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

[Authorsunny]

Chapter 15.5 continued

I stayed inside for the first hour. The compact room felt larger without her and at the same time more oppressive. Every object carried the memory of the previous night’s voice — the kitchen counter where she had leaned, the glass she had drunk water from, the bed where she had returned and lain down as if nothing had been said. I tried to watch something on the laptop. The screen remained unlocked but unused. After some time I went downstairs and sat on the new bike for a while, engine off, helmet in my lap. The watchman nodded at me. Two children from the building ran past with cheap sparklers already in their hands. The evening air smelled of far-off smoke and incense.

I climbed back up at six-forty. The flat was exactly as she had left it. I heated the curd rice, ate a little, and then washed the plate. By seven-fifteen the waiting had become physical — a tightness across the shoulders, a restlessness that kept me moving between the chair and the window. I stood at the grill and looked down at the lane. Every white car that turned the corner made my breath catch for a second and then release when it was not his.

She returned at eight-fifty.

I heard the key in the lock and stepped away from the window before the door opened. She came in carrying nothing except her handbag. Her hair was slightly less neat than when she had left. The lipstick was gone. The black kurti looked a little softer, as if it had been worn through movement and then smoothed down again. There was a faint, different warmth on her skin — not only her usual perfume, but something denser, closer, the scent of another person’s soap or aftershave that had transferred in closeness.

She closed the door, dropped the handbag on the chair, and looked at me with a calm, slightly tired expression.

“You ate?”

“A little.”

“Good.”

She went to the kitchen corner and drank two full glasses of water without stopping. When she put the glass down she stood with both hands on the counter for a moment, her back to me. The kurti had ridden up slightly at the back. The jeans sat low enough to show a thin strip of skin from the side slit. She reached back and adjusted the kurti with one hand, an automatic gesture, then turned.

“The traffic was bad coming back,” she said. “I thought I would be earlier.”

I did not ask where she had been. She did not offer. The silence between those two facts was deliberate and heavy.

She moved past me to the bathroom. This time she closed the door fully. I heard the tap run for a long time. When she came out she had changed into the old nighty again. Her face looked freshly washed. The black kurti and jeans were folded over her arm. She placed them on the chair and then sat on the bed with a long breath.

“Come. Sit. You have been walking around the house like a ghost.”

I sat on the chair. She looked at me directly, the same steady gaze she had used on the morning after the neck mark.

Then I mentioned “You were gone almost three hours.”

“Yes. And now I am home. We have the temple ready, the lights ready, the house clean. Tomorrow the festival continues. I want us to light the diyas together in the evening. Can we do that without the heavy face?”

The request was soft. The expectation underneath it was not.

I nodded once. She watched me for another few seconds, then reached out and switched on the fairy lights along the grill. The small blue-white points filled the room again. In that light the faint colour on her cheeks and the slightly fuller look of her mouth became more noticeable. She had the appearance of a woman who had been thoroughly kissed and had then washed her face and returned to her ordinary night.

She lay down on her side of the bed and pulled the sheet up to her waist.

“Sleep early tonight,” she said. “Tomorrow will be long. Pooja, crackers, people, noise. We both need rest.”

I switched off the main light and lay down on my side. The fairy lights remained on, casting their slow patterns across the ceiling and the far wall. Ma’s breathing took longer than usual to settle. Once, in the dark, she shifted and the nighty made a soft sound against the sheet. The scent that was not only hers still hung faintly in the air between us.

I stared at the ceiling and replayed the day in order — the cleaning of the temple corner, the ordinary lunch, the moment she took out the black kurti, the three hours of absence, the way she had looked when she returned. The late-night call had not been only words. It had arranged an evening. She had kept the arrangement. She had prepared herself according to his preference. She had gone. She had come back carrying the quiet physical evidence of the meeting on her skin and in the softened state of her mouth.

The festival lights glowed along the grill.

The idols sat clean in their corner.

And in the same small flat my mother lay only a few feet away, freshly returned from the man she had admitted she missed, while the celebration night continued outside as if nothing in the house had shifted at all.

[Leo Arya]

The atmosphere becomes hotter day by day .. and the tension is also increasing ?
Waiting for the next part

[Authorsunny]

Chapter 16 – Anniversary celebration

23 November 2025 – Sunday

The morning of celebration carried the usual mixture of smoke, incense and distant crackers, but inside our flat it began with the ordinary sound of the pressure cooker and Ma’s footsteps between the kitchen corner and the temple shelf. I woke later than her. When I opened my eyes she was already dressed in an old cotton nighty, her hair loosely tied, wiping the brass idols one more time even though we had cleaned them the day before.

