28-11-2025, 03:40 PM
The auto's horn faded down the street and the house settled into a sudden, delicious quiet.
Indhu locked the bathroom door, reached to the back of the top shelf, and pulled out the hidden cover. Coffee-brown satin slid over her skin like cool water: knee-length, tiny cap sleeves, neckline dipping just enough to show the soft beginning of her breasts. She turned once in front of the foggy mirror, watched the fabric catch the light on her hips and thighs, and felt something flutter low in her stomach that had nothing to do with breakfast.
When she stepped into the kitchen the smell of dosa batter was already rising.
Leka shuffled in first, rubbing sleep from her eyes, and stopped like she had walked into a wall.
“Amma… what is that?”
Indhu kept her voice calm, turning the dosa with the steel spatula. “New nightie only.”
“It's satin! And so short!” Leka's eyes were wide, half envy, half accusation. “When did you even buy this?”
“Last week. Varsha took me to Express Avenue. She said I should wear something nice when your father is not home.” Indhu's tone was light, almost playful.
“That's not fair,” Leka hissed. “You and Appa force me to wear those full-length churidars with dupatta pinned up to my neck every single day. My college has no dress code! My friends wear jeans, crop tops, whatever they want. But if I try to leave without dupatta you both shout at me like I'm going to bring boys home!”
Indhu sighed. “Leka, we have told you why. Last time you were talking to that auto driver boy at midnight—”
“That was two years ago! I'm nineteen now!”
Before Indhu could answer, Karthik appeared in the doorway wearing only his boxer shorts, hair wild from sleep. He blinked twice at his mother, and his mouth actually opened a little.
“Amma…” The word came out softer than he meant. His eyes traced the satin clinging to her waist, the smooth bare knees, the soft skin of her lower thighs he had never seen so much of before. Heat rushed to his face. “You look… really beautiful.”
Leka spun toward him. “Of course you take her side! Mummy's little prince!”
Karthik recovered, grinning. “I'm just saying the truth. Amma looks like a film heroine. And you look like you're going to plus-two tuition.”
“Shut up!” Leka's voice cracked. “At least I'm not a twelfth-standard kid who still cuddles his mother all night!”
Indhu brought the steel tumbler down on the counter with a sharp clang. “Both of you, stop it right now. Karthik, go bathe. You'll miss the college van. Leka, if you want shorter kurtis we'll talk when your father is back and calm. Until then, wear what makes the house peaceful.”
Karthik stole one last look (the way the satin moved when his mother reached up to the shelf, the soft outline of her body beneath it) then disappeared toward the bathroom.
Leka stormed off muttering, “Always the same rules for me, never for anyone else.”
Indhu turned back to the stove, lips curving into a small, secret smile as the cool satin brushed her thighs with every movement.
Three nights.
The house already felt wider, cooler, and just a little bit dangerous.
------------------
Indhu finished the last dosa, stacked them on a steel plate, and wiped her hands on the kitchen towel. The satin nightie still felt foreign in the best way: cool, slippery, forbidden. She caught her reflection in the stainless-steel tiffin box: the soft curve of her breasts under the thin fabric, the way the hem fluttered high on her thighs when she moved. A small, guilty smile tugged at her lips.
“Leka! Come eat!” she called.
No answer. Only a muffled sniff from the bedroom.
Indhu sighed and walked in. Leka was face-down on the bed, shoulders shaking with quiet sobs.
“Dei, what happened now?” Indhu sat on the edge, placed a gentle hand on her daughter's back.
Leka turned, eyes red. “My friends keep teasing me, Amma. ‘Why you dress like a college ma'am?' ‘Are you from convent?' I feel so small. I'm nineteen and I still look like a child because of these rules.”
Indhu's heart softened. She pulled Leka into her arms, rocking her the way she used to when she was little. “I know, kanna. I know how it feels to be locked up. I was younger than you when I got married. I never got to choose anything.”
Leka cried harder against her shoulder.
Indhu lowered her voice to almost a whisper. “Listen. When your father is not home, you can wear whatever you want: leggings, short kurtis, anything decent. But you have to promise me complete honesty. Every day you come home, you tell me everything: who you spoke to, where you went, everything. No secrets. Can you promise that?”
Leka pulled back, eyes wide. “Really, Amma?”
Indhu nodded. “And one more thing. You and I have the same body. These curves attract attention very fast. Be careful. Dress modern, but dress smart. No silly risks. Promise?”
“I promise! I promise!” Leka threw her arms around Indhu's neck, laughing through the tears.
“Go take bath in the other bathroom. Wear my new black leggings and that peach kurti I keep aside. It'll fit you perfectly.”
Leka practically flew out of the room.
Indhu stood alone for a moment, looked down at her satin nightie, and decided to keep it on a little longer.
