My mother and the landlord (Slow burn, long read)

[saka1981]

I’m waiting to see what story his mother is going to tell him.

[masti.bhai]

Don't remove those traditional dresses, it will completely ruin the story

Agree

[Minki]

It's a shirt. Not a salwar the man is wearing. You should also put a skull cap. Also he should look serious.

normal pic ha bhai topi no need

[Minki]

normal pic ha bhai topi no need

in baato se hi story band ho jayegi please story ko jinda rahne de

[Leo Arya]

Waiting for the next part bro..

[Authorsunny]

I totally appreciate it brother. And your comments are what keeps me determined to keep coming back here and write more.

Definitely, I note each and every suggestion of my readers. Not necessarily I will accept all, but I take cues from it and would definitely try to incorporate the ones which are in line with the story.

Thanks again!

[23456z]

Deleted

[Authorsunny]

Chapter 17 - Part 9

24 November 2025 – Monday night

The twenty minutes she had written passed. Then another ten. The fairy lights along the grill continued their slow, steady blink. The cracker packets remained neatly arranged near the door exactly as I had left them. Outside, the lane had grown louder; longer strings of bombs were being lit, and the smell of smoke drifted up even through the closed window.

At 9:31 I unlocked the phone and called her.

It rang. Four times. Six. Eight. Then the automated voice told me the subscriber was not answering. I cut the call and stared at the screen. The last message still sat there: *Starting back. 20 minutes.* No new text. No explanation.

I waited another seven minutes and called again. This time it rang only three times before going to the same recorded message. I did not leave a voice note. I put the phone down on the mattress and walked once around the small room, from the temple corner to the kitchen and back. The green-cloth box of dates was still on the table. Everything looked ordinary and waiting.

By 10:05 the noise outside had thickened into the usual peak of celebration night. I stood at the window and watched a group of boys from the next building light a large anaar near the compound wall. The colours rose high enough to reflect briefly on our ceiling. I thought of the long lari still coiled on the folding table and the promise she had made in the market — *tonight we will burst crackers together, promise*. The promise already felt thin.

I called a third time at 10:22. It did not ring at all. The call went straight to the message that the phone was switched off or unreachable. A cold line of sweat moved down the side of my ribs. I sat on the chair facing the door and kept the phone in my hand.

At 10:48 the screen finally lit up with her name. I answered before the second ring.

“Ma.”

Her voice came through slightly breathless, as if she had been walking or had only just switched the phone back on.

“Sunny. I know. I’m late.”

“You said twenty minutes.”

“Something took longer. I’m in an auto now. I’ll be there in fifteen.”

“Where were you? Your phone was off.”

A short silence. When she spoke again the breathlessness had reduced, replaced by the calm, practical tone she used when she had decided not to give full details.

“The phone battery died. I charged it in the auto. I’m coming. Is everything all right at home?”

“The crackers are ready. I waited.”

“I know. I’m sorry. Fifteen minutes. Keep the door unlocked.”

She cut the call before I could ask anything else.

I remained on the chair. The guilt from earlier — the sheet I had hidden, the images I had used — sat quietly beside the newer anger and the thin worry. She had switched the phone off. She had taken far longer than the one and a half hours she had first claimed. Whatever had happened in the room near the signal had not finished on schedule.

At 11:27 I heard the auto stop in the lane. A few seconds later the building door opened and closed. Footsteps climbed the stairs without hurry. I stood up. The key turned in the lock and she came in.

The soft peach chiffon was creased more deeply than it had been when she left. The pallu sat unevenly on her shoulder. Her hair, which had been carefully open and oiled in the morning, now looked as if fingers had moved through it repeatedly and then tried to smooth it back into place. The lipstick was completely gone. A faint, irregular redness sat on the side of her throat higher than the previous marks, close to the edge of her jaw. The thin strap of the blouse on her left shoulder had slipped down and been left that way. The wide scoop neck sat lower than it should have; the black lace was no longer visible, which somehow felt more deliberate than if it had shown.

She closed the door, dropped her handbag on the chair, and looked at me directly.

“Sorry beta, I got really late.”

“You said fifteen minutes an hour ago.”

“The auto took time. Roads are blocked with all the people bursting crackers.” She walked past me to the kitchen corner, poured a full glass of water, and drank it without stopping. When she kept the glass down she remained facing the counter for a moment, both hands resting on the edge, back rising and falling with a long breath.

I stayed near the bed.

“Your phone was off for a long time.”

“I said the battery died.” She turned. Her eyes looked slightly tired around the edges, but the rest of her face was calm. “Don’t start checking times and minutes, Sunny. I’m home. That is enough.”

“You promised we would light the first crackers together.”

Something softened in her expression for a second, the residual motherly layer rising before the newer, harder one settled again.

“We still can. It’s not even midnight. The lane is full of people. We will take the long lari and two of the big anaars and go down for half an hour. Then you sleep. Tomorrow is still a holiday.”

She moved to the bathroom. This time she closed the door more firmly than usual. I heard the tap run for a long time. When she came out she had washed her face and retied her hair into a loose, low plait. The slipped strap had been put back in place. The redness on her throat remained. She had not tried to cover it with the pallu or with powder.

She looked at the arranged cracker packets and gave a small nod.

“You kept them ready. Good. Come. We will go down for a short while.”