“Get up,” she said without turning. “There is a lot to do before evening. Bath, fresh clothes, then help me with the rangoli outside the door. After that we will set the thali for Laxmi Pujan.”

Her voice was calm, practical, the same festival-morning voice I had heard for years. Nothing in it referred to the previous evening’s absence or the black kurti she had worn for him. The nighty she had on now was the familiar thin one. When she reached up to adjust the fairy lights that had come loose on one side, the cloth lifted and the soft curve of her waist became visible. I looked for a moment longer than necessary, then got out of bed.

The bathroom was still warm from her bath. A used towel hung on the hook. On the small plastic stool she had left the clothes from the previous evening — the black kurti and the jeans, folded but not yet put away. I stood there longer than I needed to. The kurti still held a faint mixture of her perfume and something else, denser, the lingering trace of another person’s presence that had transferred during the hours she was away. I picked it up. The fabric was soft from wear. I brought it closer without thinking. The scent was intimate, private, and unmistakably mixed. For a few seconds I held it there, breathing it in, before the weight of what I was doing settled over me. I folded the kurti again, placed it back exactly as I had found it, and finished my bath quickly.

When I came out she was laying out the things for the evening pooja on the folding table — a small steel thali, packets of kumkum and turmeric, incense sticks, a box of cotton wicks, fresh flowers she had bought the previous morning, and the new diyas. She glanced at me once and then continued arranging.

“Wear something clean,” she said. “White or light-coloured shirt is better for the evening. We will do the Laxmi Pujan around six-thirty, after the building lights are on.”

The day moved in the familiar festival rhythm. We made a simple rangoli outside the door with coloured powder. She corrected the lines I drew, the way she always had. Neighbours passed on the stairs and exchanged the usual celebration greetings. Mrs. Desai from the second floor stopped for a moment, looked at the rangoli, looked at Ma, and smiled the same thin smile she had been using for weeks. Ma answered her politely and did not prolong the conversation.

In the afternoon she took out the saree she had decided to wear for the pooja — a deep red traditional silk with a wide gold border, one of the few good sarees she still owned from earlier years. The blouse that went with it was maroon, slightly older in cut but fitted. She carried both into the bathroom and closed the door.

The latch of that door had never been strong. This time, grabbing the opportunity, I managed to stand near the almirah, angled just enough, and watched inside the bathroom for a short stretch of time that felt longer than it was.

She had already removed the nighty. She stood in her petticoat and blouse, adjusting the fall of the petticoat first. The white bra she wore was the fuller one; the cups held the heavy soft weight of her breasts firmly, the skin above them smooth under the bathroom light. She unhooked the bra with one hand, and for a brief clear moment I saw the full bare shape of them as she reached for the blouse. They were heavier than the clothes usually revealed, the dark nipples contracting slightly in the air. She slipped the blouse on, fastened the hooks at the back with practised fingers, and then began the long process of pleating the saree. The petticoat sat low on her waist. When she turned to check the length in the small mirror, the full round curve of her hips and seat was outlined clearly under the thin cotton.

I stepped away before she finished. My face felt hot. I went to the window and stood there until I heard the bathroom door open again.

She came out fully dbangd. The deep red saree and gold border made her look older in a dignified way, more like the photographs from my father’s time. The blouse sat snug. The saree pleats were neat. She had put on the gold chain, the bangles, and a small maroon bindi. When she moved, the silk made a soft sound against itself. She looked at me, waiting for the ordinary comment a son was supposed to give.

“You look nice,” I said.

“It is old, but it still fits.” She adjusted the pallu once more. “Help me keep the matching bangles in the thali. Then we will start the preparations for the evening.”

The hours until six-thirty passed in small tasks. She made a simple prasad — sweet rice and a plate of fruits. I washed the diyas and helped fill them with oil. The fairy lights were switched on early. Outside, the building began to fill with the sound of crackers and the smell of smoke. Someone on the floor below played a loud aarti recording and then switched it off again.

At six-fifteen she set the final thali, lit the incense, and called me to sit. We did the Laxmi Pujan together in the small temple corner exactly as we had done for years — the same mantras she remembered from her own mother, the same circling of the diya, the same application of tilak on my forehead and then on hers. The red saree glowed in the light of the multiple diyas. For those twenty minutes the flat felt like it used to feel before everything changed. When the aarti ended she sat back on her heels, the silk pooling around her, and looked at the idols in silence for a long moment.

