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

[Minki]

no need between mother son aik maryada bani rahe

[saka1981]

Finally, Sunny has accepted either his mother’s desire or lustful love. He has accepted the love, but not the lover. Whether he accepted it because Anjali’s heart was hurt or because of the desire he has within him will be revealed only in the upcoming episodes.

Now that her son has accepted it, what other boundaries is Anjali going to cross? We are eagerly looking forward to reading the upcoming episodes.

“Every time a new episode comes out, your writing and the way you tell the story continue to improve. Congratulations!”

[Minki]

i think now the story rescheduling now
ANJALI think about her in full detail in which parts readers can get there full elements mean sex seducing ex ext.

[Anubantu]

Nice update

[Authorsunny]

Chapter 22 – Part 1

28 November 2025 – Friday

The first sound that reached me was not the alarm. It was the soft, rhythmic chime of silver against silver.

I opened my eyes to the grey morning light that always collected first at the edges of the grill. The tube light was still off. The night bulb near the bathroom had been switched off at some point. Ma was already in the kitchen corner. She wore a simple cotton salwar kameez — light blue with a thin white border, the kind she used for ordinary mornings before everything changed. Her hair was tied loosely at the nape, still unwashed, a few strands sticking to the back of her neck. The silver payal I had fastened the previous night moved with every step she took between the stove and the small cutting board.

She was sweating. Even from the bed I could see the faint shine on her forehead and the dampness that darkened the cloth under her arms. The gas flame was high. A kadhai sat on one burner; the pressure cooker whistled once on the other. The smell of cumin and ginger and something faintly sweet — perhaps the jaggery she sometimes added to the dry sabzi I liked — rose and mixed with the ordinary morning air of the flat. She moved with the steady purpose of someone who had been awake long enough to decide that the first day back at office after a long leave required extra care.

I sat up. The mattress creaked. She turned at the sound, the payal chiming once more as she shifted her weight.

“You’re awake,” she said. Her voice was lighter than it had been in weeks. “Good. Wash your face. Tea is almost ready. Tiffin will take another ten minutes.”

The happiness in her face was unmistakable. It was not the private, almost girlish softness she wore when messaging him. It was something broader, more settled. The heaviness that had sat in her eyes after the stairs the previous night was gone. The acceptance I had spoken, the payal I had put on her feet myself, the quiet end of the conversation — all of it had clearly lifted a weight she had been carrying alone. She no longer needed to hide the basic shape of her life from me. The guilt that had lived under her new clothes and late returns had loosened. She looked simply glad.

I went to the bathroom. The space was the same small rectangle it had always been. No bra hung on the low plastic hook. No glimpse of anything that would pull the residual heat into the centre of the morning. I was not in that mood. The previous night’s emotions still occupied too much space. I took bath with cold water, brushed my teeth, and came out.

She had already ironed the light-blue formal shirt and hung it on the back of the chair. The black formal shoes sat near the door with a soft cloth and the small tin of polish placed neatly beside them. The care was deliberate and excessive. She had not done this much on an ordinary working day for months, since things changed.

“Shirt is ironed and ready,” she said without turning from the stove. “Shoes also. I will polish them while the tea cools a little. I made the aloo sabzi the way you like — extra dry, with the jeera you prefer. And two parathas, not the thin ones. You will need proper food. First day back after so many holidays always feels longer.”

She sat on the chair and began polishing the shoes. The payal continued their soft music as she moved. The sound had become part of the room overnight. It no longer felt like an intrusion. It felt like the new ordinary.

The light-blue kameez was damp at the back from the heat of the kitchen. A thin line of sweat ran down the side of her neck and disappeared under the round collar. She made no attempt to wipe it. She simply watched me drink tea and then spoke.

“Focus properly today. The leave is over. Managers notice who comes back sharp and who comes back still carrying the holiday in their head. You used to do this in college also — give your best even on the first day after a break. Do the same now. Office is not college, but the habit is useful.”

I nodded. She reached across the table and touched the back of my hand once, the same light contact she had used the previous morning.

“And thank you,” she said, quieter. “For last night. For the way you spoke. For the way you handled everything after that woman on the stairs. You spoke like a real man, not like a boy who still needs protecting. I am proud of you, Sunny. More than I have said in a long time.”

The words landed with a warmth that mixed uncomfortably with the residual images I still carried. I kept my eyes on the tea glass.

“You don’t have to thank me for that Ma.”

“I do. You could have stayed silent or made the night heavier. You chose the other way. That matters.” She withdrew her hand and stood again. “One more thing before you leave. If anyone in the building or near the gate says something crude today, ignore it. Completely. Do not answer. Do not let your face show anything. The best answer to people like Sunita is silence. I should have done the same yesterday. If I had simply walked past her instead of answering, the whole thing would not have stretched as far as it did. I made it larger by responding. You do not need to make the same mistake.”

She said it without self-pity, only as a practical instruction for the day. Then she returned to the stove to pack the tiffin. The two steel boxes went into the larger carrier bag she always used. She added a small packet of pickle and a spoon, closed the lid firmly, and placed the bag near my backpack.

I finished the tea and got ready. The formal shirt smelled of the iron and the faint detergent she used. When I was done, she was waiting with the tiffin bag in one hand and my helmet in the other.

“Eat the parathas properly at lunch. Do not skip because some meeting runs long. And message when you reach.”

“I will.”

She stepped closer and adjusted the collar of the shirt even though it did not need adjusting. I could notice the silver bracelet in her hand. For a second her eyes searched my face the way they had the previous night, checking whether the acceptance still held in the daylight. Whatever she saw seemed to satisfy her. She smiled — a real, unguarded smile that reached her eyes — and stepped back.

“Go. Traffic will start soon.”

I picked up the backpack and the tiffin. At the door I paused and looked at her once more. The light-blue salwar kameez, the unwashed hair, the sweat still visible at her temples, the silver on her ankles — all of it belonged to the woman who no longer felt the need to hide. The guilt had lifted. The happiness was genuine. I nodded once and stepped out into the corridor.