Half an hour later Leka walked into the dining area looking like a different girl: black leggings hugging her legs, peach kurti ending mid-thigh, hair left loose and shining. She spun once, beaming.
Karthik was already at the table finishing his third dosa. He looked up and his spoon stopped halfway to his mouth.
“Wow, Leka… you look…” He swallowed. “Good.”
Leka stuck her tongue out. “Better than your boring college uniform, right?”
Indhu joined them, pulling a chair. Karthik turned to her, curious. “Amma, why sudden permission? Yesterday only you were scolding her about dupatta.”
Indhu served herself a dosa, thoughtful. “If we keep restricting more and more, people start hiding things. Your father doesn't understand that. When a woman gets a little freedom, she becomes bold, not spoiled. She learns to protect herself instead of sneaking around.”
She paused, the words spilling out before she could stop them. “Both of us have been caged too long in this house. A little air won't kill us.”
Silence fell like a soft blanket. Leka stared at her plate. Karthik's eyes flicked to his mother's face, then down to the satin stretching across her chest when she breathed.
Indhu realised what she had just admitted out loud. Heat rose to her cheeks. She busied herself with the chutney.
Karthik cleared his throat, stood up quickly. “Okay, I'm late.” He grabbed his bag, ruffled Leka's hair on the way out (she swatted at him and missed), then paused at his mother. For a second his gaze lingered on the soft skin of her neck above the satin neckline. “Bye, Amma. You… you look really nice today.”
He left before she could answer.
Leka finished her breakfast, grabbed her bag, and hugged Indhu tight at the door. “Thank you, Amma. I love you.”
Indhu kissed her forehead. “Be careful with the boys, okay? Those leggings show everything. Walk like you own the world, but keep your eyes open.”
Leka grinned, waved, and stepped out into the bright June sunlight looking taller, freer, happier.
Indhu closed the door, leaned back against it, and let out a long, shaky breath. The house was empty. The satin nightie slid coolly against her skin. For the first time in years, the silence didn't feel heavy.
It felt like possibility.
--------------------
The house was finally still.
Indhu moved through her chores on quiet feet: sweeping the hall, folding yesterday's dried clothes, wiping down the kitchen counter until it gleamed. The satin nightie swished softly around her thighs with every bend and stretch, a secret luxury she still couldn't quite believe she was allowing herself. When she reached up to the top shelf for the detergent, the hem rose dangerously high; cool air kissed the backs of her thighs and she shivered, half guilt, half pleasure.
The phone rang at eleven-thirty. Her mother's name flashed on the screen.
“Indhu, how is the heat there? Here in the village it's killing us,” her mother launched straight into gossip without greeting: who was getting married, whose son failed engineering, whose daughter ran away with a city boy. Indhu made the right sounds (shock, sympathy, laughter) while her eyes drifted to her reflection in the balcony door. The satin caught the light like spilled coffee and cream. She looked young. She felt young.
After twenty minutes she gently ended the call, promising to visit soon, and dialled Varsha.
“Tell me, how does it feel?” Varsha's voice was pure mischief the moment she picked up.
Indhu laughed, low and surprised at herself. “Like silk on my skin. Cool. Light. I keep forgetting I'm wearing anything at all.”
“That's the whole point, da. You're thirty-six, not sixty. Wear it, enjoy it. Rajan is not there to security officer you for four days.”
They talked the way old friends do: children, prices, husbands who don't understand anything, new parlour discounts. When Varsha asked if she planned to buy more, Indhu's answer came out before she could think: “Maybe one in black. And one in wine red.” She bit her lip, shocked at her own boldness, and Varsha whooped in delight.
Lunch was simple: curd rice with mango pickle eaten straight from the steel tin, standing at the counter because sitting felt like wasting the quiet. The satin slid against the edge of the counter when she leaned over to rinse the plate, and she caught herself smiling at nothing.
Across the city, in a stuffy twelfth-standard classroom, Karthik stared at the blackboard without seeing it.
The teacher was explaining vectors, but the words floated past him like smoke. All he could hear was his mother's quiet, bitter confession at the breakfast table.
Both of us have been caged too long in this house.
He had never thought of it that way before. To him, Amma was the centre of everything: warm, smiling, always there with food and hugs and scoldings wrapped in love. He had never noticed the tightness around her eyes when Appa spoke, the way her shoulders dropped the moment the door closed behind his father.
And that nightie. God, that nightie. The memory of coffee-brown satin clinging to her body kept flashing behind his eyelids: the soft shape of her breasts when she breathed, the smooth length of her thighs he had never properly seen before, the way she had looked… free. Radiant. Like someone he suddenly wanted to protect from the whole world, especially from the man who was supposed to love her.