[Authorsunny]

Chapter 16 Continued

Then she spoke without looking at me.

“Azad will come for a short time after dinner. Around eight-thirty or nine. He will not stay late. I told him the building will be full of noise and people, so it is better he comes only for a little while.”

I kept my eyes on the flame of the nearest diya.

“You invited him on celebrations night.”

“Yes. He asked if he could come to see the lights and wish us. I said yes. It is one evening.”

She turned her head and looked at me directly. The tilak on her forehead was still fresh.

“I need you to give us some space when he is here. Not the whole night. One hour, maybe a little more. You can go downstairs and watch the crackers with the other boys from the building. Or walk to the main road and come back. I do not want the three of us sitting in this small room making polite conversation while the whole building is celebrating. It will feel forced.”

The request was calm, almost intellectual in its framing — space, comfort, the size of the room, the awkwardness of three people. Underneath it was the clear prioritisation I had come to recognise.

“You want me out of the house so you can have him here.”

“I want one hour of ease in my own house on celebration night. You can give me that. You have given me harder things.”

She stood up carefully, the red saree falling into place around her legs. The gold border caught the light of the diyas. She looked taller, more formal, and at the same time completely in control of the decision she had just announced.

“I am not asking you to leave the building or disappear. I am asking for a short gap. When he leaves I will message you. You come back up. We will light the remaining diyas together and sit.”

I stayed seated on the floor near the temple corner. The smell of incense and oil lamps filled the small space between us.

“People will see him coming upstairs on celebration night.”

“People have already seen many things. One more will not change their mouths. I am not hiding him. I am also not performing for them. He will come, he will sit for a short while, he will leave. You will give the space I have asked for. That is all.”

Her tone remained even, but the finality was absolute. She had decided the evening’s structure and was now informing me of my part in it.

I stood up. My knees felt stiff from sitting on the floor.

“I will go down when he is due.”

“Thank you.” She said it simply, without excessive gratitude. Then she reached out and adjusted the collar of my shirt the way she had at the mall, a brief motherly touch that sat strangely beside the request she had just made.

“Wear the new shirt if you go out. The one we bought. You look better in it.”

The rest of the hour before eight-thirty passed in a thin, careful quiet. She changed the oil in two diyas that had begun to smoke. She checked her phone once. She warmed the food that would be offered if he stayed long enough to eat. I sat on the bed and watched her move through the small flat in the red saree. Every time she bent, the silk pulled across her hips. Every time she raised her arms to fix a light, the blouse tightened across her chest. The image from the bathroom gap — the heavy bare breasts, the unhooked bra, the petticoat sitting low — kept returning whether I wanted it or not.

At eight-twenty she looked at me and nodded once.

“You should go now. He will be here in a few minutes. I will message when the gate closes behind him.”

I stood up, took the new shirt from the chair, and put it on. At the door I paused.

“Ma.”

“Yes.”

“Happy Anniversary.”

Her face softened for a moment, the festival softness that still belonged to the two of us.

“Happy Anniversary, Sunny. Go. Don’t sit on the stairs and wait. Properly go down and come back when I call.”

I left. The corridor smelled of incense from other flats and the sharper smoke of crackers. I walked down the three floors slowly. The white sedan was already visible near the entrance, parked a little away from the direct light. I did not stop to look longer. I walked out of the building gate and toward the main road, the sound of the building’s celebration growing behind me, the knowledge of who was climbing the stairs to our flat settling heavily in my chest.

The gap she had asked for had begun.

The red saree, the open invitation, and the controlled absence of her son — all of it sat together under the same celebration sky.

[Sandbox]

engaging story with perfect narration the scenes are literally played through words here.. kudos man keep it going

[Aragon]

Insane update bro.. Feel that watching a web series.. After finishing every part, there are lot of curiosities for the next part.. Carry on.

[Farz@123]

Nice one waiting for more

[Authorsunny]

Chapter 16.5 – The Seventy Minutes and the Return

23 November 2025 – Sunday night

The message from Ma had not yet come. I had been walking for what felt like a long time but was probably only twenty minutes. The main road was loud with festival traffic — families on scooters, children waving sparklers through auto windows, the repeated sharp cracks of bombs from the side lanes. I kept moving because standing still made the thoughts worse.

I stopped near the small juice centre that stayed open late and bought a bottle of water I did not need. The owner wished me Happy Anniversary. I nodded and walked on. Every time a white car passed I felt my stomach tighten even though I already knew his car was parked near our building. The knowledge did not stop the reaction.

