30-11-2025, 05:11 PM
Scene 1
My name is Prithvi. I am 18 years old.
If you look at me, you see a quiet college student. You see a good son who takes care of his mother. But you do not see what I see. You do not know what happens in this house when the lights go out.
We live in Lonavala, in a big, old bungalow that smells of wet earth and damp wood. It is a lonely place. The garden is overgrown, full of wild ferns and dark trees. The mist comes down from the mountains and hides us from the world.
My mother is a delicate woman. She was once the most beautiful woman in our social circle, "charming" and full of life.
She spends her days in the big bedroom, like a flower that has not seen the sun. She loves me, but she treats me like a child. She does not know that I am a man now.
Because my mother avoids going out, the world comes to her. Her friends come to visit. They are rich "aunties" from Mumbai who wear too much and talk about boring things. They drink tea, complain about everything, and leave.
I serve them snacks. I stand in the corner.
But there is one who is different. Her name is Devika. She is my mother's oldest friend.
Devika Ma'am does not fit in. She is "eccentric". She does not follow the rules. While the other aunties wear loose, comfortable clothes, Devika Ma'am dresses in a way that makes men stop and stare.
She wears "fashions of ten years earlier", styles that are too bold for today. She wears blouses cut very low, so deep that if you stand close, you can see "the little valley" between her breasts, a dark line "vanishing inside the lace".
She is a "handsome woman". She colors her hair with streaks of blonde, so it is mix of black blonde brown streaks of color. Her skin is not just fair; it has a "fine down" over it, like a peach.
But it is her mouth that scares me. It is "very red, naturally so". Her lips are full and wide. When she smiles, she shows "small, even teeth". She always shows them, "as if she were about to bite into something".
When Devika Ma'am comes to our house, the air changes. Suddenly, the house smells of strong "sandalwood perfume".
She looks at me differently. She does not look at me like a son. She looks at me like she is hungry.
Then on a Sunday afternoon, My mother was hosting a tea party.
I was trapped. My mother insisted I stay to "help the guests," which meant carrying trays of samosas and listening to gossip about gold prices. I stood by the wall, trying to disappear.
Then, Devika Ma’am walked in.
She did not look like the others. The other women wore dull cottons. Devika wore a bright pink saree with a thick gold border. It was loud. It was dangerous.
She sat on the sofa, her legs crossed. Every time she laughed, her chest moved in a way that made me look down at my shoes. She caught me looking. She didn't look away. She smiled that wide, red smile.
"Prithvi," she called out. Her voice was deeper than the other women's, husky and commanding. "It is so hot today. Bring me some cold water. Ice water."
"Yes, Ma'am," I said.
I went to the kitchen. I was popping ice cubes from the tray when I heard the sound.
Chan-chan.
The sound of glass bangles.
I turned around. Devika Ma'am was standing in the kitchen doorway. She had followed me.
"I decided to come to you," she said softly.
She walked in. The kitchen suddenly felt very small. She leaned against the counter, blocking my way out. She was standing too close.
The smell hit me instantly. The kitchen usually smelled of turmeric and oil. Now, it was overpowered by her. It was that heavy "sandalwood perfume". It was thick and sweet, mixed with the faint, salty scent of her sweat from the heat.
I handed her the glass. My fingers were cold from the ice. Her hand was warm and plump. Her fingers brushed against mine. She didn't pull back. She let her fingers rest on my skin for a second too long.
She took a sip, her red lips leaving a stain on the glass. She looked me up and down, inspecting me like I was a piece of furniture she might want to buy.
"You have grown, Prithvi," she whispered.
Then, she put the glass down.
"My saree is slipping," she said casually.
Right there, in front of me, she lifted her arms to fix the pallu of her saree.
As she raised her elbows, the blouse pulled tight. I could see her shoulders. They were "soft and gleaming, like cushions". For a second, the heavy silk lifted, and I saw the bare skin of her waist creamy, fair, and "long-waisted".
She adjusted the pleats at her chest. She didn't turn away. She looked right at me while she did it, making sure I saw how "full-breasted" and "ample" she was.
"Is it straight?" she asked.
My throat was dry. "Yes," I croaked.
She laughed, a low sound in her throat. She picked up her water and walked back to the party, leaving me alone in the kitchen with the smell of sandalwood and the pounding of my own heart.
