[Authorsunny]

Chapter 29 - The first post
December 06, 2025

My chest still held the shape of her breasts through the thin cotton. The border she had drawn sat clear in my head—looking was a man’s reaction, nothing more. I stood, took a fresh towel from the rack, and went into the bathroom. I pulled the door as far as it would go.

The shorts from the night were still on me. The lace panty was folded small in the right pocket, warm from my thigh. I took it out under the running water, held it for a second—damp in the middle still, the scent mixed and sharp—then set it on the narrow ledge above the tap while I soaped. When I finished I dried quickly, wrapped the towel at my waist, and carried the panty out in my fist, low against my side. My office bag sat near the wall by the almirah, the one she rarely opened. I unzipped the front pocket, pushed the lace deep under the charger cable and a couple of old receipts, and closed it. The bag looked ordinary again.

She was already waiting with her own towel when I came out. She went in. I heard the hook find the loop, then the bucket fill, then the mug. The gap near the frame stayed the same as always—two fingers wide. I sat on the edge of the bed and kept my eyes on the floor at first. The sound of water on skin came through. After a minute I lifted my head.

She had her back half-turned to the gap. The nighty was off. I saw the line of her spine, the dip of her waist, the start of her ass. Then she raised one arm and turned a little more. Under the left breast, and again under the right, the skin showed two clear red bands where the wire had sat all evening. The marks were darker at the outer edges, almost raw where the underwire had pressed longest. She touched the left one with two fingers, pressed gently, and her shoulder tightened. A small sound left her—more air than voice. She checked the right side the same way, slower. The skin there looked worse, a thin line of broken colour just under the curve. She stood like that for a few seconds, fingers resting on the mark, water still running down her stomach and over the soft plane above her navel. Then she reached for the mug again and the view closed.

I looked away. The image stayed. The red lines. The way her fingers had tested them. The fact that the bra I had paid for had left those marks, and that she had worn it anyway because he wanted the shape held for the hall.

She came out ten minutes wearing the same nighty, hair wet at the ends and twisted up with a clip. The bite was still uncovered. She went straight to the almirah, pulled out a green salwar and a cream kameez with small black flowers, and changed behind the thin curtain. When she stepped out the kameez sat loose over her chest. No bra line showed. The fabric moved when she walked. She tied her hair properly, and came to the folding table.

Breakfast was poha. She had already started it while I was in the bathroom. We sat. The steel plates, the green chillies on the side, the ordinary smell of mustard seeds. For a while neither of us spoke much. She asked if the taste was right. I said yes. She ate slowly, one hand resting near her lower back once, then moving away.

Halfway through she looked at me over the plate.

“You remember what I said earlier,” she said. “About telling me things. Like before.”

“I remember.”

“I meant it.” She pushed a piece of potato to the side. “Even the things boys don’t usually tell their mothers. If there is a girl. If you like someone. If you are thinking of… you know. Doing something with her.” She gave a small, almost shy laugh. “I am asking because I don’t want you to sit with it alone the way you did with that college girl.”

“Yes Ma, I understand.”

She met my eyes, looked deep and suddenly asked. “Are you still a virgin, Sunny?”

The question landed straight. I felt heat at the back of my neck. The plate was half empty. Outside, a scooter passed.

“What? Ma?,” I said.

“Arey..I am just asking, just answer.”

“Yes, I am.”

She nodded once, as if she had expected it and was only confirming. “Then if there is someone you want to… break that with. You can tell me. Like a friend. I will not make a face. I will not ask her name if you don’t want to give it. I only want to know you are not hiding the whole thing from me.” She smiled, small and real. “That is the openness I was talking about. You look. I know you look. You can say the sound from last night reached you. That stays on your side. But if something else is happening in your life—someone—you bring it here. We are only two. If we start keeping those doors closed, both of us will be tired for nothing.”

I did not have an answer ready. She let the silence sit for a moment, then reached for her phone on the table.

“Anyway. I have already sent you the grocery list on WhatsApp. Nothing big. Milk, bread, the usual. And two things from the medical.” She set the phone down. “I-pill. And Burnol cream.”

I looked at her. “I-pill?”

“Yes.” She kept her voice even, the same tone she used for milk. “Last night he came inside me. I think. At this age pregnancy is rare. Very rare. But it is still possible. I don’t want to sit and wait and then find out. So I will take it today. Better now than later.”

“Does he know you are buying it?”

She paused. Her fingers touched the edge of the plate. “I will tell him when he calls. Or when he comes. He was drunk. I was also not thinking straight for that one minute. I asked him to wear it. He said no. Then I said the other thing. Both happened. I am not going to fight about last night. I am only not taking the risk.” She looked at me. “You can buy it. And, if you don’t want to, say so. I will go myself after some time.”

“I will get it, Ma” I said. The words came out before I had decided. “And why the Burnol?”

“That wired Bra beta” She touched the side of her chest lightly through the kameez, not pressing. “The wire sat too long. My skin is like that. It marks easily. Two lines under here. Red. Not open wounds. Just burns from the pressure. Burnol will settle it. Nothing serious.” She gave a short breath. 

I opened my mouth. The question about why she had worn it if she already knew her skin was sensitive was already forming. Her phone rang before I could speak.

She picked it up, glanced at the screen, and answered.

“Haan. Third floor. Corner flat. Lift is not working, so take stairs. Yes, I am at home. Come up.” She cut the call and set the phone down. “Delivery. They are downstairs. They will need help with the stairs maybe.”

The bell rang two minutes later. She opened. Two men stood on the landing with a hand trolley. Both boxes were large, brown, with the LG logo printed clear on the side. Split AC. Indoor and outdoor unit. The taller one checked a slip.

“Anjali Sharma? For Azad Sahab?”

“Yes,” she said. “This is the flat.”

They looked at her a second longer than the slip needed. The shorter one had a small smile he tried to keep professional. She had tied her hair back; the bite showed above the kameez neck. The fabric sat soft over her chest. Even in the corridor light she looked different from the women who usually opened doors for deliveries in this building.

“It is heavy, madam,” the taller one said. “We will keep both here? Or inside?”

“Inside. Near that corner.” She pointed. “One on top of the other is fine. The fitting person is coming today, no?”

“Yes, madam. He will call before he reaches. Same-day fitting.” They wheeled the trolley in. The boxes took most of the free floor once they were set down. The room felt smaller at once. While they adjusted the top box, the shorter one spoke without looking up.