I turned into a quieter lane and sat on the low boundary wall of a closed shop. From there the upper floors of our building were partially visible between the other structures. The fairy lights we had put up were on. Other windows blinked with their own decorations. Crackers burst in irregular intervals, throwing brief orange light across the walls. Somewhere on the second or third floor a loud aarti recording started and then stopped again.

I tried to calculate the time. I had left at approximately eight-twenty. She had said one hour, maybe a little more. The phone remained silent in my pocket. I took it out, checked the brightness, and put it back. The screen had no new notifications.

The thoughts that came were not orderly. They arrived in pieces.

The red saree. The way she had looked after the Laxmi Pujan, tilak still fresh on her forehead, the gold border of the saree catching the diya light. The calm voice in which she had asked me to give them space. The bathroom gap from the afternoon — the heavy bare shape of her breasts when the bra came off, the petticoat sitting low on her waist, the practised way she had hooked the blouse. The black kurti from the previous evening and the mixed scent I had held against my face for those few seconds before guilt made me put it down.

All of it rearranged itself around the fact that right now, in the same 10-by-12 room where we had just done the laxmi pujan, Azad was sitting with her.

I wondered whether she had kept the diyas burning. I wondered whether she had offered him prasad. The thought of an atheist man accepting prasad from the thali we had used for Laxmi Pujan produced a strange, sharp discomfort that was not only jealousy. It was something older and more complicated — a cultural boundary I had never needed to examine until my mother invited it into the house on the night of the festival itself.

I stood up and walked again. The lane opened onto a slightly larger road where a group of boys were bursting a long string of crackers. The sound was deafening for a few seconds. When it faded I realised my hands were closed into fists inside my pockets. I opened them.

The phone vibrated at nine-thirty-one.

*He has left. You can come.*

Two short sentences. No emoji. No additional softening.

I walked back faster than I had walked away. The white sedan was gone from its earlier spot. The building entrance smelled of gunpowder and incense. I climbed the floors slowly, giving myself the final minute to prepare for whatever version of the room I was about to enter.

The door was unlocked. I pushed it open.

The first thing that reached me was the smell. The incense from the pooja was still present, but under it and around it was a different note — stronger, sweeter, slightly metallic. Attar. Not the light perfume Ma usually wore. Something heavier, the kind sold in small glass bottles in certain markets, the kind that clung to clothes and skin for hours. It was unmistakable and it did not belong to any celebration tradition I knew.

The fairy lights were still on. Most of the diyas on the temple shelf had been extinguished; only two still burned with low flames. The red saree Ma had worn for the pooja was no longer on her body. She sat on the edge of the bed in the old cotton nighty, her hair open and slightly disordered, as if fingers had moved through it and then tried to smooth it back. The tilak on her forehead had been partially wiped; a faint red smear remained near her hairline. Her mouth looked softer, fuller. There was a small, irregular redness on the left side of her throat that had not been there when I left.

On the folding table stood a rectangular box that had not been there before. It was covered in dark green cloth with thin gold geometric patterns — the kind of packaging I had seen in shops that sold things for Eid or for formal other occasions. Beside it sat a small glass bottle of attar with a tight black cap, half used.

Ma looked up when I entered. Her expression was calm, almost tired, but not guilty.

“You came quickly.”

“You messaged.”

She nodded and gestured toward the chair.

“Sit. Drink water. You look warm.”

[Authorsunny]

Chapter 16.5 Continued

I did not sit immediately. I closed the door and stood near it for a moment, taking in the rest of the small changes. The pallu of the red saree was dbangd over the back of the chair, neatly but not with the same precision she had used when she first put it on. One end of it hung lower than the other. The temple corner looked slightly disturbed — the steel plate with flowers had been moved a few inches, and a single marigold had fallen to the floor near the leg of the table.

The green-cloth box sat in the centre of the folding table like a quiet announcement.

“What is that?” I asked.

Ma glanced at it.

“He brought it. Dates and some dry fruits. And the attar. He said it was from their house. His mother still prepares these things for occasions.”

She said it without embarrassment. A gift from another household, offered on the night of Laxmi Pujan, placed on the same table where the pooja thali had rested an hour earlier. The cultural mismatch was obvious. She had accepted it anyway.

I walked to the table and looked at the box more closely without opening it. The cloth was expensive, the kind that was reused year after year for formal offerings. The attar bottle had no brand label. When I lifted it the smell became stronger — rose and something darker, musk or oud. It was the same scent that now lived in the air of the flat and, more faintly, on her skin.

