15-06-2025, 02:06 PM
My name is Swetha. I’m 25 years old, and I was raised in a small town where everyone knew everyone. It was a place where family, tradition, and reputation mattered more than anything else. Growing up, I was taught to hold myself with grace and dignity, to be the kind of woman who respected the rules — the kind of woman who made her family proud.
I was raised with the belief that a woman’s body was something to be protected and covered, that modesty and respect were more important than anything else. This didn’t just come from my mother, but from everyone around me. It was an unspoken rule: Do not draw attention to yourself. So, when my body started to change, I didn’t know what to make of it.
I am 5'5", with curves that seem to draw attention whether I want them to or not. My chest, a comfortable D-cup, has always been one of the first things people notice about me. My waist, smaller than most of my peers, measures 26 inches, while my hips are fuller, with a 38-inch circumference. I’ve always had a soft, rounded shape that didn’t fit in with the tall, slim figures that everyone else seemed to admire. My legs are toned and long, and I suppose they’ve always been one of my more confident features, though I didn’t always feel comfortable with the attention they received.
As a young girl, I never knew what to do with all of this. My body felt like something I had to hide. I wore baggy clothes, tried to cover up what I considered to be imperfections, and kept my head down, hoping I could blend in. But the more I tried to hide, the more attention I seemed to get. Boys stared. Girls whispered.
When I moved to college, things began to change. For the first time, I was surrounded by people who weren’t bound by the same expectations I had grown up with. Women wore what they wanted, acted how they pleased, and carried themselves in a way that seemed so free — so different from what I had been taught. At first, it was a little overwhelming. I had no idea how to embrace my body the way they did.
But eventually, I started experimenting. I tried on clothes that hugged my figure, things I would never have dared wear before. It was like a whole new world opened up to me, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. On one hand, I felt liberated, confident in my skin. But on the other hand, I was still that girl from the small town, the one who was told to hide, to keep herself modest. One of the first times I truly felt like I was seen was when I wore a tight dress to a party. It was a deep red, form-fitting, and it clung to every curve. The moment I stepped into the room, I felt eyes on me. At first, I felt exposed, but then something shifted. The looks weren’t judgmental — they were admiring. The way people looked at me made me feel powerful, but also uneasy. I liked it, but it made me feel vulnerable too.
That’s when I met Arjun. He was kind, patient, and unlike the men I had known before. He didn’t look at me the way others did. He didn’t stare at my body. Instead, he saw me — really saw me. It wasn’t just the way I looked that attracted him; it was everything about who I was. The way I thought, the way I cared for the world around me. He respected me. And when he asked me to marry him, I thought it was a dream come true. The wedding was simple and beautiful. I felt like the luckiest girl in the world. We were young and in love, and it felt like nothing could come between us.
But after we got married, things changed. Arjun’s work required him to move abroad, and though we promised to stay in touch, the distance between us started to feel heavier than I expected. I was alone. And though I had always been independent, I had never felt loneliness quite like this. It wasn’t just the distance from Arjun. It was the distance from everything I had known, from the family I had left behind, and from the person I thought I was. Now, as I sit here, reflecting on how much has changed, I wonder if I truly knew who I was when I got married. I thought I did — I thought I was the girl who was strong, independent, and confident. But the truth is, I still feel unsure. The woman I am in my marriage is not the same woman I was in college, and certainly not the same woman I was back home. But somewhere along the way, I began to realize that the world around me is changing. People see me differently now, and it’s hard to shake that feeling of being watched, of being wanted for the wrong reasons. I don’t know what it all means yet, but I do know one thing: I can’t hide from the world forever. And I don’t know how much longer I can run from who I’m becoming.
Chapter 2: "The First Call – A Voice Without a Face"
That night still haunts me. The way the phone's shrill ring shattered the silence still makes my hands tremble when I think about it. It was one of those oppressive Mumbai nights where the humidity clings to your skin like a second layer, thick and suffocating. The ceiling fan above me creaked with each labored rotation, barely stirring the heavy air. The dim red glow of my old HMT alarm clock burned into my retinas - 3:17 AM. That cursed time when the world feels suspended between yesterday and tomorrow, when phone calls are never good news.
