Repulsion

Aditi Deodhar had once been the kind of girl who filled a home with laughter. Growing up in Nashik, she had loving, attentive parents who believed she was capable of anything, and an elder brother, Aseem, who treated her like a fragile treasure he had sworn to protect. Their evenings were full of small joys... her mother’s experiments in the kitchen, her father’s habit of humming old Kishore Kumar songs, and Aseem’s dramatic commentary of imagined cricket matches that made everyone laugh. Aditi had been cheerful, bright, and full of life. She had been happy kid. Until one day, when something happened that changed her forever. She never spoke about it, never allowed the memory to surface, never let anyone know how deeply it had carved itself into her mind. She simply folded the pain into silence and carried it with her into adulthood. Others thought she had suddenly matured and praised her for that… but she knew what had changed.

Now, at twenty‑seven, living alone in a one‑bedroom flat in Kharadi, Pune, she had built a routine that kept her world predictable. Her workplace was barely three minutes away on her Activa, a short ride past the dimly lit tea stall, the 24 hours open medical store in their apartment complex, and the row of apartment complexes that looked identical in the dark. Every night, after her call‑center shift ended at 1 a.m., she put on her earphones, listened to Arijit Singh, Shreya Ghoshal’s latest film soundtracks and rode home. The music helped her decompress from the relentless calls, the scripted apologies, the angry customers. It was her nightly ritual, a small bubble of comfort between work and home.

On her way out, she met Rhea in the office lobby near the coffee dispenser. Rhea was a fresher, five years younger to her and always talking about her boyfriend or her plans to move to Mumbai. For her Pune was a "village" just like her hometown Kolhapur and Mumbai was the place to be. She was stirring sugar into her coffee when she called Aditi.

“Aditi, you should come with us tomorrow,” she said, adjusting her pink backpack. “We’re going to Koregaon Park. There’s this new café with amazing cheesecakes.”

Aditi smiled politely. “Maybe. I’ll see.”

“You always say that,” Rhea teased. “One day you’ll actually show up.”

“Maybe tomorrow will be that day.”

Rhea laughed, nudged her playfully, and headed toward the elevator. Aditi finished her coffee, put on her earphones, and walked toward the parking lot.

The weather was oddly warm for September. This time of the year, Pune usually cooled down after sunset, but that night the air felt heavy, as if the monsoon had forgotten to leave. She rode slowly, humming along to the music, her ponytail swaying gently behind her. As usual, the streets were mostly empty except for a stray dog wandering near the tea stall and a couple of delivery boys on bikes.

She parked her Activa in the common parking near the entrance of her building and removed her helmet. She was about to walk towards her building when she noticed a man standing near the 24x7 medical store, smoking. People stood around all the time at night. But she made a mental note of him.

She walked past him, her steps steady, her mind already drifting toward the leftover dal she planned to heat up. She was halfway down the lane leading to her building when she thought she heard footsteps behind her. Quick, deliberate. She took off her ear buds and turned slightly, just enough to see the same man walking faster towards her, closing the distance between them.

Her heartbeat quickened.

She walked faster.

The man did too.

Her breath caught in her throat. She thought she was unable to breathe. Something inside her stirred… something that had been buried for thirteen years. A memory she had locked away. A moment she had never allowed herself to revisit. She felt the familiar tightening in her chest, the same sensation she had felt at fourteen, when she had been walking home from school and a man had grabbed her wrist near the old banyan tree. The roughness of his hand, the suddenness of the moment, the way her school uniform had felt too thin, too flimsy to protect her. The stubble on his dark unshaven face pricked her face. The fusty smell of sweat and cheap liquor. The sound of her own heartbeat was so loud, it seemed to drown out everything else. The helplessness. The silence afterward.

She shook her head, struggling to stay present.

But the footsteps behind her were too close now.

She tightened her grip on her bag strap.

She was only thirty meters away from her building. She could see the security cabin, the faint glow of the guard’s mobile phone screen. She took a step forward.

The man grabbed her arm.

Her world tilted.

She gasped, stumbling, her laptop bag slipping off her shoulder. The man’s grip was firm, his fingers digging into her skin. She felt her pulse hammering against his palm. The street seemed to shrink, the shadows closing in around her.

“सोड ... सोड मला,” she said, her voice trembling.

He didn’t.

She tried to pull away, but he yanked her closer. She could smell the smoke on his clothes, the nauseating smell of alcohol, the sweat on his skin. Her mind flashed again … fourteen, the banyan tree, the stubble, the fear, the helplessness. She felt her throat tighten, her vision blur.

“Please,” she said, louder this time. “मला जाऊ द्या.”

He said something, she couldn’t hear it clearly, her ears were ringing but his tone was threatening. A low growl, meant to intimidate. She felt her knees weaken.

She saw the security guard looking up.

“ए!” he shouted, standing abruptly. “कौन है? क्या हो रहा है?”

The man froze. He released her instantly, stepping back. For a moment, Aditi thought he might run, but he simply glared at her, moistened his lips with his tongue, muttered something under his breath, and walked away quickly, disappearing into the darkness.

She stood frozen, her breath shallow, her hands trembling uncontrollably.

The guard rushed toward her. “मॅडम, आप ठीक हो? कौन था वो? किसीको बुलाए क्या?

She shook her head, unable to speak or breathe. Her throat felt constricted, as if someone had wrapped a rope around it. She bent down to pick up her bag, but her fingers wouldn’t stop shaking.

“मॅडम, बैठीए,” the guard said gently. “डरिए नहीं हम है यहाँ.”