Then she signed the slip he held out. Her signature was the same quick one she used on building papers. They asked for water. She brought two steel glasses. They drank standing, eyes moving once more over the flat, over her, over the boxes. When they finished, the taller one rubbed his hands on his shirt.

“Tip, madam?.”

She opened her purse, took out a hundred-rupee note, and held it out. “This much. The rest is already in the bill, I think.”

They took it. The shorter one folded it once and nodded. “Thank you, madam.” They took the trolley, closed the door behind them, and their steps went down the stairs.

The boxes stayed. Brown cardboard, LG in blue. The room smelled of new packing and the poha still on the table.

She looked at them, then at me. “He sent an AC. He gets sweaty when he is here. The fan is not enough for him after some time. And anyway, it will be there for us also. Summer is not far.” She rubbed her lower back once, slowly. “I need to lie down for a little while. Last night is still in the body. Back is pulling. Head is also light. You go for the grocery and the medical. List is on your phone. If you want lunch, order something. I can skip. Poha was enough.”

She picked up her phone, saw the black screen, and held it out. “Pin this to the charger before you go. It died again.”

I took it, plugged it in near the bed, and watched the charging light come on. She had already moved to the bed, pushed the blanket aside, and lain down on her side facing the wall. The kameez rode a little at her waist. One hand rested on her lower back. Her eyes were closed.

I changed into a plain t-shirt and jeans, took the office bag out of habit, and checked the pocket once. The lace was still there, buried. At the door I looked back. The boxes took the corner. She was still. The bite showed against the pillow. The fan turned over both of us and over the new cardboard.

I locked the door and went down. I checked the time, it was eleven-thirty.

The grocery was quick. The shop near the building knew the list by now. Milk, bread, eggs, the small packet of detergent she had added. I paid and kept the bag light in one hand. The medical part sat heavier.

Two shops on the main road knew my face. One of them knew hers as well; she had bought iron tablets and pain cream there for years. I walked past both without slowing. Further down, past the signal, there was a smaller medical near the single-screen theatre. I had never gone in. The board was faded. A man in a white coat stood behind the counter with two customers already waiting.

I stood outside for a minute, then went in and took a place at the side. An older woman asked for blood-pressure tablets. A young man asked for cough syrup and paid. When the counter was clear I stepped up.

“I-pill,” I said. “And Burnol cream. The small tube.”

The man did not look at my face for long. He turned, took the green-and-white I-pill pack from a shelf behind him, then the Burnol from a lower drawer. He set both on the counter, rang the amount, and waited. I paid in cash. He dropped them into a small brown paper packet, folded the top once, and handed it over.

“Anything else?”

“No.”

I walked out. The packet was light in my hand. On the footpath I opened it once, checked both items were there, and closed it again. The stress that had sat in my chest since she named the I-pill had already started to thin. It had not been the question I expected. The man had not asked who it was for. He had not looked twice. I kept walking toward the building, the boxes waiting upstairs, her resting on the same bed, the new boundary still in place and the red marks still under her kameez.

The grocery bag knocked lightly against my knee with every other step. The brown paper packet holding the I-pill and the small tube of Burnol had grown warm against my palm. I had crossed the signal near the single-screen theatre and was walking the narrower lane that ran behind the closed shops when the phone buzzed once against my thigh. I did not stop at once. I shifted both bags into my left hand, freed my right, and took the phone out while I kept moving. The notification sat clear on the lock screen.

Anjali Sharma posted a new post.

My steps slowed on their own. The lane ahead was open and bright. I looked for a place where the light broke and found it a few shops down, under the extended awning of a closed stationery store where the footpath narrowed and the shadow lay thick. I stepped in, set the grocery bag down between my feet so it would not swing against my leg, and unlocked the screen. Yesterday the account had shown twenty-seven followers and an empty grid. The display picture had been a tight crop of her face in the cream saree from October. I had accepted her request and sent one back that had stayed pending the whole time she was inside the hall with a dead phone. Now there was a post. The first one. My thumb hovered over it for a second, then opened.

Four photographs. The quality was immediately different from anything a phone held at arm’s length would give. Sharp focus, even light, the kind of framing that comes from someone who has already decided where the subject should stand.

The first was a solo portrait of her against a plain dark backdrop, clearly taken inside a photo booth that had been set up in one corner of the hall. The lighting was soft and controlled, no harsh flash. She stood straight, weight even on both feet. The floral work in the net caught small points of light. The V of the blouse ran clean and deep from the hollow of her throat. The wired cups held her breasts high and full; the inner curves were bare and pale against the black, the line between them precise and unbroken, the satin edge of the bra just visible where the cut ended. Her shoulders were bare. Her expression was composed, but not entirely settled. The smile was small and held. Her eyes met the camera and then seemed to rest a fraction lower, as if she had agreed to the pose and was still measuring how long she needed to keep it. The thin new necklace at her throat and the studs in her ears caught the light cleanly. She looked expensive. She also looked as if she was managing the exposure one careful breath at a time.

The second solo was taken from a slight three-quarter angle in the same booth. She had turned her body so the left side faced the lens more fully. One hand rested lightly at her waist, fingers holding the edge of the pallu so it stayed where she had placed it. The deep cut opened further with the angle. The full weight of her left breast sat bold and rounded in the frame, lifted by the wire, the skin above the cup smooth and tight. The right breast remained half in softer shadow, but the shape and the way the satin supported it were clear. Her face was nearly in profile for a moment, then she glanced toward the lens. The glance was quick. Colour sat on her cheeks beneath the makeup. She was coping with the camera, not disappearing from it. The photograph still presented the blouse as intentional, the body offered with care rather than caught by accident.

I felt the first low pull in my stomach and lower. I swiped.

The third photograph was the two of them. Azad Sahab stood close behind her, one hand firm and low at her waist over the net, fingers spread so the cloth and the body under it were gathered into his hold. His other hand rested on her upper arm. He looked straight at the camera, beard neat, white shirt open at the throat so the gold chain and the dark hair of his chest showed, expression easy and commanding, as if the frame had been arranged around him. She stood in front of him, body angled slightly into that hold. Her face was turned toward him, not the lens. The set hair fell away from her neck. The blouse pulled with the stance so both breasts sat deeper in the V, heavy and lifted, the inner halves fully shown, the line between them unbroken. Her left hand had risen to rest on his chest, fingers light against the white shirt, the silver bracelet visible. She looked at his face. The smile was smaller than in the solos, private, and a trace of the same caution remained in her eyes, but she had not stepped out from under his hand. He held her as if the pose had already been decided and she had agreed to stand inside it.