The bell rang for lunch break. His friends shouted for him to join them under the tree, but he stayed at his desk, forehead pressed to his folded arms.
What could an eighteen-year-old boy do? He had no money, no power. But the thought of his mother feeling trapped in the same house where he felt safest made something ache inside his chest, fierce and helpless.
He pulled out his phone under the desk and opened a new chat with the only person he wanted to talk to right now.
Karthik (12:47 pm):
Amma, you okay?
The message showed delivered. Three dots appeared almost instantly.
Amma ❤️ (12:48 pm):
I'm good, kanna. Why? Everything alright in college?
Karthik (12:48 pm):
Just miss you.
He hesitated, thumbs hovering.
Karthik (12:49 pm):
You looked really happy this morning. I like it when you're happy.
The dots appeared, vanished, appeared again.
Amma ❤️ (12:51 pm):
You're making me blush in the kitchen, dei ❤️
Study well. Come home soon.
He stared at the heart she sent until the screen went dark, then pressed the phone to his chest like it could hold the feeling a second longer.
In the quiet house, Indhu read the messages twice, felt warmth bloom under the satin, and set the phone down with trembling fingers.
The afternoon stretched ahead, empty and golden and theirs alone.
Indhu locked the bathroom door, reached to the back of the top shelf, and pulled out the hidden cover. Coffee-brown satin slid over her skin like cool water: knee-length, tiny cap sleeves, neckline dipping just enough to show the soft beginning of her breasts. She turned once in front of the foggy mirror, watched the fabric catch the light on her hips and thighs, and felt something flutter low in her stomach that had nothing to do with breakfast.
When she stepped into the kitchen the smell of dosa batter was already rising.
Leka shuffled in first, rubbing sleep from her eyes, and stopped like she had walked into a wall.
“Amma… what is that?”
Indhu kept her voice calm, turning the dosa with the steel spatula. “New nightie only.”
“It's satin! And so short!” Leka's eyes were wide, half envy, half accusation. “When did you even buy this?”
“Last week. Varsha took me to Express Avenue. She said I should wear something nice when your father is not home.” Indhu's tone was light, almost playful.
“That's not fair,” Leka hissed. “You and Appa force me to wear those full-length churidars with dupatta pinned up to my neck every single day. My college has no dress code! My friends wear jeans, crop tops, whatever they want. But if I try to leave without dupatta you both shout at me like I'm going to bring boys home!”
Indhu sighed. “Leka, we have told you why. Last time you were talking to that auto driver boy at midnight—”
“That was two years ago! I'm nineteen now!”
Before Indhu could answer, Karthik appeared in the doorway wearing only his boxer shorts, hair wild from sleep. He blinked twice at his mother, and his mouth actually opened a little.
“Amma…” The word came out softer than he meant. His eyes traced the satin clinging to her waist, the smooth bare knees, the soft skin of her lower thighs he had never seen so much of before. Heat rushed to his face. “You look… really beautiful.”
Leka spun toward him. “Of course you take her side! Mummy's little prince!”
Karthik recovered, grinning. “I'm just saying the truth. Amma looks like a film heroine. And you look like you're going to plus-two tuition.”
“Shut up!” Leka's voice cracked. “At least I'm not a twelfth-standard kid who still cuddles his mother all night!”
Indhu brought the steel tumbler down on the counter with a sharp clang. “Both of you, stop it right now. Karthik, go bathe. You'll miss the college van. Leka, if you want shorter kurtis we'll talk when your father is back and calm. Until then, wear what makes the house peaceful.”
Karthik stole one last look (the way the satin moved when his mother reached up to the shelf, the soft outline of her body beneath it) then disappeared toward the bathroom.
Leka stormed off muttering, “Always the same rules for me, never for anyone else.”
Indhu turned back to the stove, lips curving into a small, secret smile as the cool satin brushed her thighs with every movement.
Three nights.
The house already felt wider, cooler, and just a little bit dangerous.
------------------
Indhu finished the last dosa, stacked them on a steel plate, and wiped her hands on the kitchen towel. The satin nightie still felt foreign in the best way: cool, slippery, forbidden. She caught her reflection in the stainless-steel tiffin box: the soft curve of her breasts under the thin fabric, the way the hem fluttered high on her thighs when she moved. A small, guilty smile tugged at her lips.
“Leka! Come eat!” she called.
No answer. Only a muffled sniff from the bedroom.
Indhu sighed and walked in. Leka was face-down on the bed, shoulders shaking with quiet sobs.
“Dei, what happened now?” Indhu sat on the edge, placed a gentle hand on her daughter's back.
Leka turned, eyes red. “My friends keep teasing me, Amma. ‘Why you dress like a college ma'am?' ‘Are you from convent?' I feel so small. I'm nineteen and I still look like a child because of these rules.”
