Some nights, pleasure felt holy.Some screams sounded like prayers.And Rekha had long decided that if there was a God,he could either bless her thighs or be damned by them.
It was Sunday.
The streets were quieter.
And the gossip grew louder in whispers, like a sermon from every window.
Women at temples clutched their mangalsutras harder when she passed.Men adjusted their lungis. Looked away.Or stared too long.
One aunty muttered under her breath, but loud enough:"రెండో పెళ్లి అంటే ఇది కాదు రా బాబు... ఇది ఆడదాని అవమానం."(This isn't a second marriage, babu... it's a disgrace to womanhood.)
Rekha didn't blink.
She turned, stared the woman dead in the eye, and said with a smile,"నీ మామగారు వన్నీ ఈ వేశ్య దగ్గరే పెట్టి వెళ్లాడు, అత్తగారు."(Your father-in-law left all his manhood with this whore, aunty.)
A sharp inhale.A slap of chappal on concrete.The crowd parted like a holy book cracking open.
Rekha walked through.Unbothered. Unapologetic.
She hadn't returned to 302A in three days.
The room smelled of stale incense and dried sweat.Like memory.Like warning.
The wall where Seema had once written "నన్ను నీ గుద్దతో కప్పేయ్" (Cover me with your ass) in lipstick was now faded.But it still made Rekha smile.
Ishan was already there. Shirtless. Eyes low.He looked… quiet.
"What is it?" she asked.
He held up a small folded paper.
A priest's pamphlet.From the temple down the road.
"Special discourse: Reclaiming the Morality of Indian Women. Today. 6 PM."
She read it twice.
Then tore it into pieces.
"Let's go."
6 PM.
The temple was lit with brass lamps and hypocrisy.
Plastic chairs. Loudspeakers.A microphone whining against the silence of fear.
Rekha arrived in a red saree — no blouse.Back bare.Hair loose.Sindoor smeared like blood.
Ishan wore black.Seema in a green salwar that clung to her like sin itself.
They didn't sit.
They stood at the back, visible.Electric.
The priest saw them.
Faltered.
Paused.
Then continued.Louder.
He spoke of "dharmam", "sthree maryada", "laajalu" (dignity).Of how "today's women have forgotten their place."Of "mothers like Sita" and "wives like Savitri."
Rekha walked forward.
No one stopped her.
Her footsteps echoed like thunder through the mic.
She reached the dais.
Took the mic from the priest's hand without a word.
Then faced the crowd.
"You say women have forgotten their place," she said in Telugu.
"మీకే తెలుసా మా స్థానం? నన్ను నా గదిలో ఎవరు అరచి అడుగుతారో తెలుసా? నా కళ్ళల్లో ఎవరు పోతిరేంటో తెలుసా? నా ఒడిలో ఎవరు పడి ఏడుస్తారో తెలుసా? మీ దేవుడు కాదు... నా తలపులో ఉన్న నాన్నగారు కూడా కాదు... నేను."
(Do you even know our place? Do you know who begs between my thighs? Who drowns in my eyes? Who cries into my lap? Not your God. Not even my father. Me.)
Gasps.
A murmur.
Someone shouted:"వెళ్ళిపో! దేవాలయం కాదు ఇది నీ పడకగది కాదు!"(Leave! This isn't your bedroom, it's a temple!)
Rekha turned, eyes blazing.
"Exactly. And both places are where men come with their pants half undone."
She dropped the mic.Turned.Walked out.
Seema and Ishan followed.
Outside, someone spat near her feet.
She didn't dodge it.
Just smiled.
"God's already inside me," she whispered. "And He's screaming for more."
That night, she didn't go to 302A.
She made Ishan and Seema fuck her in front of the temple.Hidden behind the neem tree.Late. Silent.But wild.
Rekha rode Ishan while Seema sucked her breast.
All while the priest's voice echoed from inside:
"Shuddhi ka samay hai… vishuddhi ka samay hai…"(This is the time for cleansing… purification...)
Rekha moaned:
"శుద్ధి? నా గుద్ద శుద్ధి చెయ్యాలి... నా యోని ఎప్పటికీ పవిత్రమే."(Purification? Clean my ass then. My pussy has always been sacred.)
She came.Trembling.On holy ground.
Later, she left a note at the temple gate.
Written in red lipstick on torn temple paper.
"నా గదిలో దేవుడే పడుకున్నాడు. మిగతా మర్దులు అతని అడుగు దాటలేరు."(God slept in my bed. Every other man just licks where He lay.)
The next morning, her door was vandalized again.
DAAYAN. VESYA. BEWARE.
She didn't clean it.
She wrote underneath it in thick black ink:
"ఎవరైనా వచ్చారా నన్ను ఆగమని? గడియారం మోగించడానికి నేను దేవాలయం కాదు. నా అసత్యం అంటే మీ సత్యానికి క్షమించలేను."(Did anyone ever ask me to stop? I'm not a temple to ring a bell. If my untruth offends your truth, I won't apologize.)
Ishan read it aloud.
Seema kissed her shoulder.
Rekha stood before the mirror.
Naked.
Covered in bite marks.
Eyes unrepentant.
Voice soft.
"Let them talk. My moans echo louder than their prayers."