The fourth was the group. Dhiraj sir and his wife stood at the centre in formal evening clothes, two other couples flanking them, Azad Sahab and her on the right. The white marble and the high lamps made the clothes and the jewellery look rich. She stood straight beside him, pallu dbangd properly over one shoulder. She was smiling toward the camera, the managed hall smile, polite and held in place. Azad Sahab’s hand rested at the small of her back, low enough to gather the net and keep her close. He looked at the lens the same way he had in the couple photograph—direct, unhurried, in charge of the space around him. She stood inside that hand and kept the smile. From the outside the line of people read as couples who belonged there.

The caption underneath was short.

A beautiful and memorable evening! Happy Anniversary @Dhiraj sir. 

I stayed under the awning. The grocery bag rested against my ankle. In the first portrait she had faced the camera with the V open and her back half-turned, expression steady enough to hold the frame even while something in her eyes still measured the moment. In the couple photograph she had looked at him while his hand sat firm and low at her waist. These were not quick snaps taken between conversations. The light had been set. She had stood in it. She was shy in the small visible ways—a quicker glance, colour that the makeup had not fully covered, a smile that took a second to settle—and she had still given the pose. Azad Sahab had not looked shy in any of the frames. His hand, his stance, the direct way he met the lens all read as a man who had already decided how the photographs should look.

My cock thickened steadily against the seam of the jeans. I went back to the first portrait and looked again at the bare inner curves, the precise line the wire created, the careful management of her mouth. Then I swiped to the couple shot and stayed on his hand at her waist, her eyes on his face, the full weight of her breasts held up in the black while she looked only at him. I opened the profile. Two hundred followers. The list was hidden. Two hundred people could already open the post and see the portrait, the deep cut held open on purpose, the way she stood inside his hand in both the couple photograph and the group. Yesterday the grid had been empty. I went through the four photographs again, slower this time. She was coping in every frame, and the coping still left her body presented beside his for anyone who found the account. The building already had its words and its photographs taken from windows. Now these images were outside the lane, sharp, permanent, and arranged. I felt sweat begin under my collar and along the strap where the bag had rested. The affair had been given a public shape that could not be walked back by speaking softly on a landing.

I locked the phone, picked up the grocery bag, and stepped out from under the awning into the brighter lane. The remaining walk to the building was short. At the gate the watchman looked up from the steel glass of tea in his hand, saw the bags, and gave the small nod he gave to anyone who belonged to one of the floors. Azad Sahab’s ground-floor door was closed. No light showed under it. No sound came through. On the stairs a boy from the second floor came down with a football tucked under one arm. He glanced at me once, the quick look of someone who has already heard talk, and kept going without slowing. At our landing the neighbour who had stood outside his door in a baniyan the night before was turning his key. He saw me. His eyes moved from my face to the grocery bag and back. His mouth stayed tight. He did not speak. He went inside and shut the latch with a short, hard sound that carried in the corridor.

I stood in front of our door with the key warm in my hand. She had been asleep when I left, the phone dead on the charger near the bed. If she had posted these photographs she would have had to wake, turn the handset on, and upload them. I turned the key and pushed the door open on the half-drawn latch, keeping the movement small.

The tube light was still off. Only the pale light from the grill entered the room. She lay on her side facing the wall, snoring in small, even breaths that had not changed since I left. The kameez had ridden up high enough that a wide band of her waist showed above the salwar, the soft skin warm-looking in the low light, the place where the net saree had sat the night before. One arm was raised on the pillow, elbow bent, so the sleeve had fallen back. The loose neck of the kameez had shifted with the arm. The upper curves of both breasts were bare to the grill light, heavy and soft without the wire, the start of the cleavage deep. She had not stirred. The phone was still exactly where I had left it, screen black, the charging light steady.

I set the grocery bag and the paper packet on the folding table and sat on the edge of the bed near her feet. I picked up her phone. The lock screen showed fifty percent. She had not unlocked it. The post had gone up while the handset stayed dead on our charger.

I pressed the side button. The password field appeared. I tried the old code. It shook once and rejected. I tried it again, slower, making sure of each number. Same refusal. She had changed it. I set the phone back on the charger without a third attempt.

My own phone was already in my hand. I opened her profile. The follower count had moved from two hundred to two hundred and twenty. Twenty more since I had stood under the awning. I opened the first portrait again. On the bed her waist rose and fell with the small snore. The kameez had slipped enough that the soft upper swell of one breast kept catching the grill light and losing it. I pressed the heel of my hand over the front of my jeans. I did not open them. She was too close; one shift of her arm or a break in the snore and she could wake. I rubbed slow circles through the denim, the pressure dull and direct against my cock where it had already thickened. My eyes moved between the portrait on the screen and the sleeping line of her body. The image stayed bright. Her managed expression. The weight the wire had held up for the hall and for the camera. In the other photograph his hand firm at her waist, her eyes on his face. Heat built steadily under my palm. I came inside the jeans, a hot pulse that soaked through the cloth against my hand, teeth closed hard on the inside of my cheek so no sound left my mouth. The wet spread under my palm. I stayed still, breathing through my nose, until the last of it eased.

I wiped my hand once on the side of my t-shirt and shifted my weight so the wet patch was not pressed against the mattress. I stood, moved to the low wooden seating under the window, and sat first, then lay on my side. The grill light fell across my legs. The two large AC boxes stood in the corner, brown and square, taking up the space she had cleared. Her snoring continued, even and unchanged. I kept the phone in my hand, closed now, the damp denim cooling slowly against my skin, and closed my eyes.

[wxxxx]

I sincerely thank the author "Authorsunny" for publishing "Chapter 29 - The first post December 06, 2025" of the story "My mother and the landlord (Slow burn, long read)". Amazing update, readers are fascinated to hear the playful conversation between Sunny's mother Anjali Sharma and Sunny about “I-pill. And Burnol cream.”

Readers are saddened by Sunny's mother Anjali Sharma changing the password of her mobile, readers hope that Anjali Sharma will share the new password with her son Sunny.

Sunny returned from the grocery store and saw her mother Anjali Sharma sleeping, and the following Sunny's reaction was fascinated to see:

[ On the bed her waist rose and fell with the small snore. The kameez had slipped enough that the soft upper swell of one breast kept catching the grill light and losing it. I pressed the heel of my hand over the front of my jeans. I did not open them. She was too close; one shift of her arm or a break in the snore and she could wake. I rubbed slow circles through the denim, the pressure dull and direct against my cock where it had already thickened. My eyes moved between the portrait on the screen and the sleeping line of her body. The image stayed bright. Her managed expression. The weight the wire had held up for the hall and for the camera. In the other photograph his hand firm at her waist, her eyes on his face. Heat built steadily under my palm. I came inside the jeans, a hot pulse that soaked through the cloth against my hand, teeth closed hard on the inside of my cheek so no sound left my mouth. The wet spread under my palm. I stayed still, breathing through my nose, until the last of it eased. ]

In this episode, Anjali Sharma confirms from her son Sunny that her son Sunny is still a virgin at 21 years old. Readers want the relationship between mother Anjali Sharma and son Sunny to be open.