We carried the long lari and two large anaars down the stairs. A few families were still in the lane. Someone wished her Happy celebration ; she answered with the correct smile and the correct fold of her hands. We tied the lari to the lower grill of the entrance and lit it together. The sound rose in a rising chain of sharp cracks. Children shouted. Ma stood beside me, close enough that her shoulder touched mine, and watched the sparks the way she had watched them years ago. For those few minutes the hotel room, the switched-off phone, the creased chiffon and the new mark on her throat receded just enough to let the older pattern breathe.

When the lari finished she lit one of the anaars herself and stepped back. Colours climbed into the air and fell. She looked at me in the brief light and spoke quietly.

“I know you are angry. I know the time went much more than I said. I will not give you a long explanation tonight. I needed that time. I took it. Now I am here. That is the truth I can give you right now.”

I watched the last sparks die.

“Was it worth switching the phone off?”

She did not look away.

“Yes.”

The single word sat between us more heavily than any longer defence would have. She picked up the empty packaging, folded it neatly, and started back toward the stairs.

“Come. Enough for tonight. The rest of the crackers can wait until tomorrow evening. You need sleep. I need sleep.”

We climbed the three floors in silence. Inside the flat she locked the door, switched off the fairy lights, and went straight to the bathroom again with a fresh nighty. When she came out the peach chiffon and the sleeveless blouse were gone. The new mark on her throat was still visible above the neckline of the old cotton nighty. She lay down on her side of the bed without further conversation.

I remained sitting on the chair for a while longer. The red boxes waited on the bed near her feet. The crackers we had not used sat near the door. Outside, the last late bombs of celebration night continued at irregular intervals.

She had returned at 11:30.

She had admitted the extra time was deliberate.

She had given me half an hour of public mother-son festival appearance as compensation.

And the phone that had stayed unreachable for most of the evening now rested under her pillow again, the same way it had on so many other nights since the arrangement with Azad Sahab began.

I finally switched off the main light and lay down on my side of the mattress. The guilt of what I had done earlier in the empty flat and the newer knowledge of how long she had actually stayed with him settled together in the dark and did not separate.

[Authorsunny]

A very hot and steamy update coming next! 

Excited? 

A glimpse of it -

[img]<a href=[/img]" />

[Minki]

i think no need for this angle story me ma beta dono ki maryada bani rahe warna story band ho jayegi

[saka1981]

No matter what she says, the son simply listens to her. Why doesn’t he ever get angry with his mother? She said she would come at 7:30, but she came at 11:30. When she says, ‘That’s why I came,’ the son just listens, nods his head, and keeps quiet. Doesn’t the son have any self-respect here? Or, author, do you see the son as someone who has no self-respect at all?

Author, please don’t take this the wrong way. I’m simply sharing my thoughts, and I look forward to your next episode.I’m eagerly waiting to know what your response will be.

[Aragon]

Just a curiosity... Does he investigate the location near signal??...

[rodrigo_]

No matter what she says, the son simply listens to her. Why doesn’t he ever get angry with his mother? She said she would come at 7:30, but she came at 11:30. When she says, ‘That’s why I came,’ the son just listens, nods his head, and keeps quiet. Doesn’t the son have any self-respect here? Or, author, do you see the son as someone who has no self-respect at all?

Author, please don’t take this the wrong way. I’m simply sharing my thoughts, and I look forward to your next episode.I’m eagerly waiting to know what your response will be.

I can understand what made you a little grumpy about the plot. But take a pause and think. Would a woman care when the thrill and lust has taken over het. She's clearly delusional that tha man she's with is powerful and would support her at any cost. Why would she care for an adult son ? She somehow know, even if the son disowns her, she's hooked with the third man. The most important thing about this plot is that its a fiction and nothing related to real life. So chill and enjoy. Author is free to see his plot as he likes.

[saka1981]

I can understand what made you a little grumpy about the plot. But take a pause and think. Would a woman care when the thrill and lust has taken over het. She's clearly delusional that tha man she's with is powerful and would support her at any cost. Why would she care for an adult son ? She somehow know, even if the son disowns her, she's hooked with the third man. The most important thing about this plot is that its a fiction and nothing related to real life. So chill and enjoy. Author is free to see his plot as he likes.

I know it a fiction and nothing going to be happen in real life....My question is: Can a person really have no basic emotions at all? The mother comes home three hours late, says nothing, and goes with them and enjoys herself. Wouldn’t she at least wonder what her son might think about her coming home three hours late? Why doesn’t the mother feel even a little guilty? That is my question.

[Playboy9691]

What a good story line make me wanna read continuously. The passive domination of mom is very exciting. The son actively loses his manhood and becomes a cuck that he is. Good story naration. Please continue the good work.

[Playboy9691]

A very hot and steamy update coming next! 

Excited? 

A glimpse of it -

[img]<a href=[/img]" />

Very much excited for that. Please let it be a long one.

[spica308]

“Was it worth switching the phone off?”

She did not look away.

“Yes.”

Strange question and stranger response.

Anjali had conveyed to Sunny that the phone battery died. TWICE. Both of the knew the reason and response for switched off phone.
May be something in the update I have missed.

[Abdevillers17]

Bro story is Fantastic
I just want to know how the affair start I want to read the prospective from mothers side from beginning

[baddu]

I will feel about her son. He refused to fire crackers with her and show his anger towards his mother behaviour

[moledcock]

Continue