The stairs felt longer than usual. Every landing carried the possibility of an open door or a voice. The weight of the previous evening’s public naming sat in my chest as I descended. I kept my eyes on the steps and my pace steady. On the first-floor landing Sunita Kulkarni’s door was closed. No one stood in any doorway. The ground-floor corridor was empty except for the watchman half-asleep on his plastic chair. I walked past Azad Sahab’s large door without slowing and stepped out into the compound.

The bike stood in its usual place near the narrow parking strip. I secured the tiffin bag, put on the helmet, and kicked the engine to life. The ride to the office took the usual twenty-five to thirty minutes depending on the signals near the station road and the stretch after the flyover. The morning air was still cool. The city was waking in its ordinary Friday rhythm — milkmen, college buses, the first wave of office scooters. I kept the speed moderate and let the wind take some of the heaviness from the stairwell.

The office building was a standard mid-rise glass-and-concrete structure in the complex near the metro station. By the time I parked and took the lift to the fourth floor, the lobby was already filling with people returning after the long break. Conversations were louder than usual. Someone was distributing leftover sweets from home. The security guard at the floor entrance nodded as I swiped my card.

My team sat in a cluster of four desks near the east windows. There were only three of us under the same manager: me, Rohan, and Vikram. Both were older and senior — Rohan by four years, Vikram by almost seven. They were polite, competent, and kept mostly to their own work. We exchanged the necessary morning greetings and the usual remarks about the leave having ended too soon. There were no women in our immediate group. The larger floor had plenty, but I had never developed any real conversation with them beyond project-related necessity. Two colleagues from the adjacent work group — Sameer and Nikhil — had joined on the same day I had, and we occasionally ate lunch together or discussed the same tickets. That was the extent of my office social circle. It had always been enough.

I settled at my desk, opened the laptop, and began the slow process of catching up on the emails and tickets that had accumulated during the week. The environment on the floor was lighter than a normal Friday. People were still carrying the residual holiday mood — longer conversations at the coffee machine, photos of family gatherings being shown, the occasional laugh that travelled farther than usual. Managers moved between desks with the half-tolerant expression of people who knew the first day back would not be fully productive.

I tried to focus on the code in front of me. The cursor blinked. The lines of the module I had left unfinished before the leave stared back. Yet every few minutes my mind drifted back to the third-floor flat. The soft chime of the payal. The dampness on her neck. The way she had smiled when she handed me the tiffin. What was she doing now? Had she bathed? Had she messaged him? Was Azad Sahab already upstairs, or would he wait until later in the day? The questions arrived without permission and refused to leave. The acceptance I had spoken the previous night was still new. It sat in me alongside the older images and the residual discomfort, and the combination made concentration difficult.

By mid-morning the floor had settled into a more regular rhythm. I completed two smaller tickets and started on the larger module. Rohan asked a brief question about a shared API; I answered. Vikram offered a piece of the leftover chakli someone had brought; I took one. The ordinary motions of the office day continued on the surface while the larger part of my attention remained three floors up in a different building across the city.

Lunch came. I opened the tiffin at my desk rather than going to the pantry. The aloo sabzi was exactly as she had promised — dry, properly spiced, the jeera still fragrant. The parathas were thick and soft. I ate slowly, the taste pulling the morning kitchen back into the present. Sameer from the other group stopped by and asked if the food was from home. I nodded. He grinned and said his own mother had packed enough for three days. The exchange lasted less than a minute. Then he left and the desk returned to silence.

The afternoon brought the urgent meeting.

It was called at short notice — a client escalation on a module that several teams touched. Our manager, Mr. Sinha, gathered the three of us plus two others from the adjacent group in the small glass cabin near the windows. The discussion moved quickly. Numbers were shared. Timelines were revised. At one point the conversation turned to the piece of code I had been handling before the leave. I opened the relevant file on the shared screen and began explaining the current status. Halfway through the explanation I realised I had referenced an older version of the requirement document. The numbers I quoted were off by a full sprint.

Mr. Sinha stopped me with a raised hand.

“Sunny. Those figures are from before the celebration freeze. The client signed off on the revised scope on the twenty-second. You should have checked the updated sheet this morning.”

The cabin went quiet. Rohan looked at his notepad. Vikram kept his eyes on the table.

I felt the heat rise in my neck. “I will correct it immediately.”

“That is not the only point.” Mr. Sinha’s voice remained level, the usual private-company tone that never needed to rise to be effective. “The leave is over. Everyone is back. The client does not care that we had a festival. They care that the numbers we present are correct. You are not fully here today. I can see it. Whatever is sitting in your head from the holiday needs to stay outside this cabin. Focus. Recheck every document before you speak in a meeting. We will regroup at five with the corrected figures.”

The scolding was not loud. It did not need to be. In the small glass space it landed with the precise weight of professional disappointment. I nodded, closed the file, and kept my eyes on the table until the meeting ended. The others filed out. Mr. Sinha stayed back for a moment longer, then simply said, “Correct it before five,” and left.

I returned to my desk. The residual holiday lightness on the floor suddenly felt distant. I opened every relevant document, cross-checked the revised scope, and rebuilt the explanation with the current numbers. The work itself was straightforward. The difficulty was keeping the third-floor flat from entering the screen every time I paused. Her sweaty forehead. The chime of the payal. The way she had said she was proud. The possibility that Azad Sahab was already sitting on the edge of the same bed where she had cried the previous night. The images mixed with the memory of the glass cabin and the manager’s level voice until concentration became a deliberate act of will.

By four-thirty the corrected figures were ready. I sent them to Mr. Sinha and to the shared folder. He replied with a single-line acknowledgement. No further comment. The day continued toward its ordinary end. People began packing bags. Conversations about weekend plans started at the desks near the windows. I closed the laptop, slipped it into the backpack, and checked that the empty tiffin boxes were secure.

The first day back had been exactly as she had predicted — longer than a normal Friday, marked by the small professional cut that reminded everyone the holiday was finished. I stood, pushed the chair in, and looked once at the east windows where the late afternoon light was already turning the colour of the evening traffic. The ride home would take the same twenty-five to thirty minutes.

