckled. "Of course he does. If I was an old man stuck in one room and saw you walking around in your low-waist nightie... I’d stare too."
She smacked his arm with a cushion. "Dei! Stupid. I’m serious."
He grabbed the pillow and grinned, tugging her onto the bed. "Okay, okay. But maybe he’s just lonely. Watching people is a way to feel less dead inside."
"Hmm," she murmured, snuggling beside him. Or maybe he’s watching me for more than loneliness. And why does that idea stir something in me?
Her breath slowed. But the pulse between her legs didn’t.
The next morning, as she adjusted her saree in front of the mirror, the doorbell rang. Her son ran to open it.
"Vanakkam, ma," said a woman in her late thirties, holding a tiffin box. "I’m Janani. We stay downstairs—my husband owns the house. Just thought I’d come welcome you."
"Oh! Thank you akka, very kind of you." Sakshi smiled, letting her in.
They sat down on the floor mat. Her son climbed into her lap.
"And that room at the end... someone stays there? I noticed it's always closed," Sakshi asked casually, watching Janani's eyes.
Janani’s smile shifted slightly. "That’s Appa’s room. Ramu. My father-in-law. He doesn’t go out much, health and all... mostly keeps to himself."
"He watches a lot of TV, huh?" Sakshi asked with a teasing smile.
Janani chuckled, but it felt restrained. "He’s old, lonely. He may come up to talk sometime. Don’t mind him."
Sakshi’s eyes lingered on the shut door. Lonely men can be strange. But maybe he’s just... human. Just looking. Maybe I’m imagining things.
That evening, while chopping onions, Murugan came from behind and wrapped his arms around her waist.
"Mmm... you smell like tamarind and coconut. Sexy combo."
"Yuck! You’re such a kitchen pervert," she laughed, trying to shake him off.
"I like all your flavors. Even sambhar sweat."
She smirked. "Go take a shower before I throw rasam at you."
He leaned in and whispered, "Just promise me one thing. Don’t let that old man out-stare me."
"Jealous, are we?"
"Damn right. I earned the right to look."
She winked. "Earn it again tonight."
But even as they laughed, her eyes flicked toward the corridor.
The curtain moved.
And the next morning, when she walked to the terrace to shake the dust from her bedsheet, she saw it again. The window. That slight parting.
Ramu.
He didn’t look away.
And Sakshi, heart beating wild, didn’t either.
She folded the bedsheet slower than usual, back arched slightly, her saree inching up as she reached for the rail.
A quiet thrill danced along her skin.
Eyes.
Yes.
She knew they were there now.
And part of her... was starting to enjoy it.
Ramu hadn’t left his room for more than twenty minutes at a time in nearly five years. Not since his wife passed. The small, upper-room apartment had become his whole world. A single bed with faded blue sheets. A wooden table cluttered with pill bottles, a steel tumbler, old magazines. The air was always a little musty, the scent of old sandalwood mingled with camphor and body heat. The window faced the common corridor, and that was enough. It gave him a glimpse of the world without needing to step into it.
He sat most mornings in his easy chair, lungi pulled up to his knees, watching the corridor like a sentry. His hearing had dulled, but his eyes had grown sharper—trained by solitude, focused by years of silence. He'd watch ants crawl across the tiles, birds dance on the railings, spiders building futures in ceiling corners. His muscles ached from lack of use, but his eyes drank in every inch of movement that passed outside his door.
And now, something else had entered his line of sight.
A woman.
Sakshi.
Her presence was a ripple in his stagnant pond.
He had first seen her silhouette through the frosted glass of her kitchen window, moving like steam from boiling rice. She laughed easily. Walked barefoot. Her hips swayed like a lullaby meant to hush the ache in his loins. The first time he truly saw her—standing in her doorway, backlit by morning sun, hair dripping from a recent bath—he thought he was dreaming.
She was not like the others who came and went. She wore cotton sarees that clung in the breeze. Nighties that were cut just an inch too low. And her voice... even when scolding her child, there was honey coating every word.
Ramu had seen beauty before. He had taken a wife, made children, known the sound of moans in dark rooms. He had lived in another time where his body had purpose, where his hands were strong and his nights full. But this was different. This was cruelly alive. Temptation wrapped in mundane domesticity. He didn’t want to fuck her at first—he wanted to understand her. Until understanding became obsession.
And so he watched.
When she stepped onto the terrace with her laundry basket, his curtain swayed. When she bent to pick up her son’s toy, his lungs held air like it was sacred. When she laughed on the phone, he closed his eyes just to picture the curve of her lips. He began to notice the way she tied her saree, the tug at the waist knot, the dip in the blouse neckline, how her back flexed when she stretched while drying clothes.
He never meant to linger.
But each day, his eyes betrayed him.
He began to memorize her routine like prayer:
8:00 am – she swept the front door with one hand while holding her son in the other.
9:15 – she washed clothes, kneeling near the tap, sleeves wet and clinging.
12:30 – she napped on the floor mat near the window, her saree hiked slightly above the knee.
Ramu sat in the shadows, time flowing around him, untouched.
His son, Selvam, rarely visited the room. Janani sometimes brought food, left without asking questions. Ramu preferred it that way. People had stopped trying to fix him years ago. But this woman... she stirred something that had long calcified.
Desire. Curiosity. Hunger.
And perhaps—madness.
He once stepped close enough to the curtain that her scent caught him—turmeric, coconut oil, a hint of sweat. His cock twitched, thick and slow, as if remembering a life it had nearly forgotten. He felt ashamed. But not enough to stop. He stood behind the curtain, barely breathing, letting her scent flood his sinuses.
