Chapter 6: The Plumber's Prying Eyes
The doorbell rang at half past ten.
Ruby was in the kitchen, still in her nightgown, still holding the black lace panties she hadn't been able to put down since she'd woken up. She'd stared at them for an hour. She'd pressed them to her face, breathing in nothing—they'd lost his scent, or maybe they'd never had it. She'd traced the note with her fingertip until the ink smeared.
Be careful.
She shoved the panties under a stack of napkins when the bell chimed again. Her heart was a fist in her chest. Anubhav? No. He had a key. Mr. Dixit? He was in the garden—she'd heard him coughing through the window an hour ago.
She walked to the door and opened it.
The man on the doorstep was not anyone she recognized. Wiry. Fifties, maybe older. Grey stubble, oil-stained fingers, a canvas bag slung over one shoulder. He smelled like tobacco and sweat and something metallic.
"Mrs. Dixit?" His voice was gravel and honey. "I'm Sharma. Your husband called about the tap."
Ruby blinked. Anubhav hadn't told her. Of course he hadn't.
"Right," she said. "The tap. Come in."
She stepped aside.
Mr. Sharma entered the way men like him always entered—slowly, deliberately, his eyes moving across the hallway, the photographs, the curve of the staircase. He wasn't looking at the house. He was looking at her.
Ruby felt it. That slow, syrupy drag of his gaze over her body. Her nightgown was thin. Cotton. Old. It clung to her hips and fell just above her knees, and she hadn't thought about it when she'd opened the door, but now she was acutely aware of every inch of fabric.
"The bathroom's upstairs," she said. "I'll show you."
She turned and walked. She didn't look back. She didn't need to. She could hear his footsteps behind her—heavy, measured, the soft grunt of a man carrying weight.
The stairs creaked. The house was silent.
"This is it," she said, pushing the bathroom door open. "The hot water tap. It just stopped working yesterday."
Mr. Sharma stepped past her into the small space. His shoulder brushed hers. He smelled like grease and cheap soap. He set his bag down and crouched by the sink, his knees cracking.
"Old pipes," he said. "Probably the valve. Give me a minute."
Ruby stood in the doorway. She should leave. She should go back downstairs and make tea and let him work. But something kept her there—a strange, electric curiosity. She watched the way his hands moved. The way his fingers probed the pipes with a kind of intimate knowledge.
"Can you hold this?" He handed her a flashlight without looking up.
She took it. Their fingers touched—brief, dry, calloused.
"Point it here."
She aimed the beam at the pipes beneath the sink. The light caught the brass fittings, the rusted joints, the slow drip of water that had been leaking for God knew how long.
Mr. Sharma reached for the valve.
"This might be stiff," he said. "Been a while since anyone turned it."
He twisted. The pipe groaned. He twisted harder.
And then—
The valve gave way.
Water exploded from the pipe. A thick, violent burst that sprayed across the small bathroom, hitting the mirror, the walls, the ceiling. And Ruby.
She gasped. The water was cold—ice cold—and it soaked through her nightgown in an instant. The thin cotton turned translucent, clinging to her skin like a second layer of flesh. Her nipples hardened against the fabric, visible, undeniable.
Mr. Sharma froze.
His hand was still on the valve. His body was still crouched. But his eyes—his eyes were fixed on her chest. On the outline of her breasts through the wet cloth. On the dark circles of her nipples.
The bathroom was silent except for the drip of water and the sound of his breathing. Heavy. Audible. Like he'd forgotten how to exhale.
Ruby's face burned. She crossed her arms over her chest—too late, useless—and took a step back.
"I'm sorry," she muttered. "I'll just—I need to change."
She turned and hurried out of the bathroom. Her feet slipped on the wet tiles. She caught herself on the doorframe and kept moving, down the hall, into her bedroom.
She didn't close the door.
She didn't know why. She told herself it was an accident. She told herself she was flustered, distracted, not thinking. But her hand touched the door and pushed it open wider, and she left it that way—a gap, a sliver of light, a silent invitation.
She heard him.
His footsteps in the hall. Slow. Hesitant. Then stopping.
She turned her back to the door.
She reached for the hem of her nightgown and pulled it over her head. The wet fabric peeled away from her skin with a soft, wet sound. Her hair fell loose around her shoulders. Her back was bare—the curve of her spine, the dip of her waist, the swell of her hips. Her skin was still damp, still glistening.
She knew he was there.
She could feel his gaze like a hand on her neck. Like fingers tracing the line of her shoulders. Like breath on her bare skin.
She didn't turn around.