[mzafar]

After returning from the grocery store and seeing his mother, Anjali Sharma, asleep—and having also viewed photos she posted online—readers were left thrilled by the following POV (point of view) shared by her son, Sunny:

"The kameez had slipped enough that the soft upper swell of one breast kept catching the grill light and losing it. I pressed the heel of my hand over the front of my jeans. I did not open them. She was too close; one shift of her arm or a break in the snore and she could wake. I rubbed slow circles through the denim, the pressure dull and direct against my cock where it had already thickened. My eyes moved between the portrait on the screen and the sleeping line of her body. The image stayed bright. Her managed expression. The weight the wire had held up for the hall and for the camera. In the other photograph his hand firm at her waist, her eyes on his face. Heat built steadily under my palm. I came inside the jeans, a hot pulse that soaked through the cloth against my hand, teeth closed hard on the inside of my cheek so no sound left my mouth. The wet spread under my palm. I stayed still, breathing through my nose, until the last of it eased."

Readers are captivated by this provocative piece from the author, "Authorsunny," and are eagerly awaiting the next thrilling update.

[Paty@123]

I request not to make this as incest story

[wxxxx]

I request not to make this as incest story

Readers thoroughly enjoy the writing of the author "Authorsunny."

[mzafar]

I request not to make this as incest story

Readers feel a sense of excitement when reading the works of the respected, popular, and realistic author "Authorsunny." Sunny and his mother, Mrs. Anjali Sharma, have long lived together in a one-room flat. Mrs. Anjali Sharma has been a widow for five years. Her only son, Sunny—who is employed—remains a virgin. Readers believe that the author is steering the story in the right direction.

[zaq121]

Good story

[baddu]

Nice update

[firing]

Wonderful update

[saka1981]

If the mention of the new A/C means Azad is going to come upstairs more often from now on, then it looks like we’re going to see more of Azad and Anjali’s intimate moments.

The mother-son conversation was really good, especially the part where Anjali asks sunny to buy i-Phil. And when she directly tells sunny that Azad “left it inside” yesterday, that scene felt a little erotic too.

Overall, the conversation was nicely written and had a different feel to it. Now I’m eagerly waiting to see what happens in the next update!

[firing]

If the mention of the new A/C means Azad is going to come upstairs more often from now on, then it looks like we’re going to see more of Azad and Anjali’s intimate moments.

The mother-son conversation was really good, especially the part where Anjali asks sunny to buy i-Phil. And when she directly tells sunny that Azad “left it inside” yesterday, that scene felt a little erotic too.

Overall, the conversation was nicely written and had a different feel to it. Now I’m eagerly waiting to see what happens in the next update!

Yeah you are right there will be more frequent visit of azad

[baddu]

Happy dasara. Update please

[baddu]

Bro update

[Authorsunny]

Chapter 29 - Saturday
December 06, 2025

The fan kept turning above me. I had closed my eyes on the low wooden seat under the window, the wet patch in my jeans cooling slowly against my thigh, the phone still in my hand. Her snoring stayed even. Small, ordinary breaths that rose and fell with the soft band of waist the kameez had left bare. The AC boxes stood in the corner, brown and square, smelling of new cardboard. I told myself I would only rest a minute. The minute lengthened. The light from the grill stayed pale. Somewhere below, a scooter passed and was gone. The next thing I knew was the sound of the mattress giving under weight.

I opened my eyes.

She was sitting up on the far side of the bed, one hand braced on the sheet, the other pressed to her lower back. The kameez had ridden higher while she slept. A wider strip of stomach showed above the green salwar, soft and unmarked except for the faint line where the saree had sat the night before. Her hair was flattened on one side. The bite on the left side of her neck looked darker in the low light, almost purple at the centre. She blinked at the grill, then at the room, then found me.

“Sunny?” Her voice was thick with sleep. “When did you come back, beta? How long… how long was I asleep?”

I sat up. The wooden seat creaked under me. “About an hour, Ma. Maybe a little more. I came around twelve. You were already down.”

She rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hand and looked at the wall clock. “Twelve. It is past one now. God. I did not mean to sleep so long.” She shifted and winced, the hand on her back pressing harder. “My back is still pulling. And these marks… they are burning. The wire sat too long last night. The skin is hot under the cloth.”

I stood. My jeans felt stiff where the wet had dried. “I brought both. I-pill and the Burnol. They are on the table.”

She looked at the folding table, saw the brown paper packet beside the grocery bag, and nodded once. “Bring me a glass of water, beta. I will take it now. Better before the hour goes.”

I went to the kitchen corner, filled a steel glass from the filter, and brought it back. She was already sitting on the edge of the bed, feet on the tile, the kameez still high enough that the soft upper curve of her stomach caught the light. She took the glass with one hand and held the other out for the packet. I opened it, took out the green-and-white strip, and passed her one tablet. She placed it on her tongue, drank, and swallowed. The glass emptied halfway. She set it on the floor beside the bed and exhaled.

“There,” she said. “Done. Now the cream. These lines are not settling on their own.”

She reached for the small tube of Burnol, unscrewed the cap, and squeezed a pale line onto two fingers of her right hand. Then she set the tube down and, with her left hand, gathered the cream kameez and pulled it upward in one slow motion. The cloth climbed past her navel, past the soft plane of her stomach, and stopped just under the heavy underswell of her breasts. The green salwar stayed low on her hips. For a second the whole middle of her was bare to the room: the warm wheatish skin, the slight dip of the waist, the way the stomach stayed surprisingly flat even when she sat. The undersides of both breasts showed as soft, full curves where the kameez had bunched. No bra. Nothing between the cotton and the skin. The two red bands from the wire were clear under the left breast and again under the right—darker at the outer edges, almost raw where the underwire had pressed longest.

My cock thickened against the seam of the jeans again. I looked at the floor for a second, then back. She tried to reach under the left side with her cream-coated fingers. The angle was wrong. Her elbow caught the kameez. The marks were low, tucked under the weight of the breast. She shifted, tried again, and made a small sound of frustration.