[saka1981]

You have neatly portrayed what Sunny did at the office on Friday. At the same time, what was Anjali doing? Was it an ordinary day or a Bhai'ful day? I’m eagerly waiting to find out. Please update soon!

[Anubantu]

Waiting for the anjali version of doing in home

[Little finger]

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.

Hi bro. Big fan. Pls dm. Pls restart ur story bro

[saranrama]

It is more like a drama! Why the landlord's mother comes to the story? Small updates!

But you are coming great to the plot! Frequent updates! Keep going

[Authorsunny]

Chapter 22 – Part 2

28 November 2025 – Friday Evening

The lift doors opened on the ground floor of the office building and the late-afternoon heat of Andheri met me at once. I walked to the parking basement, secured the empty tiffin bag on the hook behind the seat, and kicked the bike to life. The first stretch of road was the usual crawl toward the signal near the metro station. I kept the speed low and let the engine settle into its familiar vibration.

A kilometre before the flyover I pulled into the small petrol pump I always used. While the tank filled I stood with one foot on the ground and stared at the digital display climbing from rupees to litres. The scolding from the glass cabin replayed itself with the same level voice Mr. Deshmukh had used. *You are not fully here today. Whatever is sitting in your head from the holiday needs to stay outside this cabin.* The numbers I had quoted had been a week old. A simple check would have saved the moment. Instead the entire cabin had watched me correct myself in real time. The embarrassment sat in my neck like leftover heat. I paid, took the receipt, and pulled back onto the road.

The closer I came to our lane the louder my own pulse became. Yesterday’s landing was still too fresh. Sunita Kulkarni’s voice, the word kalank, the way she had looked at me while she spoke about the same bed and the son who stayed quiet — all of it rose again as the building’s grey plaster came into view. What if someone was waiting near the gate? What if Mrs. Desai or the first-floor woman decided today was the day to ask a direct question? What if a casual remark about the landlord and my mother was thrown at me in front of the watchman? I had no clean sentence prepared. The acceptance I had spoken last night had been for the room upstairs, not for the open compound.

I slowed the bike near the entrance. The compound was ordinary. Two children were kicking a half-deflated football. The watchman sat on his plastic chair with his phone. Mrs. Desai’s window on the second floor was open, but she was not standing in it. No one called my name. No one stepped into my path. I parked in the usual strip, removed the helmet, and locked the bike. The relief arrived in a single long breath. The building had chosen, for this particular Friday evening, to leave me alone.

The relief lasted only until I reached the third-floor corridor.

The door of our flat sat at the end of the short passage exactly as it always had. My heart started again, harder this time. What if Azad Sahab was inside? What if I opened the door and found him standing near the folding table the way I had found him weeks earlier? How was I supposed to greet him now that the arrangement had been named between Ma and me? A nod? A handshake? Silence? The questions stacked themselves in the few seconds it took me to reach the door. I pressed the bell.

The latch turned almost at once. Ma opened the door.

She was alone.

The relief came so fast it almost made me dizzy. She had changed out of the morning’s light-blue salwar kameez. She now wore a cream saree with a thin maroon border and a sleeveless maroon blouse — the same style she had settled into over the last few months, the neckline sitting low enough that the soft upper curve of her breasts was clear, the cloth fitted closer across her chest than the blouses she used to wear when she still worked at the parlour. Her hair was open and still slightly damp at the ends, as if she had bathed in the afternoon. The silver bracelet was on her wrist. The payal chimed once when she stepped back to let me in.

“You’re early,” she said. The lightness from the morning was still in her voice. “Traffic was less?”

“A little.” I put the backpack down near the almirah and handed her the empty tiffin bag. “The parathas were good.”

She smiled, pleased, and carried the bag to the kitchen corner. The saree moved with her hips. The sleeveless blouse left her arms completely bare. I noticed, the way I always noticed now, and the residual heat stirred even though the larger part of me was still occupied with the office cabin and the stairs I had just climbed without incident.

She put water on for tea and spoke while the flame caught.

“How was the first day?”

I sat on the chair. The folding table was already in the centre of the room, two steel glasses waiting.

“It was fine. Nothing interesting as such.”

She poured the tea, brought both glasses to the table, and sat opposite me. The cream saree settled around her legs. When she leaned forward to push my glass closer the neckline of the sleeveless blouse shifted and the beginning of her cleavage became visible for a moment. She did not adjust it immediately.

We drank the tea. I told her the rest in ordinary sentences — the floor had been light, many people were still carrying the holiday, Rohan and Vikram had been the same, Sameer had asked about the home food. She listened the way she used to listen when I came back from college, filing the small details, nodding at the right places. The conversation stayed on office. Neither of us mentioned the stairs of the previous evening or the man downstairs.

After tea she cleared the glasses and began preparing dinner. I opened the laptop on the folding table and tried to finish the corrected module so Monday would start cleaner. The room filled with the ordinary sounds of the evening — the pressure cooker, the soft scbang of the ladle, the occasional chime of the payal when she moved from stove to sink. Every few minutes her phone lit up on the counter. She glanced at it, typed a short reply with one thumb, and put it face down again. The pattern repeated through the cooking. She did not leave the kitchen. She did not lower her voice. The messages were simply part of the evening now, absorbed into the same space where she chopped onions and asked if I wanted extra ghee on the dal.

Dinner was quiet and ordinary. Afterward she sat on the bed with her legs folded and the phone in her lap. I stayed on the chair with the laptop. The tube light hummed. Outside, the lane returned to its Friday-night volume — a scooter, a television serial from the floor below, someone calling for the paper-w,.' even though it was late. Her screen lit up again. She smiled at whatever had arrived, typed, waited, typed again. Once she stood and walked the few steps to the kitchen corner, angling her body slightly away, and spoke in a low voice for less than a minute before cutting the call. When she came back she looked at me and saw that I had noticed.

I smiled awkwardly. The new openness did not require every message to be explained.