The numbers glowed red in the darkness, burning themselves into my vision. I'd been drifting in that shallow space between sleep and waking when the ringing started—sharp, insistent, wrong. No one calls at this hour unless something terrible has happened.
My fingers fumbled for the receiver, knocking over a glass of water in my haste. The cold liquid seeped into the sheets as I pressed the phone to my ear. "Hello?" My voice sounded foreign to me, thick with sleep and something else—dread, though I didn't know it yet.
Static crackled. Then that voice.
"Swetha?"
It wasn't human. Not really. The words came through distorted, like someone speaking through a fan, the edges of each syllable shredded by some cheap voice changer. But beneath the artificial grating, I heard it—the smug satisfaction of someone who knew they had me cornered.
"I have something you don't want your husband to see."
The room tilted. My grip on the phone turned vise-tight, my wedding band biting into my finger. Some distant part of my brain noted the dampness of my nightgown clinging to my back, the way my heartbeat pounded in my temples.
"Who is this?" I demanded, but even as the words left my mouth, my mind was racing through every secret I'd ever kept.
The laugh that came through the line wasn't laughter at all—it was the sound of someone savoring my fear. "Remember your days at St. Agnes College? Those hostel parties? That trip to Goa?"
Goa.
The word hit me like a physical blow. Suddenly I was nineteen again, the salt-sting of ocean air on my lips, Rohan's hands warm on my waist as we stumbled drunk down Anjuna Beach. We'd been careful—hadn't we? The memories came in fragments: the sticky vinyl seats of the rented Scorpio, the clink of Kingfisher bottles, the way Rohan had whispered "No one will ever know" as his fingers fumbled with the clasp of my top.
"I have photos," the voice purred. "Very compromising ones."
My mouth went dry. "This is nonsense. I never—"
"Don't lie, bhabhiji." The mocking honorific slithered through the line. "I saw you. Everyone will see you if you don't listen."
The threat landed with perfect precision. Bhabhiji. Not just my name—my title, my role, the carefully constructed persona I'd built as Arjun's wife. They knew exactly where to strike.
I could see it all unfolding like a nightmare: my conservative in-laws in Pune, their faces crumpling in disgust. My mother-in-law's shrill "I always knew she was that type of girl!" The way Arjun would look at me—not with anger, but worse, with disappointment.
"What do you want?" The words tasted like ash.
"Five lakhs. In cash. Or your sasural gets a nice little show before Diwali."
The number hung in the air between us. Five lakhs—more than six months of my salary. More than the cost of my mangalsutra. Enough to ruin us.
"I don't have that kind of money—"
"Then find it." The voice turned razor-sharp. "Meet me at Chor Bazaar, near the scrap godowns. Midnight tomorrow. Come alone. No security officer, no husband, no drama." A pause. "Or your mangalsutra won't be the only thing that breaks."
The line went dead.
---
The Aftermath
I sat there for what felt like hours, the receiver still clutched in my hand, the dial tone buzzing like a trapped fly. Outside, the Mumbai night hummed on—a distant security officer siren, the occasional shout from the chawl across the street. Life continuing, oblivious to how mine had just shattered.
My eyes landed on our wedding photo. There I was, swathed in red Banarasi silk, my smile carefully curated to show just the right mix of modesty and joy. The perfect ***** bride. And beside me, Arjun—his face glowing with pride at the woman he thought he'd married.
A sob clawed its way up my throat. Who had those photos? Rohan? One of the girls from Hostel C? Or some faceless stranger who'd stumbled across them in the digital graveyard of my past?
I thought of the way my mother-in-law's nose wrinkled when I wore jeans. The way the aunties whispered when I mentioned my marketing job. "So modern," they'd say, the words dripping with judgment. If they saw those photos—
There would be no coming back.
As dawn painted the sky gray, I made my decision. I would go. I would pay. I would do whatever it took to keep this buried.