“It is not reaching properly,” she said. “The left one is worse. I cannot see it from this side.”

I stayed where I was. The room felt smaller. “Ma… if you want, I can help. Only if you do not mind.”

She looked at me. Her hand was still holding the kameez up. The bite moved when she turned her head. “Why would I mind, beta? You are my son. It is only cream. Come. Sit here.”

I crossed the short distance and sat on the edge of the bed beside her, careful not to let my thigh press against hers. The mattress dipped. She smelled of the soap she had used in the morning, and under it the faint branded perfume that had not fully left her skin, and a warmer note of sleep-sweat that the fan had not taken. She guided my hand with her free one, turned the tube so I could take more cream, then lifted the kameez a fraction higher so I could see the line under the left breast.

“There,” she said. “Just under. Softly. The skin is already sore.”

I took cream on two fingers and brought them to the red band. The first touch was light. Her skin was warm. The mark itself felt slightly raised. I spread the cream in a slow line, following the curve where the wire had sat, from the outer edge inward. She exhaled through her nose. The underswell of the breast shifted with her breath, soft and heavy against the back of my fingers for a second before she adjusted. I kept the pressure even. My heart was loud in my ears. This was the first time my hand had been under the cloth like this, on bare skin that was not an arm or a shoulder. I thought of Azad’s hands the night before—on her open back, on the edge of the blouse, on the weight he had held while she said the word he wanted. I thought of how she had asked him to come inside, how the bed had hit the wall, how her voice had come through the wood. The same skin. The same weight. She had liked his hands. She had said so on the phone this morning. My fingers kept moving, slow, spreading the cream until the red line shone with it.

“The other side also,” she said, quieter. “It is the same.”

I shifted a little so I could reach under the right breast. She lifted the kameez higher with her left hand to give me room. The cloth slipped. For one clear second the full dark nipple of the right breast came free of the cotton—large, already tight from the cool air or from the touch, the areola wide and darker than the rest of her skin. She saw it at the same moment I did. Her hand came down fast, covering it, pulling the kameez back over the curve. Colour rose in her throat under the bite.

“Sorry,” she said. The word was small. “It slipped. I did not mean—”

“It is all right, Ma.” My voice came out thicker than I wanted. I was fully hard now, the jeans tight across the front. I kept my eyes on the cream and not on the place she had just covered. “I will finish this side.”

She nodded once. She did not lower the kameez all the way. She held it just high enough for me to work. I spread the remaining cream under the right breast, slower than before, feeling the heat of the mark and the softer skin around it. Her breathing had changed. Not deep. Just careful. When I finished she took the tube from my hand, capped it, and let the kameez fall. The cloth settled over her stomach and the start of her breasts. She straightened her back, winced again, then reached for me.

“Come here.”

I leaned in. She pulled me closer by the shoulder until my forehead was near hers. Her lips touched my forehead once, slow, the way she used to when I was smaller. The nighty-soft smell of her skin was right there. The bite was inches from my cheek.

“You are the best son,” she said against my hair. “I love you a lot, beta. More than anything. Thank you.”

I stayed still for a second. My hands were on my own thighs. “I love you too, Ma.”

She let me go. The ordinary distance came back between us, small as it was in the room. She stood, adjusted the kameez so it sat properly over the salwar, and walked to the charger near the bed. Her phone was still plugged in. She picked it up, unlocked it with the new code, and the screen lit her face. I watched from the edge of the bed. She scrolled. Her thumb stopped. The expression on her face changed—something between surprise and discomfort. She opened the post. I could see the four photographs from where I sat: the solo with the deep V, the three-quarter angle, the couple shot with Azad’s hand low on her waist, the group.

She looked at me once. Then again.

“Did you see it, beta?” she asked. “The photos. The post.”

“Yes,” I said. “I saw the notification while I was coming back. I was going to ask you about it.”

She sat on the chair near the almirah, phone still in her hand, and looked at the screen again. “Azad Sahab arranged it. A cameraman. Kunal. He also manages profiles. Azad Sahab has been telling me for weeks that I should have an Instagram. That I should put photos. Make it a hobby. These days good-looking women get huge following, and some of them even earn from it. He said I have the face for it. The figure. He hired Kunal for the party. Kunal must have shortlisted these and uploaded them. I did not expect he would put the one with Azad Sahab also. But it is already gone. And you know how Azad Sahab is. Once he decides, he does not listen. He wants me to get bold like the other ladies he knows. He keeps saying I have huge potential. That if I keep myself well I can even get a small role in something. Bollywood type. Do you also think so, beta?” She gave a small laugh at the end, almost shy, almost testing.

I looked at the phone in her hand. The follower count had climbed again. “You are a very good-looking woman, Ma. That much is true. Anyone can see it. Whether… whether all of this is possible, I do not know. But the way the photos are posted—the blouse, his hand, everything open—it can become a problem. Relatives. Society people. Now the relationship is not only in the building. It is outside also.”

She set the phone on her lap. “It is already open in the building, Sunny. You heard them. Sunita said it on the stairs with a glass in her hand. People already talk. What is left to hide from them? And relatives—they do not call. They do not come. Papa’s side stopped after the first year. My side stopped earlier. So I do not have to explain anything to people who are not in this room. Society already knows. They saw the car. They saw the clothes. They saw the bite. Why should I pretend on a phone that none of it happened?”

She looked at the screen again and tilted it so the light caught the couple photograph. “Kunal has edited them well, though. The lighting is clean. The colours are not harsh. He knows how to make a photograph look expensive. That much I can say.”

The phone rang in her hand before I could answer. She glanced at the number, answered, and put it to her ear.

“Haan. Third floor. Yes, the AC. When are you coming?”

I heard a man’s voice, low and apologetic, through the small speaker. She listened. Her mouth tightened.

“Monday? Why Monday? You said today. Azad Sahab said today. If he comes up in the evening and the room is still hot, what am I supposed to tell him?”

The man spoke again. She cut across him once, then listened. Her free hand rubbed the place on her lower back.

“There is no other person? No. Fine. Monday morning, then. Early. Do not make it afternoon. Achha.”

She ended the call and set the phone down harder than she needed to. “He cannot come today. Some other fitting got delayed. Monday is the earliest. If Azad Sahab comes tonight and the fan is not enough, he will not be happy. I told him the room becomes too much after some time. That is why he sent it.”

She stood, then sat again almost at once. Her hand went to her forehead. “My head is starting. And the stomach is a little uneasy. The pill, I think. It happens with some women. I should lie down again for a while.”

