Lust Compund

The compound smelled like warm paint, stale rain, and women’s detergent.

Four flats, all crammed around a weed-choked courtyard with a half-dead lemon tree in the center. A clothesline sagged between two balconies, cluttered with drying bras and pale yellow towels. It looked more like an old family’s leftover home than staff quarters for Raghava Rao Memorial College. But the rent was cheap. And more importantly — the staff didn’t know I wasn’t one of them.

“Flat number two,” the watchman muttered, waving lazily. “Your landlady’s already inside. Rekha Madam. Principal.”

Principal. Of course she was.

I adjusted my bag, ran a hand through my hair, and walked past a rusty bicycle leaning against the wall. I could already feel the humidity creeping through my shirt — Andhra in July was no joke — but I didn’t break my pace. If there’s one thing I’ve learned: walk like you belong, and most people won’t ask questions.

Flat two’s door was open. A woman stood in the narrow hallway, arms crossed, wearing a faded blue cotton saree and rimless glasses that did nothing to soften the steel in her face.

She didn’t look up immediately — just continued reading a file in her hand. I waited. She turned one page, and then another. Finally, her eyes flicked up, sharp as a slap.

“You’re early.”

I smiled. “I’m always early, Madam.”

Her gaze traveled from my shoes to my face, pausing briefly at the crease of my collar.

“Which department?”

“Literature,” I lied. “M.A. — I’m assisting Dr. Ramesh Babu for internal review papers.”

She didn’t blink. “Dr. Ramesh retired last year.”

I smiled wider. “He still consults. Quietly. You know how it is with old professors.”

A pause. Not long. Just enough to let me know she didn’t believe me — but also didn’t care enough to start a fight. She stepped aside.

“Room’s yours. Shared bathroom. Water timings are written above the sink. No loud music. No girls.”

My grin stayed fixed. “Of course, Madam.”

“I’m not your madam,” she snapped. “Call me Principal. Or Rekha Devi. Not both.”

She turned and disappeared into her flat, the door closing behind her like a verdict.

---

The room was tiny. One cot, one desk, one flickering fan. But the window faced the courtyard — and I already knew that mattered more than anything else.

I dropped my bag, stripped off my sweat-drenched shirt, and stood by the glass. The courtyard buzzed with the laziness of an old Sunday. A woman was hanging clothes outside Flat 4. Toned arms. Grey T-shirt. Skin tight track pants.

That had to be Deepa — the Physical Education lecturer. She moved with that careless confidence women only get after leaving bad marriages. Her hair was tied high in a loose bun, and she was humming something as she clipped her underwear to the line. She didn’t look up. She didn’t need to. She knew eyes were on her.

I leaned back.

Flat 3’s balcony door opened. A woman stepped out to check the drying saris. Slightly frizzy hair. Cotton kurti buttoned to the throat. She looked around nervously before hanging a towel and darting back inside.

That had to be Meena — psychology assistant professor. I’d heard of her. Shy, awkward, and always second-guessing herself. The type that says “sorry” when you bump into her.

Easy target. I didn’t smile at that. I don’t smile at broken things.

---

Ten minutes later, as I was pretending to read a newspaper on the front steps, she passed by again. Meena. Carrying a basket of detergent and a plastic bucket.

She glanced at me and instantly looked away — but not before I saw the flicker. That half-second glance too long. The throat swallow. The awareness.

Hooked.

“Need help with the bucket?” I asked, gently.

She jumped. “No! No no. It’s fine. I do it every week. I mean, I live here. You must be…?”

I extended a hand. “Arun. Literature assistant. M.A.”

“Oh. That’s…nice. I’m Meena.”

She blushed when I didn’t let go of her hand immediately.

“That’s a lovely name,” I said softly.

Her blush deepened. “Th-thank you. Um, welcome to the compound. Everyone’s…nice here. Mostly.”

“Mostly?”

She smiled awkwardly, then looked toward Flat 1.

I followed her eyes.

An older woman sat in a plastic chair by her door, sipping coffee. Her white hair was oiled and tight in a bun, her eyes sharp behind round glasses. She looked like the ghost of every moral science teacher I’d ever had.

She was staring directly at me.

“Mrs. Lakshmi,” Meena whispered. “Retired teacher. Ignore her. She…notices things.”

The old woman raised her cup. Not a wave. Just a silent, measured motion. Like a chess move.

---

That night, I couldn’t sleep.

Not because of the heat. Or the fan. Or the occasional dog fight in the alley.

It was the sound.

A wet, rhythmic sound.

Water? No.

Breath? No.

Moaning.

Soft, shaky, half-suppressed — and just clear enough to slip through the crack in my window.

I rose silently.

Pressed my ear against the mosquito mesh.

Someone — a woman — was trying very hard not to make noise. Her voice was low, strained, not theatrical. Real.

It was coming from the flat to my right. Flat 1. Rekha’s.

No. Wait.

Not her.

Flat 2. Sravani. The widow.

My breath slowed.

I didn’t move for ten minutes.

The moaning stopped.

Then: a short sharp sound — like something clattering into a bucket.

Then silence.

I stood there for another full minute. Then sat back on my bed. My hand moved down.

I didn’t touch myself.

Not yet.

---

End of Chapter 1.