I closed the laptop around ten-thirty. She was already in the old cotton nighty, the cream saree folded over the chair. The payal were still on her ankles; she had not removed them. She switched off the main tube light and left the night bulb on. I lay down on my side of the mattress. The gap between us felt the same width it had felt the previous night — narrower than the weeks before the confrontation, wider than the years when the only man in her life had been the memory of my father. Her breathing evened. The bracelet made one soft sound when she shifted her wrist under the sheet. I stared at the dark ceiling and let the office scolding, the empty compound, the sleeveless blouse, and the short kitchen call settle into the same tired place.

Sleep came late, but it came.

[Authorsunny]

Chapter 23 coming today at 5:00 PM or before.

[Authorsunny]

Chapter 23 - Weekend
29 November 2025 – Saturday

I woke to the sound of the pressure cooker and the soft, regular chime of silver. The tube light was off. Morning light sat in a pale strip across the grill and stopped short of the bed. Ma was already in the kitchen corner. She had not gone down. She had not even opened the main door except once, early, to take the milk packet from the boy and close it again.

She wore an old cotton nighty, the faded peach one with the thinner straps. It sat loosely on her shoulders. She had not put on a bra. When she reached for the container on the upper shelf the cloth lifted at the back and the full round weight of her hips showed plainly against the thin fabric. She did not adjust it. She did not look toward the bed to see if I was watching. She simply continued stirring the kadhai.

“Tea is ready,” she said when she heard the mattress creak. “Come. No rush today. It’s Saturday.”

I washed my face and sat at the folding table. She brought two steel cups and sat opposite me, one leg folded under her. The nighty had slipped off her left shoulder. The mark that had been on her neck the week before was almost gone; only a faint shadow remained. She drank her tea slowly and spoke as if the previous days had already been folded and put away.

“I told Azad Sahab I am not stepping out this weekend. After that woman on the stairs I don’t feel like giving anyone extra material. Let the building settle.”

She said his name the way she used to say Papa’s name when he was still alive — ordinary, unhidden, part of the morning.

“He understood?”

“He understood after some talking. He wanted me to come down in the evening. I said no. Not today.” She tore a small piece of last night’s leftover paratha and dipped it in the tea. “He gets restless when he doesn’t see me. Men are like that. Your father used to become the same if I stayed at my mother’s for two days.”

She spoke of both men in the same breath without lowering her voice. The comparison sat on the table between the two cups.

After breakfast she did not change immediately. She swept the floor in the same nighty, the payal keeping time with the broom. When she bent near the almirah the neckline fell forward and the heavy soft shape of her breasts moved freely inside the cloth. I looked. She saw that I looked. She only straightened, pushed her hair behind her ear, and went on sweeping.

“The dust collects faster in this weather” she said. “Help me lift the folding table later. I want to wipe under it properly.”

We lifted it together around eleven. Her nighty was damp under the arms from the work. She wiped the floor on her hands and knees, the cloth riding up her thighs. When she sat back on her heels to wring the cloth she left it there. The peach fabric had stuck to the upper part of her thighs. She noticed the direction of my eyes only long enough to say, “Pass me the dry towel,” and then continued.

The rest of the morning passed in small, ordinary talk that kept circling back to him without any special announcement.

She mentioned that he preferred less sugar in his tea. She mentioned that he had sent a voice note in the morning, short, only asking if she had slept. She played it once, low volume, while standing at the stove. His voice filled the small kitchen corner for eight seconds. She smiled at the phone the way a woman smiles at a message from the man she is used to.

In the afternoon she finally changed, but she did not go in the bathroom to change. She stood in the kitchen corner, pulled the nighty over her head in one movement, and put on a loose maroon kameez with an old salwar. For a few seconds she was only in her beige bra and petticoat. The cups were full. The band sat low on her back. She hooked the kameez, smoothed it once, and came back to the bed with her phone as if the sequence had been the most ordinary thing in the house.

She sat with her legs folded and scrolled. Every few minutes she typed. Sometimes she laughed under her breath. Once she read a line aloud without being asked.

“He says the watchman told him Sunita has been quiet since that night. Good. Let her stay quiet.”

Then she added, almost to herself, “I told him again not to do anything. No shifting them out, no warning through the husband. It will only make more noise. I don’t want noise in this building right now.”

She looked at me after she said it.

“You also think I am right, no? Better to let it die.”

“Yes Ma. It's better that way.”

“Good.” She typed a short reply and put the phone down. “He listens when I speak firmly. Not always on the first sentence, but he listens.”

The sentence had the same shape as the ones she used to use about Papa when he had been difficult about money or about visiting relatives. The house absorbed it without comment.

Evening came early because we had not gone out. She made simple khichdi and a thin kadhi. While we ate she asked about office only in passing and then returned to the weekend.

“Tomorrow I will make something better.”

After dinner she oiled her hair sitting on the bed. The kameez sleeves were rolled to the elbow. Oil shone on her forearms and the side of her neck. She did not cover herself when she leaned forward to reach the bottle. The neckline gaped. I kept my eyes on the laptop screen longer than I needed to, then looked again because there was nowhere else in the room to look.

She finished, tied her hair loosely, and said she was tired. We switched off the main light around ten-forty. The night bulb stayed on. She lay on her side. I lay on mine. The payal made one soft sound when she drew her feet up.

Her phone rang.

She looked at the screen, then at me.

“I’ll take it in the kitchen. The volume will disturb you otherwise.”

She got up and went to the kitchen corner. She did not close the thin curtain. She only turned her shoulder slightly toward the wall and answered on low speaker.

I stayed still on the bed and listened.

His voice came first, already mid-sentence.

“—I told you I can speak to the husband tomorrow. One conversation is enough. She will not open her mouth on the stairs again.”

Ma’s reply was immediate and firm.

“No. I already said no. Leave Sunita. If you move them out or even warn them properly, the whole building will make a new story. I don’t want a new story. Let her sit in her flat and talk to her own walls.”

“You are too soft, Anjali.”

“I am not soft. I am practical. We have just started sitting properly in front of people. I don’t want the first proper week to begin with an eviction. Please. For me.”