He whispered her name the first time alone.
"Sakshi."
It sat on his tongue like a forgotten spice.
What are you doing to me, girl? You're just a tenant. Just another woman passing through. But why do I feel like the walls shake when you walk?
I should look away. I should shut the window, pull the curtain. But then I hear your anklets. I see the wet fabric of your saree hugging you after washing. I see that curve—divine, obscene, so full of life it makes my bones hurt.
I thought I was dead below the waist. Thought I'd buried all that with my Sakshi. But now... now I wake up in the night, aching. Remembering how it felt to press my mouth to soft skin. To feel a woman squirm beneath me. Your name slips into my dreams like a thief.
He began to fantasize. Her in his room. Her sitting on his bed. Her voice calling his name, softer this time. He'd imagine her standing by the window, lifting her arms, baring her underarms to him—smooth and scented. He'd imagine bending and kissing her there, letting her sweat mingle with his breath.
He’d stroke himself slowly some nights, not even needing to touch. Just the memory of her walking past his door, just the scent left lingering in the corridor after she passed, was enough.
She had not looked at him yet. Not directly. But he knew she felt him. Saw her back stiffen, her fingers pause, her saree adjusted with care when she thought no one watched.
You know, don’t you? You're teasing me. You lift your arms slowly when you tie your hair. You stand in that patch of sunlight by the balcony a little too long. You want me to burn.
And I do, Sakshi. I burn. Every day I sit here and rot, but now you've poured kerosene over my ash and struck a match. I hate you for it. I thank you for it.
Ramu’s hands weren’t what they used to be. They trembled when he held a spoon. But his cock still remembered. His breath still shortened at the right images. He thought about inviting her in, leaving the door half-open one day, seeing if curiosity would push her past the threshold.
He never would. Not yet. But he played the scenario in his mind over and over.
And so, Ramu sat.
Watching.
Waiting.
Breathing.
Alive, once more.
It was a Sunday morning, two weeks after the family had moved in. The sun poured like gold through the hallway windows, catching dust motes mid-flight. The smell of dosa batter sizzling on the pan drifted through the air. Birds chattered from the neem tree that leaned into the balcony. ???
Sakshi was at the stove, flipping dosas while Murugan sat on the floor mat in the living room with their son, stacking plastic cups into a tower. ????
There was a knock on the door. ???
Three slow, deliberate raps. ???
"Must be Janani akka," Sakshi said, wiping her hands on her saree. She walked over and opened the door. ?♀️??
But it wasn’t Janani. ???
Ramu stood there, in a freshly pressed white shirt and lungi, his hair combed back, cheeks shaved. He held a small steel bowl in both hands, its contents covered with a lid. ???
"Vanakkam," he said in a gravelly voice that still carried strength beneath the years. "Thought I’d bring some pongal. Made extra today." ?️?✨
Sakshi blinked, a little surprised. It was the first time she’d seen him this close. Up close, his presence was different—not frail, but weighty. His eyes didn’t dart; they lingered. ?️??
"Ayyo, thank you, uncle! So kind of you. Please, come in," she said, stepping aside. ???
Murugan looked up and rose to his feet quickly. "Oh! Vanakkam, sir. You must be... uncle from next door? Janani madam mentioned you." ?♂️???️
"Yes, yes. Ramu," the old man said, handing the bowl to Sakshi. "I stay just there. The room at the end. Been meaning to come say hello, but old bones take time." ?️??
"You came at the perfect time," Sakshi said, smiling. "Breakfast is ready. Won’t you join us?" ??️?
Ramu looked hesitant. "No no, I don’t want to intrude. Just wanted to greet you properly." ?♂️??
"Nonsense," Murugan said. "You’re not intruding at all. We’re new here. It’s an honour to meet the man of the house. Please, have a seat." ?????
Ramu’s eyes briefly flicked to Sakshi again—her oiled hair tied in a thick braid, her blouse clinging ever so slightly under the ceiling fan’s breeze. ?️??
"Well... maybe just a little while," he said. ⏳??
They all sat cross-legged on the mat, and Sakshi brought plates over. She served him first. ?️??
"Sambhar or chutney, uncle?" ❓??
"Both, if you don’t mind," he said, watching her hands closely as she poured. "You’re very graceful in the kitchen. Reminds me of my wife." ????️
Murugan smiled. "She’s the best cook in her whole family. I got lucky." ???
Ramu’s laugh was low. "You surely did." ????
Their son crawled into Sakshi’s lap and stared at the old man with wide eyes. ???
"Who this, Amma?" ??️?
"This is Ramu thatha," she said, brushing his hair back. "He lives just down the hall. Say hi." ???
"Hi, thatha!" ????
Ramu smiled, eyes softening. "Hello, kanna. You’re a strong boy. You eat well, huh?" ??️?
"He eats only if I dance first," Sakshi said with mock exasperation. ???
Everyone laughed. Ramu’s gaze lingered again. The sound of her laugh. The way her nose crinkled. He swallowed a lump in his throat that wasn’t from dosa. ???
After a while, he rose slowly. "I should leave you to your morning. Thank you for the company." ⌛?♂️?️
"No uncle, thank you for coming," Murugan said. ???
"Come any time, thatha," Sakshi added. ???
Ramu turned at the door and gave her a look—one that wasn’t inappropriate, but full of a quiet hunger. ???
"I just might," he said. Then walked back into the corridor, steps slow, but heart beating loud. ?♂️??️
![[+]](https://xossipy.com/themes/sharepoint/collapse_collapsed.png)
