Some names become legends.Some names become warnings.Rekha's name became a curse.Spat, whispered, carved into doors and phone screens like it could stain someone else's purity.
They said it with venom.But they said it often.Because obsession always starts with disapproval.
She first saw it outside the temple.
Chalk on the ground.Four words in jagged Telugu, written like an accusation:
"రేఖా... వేశ్య అని బతుకుతోంది."(Rekha… is living like a whore.)
She laughed.
Loud. Sharp. Wild.
People turned.
She lit a cigarette right there in front of God.
Took a long drag.Exhaled over the word.
Watched it blur and fade beneath her heel.
She didn't flinch.
Back at 302A, Seema was waiting.
Wearing only a cotton saree, draped without a blouse — nipples hard beneath the fabric, eyes dark.
"You saw it?" she asked.
"Everyone saw it," Rekha replied.
"But only I came."
Rekha grabbed her by the hair.Kissed her like a slap.Dragged her to the floor and ate her out with rage in her mouth — like Seema's body was the only justice that mattered.
When Seema came, she screamed Rekha's name like a mantra.Not Rekha.Not friend.
But goddess.
Ishan returned later that night.
Drunk.
Eyes bloodshot. Beard rough.
He slammed the door.
"You let people talk."
She stared.
"You let them watch. You liked it."
Rekha stood slowly.
"No, I showed them. There's a difference."
He grabbed her wrist. "You're mine."
She laughed in his face.
"I was never yours. You were just the first man who listened when I moaned."
He growled.
She slapped him.
"Don't raise your hand unless you're ready to use it properly."
Then she unzipped his jeans.Dropped to her knees.
Blew him angrily.
Eyes locked. No mercy.Deep throat. Spit. Nails in his thighs.
He came with a grunt and collapsed back.
She stood. Wiped her mouth.
"Now fuck off or fuck me properly."
He stood.
Threw her against the wall.
Lifted her.
Fucked her mid-air, her back hitting concrete with every thrust.
She wrapped her legs tight and whispered in his ear:
"వెళ్ళిపోరా బాబు… గుడికి కాదు… నా లోపలికే రావాలంటే."(Don't go to the temple, babu… come inside me instead.)
He did.
Explosively.
Later, the three of them lay naked on the floor — Seema between Rekha's legs, Ishan spooning her from behind.
Sweat. Silence. A broken glass near the fan.
They said nothing for hours.
Because peace comes after fire.And they were all ash.
But peace never lasts.
Next morning, someone spat on her door.
Right on the nameplate: "Mrs. R. Srinivas."
Only the "Mrs." was left clean.
She opened the door in her robe.
Saw the woman fleeing — white flowers in her braid, fake piety in her walk.
Rekha screamed after her:
"నీ అమ్మ గుద్ద మల్లు అంత పెద్దదా! నన్ను ఎక్కడైనా కనిపెట్టినా, నాలాంటి వేశ్య నీ పెళ్ళాని కుడా తినేస్తుంది!"(Your mother's ass must be huge to shit out a daughter this stupid! The kind of whore I am — I'll eat your husband too if I feel like it!)
Windows slammed shut.
But whispers poured through walls like gas leaks.
Seema started receiving texts.
"You're her puppet.""You'll go to hell too.""Both of you are filth."
She showed them to Rekha.
"Does this scare you?"
Rekha smirked.
"No. It arouses me."
So they filmed it.
A sex tape.
Not for porn.
For proof.
Of pleasure.
Of defiance.
Of power.
Rekha sat on the edge of the bed, legs spread, rubbing herself while Seema kissed her neck and Ishan licked between her thighs.
She moaned:
"నా పేరే విందుగా పెట్టుకోండి... ముసలాళ్ళ మర్మముల మీద రేఖా రాసుకుంటుంది."(Make my name your dinner... Rekha writes her name across old men's secrets.)
The video leaked.
They never found out who did it.
But within a day, she was infamous.
Group chats exploded.
"Is this real?"
"That's Rekha aunty from 1BHK!"
"Who's the girl?"
"I heard she's the one corrupting all of them."
Memes. Blurs. Anonymous blog posts.
By evening, someone taped a new note to her door:
"DAAYAN."(Witch.)
Rekha lit incense.
Burned the note.
Fucked Ishan on the balcony in full view of the street.
Her name was now a story.
A warning. A wet dream. A headline.
And she wore it like sindoor.
By week's end, her mother showed up.
Tears. Sari. Sandals.
"Enduku ila chesav amma?"(Why did you do this, child?)
Rekha offered her tea.
The old woman didn't sit.
"I came from Guntur to ask you face-to-face — are you a whore now?"
Rekha sipped her tea.
"No, Amma. I'm finally not a liar."
Her mother slapped her.
Once. Hard.
Rekha stood still.
Then leaned in and whispered:
"You spent your whole life on your knees in silence. I just made a choice to scream while doing it."
Her mother left crying.
Rekha didn't cry.
That night, they christened 302A again.
But not with sex.
With rage.
Rekha painted the walls.
Telugu cuss words.
Moans.
Lover's names.
Poems about nipples and thighs and betrayal and kissing someone until your mouth forgets how to lie.
The walls wept paint.
So did she.
Her name was no longer a name.
It was a trigger.
A chant.
A revolution whispered behind backs and moaned into pillows.
Rekha.
She wasn't reclaiming herself.
She was rewriting the rules — in her moans, her scent, her screams, and every curse they threw at her.