But even then, kneeling on the wet sheets with the phone cord wrapped around my wrist like a shackle, I knew the truth:
This wasn't about money.
This was about power.
And I had just handed mine over to a voice in the dark.
Chapter 3: "The Price of a Reputation"
The walls of our Andheri apartment seemed to breathe in time with my panic. I paced from bedroom to kitchen and back again, my bare feet sticking to the marble tiles where I'd spilled water earlier. The ceiling fan whirred uselessly above me, doing nothing to dispel the sweat soaking through my nightgown.
Five lakhs.
The number burned in my mind like a brand. Five lakhs—more than my entire six months' salary at the ad agency. More than the gold necklace my mother had gifted me at my wedding. Enough to make Arjun ask questions we couldn't afford.
I stopped at the kitchen counter, gripping the edge until my knuckles turned white. The stainless steel felt cool against my palms, a fleeting anchor in this storm. Through the window, the neon sign of the 24/7 medical store across the street blinked erratically, casting eerie red shadows on the walls. It read 11:37 PM.
Twenty-three minutes left.
My gaze fell on my phone lying face-down on the counter. I'd been avoiding looking at it since that second call an hour ago—the one where the voice had hissed, "Don't even think about involving your husband" before abruptly disconnecting. How did they know I'd been considering telling Arjun? Were they watching me right now?
I turned sharply toward the balcony, half-expecting to see a shadowy figure. Only the laundry fluttered ghost-like on the clothesline—my blue salwar kameez, Arjun's white office shirts. The mundane sight made my throat tighten. Would I ever fold his shirts again after tonight?
The jewelry box in our bedroom called to me. My streedhan—the gold bangles, the pearl set from my mother-in-law, the diamond nose pin Arjun had gifted me on our first anniversary. I'd already mentally calculated their worth this afternoon while pretending to organize them. Maybe three lakhs if the pawnbroker didn't cheat me too badly.
But two lakhs short.
My stomach churned as I remembered the other option—the one that made my skin crawl. Mohan Kaka. Arjun's uncle, the family moneylender who always looked at me a second too long, his eyes lingering on the dip of my neckline. Just last week at Ganesh Chaturthi, he'd joked about how I could "always come to him" if I needed anything. The way he'd said it, while pouring himself a third whiskey, had made me move my chair closer to Arjun's.
A car honked loudly outside, jolting me from the thought. The medical store's neon now read 11:49.
Eleven minutes.
I rushed to the bedroom and yanked open the wardrobe. The silk sarees Arjun loved me in mocked me with their vibrant colors—the emerald green Kanjeevaram he'd bought me in Chennai, the navy blue Banarasi with gold zari work. My fingers brushed against the hidden compartment at the back where I kept my private savings—forty thousand rupees scbangd together from household budgets and freelance design work.
Not enough. Never enough.
The doorbell rang.
I froze, my blood turning to ice. They weren't supposed to come here. The deal was Chor Bazaar. Midnight.
It rang again, longer this time, the sound drilling into my skull.
"Swetha? You home?"
Mrs. Iyer from 3B. My nosy neighbor who always needed sugar or gossip. I pressed my forehead against the cool wardrobe door, waiting for my heartbeat to slow.
"Swetha? Your balcony light is on, na? I just wanted to—"
"I'm sleeping, Aunty!" I called out, forcing my voice steady. "Not feeling well!"
A pause. Then, "Okay, beta. Take care."
Her footsteps receded. I exhaled shakily and checked my phone—11:55 PM.
Five minutes.
In the full-length mirror, I barely recognized the woman staring back at me. Dark circles under bloodshot eyes. Hair frizzing from nervous sweat. The mangalsutra around my neck felt heavier than usual, the black beads like a noose.
I reached for the black dupatta dbangd over the chair—the one I used for temple visits. As I wrapped it around my head like a hood, my hands brushed against the small photo frame on the dresser. Our wedding picture. Arjun's smiling face looked up at me, so full of trust.
What would he see when he looked at me tomorrow?
The clock struck midnight.