There was a pause. Then his voice came lower, the edge still in it.

“All right. For now. But if she speaks one more time I will not ask you.”

“She will not. You came up that night. That was enough.”

Another pause. The sound of him shifting, perhaps sitting back.

“How is the boy?”

Ma’s voice changed. It became the voice she used when she spoke of me to relatives, only warmer.

“He is fine. He has been… understanding. More than I expected. After that woman used his name on the stairs he sat with me and spoke like a grown man. He did not make the night heavier. He even…” She stopped, then continued more quietly. “He put the payal on my feet himself. Both of them. Carefully. He said if they are part of this then they should be in the open between us also.”

Azad Sahab made a short sound that was not quite a laugh.

“So the son is fastening what I gave.”

“Don’t say it like that. He did it because he wanted the fighting in this room to stop. He is cooperative. He is trying. That is not a small thing at his age.”

“I know. You have said it three times this week.” His tone softened a fraction. “I want to see you. Not only messages. Come down tomorrow evening. Ammi will sleep early. We can sit in the car or come up for a short while.”

Ma’s answer came slower.

“I am still not ready to step out, Azad Sahab. Not tomorrow. The building is still watching the stairs. Give it some time.”

The change in his voice was sudden. Even from the bed I heard the rise.

“Some more time? This is bullshit. I have not touched you since celebration night. And now, I am supposed to wait because of neighbours?”

Ma lowered her own voice, trying to contain his.

“Don’t shout Azad Sahab, please. He is in the next room.”

“Then come to the kitchen door and speak properly. I am not a boy you can postpone because of neighbours.”

I heard her take a breath. When she spoke again it was the calming tone she used to use on Papa when he came home irritated from work.

“Listen to me Azad Sahab. I am not postponing you. I am postponing the building. There is a difference. Tomorrow stay here. Come in the evening. Eat with us. Sit with Sunny also. It has been days. He should see you as more than the man who collects rent. I will cook. We will sit like normal people. After that we will see about the rest. Don’t be angry on the phone please.”

Silence on the other end lasted several seconds. Then his voice returned, still tight but lower.

“You are inviting me for dinner.”

“Yes. Tomorrow. Evening. Eight-thirty is fine. Nothing heavy. Just sit, eat, talk. Sunny will be here. It will look ordinary.”

“Ordinary.” He repeated the word as if testing it. “All right. I will come. Tell the boy I am coming as a guest, not as the landlord. I don’t want him standing at the door with that closed face.”

“He will not. I will speak to him in the morning.”

“Wear the new saree. The dark green one. And the payal. I want to see them on you when I walk in.”

“I will.”

“And Anjali—”

“Ji?.”

“Don’t make me wait after dinner. I have waited enough this week.”

Ma’s voice dropped further. I could still hear every word.

“I know. We will see that. I can't promise anything. Don’t start that talk now.”

“That's not fair.”

“Please Azad Sahab, we will see. Good night, Azad.”

“Good night darling.”

She ended the call. I heard her stand still in the kitchen for almost a full minute before she came back. She switched off the night bulb on her way. The mattress dipped when she lay down. The payal chimed once.

[Minki]

I stayed syou have great skill but I am little afraid because here is allmost all stories with full of humiliation vaulger language ext ext but please avoid these things because here is no adultry it's still romantic sexualy urges both of Anjali and Imraan ji both are full fillings their sexualy needs its natural between them only herdle is Anjali s son he jis 21 years mature man but between mother son a thin lare of dignity please don't break up still you are aware of this topic keep it up great going

[Anubantu]

Nice update

[Aragon]

Great going... What will happen after dinner.. It is almost sure that Landlord will not go out easily after dinner.. Waiting for the next update

[saka1981]

Both episodes are mostly just conversations and the events that happened that day. But they cannot simply be dismissed as “just conversations,” because they serve as a prelude to what is about to happen next.

Through your writing, you beautifully set the scenes in the readers’ minds. We cannot go through any episode thinking it is just an ordinary one. At the end of every episode, your writing makes the readers wonder, “What happens next?”

We are eagerly waiting to find out what happens after dinner ?

[Minki]

Lekin maryada bani rahe

[Authorsunny]

Minki – Hi buddy, thanks for reading. About your point on preserving the dignity of the mom-son relationship: I can’t make any firm promises right now, but the story will stay as realistic as possible. There won’t be any unreasonable or purely fictional humiliating scenes.

Anubantu – Thank you, buddy. Keep reading!

saka198 – You put it perfectly. My goal from the beginning has been to write a realistic and relatable novel, not just a sex story. I’m really glad readers are enjoying it. Thanks so much for the appreciation, mate.

wxxxx – Hehe. That’s an interesting thought, but the story definitely isn’t heading in that direction. You’re free to imagine whatever you like, though.

---

Next update drops tomorrow, guys. You’re going to enjoy it.

[Ayush01111]

Na ye mat karwana

[Authorsunny]

Chapter 24 - Sunday Night
30 November 2025 – Sunday

She woke later than usual. The grill was already bright when I opened my eyes. She was still on her side of the bed, hair spread on the pillow, the old nighty twisted around her waist. When she finally sat up she stretched both arms above her head and the cloth lifted to the middle of her stomach. She left it there while she reached for her phone.

“Sunday,” she said, voice still rough with sleep. “No one is waiting.”

She made tea slowly. We sat at the folding table with two cups and the remaining biscuits. After the first few sips she spoke the sentence she had prepared.

“Azad Sahab was asking about you last night. He said it has been days since he sat with both of us properly. He may come this evening for dinner. Only chit-chat. That way he can meet you also, talk a little, not only see you on the stairs.”

I looked at her.

“Here? In the house?”

“Yes. I invited him. After the last few days it felt right. He has been to this room before, you know that. But today it will be different. You know, and he knows that you know. So it will be a proper visit. Nothing to hide in the air.”

I did not answer immediately. She watched my face the way she had watched it the night she asked if I accepted the arrangement.

“It’s only dinner,” she said. “I will cook. We will sit. You don’t have to talk much if you don’t want. Just be present.”