My name is Prithvi. I am 18 years old.
If you look at me, you see a quiet college student. You see a good son who takes care of his mother. But you do not see what I see. You do not know what happens in this house when the lights go out.
We live in Lonavala, in a big, old bungalow that smells of wet earth and damp wood. It is a lonely place. The garden is overgrown, full of wild ferns and dark trees. The mist comes down from the mountains and hides us from the world.
My mother is a delicate woman. She was once the most beautiful woman in our social circle, "charming" and full of life.
She spends her days in the big bedroom, like a flower that has not seen the sun. She loves me, but she treats me like a child. She does not know that I am a man now.
Because my mother avoids going out, the world comes to her. Her friends come to visit. They are rich "aunties" from Mumbai who wear too much and talk about boring things. They drink tea, complain about everything, and leave.
I serve them snacks. I stand in the corner.
But there is one who is different. Her name is Devika. She is my mother's oldest friend.
Devika Ma'am does not fit in. She is "eccentric". She does not follow the rules. While the other aunties wear loose, comfortable clothes, Devika Ma'am dresses in a way that makes men stop and stare.
She wears "fashions of ten years earlier", styles that are too bold for today. She wears blouses cut very low, so deep that if you stand close, you can see "the little valley" between her breasts, a dark line "vanishing inside the lace".
She is a "handsome woman". She colors her hair with streaks of blonde, so it is mix of black blonde brown streaks of color. Her skin is not just fair; it has a "fine down" over it, like a peach.
But it is her mouth that scares me. It is "very red, naturally so". Her lips are full and wide. When she smiles, she shows "small, even teeth". She always shows them, "as if she were about to bite into something".
When Devika Ma'am comes to our house, the air changes. Suddenly, the house smells of strong "sandalwood perfume".
She looks at me differently. She does not look at me like a son. She looks at me like she is hungry.
Then on a Sunday afternoon, My mother was hosting a tea party.
I was trapped. My mother insisted I stay to "help the guests," which meant carrying trays of samosas and listening to gossip about gold prices. I stood by the wall, trying to disappear.
Then, Devika Ma’am walked in.
She did not look like the others. The other women wore dull cottons. Devika wore a bright pink saree with a thick gold border. It was loud. It was dangerous.
She sat on the sofa, her legs crossed. Every time she laughed, her chest moved in a way that made me look down at my shoes. She caught me looking. She didn't look away. She smiled that wide, red smile.
"Prithvi," she called out. Her voice was deeper than the other women's, husky and commanding. "It is so hot today. Bring me some cold water. Ice water."
"Yes, Ma'am," I said.
I went to the kitchen. I was popping ice cubes from the tray when I heard the sound.
Chan-chan.
The sound of glass bangles.
I turned around. Devika Ma'am was standing in the kitchen doorway. She had followed me.
"I decided to come to you," she said softly.
She walked in. The kitchen suddenly felt very small. She leaned against the counter, blocking my way out. She was standing too close.
The smell hit me instantly. The kitchen usually smelled of turmeric and oil. Now, it was overpowered by her. It was that heavy "sandalwood perfume". It was thick and sweet, mixed with the faint, salty scent of her sweat from the heat.
I handed her the glass. My fingers were cold from the ice. Her hand was warm and plump. Her fingers brushed against mine. She didn't pull back. She let her fingers rest on my skin for a second too long.
She took a sip, her red lips leaving a stain on the glass. She looked me up and down, inspecting me like I was a piece of furniture she might want to buy.
"You have grown, Prithvi," she whispered.
Then, she put the glass down.
"My saree is slipping," she said casually.
Right there, in front of me, she lifted her arms to fix the pallu of her saree.
As she raised her elbows, the blouse pulled tight. I could see her shoulders. They were "soft and gleaming, like cushions". For a second, the heavy silk lifted, and I saw the bare skin of her waist creamy, fair, and "long-waisted".
She adjusted the pleats at her chest. She didn't turn away. She looked right at me while she did it, making sure I saw how "full-breasted" and "ample" she was.
"Is it straight?" she asked.
My throat was dry. "Yes," I croaked.
She laughed, a low sound in her throat. She picked up her water and walked back to the party, leaving me alone in the kitchen with the smell of sandalwood and the pounding of my own heart.
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