“You accepted it on celebration night.”

“Yes.” She adjusted the neckline of the nighty with one hand. The redness on her throat moved when she swallowed. “He brought it with good intention. I did not see the point in refusing. Dates are dates. Dry fruits are dry fruits. The festival does not become impure because the box came from his house.”

The sentence was calm and absolute. It left no space for the discomfort I felt.

I sat down on the chair. The red saree pallu brushed my arm. Up close it still held the smell of incense and, underneath, the same heavy attar.

Ma watched me for a few seconds and then spoke again, her voice quieter.

“You are looking at everything as if the room has been changed into something else. It has not. He came. We sat. He gave the box. He left. The diyas were already burning when he arrived. I did not stop the festival for him. I simply allowed one guest inside it.”

“You extinguished most of the diyas.”

“Some of them were smoking. I put them out. Two are still burning. You can light more if you want.”

She said it as if the detail was practical and nothing more. I looked at the two remaining flames. They were low and steady. The rest of the temple shelf looked exactly as it had after the aarti, except for the displaced flower plate and the single marigold on the floor.

The jealousy sat in my chest like a physical object. It was not only about the time she had given him. It was about the red saree that had been worn for Lakshmi Pujan and then worn for him. It was about the tilak that had been partially wiped. It was about the attar that now layered itself over the incense. It was about the fact that a man who did not pray to the idols in our corner had sat in this room on this night and left behind a gift that belonged to another calendar of sacred days.

“I know what you are thinking,” she said suddenly. “You are thinking that celebration and his presence cannot sit together. That the gift is wrong for the night. That I should have asked him to come on some other evening. I considered all of that before I said yes. Then I decided that the house is mine as well, and if I want to receive one person on this night I will receive him. The goddess does not become smaller because an atheist man sat in the same room for forty minutes.”

“He is not just an atheist man, Ma. He is the man you are with.”

“Yes. He is. I have not denied that. I am not going to deny it on celebration night either. The festival is about light and prosperity and the home. I kept the light. I kept the home. I also kept the part of my life that now includes him. Both things happened in the same evening. You will have to let them exist together.”

She drank her water and kept the glass on the table beside the green box. The attar smell rose again when she moved.

I looked at the redness on her throat. She noticed the direction of my gaze and did not cover it.

“It will fade,” she said simply. “By morning it will be less. Do not make a story out of every mark.”

“You are speaking as if these things are ordinary.”

“They are becoming ordinary for me. That is the part you are still resisting.”

She sat back down on the bed. The nighty settled around her legs. One shoulder had slipped slightly, showing the soft beginning of her upper arm and the edge of her collarbone. The heavy attar scent moved with her. I thought of the afternoon glimpse through the bathroom gap — the unhooked bra, the full bare weight of her breasts, the petticoat — and then of the same body now sitting across from me after seventy minutes alone with him. The jealousy sharpened into something that felt almost like grief.

“Did you offer him prasad?” I asked.

She looked at me for a long moment.

“I offered him tea and the dates he himself had brought. I did not make a performance of the prasad. He did not ask for it. We did not turn the evening into a religious debate. He came as a guest. I received him as a guest who is also more than a guest. That is all.”

“And the saree?”

“What about the saree?”

“You wore it for the pooja. Then you kept it on while he was here.”

Her eyes stayed steady.

“Yes. I did not change between the aarti and his arrival. There was no time and there was no need. The saree was for the evening. The evening included both the pooja and his visit. I am not going to split myself into two different women for the same night.”

The statement landed with quiet finality. She had refused the separation I was still trying to maintain in my head — the sacred and the physical, the mother who did Laxmi Pujan and the woman who carried a man’s mark on her throat and his attar on her skin. In her mind they had already become one continuous person.

I looked again at the green-cloth box and the small bottle of attar. The cultural dissonance remained. A gift that belonged to another rhythm of faith and celebration now sat in the centre of our table. She had accepted it, placed it there, and defended the decision without raising her voice.

“I don’t know how to feel about any of this,” I said finally.

“You do not have to know tonight. You only have to sleep in this house and get up tomorrow. The rest can take its time.”

She stood up, extinguished the two remaining diyas with a wet finger, and switched off the fairy lights one by one. The room fell into the softer darkness of the single night bulb near the bathroom. She came back to the bed and lay down on her side, facing me.

“The box can stay on the table until morning,” she said. “We will put the dates in a steel container later. The attar — I will keep it. I like the smell.”