“All right.”

The moment I said it her face changed. The last of the caution she had carried since the stairs lifted. She stood, came around the table, and pulled me into a brief, tight hug. The nighty was thin. The full soft weight of her breasts pressed against my chest for three or four seconds. She smelled of sleep and yesterday’s oil. Then she stepped back, already smiling in a different way.

“Good. Then we have work. This room cannot look like we live in it every day.”

The rest of the morning and the whole afternoon became a cleaning that was more thorough than any festival cleaning we had done in years. She pulled everything away from the walls. I lifted the folding table again. She wiped the almirah inside and out. She changed the bedsheet. She washed the two extra steel plates we almost never used. She stood on the chair and cleaned the tube light. Every time she climbed or bent or reached, the nighty or the later kameez moved with her body and she did not correct it unless the cloth actually threatened to come off.

Around four she stopped, looked at the room, and nodded.

“It will do. Now I have to get ready.”

She took a folded saree from the upper shelf of the almirah — dark green, heavier than her usual ones, with a thin gold border. I had not seen her wear it before. She also took a blouse of the same green, sleeveless, the neck cut lower than the one she had worn to his house.

She did not go into the bathroom.

She stood in the kitchen corner, behind the thin curtain that never closed properly, and began to change. The curtain moved with every small current from the fan. Each time it lifted I saw what the cloth was supposed to hide.

First the kameez came off. Then the salwar. She stood in the beige bra and the petticoat, pinning the pleats of the green saree. When she raised both arms to settle the pallu the bra cups lifted and the heavy soft flesh above the edge became clear. The fan turned. The curtain lifted again. The petticoat sat low on her waist. The line of her stomach and the beginning of her hips showed for a full two seconds before the cloth fell back.

She hooked the blouse. It was tight across the chest. She adjusted the pallu twice, then stepped out.

“Look,” she said. “Is the pallu even? Does the blouse sit properly?”

I looked. The green made her skin look warmer. The sleeveless cut left her arms bare. The neckline sat low enough that the upper curve of both breasts was unmistakable. The silver bracelet was already on her wrist. The payal showed under the saree each time she took a step.

“It sits properly,” I said.

“The blouse is not too much?”

“No.”

She turned once in the small space between the bed and the table, checking the fall of the cloth at the back. The saree held the full round shape of her hips and the soft shelf of her stomach. She seemed satisfied.

“He bought this one,” she said, as if mentioning a grocery item. “Last month. I had not worn it yet. Today is the right day.”

She put a thin gold chain over the blouse, checked her face in the small mirror, and then sat on the chair to wait. The room smelled of the branded perfume he had given her. She had used only a little, at the wrists and the base of her throat.

At eight twenty she stood again and looked toward the door.

“He will be on time. He is very punctual.”

She moved the folding table closer to the wall so there would be space for three people to sit. She placed the two extra plates. She lit the small lamp in the temple corner, then left it burning.

At eight-twenty-eight the doorbell rang.

I went to open it.

Azad Sahab stood in the corridor in a black pathani, freshly ironed, the collar open at the throat. A premium watch sat on his left wrist. The perfume reached me before I had fully opened the door — heavier than the trace I usually caught on Ma after she came back from him. He looked like a man who had dressed to be seen entering a particular house.

He was not alone in the corridor.

Two men from the second-floor flats were still standing a few steps away, as if the conversation had only just paused. Azad Sahab finished his sentence without lowering his voice.

“—I told them also, some evenings work can wait.”

One of the men glanced at our open door, then at me, then back at Azad Sahab. The other gave a small, knowing tilt of the head. Neither said anything further. They began moving toward the stairs.

Azad Sahab turned to me fully, smiled with one side of his mouth, and stepped across the threshold as if the flat had already been waiting for him.

“Sunny,” he said. “Good evening.”

Azad Sahab stepped in as if the threshold belonged to him. The black pathani made the small room look even smaller. The watch in his hand caught the tube light when he raised his hand to close the door behind him. The perfume settled over the smell of the dal and the jeera tadka Ma had made.

Ma came forward from the kitchen corner. The dark green saree moved with her. She did not rush, but she also did not keep the distance she used to keep when he came only for a dripping tap.

“Aaiye,” she said. “You found the stairs all right? The light on the second floor is still weak.”

“I know every step of this building,” he said. He looked at her from the neckline of the blouse down to the gold border at her feet, not quickly, not hiding it. “You wore it.”

“You told me to.”

“I did.” He smiled with one side of his mouth. “It sits the way I thought it would.”

I stood near the door with nothing in my hands. He turned to me after he had finished looking at her.

“Sunny. Come sit.”

Ma took the cloth bag from his hand before I could. Inside was a steel box, still faintly warm, wrapped in a newspaper.

“You brought something?”

“Mutton,” he said. “I made it. The maid has gone to her village. She will come only on Tuesday. Ammi cannot stand for long. So I tried.”

Ma opened the lid a little. The smell rose at once — meat, garlic, something burnt at the edges. She kept her face even.

“You cooked?”

“I gave it a try. Don’t look so surprised. A man can light a stove.”

She glanced at me, then back at the box.

“Sunny does not eat non-veg. Mutton never. Even chicken only outside, that too rarely.”

Azad Sahab nodded as if he had already expected the answer.

“Then it is for you and me. He can eat what you made. No problem.”

Ma carried the box to the kitchen counter. She did not refuse it. She also did not look pleased. The awkwardness sat in the way she kept the lid half-closed and washed her hands twice.

“Sit,” she told him. “I will make the plates.”

There were only two proper chairs and the edge of the bed. Azad Sahab took the wooden chair that had the loose leg, the one Ma usually sat on near the window. He sat back in it as if the loose leg did not exist. Ma remained standing for a moment, then sat on the edge of the bed, close enough that her pallu brushed his knee when she adjusted it. I took the remaining chair.

The room held the three of us the way it always held two — with no extra air.