Somewhere in the maze of Chor Bazaar's scrap yards, a faceless monster waited with my ruin in their hands. And I had no choice but to walk into their trap.
I was raised with the belief that a woman’s body was something to be protected and covered, that modesty and respect were more important than anything else. This didn’t just come from my mother, but from everyone around me. It was an unspoken rule: Do not draw attention to yourself. So, when my body started to change, I didn’t know what to make of it.
I am 5'5", with curves that seem to draw attention whether I want them to or not. My chest, a comfortable D-cup, has always been one of the first things people notice about me. My waist, smaller than most of my peers, measures 26 inches, while my hips are fuller, with a 38-inch circumference. I’ve always had a soft, rounded shape that didn’t fit in with the tall, slim figures that everyone else seemed to admire. My legs are toned and long, and I suppose they’ve always been one of my more confident features, though I didn’t always feel comfortable with the attention they received.
As a young girl, I never knew what to do with all of this. My body felt like something I had to hide. I wore baggy clothes, tried to cover up what I considered to be imperfections, and kept my head down, hoping I could blend in. But the more I tried to hide, the more attention I seemed to get. Boys stared. Girls whispered.
When I moved to college, things began to change. For the first time, I was surrounded by people who weren’t bound by the same expectations I had grown up with. Women wore what they wanted, acted how they pleased, and carried themselves in a way that seemed so free — so different from what I had been taught. At first, it was a little overwhelming. I had no idea how to embrace my body the way they did.
But eventually, I started experimenting. I tried on clothes that hugged my figure, things I would never have dared wear before. It was like a whole new world opened up to me, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. On one hand, I felt liberated, confident in my skin. But on the other hand, I was still that girl from the small town, the one who was told to hide, to keep herself modest. One of the first times I truly felt like I was seen was when I wore a tight dress to a party. It was a deep red, form-fitting, and it clung to every curve. The moment I stepped into the room, I felt eyes on me. At first, I felt exposed, but then something shifted. The looks weren’t judgmental — they were admiring. The way people looked at me made me feel powerful, but also uneasy. I liked it, but it made me feel vulnerable too.
That’s when I met Arjun. He was kind, patient, and unlike the men I had known before. He didn’t look at me the way others did. He didn’t stare at my body. Instead, he saw me — really saw me. It wasn’t just the way I looked that attracted him; it was everything about who I was. The way I thought, the way I cared for the world around me. He respected me. And when he asked me to marry him, I thought it was a dream come true. The wedding was simple and beautiful. I felt like the luckiest girl in the world. We were young and in love, and it felt like nothing could come between us.
But after we got married, things changed. Arjun’s work required him to move abroad, and though we promised to stay in touch, the distance between us started to feel heavier than I expected. I was alone. And though I had always been independent, I had never felt loneliness quite like this. It wasn’t just the distance from Arjun. It was the distance from everything I had known, from the family I had left behind, and from the person I thought I was. Now, as I sit here, reflecting on how much has changed, I wonder if I truly knew who I was when I got married. I thought I did — I thought I was the girl who was strong, independent, and confident. But the truth is, I still feel unsure. The woman I am in my marriage is not the same woman I was in college, and certainly not the same woman I was back home. But somewhere along the way, I began to realize that the world around me is changing. People see me differently now, and it’s hard to shake that feeling of being watched, of being wanted for the wrong reasons. I don’t know what it all means yet, but I do know one thing: I can’t hide from the world forever. And I don’t know how much longer I can run from who I’m becoming.
Chapter 2: "The First Call – A Voice Without a Face"
That night still haunts me. The way the phone's shrill ring shattered the silence still makes my hands tremble when I think about it. It was one of those oppressive Mumbai nights where the humidity clings to your skin like a second layer, thick and suffocating. The ceiling fan above me creaked with each labored rotation, barely stirring the heavy air. The dim red glow of my old HMT alarm clock burned into my retinas - 3:17 AM. That cursed time when the world feels suspended between yesterday and tomorrow, when phone calls are never good news.