She closed her eyes. After a few minutes her breathing slowed, but I did not think she was fully asleep. The redness on her throat remained visible even in the dim light. The heavy scent of attar continued to move quietly through the air of the small flat, layering itself permanently over the memory of incense and oil lamps.

I lay on my back and stared at the ceiling.

The seventy minutes were over.

The guest had come and gone.

The festival had continued around his presence.

And my mother had returned to her side of the bed carrying both the tilak of the goddess and the mark of the man, refusing to treat them as contradictions.

The green box sat on the table in the dark.

The attar remained on her skin.

And the small house held the full weight of a celebration night that had refused to stay simple.

[Leo Arya]

Your writing skill amazed us... Keep going man... Waiting for the next

[Farz@123]

Wow just awesome

[RCF]

Is Sunny a mature adult or a stupid ass kid who doesn't know how to respect his mother's personal life and its privacy? When two adults who lost their respective spouses are trying to build a life together, what is his bloody problem lol

Trying to sniff everything like a street dog and lifting his leg to make a scene. This whole investigative attitude of Sunny is getting tiring now, when will he grow up!

~RCF

[Aragon]

Again amazing updates... Waiting for the next one...

[baddu]

Excellent writing. Waiting for update.

[Authorsunny]

Is Sunny a mature adult or a stupid ass kid who doesn't know how to respect his mother's personal life and its privacy? When two adults who lost their respective spouses are trying to build a life together, what is his bloody problem lol

Trying to sniff everything like a street dog and lifting his leg to make a scene. This whole investigative attitude of Sunny is getting tiring now, when will he grow up!

~RCF

Hi RCF,

Thank you for the thoughtful comment. I really appreciate you taking the time to share your thoughts.

This story is written entirely from Sunny’s point of view in a diary-style format. My goal is to keep it as close to real life as possible, without clear heroes or villains. It’s more of a life journey than a traditional story.

At this stage, Sunny isn’t being investigative. He’s simply observing everything around him, processing it in his own way, and still not ready to fully accept what’s happening. That tension is intentional.

Thanks again for the feedback. Looking forward to hearing more of your thoughts as the story continues.

[Authorsunny]

Chapter 17 – Part 1

24 November 2025 – Monday

The morning after Laxmi Pujan began with the heavy, lingering smell of attar still sitting in the corners of the flat. The green-cloth box of dates and dry fruits remained on the folding table exactly where it had been left the previous night. Two diyas on the temple shelf had burned themselves out completely; only blackened wicks and a thin film of oil remained. The fairy lights were off. Daylight came in through the grill in a flat, grey November way.

I woke to the sound of Ma’s voice.

She was in the kitchen corner, phone pressed between her shoulder and ear, pouring water into the steel vessel with one hand. The old nighty she wore had slipped off one shoulder. Her hair was open and slightly tangled from sleep. She spoke in a low, warm tone that was already different from the voice she used with me.

“Yes… I slept… the mark is still there a little… don’t laugh… yes, I am listening…”

A short pause. She smiled at whatever he said, the same private smile I had seen in the dark two nights earlier.

“Today is better. The building will be quieter in the afternoon. Most people go out… yes, I can come… Sunny is here, but it is all right… I will ask him…”

She turned slightly and saw that my eyes were open. She did not end the call or change her tone.

“He is awake now… I will speak to him and message you… yes… saree with sleeveless blouse… as you decide… all right, Azad Sahab… I will call when we leave.”

She cut the call, kept the phone on the counter, and looked at me with a calm, almost bright expression.

“Good morning. Wake up now, it is already late.”

I sat up. The sheet fell to my waist. The air in the room still carried the denser scent from the previous night.

“That was Azad uncle?” I said.

“Yes. He asked about today. There is a mall near the highway with better shops for clothes and a proper cracker market a little further. He suggested we go together. Clothes for you, some things for the house, and crackers for the evening. He will come with the car.”

She said it as if she was announcing a normal family outing.

“We?”

“You and I. He will drive. It is simpler. The bike is new, no need to take it into that traffic today.”

She poured the tea and brought both glasses to the folding table. When she sat opposite me the nighty stretched across her full breasts.

“I will mostly wear saree again for today,” she said after a first sip. “Something a little better and more comfortable than yesterday’s. Yesterday’s was specifically for puja. Today I want something lighter, something that feels expensive. You also wear something nice, beta. Maybe that new shirt you last wore for the office function. It will suit you.”

I smiled and nodded.