She reached for a towel and pressed it to her hair. Slowly. Deliberately. She dried her arms, her shoulders, her stomach. She let him see the way her body moved. The way her breasts swayed when she lifted her arms. The way her thighs pressed together when she shifted her weight.
She took her time.
She reached for a dry blouse—a soft pink one, cotton, nothing special—and slipped it over her head. It settled against her skin like a whisper. She still didn't turn around.
She reached for a saree. A low-waisted one. Deep blue silk. She wrapped it around her hips, tucking the pleats with practiced ease. The fabric sat below her navel, leaving her midriff bare, leaving the dark line of hair visible, leaving the small gold ring in her belly button catching the light.
She still didn't turn around.
She heard him shift his weight in the doorway. Heard the soft creak of the floorboards. Heard the way his breath caught when she reached up to adjust the pallu over her shoulder.
She should say something. She should tell him to leave. She should pretend this wasn't happening.
She didn't.
She just stood there, her back to him, her body on display, and waited.
The silence stretched like a wire.
Then she heard him step back. One step. Then another. His footsteps retreated down the hall, slower than before, heavier.
The bathroom door clicked shut.
Ruby let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. Her knees were weak. Her hands were shaking. Her body was hot—too hot—and her skin prickled with something she didn't want to name.
She sat down on the edge of the bed.
The panties were still under the napkins in the kitchen. The note was still on her nightstand. Be careful.
She wasn't being careful.
She pressed her palm to her stomach and felt her own heartbeat. Fast. Hard. Alive.
Downstairs, the pipes groaned again. Water ran. Mr. Sharma was still working—still fixing the tap, still pretending he hadn't just watched her undress, still pretending he hadn't stood in her doorway like a man hypnotized.
Ruby lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.
She thought about Mr. Dixit. About the note. About the careful way he'd folded her panties and placed them on her pillow. He'd been sending her a message. A warning.
Be careful.
But Mr. Dixit wasn't the one she needed to be careful of.
She was.
---
Mr. Sharma left an hour later.
Ruby heard the front door open and close. She heard his truck start in the driveway—a low, rattling growl—and pull away. She stayed in her room. She didn't go downstairs. She didn't want to see the bathroom, the wet floor, the place where she'd stood and let a stranger look at her like she was something to be consumed.
But she couldn't hide forever.
She walked downstairs. The kitchen was exactly as she'd left it—the napkins, the panties, the cold tea. She picked up the panties and held them in her palm.
They were just fabric. Just lace. Just a thing.
But they felt like a confession.
She heard the garden gate creak. Mr. Dixit. He'd been outside all morning, pruning the roses, pretending he didn't know Mr. Sharma had come. Pretending he didn't know anything.
Ruby shoved the panties into her pocket.
She walked to the back door and opened it. The garden was bright and green, the roses heavy with blooms. Mr. Dixit was kneeling by the far bed, his back to her, his hands buried in the soil.
"Papa," she called.
He turned. His face was flushed from the sun, his eyes soft. "Beta. Is the tap fixed?"
She nodded. "It's fixed."
He stood slowly, brushing the dirt from his knees. "Good. That's good."
She walked toward him. The grass was cool beneath her bare feet. The sun was warm on her shoulders. And for a moment, just a moment, everything felt normal—like a daughter walking toward her father, like a family in a garden, like nothing had changed.
But his eyes flickered to her midriff. To the bare skin above her saree. To the gold ring in her navel.
And she saw it.
That same flicker. That same heat. That same hunger.
She stopped a few feet away.
"Papa," she said again. Quieter this time.
He waited.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out the panties. Black lace. Rumpled. The same ones he'd folded and left on her pillow.
She held them up.
"I found these," she said. "In my room."
His face didn't change. But his breath did. She saw it—the slight hitch, the pause, the way his chest rose and fell.
"Did you leave them there?" she asked.
He didn't answer.
She stepped closer. Close enough to smell the sandalwood on his skin, the soil on his hands. Close enough to see the pulse beating in his throat.
"I need to know," she said. "Did you leave them there?"
He looked at her for a long moment. His eyes were dark, unreadable. Then he reached out and took the panties from her hand. His fingers brushed hers—rough, warm, deliberate.
He folded them carefully. Neatly. The way he had before.
And then he pressed them back into her palm.
"Be careful, Ruby," he said.
His voice was soft. Gentle. But it wasn't a warning.
It was a promise.
He turned and walked back toward the house. Ruby stood in the garden, the panties clutched in her hand, the sun on her face, and felt something break open inside her.
She didn't know what came next.
She didn't know what she wanted.
But she knew she wasn't going to be careful.
She was done being careful.