The numbers glowed red in the darkness, burning themselves into my vision. I'd been drifting in that shallow space between sleep and waking when the ringing started—sharp, insistent, wrong. No one calls at this hour unless something terrible has happened.
My fingers fumbled for the receiver, knocking over a glass of water in my haste. The cold liquid seeped into the sheets as I pressed the phone to my ear. "Hello?" My voice sounded foreign to me, thick with sleep and something else—dread, though I didn't know it yet.
Static crackled. Then that voice.
"Swetha?"
It wasn't human. Not really. The words came through distorted, like someone speaking through a fan, the edges of each syllable shredded by some cheap voice changer. But beneath the artificial grating, I heard it—the smug satisfaction of someone who knew they had me cornered.
"I have something you don't want your husband to see."
The room tilted. My grip on the phone turned vise-tight, my wedding band biting into my finger. Some distant part of my brain noted the dampness of my nightgown clinging to my back, the way my heartbeat pounded in my temples.
"Who is this?" I demanded, but even as the words left my mouth, my mind was racing through every secret I'd ever kept.
The laugh that came through the line wasn't laughter at all—it was the sound of someone savoring my fear. "Remember your days at St. Agnes College? Those hostel parties? That trip to Goa?"
Goa.
The word hit me like a physical blow. Suddenly I was nineteen again, the salt-sting of ocean air on my lips, Rohan's hands warm on my waist as we stumbled drunk down Anjuna Beach. We'd been careful—hadn't we? The memories came in fragments: the sticky vinyl seats of the rented Scorpio, the clink of Kingfisher bottles, the way Rohan had whispered "No one will ever know" as his fingers fumbled with the clasp of my top.
"I have photos," the voice purred. "Very compromising ones."
My mouth went dry. "This is nonsense. I never—"
"Don't lie, bhabhiji." The mocking honorific slithered through the line. "I saw you. Everyone will see you if you don't listen."
The threat landed with perfect precision. Bhabhiji. Not just my name—my title, my role, the carefully constructed persona I'd built as Arjun's wife. They knew exactly where to strike.
I could see it all unfolding like a nightmare: my conservative in-laws in Pune, their faces crumpling in disgust. My mother-in-law's shrill "I always knew she was that type of girl!" The way Arjun would look at me—not with anger, but worse, with disappointment.
"What do you want?" The words tasted like ash.
"Five lakhs. In cash. Or your sasural gets a nice little show before Diwali."
The number hung in the air between us. Five lakhs—more than six months of my salary. More than the cost of my mangalsutra. Enough to ruin us.
"I don't have that kind of money—"
"Then find it." The voice turned razor-sharp. "Meet me at Chor Bazaar, near the scrap godowns. Midnight tomorrow. Come alone. No security officer, no husband, no drama." A pause. "Or your mangalsutra won't be the only thing that breaks."
The line went dead.
---
The Aftermath
I sat there for what felt like hours, the receiver still clutched in my hand, the dial tone buzzing like a trapped fly. Outside, the Mumbai night hummed on—a distant security officer siren, the occasional shout from the chawl across the street. Life continuing, oblivious to how mine had just shattered.
My eyes landed on our wedding photo. There I was, swathed in red Banarasi silk, my smile carefully curated to show just the right mix of modesty and joy. The perfect ***** bride. And beside me, Arjun—his face glowing with pride at the woman he thought he'd married.
A sob clawed its way up my throat. Who had those photos? Rohan? One of the girls from Hostel C? Or some faceless stranger who'd stumbled across them in the digital graveyard of my past?
I thought of the way my mother-in-law's nose wrinkled when I wore jeans. The way the aunties whispered when I mentioned my marketing job. "So modern," they'd say, the words dripping with judgment. If they saw those photos—
There would be no coming back.
As dawn painted the sky gray, I made my decision. I would go. I would pay. I would do whatever it took to keep this buried.
But even then, kneeling on the wet sheets with the phone cord wrapped around my wrist like a shackle, I knew the truth:
This wasn't about money.
This was about power.
And I had just handed mine over to a voice in the dark.