Ma served what she had cooked first: dal, dry aloo, paneer gravy, two rotis each, a little rice. Then she put a small portion of his mutton on her own plate and a larger one on his. She did not put any on mine. She did not ask again.

Azad Sahab tore a piece of roti, took the mutton, and ate without waiting. Ma took a smaller bite. I saw her pause. The meat was undercooked near the bone. A faint rawness sat under the garlic.

She swallowed and drank water.

“How is it?” he asked.

She looked at him, then at the plate, then at him again.

“You really cooked this yourself?”

“Yes.”

“You have cooked before? Properly?”

He laughed once, short.

“Eggs and tea. That is the list. Today I thought, the house is empty, the maid is gone, why not. I watched two videos. The rest I guessed.”

Ma shook her head, the beginning of a smile pulling at her mouth even though the taste was still on her tongue.

“The salt is missing, Azad Sahab. Completely. And near the bone it is still pink. You cannot guess mutton.”

“So it is bad.”

“It is… an effort,” she said. “The effort is good. The mutton is not.”

He looked at her for a second, then laughed properly. The sound filled the small room.

“At least you are saying it to my face. Most people would have swallowed and praised.”

“I am not most people. And you brought it to my house. If I lie, you will bring it again.”

She took another small bite, as if to prove she would not waste what he had carried up three floors. The awkwardness of the non-veg was still there — she ate it the way a person eats something they have decided not to refuse, not the way she ate her own cooking. She kept her eyes on her plate more than usual.

“Why did you cook?” she asked after a while. “Ammi is there.”

“Ammi’s knees. Since yesterday morning she cannot stand more than a few minutes. The doctor said rest for some days. No standing at the stove. So the kitchen is on me till Tuesday, or I order from outside.”

Ma’s hand stopped on the steel glass.

“She cannot stand at all?”

“She can stand briefly but not for a longer time.”

Ma looked down at her plate, then at him. The green blouse rose and fell once.

“Then how will you manage? Four days is not one meal. You will eat from outside the whole time?”

“I will order. There are two-three places that I order regularly from. It is not difficult.”

She made a small face.

“You know I don’t like that. Outside oil, outside masala, no idea who is standing at that kadhai. And Ammi’s age — packet food every day is not good.”

“Then what do you suggest? I cannot leave the work and stand in the kitchen also.”

Ma looked at me. It was a short look, checking whether I was listening, whether I would object with my face. Then she looked back at him.

“I can send. For both of you. Lunch and dinner. Nothing special, whatever I make here. I will pack two boxes. You have already done enough for this house. Rent, repairs, the bike, everything. This much I can do.”

Azad Sahab did not pause.

“All right.”

Just that. No performance of refusal, no “how can I take from you.” He accepted it the way he accepted the reduced rent — as something that now belonged to the arrangement.

“You will send from tomorrow?”

“From tomorrow. Tell me what Ammi can eat. Less spice, less oil, I will keep that in mind.”

“She can eat whatever you make. She only cannot stand and make it.”

Ma nodded. She served him another roti without being asked. The gesture was automatic, the kind she used to make when Papa sat in that same chair.

We ate. The conversation moved in small circles — the water timing that had changed again, the lift that still stopped on the second floor, the price of gas. Azad Sahab spoke about the other building in Jogeshwari. Ma answered him the way a woman answers the man who sits in her house in the evening, not the way a tenant answers the landlord.

Every few minutes his eyes went back to the saree.

“The border is good on you,” he said, not lowering his voice. “Green was the right colour. The other one, the cream, makes you look softer. This one makes you look like you decided something.”

Ma glanced at me, then at him.

“You notice too much.”

“I paid for it. I am allowed to notice.”

She did not tell him to stop. She only adjusted the pallu so it sat higher on her chest for a moment, then let it slip again when she leaned forward to take the water jug.

I got up to refill the jug from the kitchen corner. The space was four steps. When I turned on the tap I heard the chair shift behind me. When I came back his hand was no longer on the table. It rested on the mattress beside her thigh, close enough that his fingers touched the green cloth. He removed it when I put the jug down. Ma’s face had a faint colour at the throat. She picked up her glass as if nothing had moved.

“Sunny,” Azad Sahab said. “Office started again properly?”

“Yes.”

“Manager is all right?”

“He is all right.”

“Good. A first job teaches more than college. Keep your head there, not on this building’s talk.”

The sentence was advice. It was also a closing of the subject of the stairs without naming Sunita.

Ma stood to take the empty plates. I stood with her. She shook her head.

“Sit. I will do it. You talked the whole day Saturday, today also you cleaned. Let me finish.”

I sat. She carried the plates to the small sink. The saree pulled across her hips when she bent. Azad Sahab watched her without pretending not to. From the chair his view was the line of her back, the sleeveless blouse, the place where the pallu had come loose at the shoulder.

I went to the bathroom because the dal sat heavy and because the room needed a door between us for a minute. The latch was still weak. I did not close it fully. Through the gap in the curtain I heard the chair scbang.

His voice dropped.

“Come here.”

Ma’s reply was low.

“He is inside.”

“He is inside. He is not looking through the wall. Come.”

I heard the soft sound of the saree, then a quieter sound — cloth, a breath, the faint metallic note of the payal when she shifted her weight. I ran the tap so the water would cover whatever else followed. When I came out she was at the sink again, washing the same plate a second time. Azad Sahab was in the chair. His collar was open one button lower than when he had entered. Ma’s pallu was newly arranged, too neat for a woman who had only been washing vessels.

She did not look at me. She only said, “There is kheer in the fridge. I made a little in the afternoon. Sit. I will bring it.”

We sat again. The kheer was simple, cardamom and a little saffron, the same way she made it when someone came home. Azad Sahab ate his slowly.

“You will send this also tomorrow?”

“If Ammi can eat sweet. Otherwise I will send only the meal.”

“Send the kheer. She likes it.”

Ma nodded. She had already taken out a small box in her mind. The offer of food had become a schedule in the last twenty minutes.

After the kheer the talk loosened. He asked about the new blouse piece she had bought the previous week. She said she had not given it for stitching yet. He said he knew a woman near his other building who stitched faster and cleaner than the local tailor. Ma said she would think. The exchange had the shape of a husband telling his wife which tailor to use.

