Back at the handpump, the mood lifted further, almost giddy. Our own finery was ruined in patches now—my sherwani front streaked brown, Pawan’s sleeve soiled, Himashu’s hem darkened. “No point staying half-dirty,” Himashu shrugged with a grin, fingers already at his buttons. We stripped without hesitation, the way we had countless times in hostel bathrooms or after muddy cricket matches—sherwanis peeled off, churidars dropped, everything piled on a dry concrete bench beneath the bulb. The cool night air kissed bare skin instantly, raising goosebumps along arms and chests, the faint breeze teasing sensitive places. We kept only our long safas, wrapping the silk cloth around our waists like makeshift loincloths—village-boy style for river baths—knotting them securely but loosely. Laughing softly, we pumped fresh water and began scrubbing ourselves clean with rough, invigorating strokes, cold streams running down backs and legs, washing away the grime.
Then the playfulness erupted fully. Himashu seized a full bucket and, with a wicked shout—“Remember hostel freshers’ ragging, bro?”—dumped it over my head. The icy shock stole my breath; water cascaded down my face, chest, stomach, soaking the safa and everything beneath. I roared with laughter and lunged after him, chasing him in circles around the pump while Pawan, grinning, upended another bucket over both of us. We wrestled and splashed like children again—slipping on the wet concrete, shoving, pouring, bodies sliding against each other in the dim light, muscles flexing, breath coming fast and loud. Water flew in glittering arcs under the weak bulb, our skin gleaming, laughter echoing across the empty campus. Ten, fifteen minutes dissolved in pure, carefree joy—three young men, nearly naked, lost in the rush of nostalgia and physical freedom.
Then—a sharp, terrified scream sliced through the night from the classroom.
We froze mid-splash. “Mummy!” I shouted. Buckets clattered to the ground; we sprinted barefoot across the wet playground, safas plastered clinging to our hips. Bursting through the classroom door, we fumbled for phones—three bright flashlight beams stabbing into the darkness. “Kya hua? Mummy, are you okay?” Our voices overlapped in raw panic.
She was pressed into the far corner against the wall, one hand clutched over her racing heart, the other pointing shakily at the floor. “Woh… snake!” she whispered, voice trembling with genuine fear.
The beams followed her finger—and landed on a thick, coiled rope, probably for the flagpole, lying innocently in the shadows. Relief crashed over us like cold water all over again. Deep belly laughs erupted, bouncing off the bare walls. “Rope hai, Aunty! Bilkul snake nahi!” Pawan gasped between guffaws. Mummy’s terror melted into embarrassed, breathless chuckles. “Idiot boys… you scared me half to death,” she managed, hand still over her heart.
Then the flashlight beams swung back to her—and time itself seemed to stop.
Mummy stood there in the corner, completely nude, her skin glistening under the erratic light as droplets traced lazy paths down her body. The ruined saree and petticoat lay discarded in a sodden pile, forgotten. She was a vision of forbidden perfection: full breasts heaving with each quick breath, dark nipples erect and begging for attention; the gentle curve of her waist flaring into wide, fertile hips; the neat dark triangle of curls above smooth thighs that parted slightly as she shifted. At 42, her body was a masterpiece—toned from years of disciplined life, yet soft and inviting in all the places that drove men wild. She tried to cover herself at first—one arm across her breasts, the other hand low over her mound—but the gesture was half-hearted, her fingers trembling, her eyes darting between us with a mix of shock, fear, and something deeper… curiosity.