Namita's Puppet
Namita Thakur was a petite storm of mischief. At 5'2" with smooth, dusky Maharashtrian skin and dangerous curves, the Mumbai post-grad doing her master's knew exactly how to weaponize her innocent smile. She leaned against the library desk in the quiet corner of Mumbai University, her short, curvaceous frame barely reaching the senior’s shoulder. Her smooth, dusky skin that glowed under the fluorescent lights, and she looked up at me with big, innocent eyes. I was in my second year of PhD. “I’m going to fail this semester if you don’t help me. Please? I’ll do anything.” Her husky voice dripped with fake helplessness while her eyes sparkled with wicked intent. The professor is so strict, and you’re the best in the department. Please… just help me once?” She bit her lower lip, twirling a strand of her dark hair. I cleared my throat, trying to stay professional. “Namita, I’m swamped with my own thesis. You should do it yourself.” But Namita didn’t back down. Over the next few...