Chapter 3: "The Price of a Reputation"
The walls of our Andheri apartment seemed to breathe in time with my panic. I paced from bedroom to kitchen and back again, my bare feet sticking to the marble tiles where I'd spilled water earlier. The ceiling fan whirred uselessly above me, doing nothing to dispel the sweat soaking through my nightgown.
Five lakhs.
The number burned in my mind like a brand. Five lakhs—more than my entire six months' salary at the ad agency. More than the gold necklace my mother had gifted me at my wedding. Enough to make Arjun ask questions we couldn't afford.
I stopped at the kitchen counter, gripping the edge until my knuckles turned white. The stainless steel felt cool against my palms, a fleeting anchor in this storm. Through the window, the neon sign of the 24/7 medical store across the street blinked erratically, casting eerie red shadows on the walls. It read 11:37 PM.
Twenty-three minutes left.
My gaze fell on my phone lying face-down on the counter. I'd been avoiding looking at it since that second call an hour ago—the one where the voice had hissed, "Don't even think about involving your husband" before abruptly disconnecting. How did they know I'd been considering telling Arjun? Were they watching me right now?
I turned sharply toward the balcony, half-expecting to see a shadowy figure. Only the laundry fluttered ghost-like on the clothesline—my blue salwar kameez, Arjun's white office shirts. The mundane sight made my throat tighten. Would I ever fold his shirts again after tonight?
The jewelry box in our bedroom called to me. My streedhan—the gold bangles, the pearl set from my mother-in-law, the diamond nose pin Arjun had gifted me on our first anniversary. I'd already mentally calculated their worth this afternoon while pretending to organize them. Maybe three lakhs if the pawnbroker didn't cheat me too badly.
But two lakhs short.
My stomach churned as I remembered the other option—the one that made my skin crawl. Mohan Kaka. Arjun's uncle, the family moneylender who always looked at me a second too long, his eyes lingering on the dip of my neckline. Just last week at Ganesh Chaturthi, he'd joked about how I could "always come to him" if I needed anything. The way he'd said it, while pouring himself a third whiskey, had made me move my chair closer to Arjun's.
A car honked loudly outside, jolting me from the thought. The medical store's neon now read 11:49.
Eleven minutes.
I rushed to the bedroom and yanked open the wardrobe. The silk sarees Arjun loved me in mocked me with their vibrant colors—the emerald green Kanjeevaram he'd bought me in Chennai, the navy blue Banarasi with gold zari work. My fingers brushed against the hidden compartment at the back where I kept my private savings—forty thousand rupees scbangd together from household budgets and freelance design work.
Not enough. Never enough.
The doorbell rang.
I froze, my blood turning to ice. They weren't supposed to come here. The deal was Chor Bazaar. Midnight.
It rang again, longer this time, the sound drilling into my skull.
"Swetha? You home?"
Mrs. Iyer from 3B. My nosy neighbor who always needed sugar or gossip. I pressed my forehead against the cool wardrobe door, waiting for my heartbeat to slow.
"Swetha? Your balcony light is on, na? I just wanted to—"
"I'm sleeping, Aunty!" I called out, forcing my voice steady. "Not feeling well!"
A pause. Then, "Okay, beta. Take care."
Her footsteps receded. I exhaled shakily and checked my phone—11:55 PM.
Five minutes.
In the full-length mirror, I barely recognized the woman staring back at me. Dark circles under bloodshot eyes. Hair frizzing from nervous sweat. The mangalsutra around my neck felt heavier than usual, the black beads like a noose.
I reached for the black dupatta dbangd over the chair—the one I used for temple visits. As I wrapped it around my head like a hood, my hands brushed against the small photo frame on the dresser. Our wedding picture. Arjun's smiling face looked up at me, so full of trust.
What would he see when he looked at me tomorrow?
The clock struck midnight.
Somewhere in the maze of Chor Bazaar's scrap yards, a faceless monster waited with my ruin in their hands. And I had no choice but to walk into their trap.
![[+]](https://xossipy.com/themes/sharepoint/collapse_collapsed.png)