She moved back to the bed and lay on her side facing the wall, the same position as before. The kameez settled. One hand rested on her stomach. “Azad sahab's maid is not coming today. He messaged in the morning. So instead of cooking here and then carrying everything downstairs, I will cook something there only. We can both go around six. Till then I will rest.”

I stayed on the edge of the bed. “You are sure you want to go down? After last night. The stairs. The people.”

She did not open her eyes. “I have to go sometime, beta. And Ammi is there. If I stay up here the whole day when maid is not there, it will look worse, not better. Azad Sahab will be back by evening. He will ask. Better I am already there when he comes. You do not have to stay long if you do not want. Eat and come up. But I will go.”

Her breathing slowed. The fan turned. Outside, the afternoon light on the grill had not changed much. I looked at the place where the kameez had slipped earlier, at the covered curve of her breast, at the bite still dark against the pillow, and did not move.

[Kamaveri]

Awesome story, but plese give us little bit big update because i am one of the fan that always come and check is there any update on this story.

[mzafar]

The update was brief but excellent; however, it didn't quite satisfy the readers' appetite. They are looking forward to a more substantial update next time.

[wxxxx]

Readers are captivated by the latest update, which highlights the bond between Sunny and his mother, Mrs. Anjali Sharma. Sunny brings a glass of water from the kitchen to help his mother take an 'I-pill' and applies Burnol cream to her—a unique testament to the understanding between mother and son.

Mrs. Anjali Sharma's following conversation with her son Sunny about taking pictures of herself with professional cameraman Kunal and posting them on Instagram has impressed readers:

"[ Mrs. Anjali Sharma stood, adjusted the kameez so it sat properly over the salwar, and walked to the charger near the bed. Her phone was still plugged in. She picked it up, unlocked it with the new code, and the screen lit her face. I watched from the edge of the bed. She scrolled. Her thumb stopped. The expression on her face changed—something between surprise and discomfort. I could see the four photographs from where I sat: the solo with the deep V, the couple shot with Azad's hand low on her waist.

She looked at me once. Then again.

“Did you see it, beta?” she asked. "The photos. The post."

"Yes," I said. "I saw the notification while I was coming back. I was going to ask you about it."

She sat on the chair near the almirah, phone still in her hand, and looked at the screen again. "Azad Sahab arranged it. A cameraman. Kunal. He also manages profiles. Azad Sahab has been telling me for weeks that I should have an Instagram. That I should put photos. Make it a hobby. These days good-looking women get huge following, and some of them even earn from it. He said I have the face for it. The figure. He hired Kunal for the party. Kunal must have shortlisted these and uploaded them. I did not expect he would put the one with Azad Sahab. also. And you know how Azad Sahab is. He wants to get bold like the other ladies. She gave a small laugh at the end, almost shy, almost testing.
I looked at the phone in her hand. The follower count had climbed again. "You are a very good-looking woman, Ma. That much is true. Anyone can see it. Whether... whether all of this is possible, I do not know. But the way the photos are posted—the blouse, his hand, everything open—it can become a problem. Relatives. Society people. Now the relationship is not only in the building. It is outside also."

She put the phone on her lap. "It is already open in the building, Sunny. You heard them. Sunita said it on the stairs with a glass in her hand. People already talk. What is left to hide from them? And relatives—they do not call. They do not come. Papa's side stopped after the first year. My side stopped earlier. So I do not have to explain anything to people who are not in this room. Society already knows. They saw the car. They saw the clothes. They saw the bite. Why should I pretend on a phone that none of it happened?”

She looked at the screen again and tilted it so the light caught the couple photograph. "Kunal has edited them well, though. The lighting is clean. The colors are not harsh. He knows how to make a photograph look expensive. That much I can say."]"

On behalf of the readers, we extend our sincere thanks to the thoughtful, creative, and realistic author, "Authorsunny." Readers are eagerly looking forward to the next installment, hoping for a more substantial update that includes an extended sexual scene.

[saka1981]

The author has described Sunny seeing his mother’s breasts in a very beautiful and erotic way. I have a feeling that tonight will also have another round of passionate moments between Anjali and Azad, especially since tomorrow is Sunday.

It looks like Azad himself might apply the medicine to all the places where Sunny applied the burn ointment. Anyway, eagerly waiting for the next update!

[Paty@123]

Some how disappointed, reason behind it is I felt story is some what dragging. Plz run the story with a little bit speeder

[Authorsunny]

Chapter 29 - Dinner
December 06, 2025


The tube light was still off. Ma had been lying on her side for more than an hour, one palm resting on her stomach, the other tucked under her cheek. I had stayed on the wooden seat under the window, phone in my hand, watching the follower count on her new post climb another twenty and then stopping myself from opening the photographs again.

At a little past five she opened her eyes and blinked at the grill.

“Sunny.” Her voice was thick. “What time is it?”

“Five-ten.”

She sat up slowly. The cream kameez had ridden high again; a wide band of stomach showed above the green salwar, soft and unmarked except for the faint line the net saree had left the night before. She pushed the cloth down without looking at me and rubbed her eyes with the back of her wrist.

“Tea,” she said. “I will make it. You must be hungry also. We did not eat anything proper after poha.”

She stood. The movement pulled at her lower back; I saw the small wince before she straightened. In the kitchen corner she filled the vessel and waited with one hand braced on the counter while the water heated. The old peach nighty she had changed into after the cream was still on her. No bra. The thin cotton clung where she had sweated against the sheet.

When the tea was ready she brought both glasses to the folding table and sat on the corner nearest me, the way she had in the morning. The nighty pulled across her chest when she leaned to push the sugar bowl closer. She took a sip, set the glass down, and pressed her lower back again.

“It is still burning,” she said. “The marks. And the back is pulling every time I stand. The cream helped for some time. Now it is the same.”

“You can stay here,” I said. “I will go down and tell Ammi you are not well. She will understand.”

Ma looked at the glass. Her thumb moved once along the rim. “No. Azad Sahab messaged in the morning. His maid is not coming. He told me to cook something simple for Ammi. If I stay up here after saying yes, it will look like I am making a story. He will also not like that. And you know how short tempered he is, so I don't even want to spoil his mood.”

She finished the tea in small sips. When the glass was empty she stood, rinsed both, and went to the almirah. From the lower shelf she took out the old light-blue salwar kameez she used to wear for the market before the new clothes started. The cloth was soft, almost thin at the elbows. She held it against herself, looked at it, then at me.

“This one,” she said. “In front of Ammi. The other sarees… she will say something. Better this. Plain.”