She finished her tea faster than usual, stood up, and opened the almirah. From the upper shelf she took out a carefully folded peach colored saree I had never seen her wear before.

The blouse was the same soft peach, made of raw silk. She also took out a small plastic box of jewellery and a bottle of liquid foundation she rarely used.

“I am going to get ready properly today,” she said, almost to herself. “It is still celebration time. No need to look half-done.”

She carried the folded peach saree, the matching blouse, a fresh petticoat and the small jewellery box into the bathroom and pushed the door until it rested against the frame. The usual narrow gap remained. I stayed near the almirah, close enough to see without making my presence obvious.

The nighty came off first. She pulled it over her head in one smooth motion and dropped it on the stool. For a few clear seconds she stood completely bare except for the plain light-grey panties that sat low on her hips. The morning light from the tiny bathroom window fell across her skin. Her breasts were full and heavy, the dark nipples soft in the warm air. They shifted with the slight movement of her breathing. Her stomach was smooth, the waist still defined, the hips wide and rounded. The grey cloth of the panties cut across the fullest part of her seat, the fabric stretching whenever she turned.

She took the black lace bra from the stool. Thin lace cups, satin underband, delicate enough that skin showed through the pattern. She bent forward from the waist, let her breasts fall into the cups, and reached behind to hook it. The lace settled and lifted, gathering the soft weight into a full, rounded shape. She adjusted each side with her fingers, making sure the underwire sat correctly, then straightened. The black lace against her wheatish skin looked deliberate and private. The deep cleavage it created was already pronounced.

Next she stepped into the petticoat, pulled it up, and tied the drawstring firmly at her waist. The cotton sat smooth over her hips. Then she picked up the soft peach blouse. It was sleeveless, made of the same fine material as the saree, with a wide scoop neck and thin straps that left her shoulders and the upper part of her chest completely open. She slipped her arms through the straps and pulled the blouse down. The wide neck dropped low. The thin straps sat delicately on her shoulders. The fit was close, it held her firmly and made the soft upper curve of her breasts rise clearly above the neckline. The black lace of the bra was visible in a thin line along the edges whenever she moved.

She then pulled out a golden necklace from the jewelry box and tried to put it on. She tried to clasp the hook multiple times, but she just couldn't do it.

Then she called out.

“Sunny. Come for a minute.”

[Authorsunny]

Chapter 17 – Part 1 Continued

I stepped to the bathroom door and pushed it open wider. She stood with her back to me, both hands holding the ends of the thin gold chain at the nape of her neck. The sleeveless blouse left her entire upper back bare except for the thin straps and the black bra band. The skin looked warm and smooth.

“The clasp,” she said. “It always sticks. Close it for me please.”

I took the two ends. My fingers brushed the back of her neck. The chain was fine, the clasp was small and needed pressure. I worked it closed while standing close enough to smell the light perfume she had already sprayed on her wrists and the clean scent of her skin. When the clasp finally clicked she lowered her hands and turned her head slightly.

“Thank you beta. You haven't changed yet? Get ready, we will get late otherwise”.

Her face was only a short distance from mine. The wide scoop of the blouse showed the full soft line of her cleavage and the black lace beneath. She held my gaze for a second longer than necessary, then nodded toward the door.

I stepped out. She followed a moment later, carrying the folded peach silk chiffon saree. She was now in only the fitted sleeveless blouse and the petticoat. The thin straps and wide neck made her look more exposed than she ever did in a kurti. The black lace peeped at the edges of the neckline with every breath. The petticoat clung to the round heavy shape of her hips and seat. She walked to the larger mirror near the almirah, the one with the wider glass that she used only when she needed full-length view, and placed the saree on the bed for a moment.

I sat on the chair and watched because there was nowhere else to look in the small room.

She unfolded the saree carefully. Soft peach silk chiffon, light and expensive-looking, with a fine sheen that moved even in the ordinary tube light. A wide gold zari border ran along the edge. Tiny woven butis were scattered across the body of the fabric so that they caught the light only when the cloth shifted. I had never seen her wear this saree before. It did not look like something she had bought from the usual local shops. The quality sat quietly above the clothes she had worn for years.

She stepped into the first pleats, working with both hands, measuring and folding against her petticoat. The chiffon was delicate, she handled it slowly. Once the pleats were tucked and secured at the waist she brought the long end around and dbangd the pallu over her left shoulder. The light material settled against her body and followed every curve the full breasts under the fitted blouse, the soft waist, the heavy round hips. She pinned the pallu at the shoulder with a small gold brooch, then turned slowly in front of the mirror, checking the fall from the front, the side and the back.