Shock. Yes. That was the word. The world felt distant, muffled, as if she were underwater.

The man was nowhere to be seen. She walked to her apartment slowly, her legs heavy. The security guard walked her to her flat. Once inside, she locked the door twice, then a third time. She leaned against it, sliding down until she was sitting on the floor with her back to the door. Her breath came in short bursts. She pressed her palms against her eyes, trying to stop the memories.

She suddenly realised that she was sitting at her door. Scared, she stood up and went to her bedroom, locked the door and pulled the blanket over her.

That night, she didn’t sleep.

The next morning, she called in sick. Her manager sounded concerned.

“Off course Aditi. This is your first leave in the year. Are you sure you’re okay? Should I ask someone from your team to be there?”

“I just need rest,” she said.

But rest didn’t come.

Suddenly the horror of that day fourteen years ago came as a deluge encompassing every corner of her mind. The small apartment felt different now. Smaller. Darker. The corners seemed deeper, the shadows thicker. She kept the curtains closed, afraid of what she might see outside. Every sound made her flinch, the elevator ding, the neighbor’s footsteps, the distant honk of traffic.

Rhea called her. Aditi didn’t answer.

Rhea tried again in the afternoon.

Still no reply.

By evening, Rhea grew worried and came to visit. She rang the doorbell.

Aditi froze. Who was at the door? Was it him?

The sound felt sharp, threatening, like an alarm. Her breath quickened. She backed away from the door, her eyes wide.

The bell rang again.

“Aditi? It’s me, Rhea! Are you okay?”

Who was Rhea? Aditi didn’t move.

Her phone buzzed. Rhea calling.

Aditi stared at the screen, her hands trembling.

“They found me,” she whispered. “They’re trying to get me.”

She didn’t open the door.

Rhea stood outside for several minutes, calling her name, pleading, knocking softly. But Aditi remained silent, curled up in the corner of her living room, convinced danger was waiting on the other side. She was hungry. She hadn’t eaten since last evening, but what if the man comes dressed as the Zomato guy?

Days passed. She tried working from home but her deliverables were inconsistent. She stopped answering calls. She stopped opening the door even for deliveries. The security guard knocked once, asking if she was okay, but she didn’t respond. She sat silently on the floor, listening to the whispers.

Her world shrank to the size of her apartment.

The hallucinations grew stronger.

In the evenings she saw shadows moving across the walls, even when the lights were off. She heard footsteps around her, inside the living room, slow and deliberate. She sensed someone standing very close to her, behind her when she washed her face. She was too terrified to raise her face and look in the mirror, but when she looked up, the mirror showed only her own reflection gone blue with fear.

Her mind was unravelling.

One evening, she sat on the sofa, staring at the closed balcony door. The sky outside was orange, fading into pink. She used to love sunsets. Now they felt threatening, as if the colors were warning her of something she couldn’t understand. Of the impending darkness.

She heard a whisper behind her.

“Aditi…”

She didn’t turn.

She couldn’t.

Her breath trembled.

The whisper came again, closer. She felt a warm breath on the back of her neck.

“Aditi…”

She squeezed her eyes shut, tears slipping down her cheeks. “Please,” she whispered. “Please stop.”

But the whispers didn’t stop.

They multiplied.

Soft, overlapping, unintelligible voices filled the room. She pressed her hands against her ears, but the voices seeped through her fingers, through her skin, through her mind.

She felt herself slipping.

Her thoughts tangled, twisted, dissolved.

She wasn’t sure what was real anymore.

The apartment seemed to pulse, the walls breathing in and out. Shadows stretched and curled like living things. The air felt thick and suffocating. It had been five days since she had had a meal. She fleeted in and out of consciousness. She tried to stand but her legs wouldn’t cooperate. She sank to the floor, her back against the sofa, her eyes wide and unfocused.

The whispers grew louder.

The figures moved closer.

Her heartbeat slowed.

Her breath became shallow.

Her mind fractured.

And the silence, once her refuge, became her prison.

The next afternoon, she heard the doorbell again. A man’s voice calling her name. She froze, terrified. The voice sounded urgent, insistent, threatening.

“आदिती!... आदिती, दार उघड!”

She backed away, trembling.

Then she heard movement on the balcony. With horror she looked at the closed balcony door.

A shadow.

A figure climbing onto her balcony from the neighbouring flat.

Her breath stopped.

The man stepped onto her balcony and called her name again.

“Aditi!”

She whimpered and froze with fear pressing herself against the wall.

The man broke the French door glass with his elbow, unlocked the door and stepped inside.

She screamed and kept screaming uncontrollably.

He approached her slowly, gently, and placed a hand on her shoulder.

“आदिती ... अगं मी आहे  ... असीम.”

She blinked through her tears.

Her brother.

Aseem.

She stared at him, her breath trembling, her mind struggling to understand. Slowly, her body relaxed. Her shoulders dropped. Her heartbeat steadied. She let out a sob and collapsed into his arms crying uncontrollably.

He held her tightly, whispering, “आदिती. अगं मी आलोय ना आता. मी सगळं ठीक करीन. घाबरू नकोस… मी आहे ना इथे..”

She clung to him, shaking.

After several minutes, when her breathing finally calmed, he held her hands and spoke softly.

“अदिती... तुझ्या ऑफिसकडे emergency contact म्हणून माझा नंबर होता. जेव्हा तू आठवडाभर कामावर गेली नाहीस, तेव्हा त्यांनी मला फोन केला…”

She closed her eyes, tears slipping down her cheeks.

He held her tighter.

And for the first time in days, she felt something other than fear.

She felt home.