She changed behind the thin curtain. I heard the nighty come off, the small sound of the salwar being stepped into, the kameez pulled over her head. When she stepped out the neckline sat high enough to cover most of the bite. No lipstick. No kajal. Hair tied back with the same rubber band. She looked smaller than she had in the black net saree. She also looked tired in a way the party clothes had hidden.

“Ready?” she asked.

I nodded. We locked the door and went down. At the ground floor Ma pressed the bell once, waited, then pressed it again. After the third ring the latch moved from inside.

Ammi opened the door. She was shorter than Ma, thinner through the shoulders, grey hair pulled tight at the nape. Her eyes moved from Ma’s face to the light-blue kameez, then to me, then back to Ma. She did not smile.

“Come,” she said. “Azad told me. He said you would cook.”

We stepped inside. The living room smelled of the same medicinal ointment I had noticed the night I watched from the bushes, and of something older underneath—wood polish and closed windows. Ammi walked ahead and sat in the wooden armchair near the window. She did not offer water. Ma stood for a second near the sofa, then sat on the edge, hands in her lap. I remained standing until Ammi pointed at the plastic chair opposite her.

“Sit, beta,” she said. “How is your new job going on?”

“It is going well, ammi,” I said. “New. Meetings. The usual.”

She nodded as if the answer had already been filed. “Good. Boys should work. Sitting at home is not good. Your mother also used to work. Hotel, parlour. Now she has time.” She looked at Ma. “Azad called in the morning, he said you would come to cook dinner. He also mentioned that you are having some back pain.”

“Yes Ammi. Since morning,” Ma said. Her voice was careful, the way it got when she was measuring each word. “I took the medicine. It is a little better when I sit. Standing is a little difficult.”

“Hmm.” Ammi adjusted the pallu on her shoulder. “Yesterday was the big function, no? Taj. Azad told me in the morning. Dhiraj Malhotra’s anniversary. How was it? Many people?”

Ma’s fingers tightened once in her lap. “It was… crowded. Speeches. Food. We came back late. Azad Sahab knew most of them. I only stood.”

Ammi’s eyes stayed on her. “I saw you when you were leaving. Near the gate. Full dressing. Hair, makeup, that black saree. The blouse was… open. From the back also, I think. Building has eyes, Anjali. Everyone would have seen you get into the car like that.”

Ma’s shoulders had gone still. She glanced at me, then back at Ammi. Colour had risen under the bite. “Ammi… the function had a dress code. Azad Sahab said the clothes should look proper. He chose the blouse. I wore what he asked.”

Ammi gave a short breath. Not quite a laugh. “So if tomorrow he says wear nothing and come down, you will wear nothing? Is that the rule now? He says, you do?”

Ma’s mouth opened. For a second no sound came. Then the words arrived tighter than before. “Ammi, what are you saying? Please. Sunny is sitting here. Do not talk like this in front of him.”

“So what?” Ammi said. She did not raise her voice. The chair creaked when she shifted. “He lives in the same room. He sees the marks on your neck. He hears the building. I am only saying what I saw with my own eyes. You did not look like a woman who has a grown son. You looked like those women who stand outside hotels and smile for photographs. I have lived in this building for thirty years. I know the difference.”

Ma’s eyes had gone wet at the corners. She did not wipe them. Her hands stayed clasped. “I wore what was required for one evening. If it was wrong, Azad Sahab can tell me himself. I am not going to sit here and discuss my clothes while my son is listening. Please ammi.”

Ammi studied her for a long moment. The television was on low in the corner. Then she sat back.

“Anyway. The reason you are here is food. Chicken is in the fridge. Make a simple curry. Not too much oil. And egg fry—two eggs for me. I will have two rotis and a little rice. You both can also eat. Azad will be late, so we will not wait for him.”

Ma stood. She did not answer. Her face had closed. She walked toward the kitchen without looking at either of us. The light-blue kameez moved against her back. I heard the fridge door open, then the sound of a steel bowl set on the counter.

Ammi turned to me. “You do not eat meat?”

“No, Ammi.”

“Why? At your age you should eat. Look at Azad. He eats everything. Chicken, mutton, whatever is made. That is why he has energy for so much work. You will also become weak if you only eat vegetables.” She raised her voice toward the kitchen without turning her head. “Make something for the boy also. Aloo or whatever is there. Do not only cook non-veg.”

From the kitchen came the short sound of a knife striking the board. Ma did not reply.

I sat down. Ammi put the remote in my hand and asked me to change the channel if I wanted to. I changed it to a sports channel. I watched because the alternative was watching Ammi’s face or listening to the small, careful sounds Ma was making with the vessels. Ammi stayed in the armchair, one hand resting on the wooden arm, eyes half on the match and half on the kitchen doorway. Every few minutes she called an instruction in the same flat tone.

“Cut the onion smaller. Last time the pieces were big.”

“Less chilli in the curry. My stomach does not take much now.”

“The eggs should be soft in the middle. Not dry.”

Each time Ma answered with a short “Haan, Ammi” that did not carry any heat. I could hear the gas clicking on, water running, the dull thud of the chicken being moved from one bowl to another. After twenty minutes I stood and walked to the kitchen doorway.

Ma was at the counter, back to me. The light-blue kameez had stuck slightly at her lower back from the heat of the stove. One hand kept returning to press the sore place while the other held the knife. The chicken was already marinating in a steel bowl. She had started chopping tomatoes.

“Ma,” I said, keeping my voice low. “I can cut the rest. You sit for five minutes. Your back—”

Ammi’s voice came from the hall before I finished. “What are you doing there, beta? Come out. Men do not stand in the kitchen. Let her do the work. She knows how.”

I stayed in the doorway. “She has been saying since morning that the back is paining, Ammi. I can help with the cutting. It is not much.”

Ammi appeared behind me. She looked past my shoulder at Ma, then at me. Her mouth had thinned. “She was well enough yesterday to stand in high heels and that open blouse. Makeup, hair, everything. Today one small cooking for an old woman and already the face is heavy. I know these dramas.”

Ma turned. The knife was still in her right hand. Her eyes were wet again, but the voice that came out was steady. “Beta, please go and sit. I do not want any tamasha in this house. Azad Sahab will not like it if he hears. I will finish the food. You go.”

I looked at her. She gave a small, almost invisible shake of the head. I stepped back into the hall. Ammi followed and returned to the armchair. On the screen the batsman had been given out. Neither of us spoke for a long time.