The sleeveless blouse with its thin straps and wide scoop neck left her arms and the upper swell of her breasts open. Every time she raised her arms to adjust the pallu the black lace shifted and the soft flesh moved. The gold zari border of the saree framed her hips and the lower curve of her seat when she turned. The whole effect was lighter, more fluid and more openly feminine than the heavier silk she had worn for the puja.

She looked at my reflection in the mirror.

“You have not seen this one before.”

“No.”

“It was kept aside. Today felt like the right day.” She smoothed the pallu once more with both hands. “Does the neck look too open?”

“Mmm, yeah. But….it looks… fine.”

She gave a small, knowing smile and did not ask again.

She sat on the edge of the bed, the soft peach chiffon pooling around her legs, and opened the small bottle of nail polish. The colour was same peach that matched the saree exactly. She began with her toenails, bending forward so that the wide scoop of the blouse fell further open. The black lace and the full upper curve of her breasts were clearly visible from where I sat. She painted each toenail with slow, careful strokes, then blew on them lightly. After the toes she started on her fingernails, resting one hand at a time on her thigh.

Halfway through the left hand she looked up.

“Sunny, hold this for a minute.”

She held out the open bottle. I stood and took it. She finished the remaining nails while I held the bottle steady. The proximity made the dilemma sharper. The soft peach polish, the careful way she worked, the open neckline only inches away, the knowledge that all of this careful preparation was for the man who would soon be waiting downstairs, everything sat together in the same moment. Part of me wanted to stay exactly where I was, holding the bottle, watching her hands and the rise of her breath. The other part wanted to step back and put distance between myself and the clear fact that she was making herself beautiful for someone else.

She finished, took the bottle from me, closed it, and held both hands out in front of her, fingers spread, waiting for the polish to set.

“Thank you,” she said quietly. “For all the help today.”

I nodded and returned to the chair.

She then looked at my face in the mirror.

“You are quiet today.”

“I am fine.”

“You are not fine. You are thinking too many things. I can see it.” She turned to face me fully. The jhumkas swung and then settled. “I am getting ready and going for shopping with Azad Sahab. You are coming with us. That is the plan for today. I want you to be part of it without carrying that heavy face the whole time. Can you do that?”

The question was soft. The expectation underneath it was not.

“I will try.”

“Trying is enough for now.” She reached up and smoothed the collar of the Shirt I was wearing, a brief motherly gesture that sat strangely against the elaborate way she herself was dressed. “Wear the new dark jeans. It would look better. Go.”

I went to the washroom and changed my pants with darker jeans. When I came out she was waiting for her nails to dry completely.

She looked at me and said, "See, I told you. It looks good now.”

Then she stood, slipped her feet into a pair of soft gold sandals with a thin strap and a low heel, and walked once more to the mirror. The light peach chiffon moved with her. The gold zari border caught the tube light. The heavy jhumkas she now put on swung against her neck. She added the thin gold bangles, the maroon bindi, and a careful line of kajal. The lipstick she chose was a soft rose that sat close to the colour of the polish.

When she finally turned away from the mirror the transformation was complete. The expensive peach silk chiffon saree, the fitted sleeveless blouse with its thin straps and wide scoop, the black lace underneath that only I had seen in full, the fresh nail polish, the jhumkas, the bangles, the bindi, everything had been arranged with slow, deliberate care. She looked like a woman who knew exactly how she wanted to be seen.

She picked up her handbag and checked her phone.

“He has started,” she said. “He will be here in fifteen minutes. Take whatever you need. Wallet, keys, phone. We should go down in time.”

I stood and collected my things. The small flat felt even smaller with her standing in the centre of it in that saree. She had prepared herself in front of me, asked for my help with the clasp and the nail polish, and allowed me to watch the entire process. At the same time every detail had been chosen for the man who was already on his way.

She walked to the door and looked back once.

“Come. Don’t make that face the whole day. It is only shopping and crackers. We will be home before evening.”

I followed her out of the flat and down the stairs. The soft peach chiffon whispered with every step. The thin straps of the blouse left her shoulders bare. Behind us the 10-by-12 room still held the faint smell of nail polish and her perfume. Ahead of us the white car would soon appear, and the day she had dressed for would properly begin.

[Authorsunny]

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[Aragon]

Eagerly waiting to know what will happen during the shopping...!!!

[Minki]

be aware this story has been stop any time is site par kewal ab one sided story hi chal sakti ha so read and enjoy this story