I went to the kitchen again to put the kheer bowl in the sink. This time I stayed a little longer, rinsing slowly. Behind me I heard the rustle of her heavy saree, and chimes of payal and some whispering.

When I returned she was sitting again, a little closer to his chair than before. His hand lay on the back of the chair, two fingers resting against her upper arm where the blouse ended. He did not remove them immediately. Ma let them stay for the time it took me to sit down. Then she shifted, and the contact broke as if it had been accidental.

Ma then turned to the kitchen.

“Tea,” she said.

We drank it in the same three positions. He spoke about the shop, business, and other stuff. I listened as if I were a guest in my own house.

At one point he reached across the small table and touched the silver bracelet on her wrist, turning it once with his thumb.

“This also looks right with the green.”

“You gave both.”

“I know what I gave.”

Ma did not pull her hand away. She only looked at me, a brief check, then left her wrist where it was until he released it.

The tube light hummed. Outside, a scooter passed. Inside, the black pathani and the dark green saree occupied the middle of the 10-by-12 room as if the furniture had always been arranged for three.

The tea finished. The glasses sat empty on the folding table.

He sat back in the loose-legged chair as if the evening still had another hour inside it. The black pathani had creased a little at the lap. The clock showed a few minutes past nine. Ma remained on the edge of the bed, the dark green pallu loose on one shoulder, the sleeveless blouse holding her the way it had held her since he walked in.

He looked at her without lowering his voice.

“You sat the whole evening two feet away and called it dinner.”

Ma glanced at me, then at him.

“It was dinner. You ate. I ate. Sunny ate. That is dinner.”

“That is food. Dinner is something else.” His eyes moved over the neckline, then down to where the saree folded across her thighs. “I came up three floors in this heat. I brought that special food in the box. And you gave me tea and conversation.”

Ma looked a bit surprised due to his tone, and also a little worried.

He leaned forward. The chair creaked.

“Stand up once. Let me see the fall from this side. You keep sitting like the cloth will tear if I look properly.”

Ma hesitated half a second, then stood. The payal chimed. The green saree settled around her hips. She turned a little toward the window, not fully toward him, as if the small rotation was only to adjust the pallu.

“Enough Azad Sahab, please,” she said. “You saw it when you came in.”

“I saw it when I came in. I want to see it now.” He did not get up. He only watched. “The blouse is doing half the work. You know that.”

I stood and took the three glasses to the kitchen corner. The tap ran. My heartbeats were fast enough. The way he was talking Ma, with sheer authority and command. How quickly his mood changed after dinner. Behind me his voice dropped, not enough.

“Come here.”

“Azad.”

“Two steps. That is all.”

I heard the payal. Then a quieter sound — his hand on cloth, the brief catch of breath she tried to hide. When I turned off the tap and came back she was sitting again, closer to his chair than before. His fingers rested on the mattress behind her, two of them under the edge of the pallu, against the blouse at her waist. He did not pull them away at once. Ma’s throat had colour. She reached for the water jug as if her hands needed work.

“Sunny,” she said, “if you want to change or wash, go. I will pack food for Ammi. She can't survive on this mutton” she giggled looking at Azad.

I did not need to wash. I went to the bathroom anyway and stayed long enough for the latch to sound final. Through the thin door I heard him speak again, lower.

“This whole evening I have been sitting like a guest.”

“You are a guest tonight.”

“I am not a guest in this room. You know that.” A pause. Cloth. The faint metallic note of the bracelet. “If I put my hand here, will you still call me a guest?”

Ma’s reply was almost a whisper.

“He will come out.”

“Then let him come out. I am only touching what I already know.”

I opened the door before the sentence could go further. They were not apart. His palm was flat on her waist, under the pallu, the thumb moving once against the blouse. He removed it the way a man removes a hand from a table — without hurry, without guilt. Ma stood immediately and went to the kitchen counter.

“The box,” she said, too brightly.

Azad Sahab laughed under his breath.

She packed the food and closed the steel box. Then she stood with it in her hands and looked at him, then at me, then at him again.

The restlessness in him was no longer hidden. He had stopped making building talk. He watched her mouth when she spoke. He watched the place where the blouse ended and her arm began. Every time I moved he waited to see if I would leave the room again.

Ma set the box on the table.

“Ammi would have not eaten properly tonight. If I send this down with you, she will at least have something from a proper stove.” She paused. “I will come with you. Just till the door. I will give it in her hand and come back.”

Azad Sahab’s face changed. The tightness that had sat in his shoulders since the kheer loosened.

“You will come down.”

“Yes. I can say hello to Ammi as well.”

He smiled and stood. The black pathani looked darker under the tube light. “Bring the box.”

Ma looked at me.

“You stay. No need for three people to go down at this time. I will be back in ten minutes. The vessels are already in the sink. Don’t wait with the light on if you feel sleepy.”

She then pulled the pallu over her shoulder and lifted the steel box.

At the door Azad Sahab waited with one hand on the frame. When she reached him he said, not quietly enough,

“Ten minutes is what you told the boy.”

Ma’s mouth twitched. The sound that came out of her was almost a laugh, small and private.

“Ten minutes is what I told him. Walk.”

They stepped into the corridor together. She did not look back. The payal made their light sound on the concrete. His hand, which had been on the doorframe, settled for a second at the small of her back as they turned toward the stairs — a touch that could have been guiding her in the dim light and was not only that.

I stood in the open doorway and watched them go down the first flight. Ma said something I could not catch. He answered, and she laughed again. The green saree disappeared around the turn. The black pathani followed. Their footsteps faded toward the ground floor.

The door of our flat stayed open for another few seconds. Then I closed it.

The room held the empty glasses, the chair he had sat in, and the faint mix of his perfume and her cooking. Downstairs, the large door of his house would open. Ammi would be in her chair. The box would be an excuse that would last only as long as they needed it to last.

I switched off the main light and left the night bulb on.

They had left the house together.