The cooking took another forty minutes. I heard the pressure cooker whistle once, the sound of rotis being turned on the tawa, the heavier smell of chicken curry moving through the flat and mixing with the ointment smell that never quite left the room. Ma came out once to ask which plates Ammi wanted. Ammi pointed at the steel ones in the rack without getting up. When everything was ready Ma carried two plates to the small dining table. One held two rotis, a little rice, chicken curry, and two pieces of egg fry. The other held aloo sabzi and two rotis. She set them down and remained standing near the kitchen door, wiping her hands on a cloth.

Ammi came to the table, sat, and began to eat. She tasted the curry, nodded once to herself, and said nothing. I sat opposite her because the plate was there. Ma stayed on her feet. When Ammi had finished half the rice she looked up.

“You also eat,” she said to Ma. “Then wash everything. The maid may not come tomorrow morning also. I do not like plates left in the sink. By morning they start smelling and the ants come.”

Ma took a plate for herself, served a small portion of aloo and one roti, and sat at the far end of the table. She ate quickly, without looking at either of us. When she was done she collected all three plates and carried them to the sink. The water ran for a long time. I heard the scrubbing, the clink of steel against steel, the sound of her shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Ammi did not speak again until Ma came out drying her hands on the same cloth.

“Finished,” Ma said. Her voice was flat. “We will go now.”

Ammi looked at her, then at me. The expression that arrived for me was different—smaller, almost pleasant. “Keep coming, Sunny beta. You are a quiet boy. That is good.” She opened the small fridge near the television, took out a silk chocolate still in its gold wrapper, and held it out. “Take it.”

I looked at Ma. She was already at the door, one hand pressed to her lower back, the light-blue kameez creased across the stomach. Ma nodded with heavy expression. I took the chocolate. “Thank you, Ammi.”

We stepped into the corridor. The door closed behind us with a soft click. On the stairs Ma walked slowly. By the second flight her breathing had gone shallow. She stopped once on the landing, palm flat against the wall, and waited until the pull in her back eased enough to continue. I stayed half a step behind. Neither of us spoke until we were inside our flat and the latch was down.

She went straight to the kitchen corner, pulled the light-blue kameez over her head without turning on the tube light, and changed into the old peach nighty. The thin cotton settled over her. She did not put on a bra. When she came back to the bed her face was closed in a way I had not seen since the morning after Sunita. She sat, then lay on her side facing the wall, the same position she had used all afternoon.

I sat on the edge of the mattress. “I told you not to go down. She talks to you like you are hired for the day. I do not like hearing it.”

She turned her head. The bite caught the low light from the grill. Her eyes were dry now, but the voice that came out was sharp. “Just shut up, Sunny. It is none of your business what she says or what I do downstairs. I know what I am doing. You do not have to stand there and teach me every time something happens. Everybody in this building wants to give lessons. You also now. Please stop it. And let me sleep.”

The words landed clean. My throat tightened. I looked at the sheet between us. “I am sorry, Ma.”

She did not answer. She pulled the sheet up to her waist, reached for her phone, glanced at the screen, made a small sound that was almost a tired chuckle, and set it face down on the mattress. Then she closed her eyes.

I lay on my side. The gap between us was the usual width. Outside, a scooter passed and was gone. I opened reels and let them play without sound. At some point the phone in my hand grew heavy. I must have closed my eyes.

The ringtone pulled me back just after ten. Ma answered on the second ring and walked to the kitchen. I kept my breathing even and my eyes shut. Her voice started low, careful.

“Haan… you are staying there for the night? Ohh, had dinner?”

Azad’s voice came through warmer than hers, the register he used when he wanted to pull her out of a mood. I could not take every sentence, but the shape was clear. He was talking about the Instagram photographs. How clean Kunal had made the light. How the deep V had come out exactly the way he had wanted. How many people had already liked the post. How he had been thinking about the way she had looked in the hall while he was travelling.

Ma answered in short pieces at first. “Hmm. I saw. Kunal sent them. … Yes. … Leave it, Azad Sahab.”

He asked what had happened. She said leave it again. He did not leave it. Her voice tightened, still low so it would not carry past the kitchen.

“Ammi,” she said. “She saw me yesterday near the gate when we were leaving. She waited until we were inside and then she asked what I was wearing. In front of Sunny. She said the blouse was open from the back. She said if tomorrow you tell me to go without clothes, will I go. I did not know what to answer. Then the whole time I was cooking she sat in the hall and kept calling instructions. Smaller onion. Less oil. Soft eggs. I finished the curry, the eggs, the rotis, the aloo. I washed every plate. She did not say one word of thanks.”

There was a pause long enough for the fridge to click on. When Azad spoke again the warmth had thinned.

“Anjali. I already told you how Ammi is. She is old. She talks like this with everyone. You knew before you went down. I cannot sit in a hotel room in Pune and solve what she said about a blouse. You are not a girl. You can handle one evening of her talking and still cook the food.”

Ma’s voice went smaller. “I am not asking you to solve it from there. I am only telling you what happened because you asked. My back is still paining. She gave a full list and watched the whole time. And she said those things about the clothes while Sunny was sitting in the same room. I do not know how to answer that without making it bigger.”

“I did not call to listen to the full list,” he said. The edge was clear now. “I was on the road since morning. You cannot even keep this much inside until I am back? Do the cooking, finish the plates, come upstairs. Do not stand there and give her sentences she can answer. That is all I am saying.”

“Azad Sahab… please. Do not talk to me like that. I am not fighting. I am only—”

A longer silence. When he spoke again the sharpness had been pulled back, not removed.

“Then understand, na. Leave her. You know how she is. I told you in the beginning she would say things. You cook, you wash, you come up. Do not keep discussing with her. Do not discuss me with her. And listen—I bought something for you today. After the meeting. A Puneri saree. Heavy border, good silk. The colour is deep maroon, almost the same as the one you wore for the pooja. It will suit you. Forget what Ammi said tonight. Sleep. I will call in the morning.”

Ma was quiet for several seconds. I heard her shift her weight against the counter. “Hmm. Okay. The saree… thank you.”

The call ended. She stayed in the kitchen. I heard the soft, uneven sound of her breath, then nothing for a long stretch. Water ran once, briefly, as if she had washed her face or simply needed the noise. When she finally came back to the bed the tube light was still off. She lay down on her side without speaking, pulled the sheet to her waist, and turned her face to the wall. Her shoulders moved once, a small tight motion, then went still. I kept my eyes closed. The fan turned over both of us. The chocolate in my pocket had gone soft from the heat of my leg. I did not take it out.