Indhu's heart softened. She pulled Leka into her arms, rocking her the way she used to when she was little. “I know, kanna. I know how it feels to be locked up. I was younger than you when I got married. I never got to choose anything.”
Leka cried harder against her shoulder.
Indhu lowered her voice to almost a whisper. “Listen. When your father is not home, you can wear whatever you want: leggings, short kurtis, anything decent. But you have to promise me complete honesty. Every day you come home, you tell me everything: who you spoke to, where you went, everything. No secrets. Can you promise that?”
Leka pulled back, eyes wide. “Really, Amma?”
Indhu nodded. “And one more thing. You and I have the same body. These curves attract attention very fast. Be careful. Dress modern, but dress smart. No silly risks. Promise?”
“I promise! I promise!” Leka threw her arms around Indhu's neck, laughing through the tears.
“Go take bath in the other bathroom. Wear my new black leggings and that peach kurti I keep aside. It'll fit you perfectly.”
Leka practically flew out of the room.
Indhu stood alone for a moment, looked down at her satin nightie, and decided to keep it on a little longer.
Half an hour later Leka walked into the dining area looking like a different girl: black leggings hugging her legs, peach kurti ending mid-thigh, hair left loose and shining. She spun once, beaming.
Karthik was already at the table finishing his third dosa. He looked up and his spoon stopped halfway to his mouth.
“Wow, Leka… you look…” He swallowed. “Good.”
Leka stuck her tongue out. “Better than your boring college uniform, right?”
Indhu joined them, pulling a chair. Karthik turned to her, curious. “Amma, why sudden permission? Yesterday only you were scolding her about dupatta.”
Indhu served herself a dosa, thoughtful. “If we keep restricting more and more, people start hiding things. Your father doesn't understand that. When a woman gets a little freedom, she becomes bold, not spoiled. She learns to protect herself instead of sneaking around.”
She paused, the words spilling out before she could stop them. “Both of us have been caged too long in this house. A little air won't kill us.”
Silence fell like a soft blanket. Leka stared at her plate. Karthik's eyes flicked to his mother's face, then down to the satin stretching across her chest when she breathed.
Indhu realised what she had just admitted out loud. Heat rose to her cheeks. She busied herself with the chutney.
Karthik cleared his throat, stood up quickly. “Okay, I'm late.” He grabbed his bag, ruffled Leka's hair on the way out (she swatted at him and missed), then paused at his mother. For a second his gaze lingered on the soft skin of her neck above the satin neckline. “Bye, Amma. You… you look really nice today.”
He left before she could answer.
Leka finished her breakfast, grabbed her bag, and hugged Indhu tight at the door. “Thank you, Amma. I love you.”
Indhu kissed her forehead. “Be careful with the boys, okay? Those leggings show everything. Walk like you own the world, but keep your eyes open.”
Leka grinned, waved, and stepped out into the bright June sunlight looking taller, freer, happier.
Indhu closed the door, leaned back against it, and let out a long, shaky breath. The house was empty. The satin nightie slid coolly against her skin. For the first time in years, the silence didn't feel heavy.
It felt like possibility.
--------------------
The house was finally still.
Indhu moved through her chores on quiet feet: sweeping the hall, folding yesterday's dried clothes, wiping down the kitchen counter until it gleamed. The satin nightie swished softly around her thighs with every bend and stretch, a secret luxury she still couldn't quite believe she was allowing herself. When she reached up to the top shelf for the detergent, the hem rose dangerously high; cool air kissed the backs of her thighs and she shivered, half guilt, half pleasure.
The phone rang at eleven-thirty. Her mother's name flashed on the screen.
“Indhu, how is the heat there? Here in the village it's killing us,” her mother launched straight into gossip without greeting: who was getting married, whose son failed engineering, whose daughter ran away with a city boy. Indhu made the right sounds (shock, sympathy, laughter) while her eyes drifted to her reflection in the balcony door. The satin caught the light like spilled coffee and cream. She looked young. She felt young.
After twenty minutes she gently ended the call, promising to visit soon, and dialled Varsha.
“Tell me, how does it feel?” Varsha's voice was pure mischief the moment she picked up.
Indhu laughed, low and surprised at herself. “Like silk on my skin. Cool. Light. I keep forgetting I'm wearing anything at all.”
“That's the whole point, da. You're thirty-six, not sixty. Wear it, enjoy it. Rajan is not there to security officer you for four days.”
They talked the way old friends do: children, prices, husbands who don't understand anything, new parlour discounts. When Varsha asked if she planned to buy more, Indhu's answer came out before she could think: “Maybe one in black. And one in wine red.” She bit her lip, shocked at her own boldness, and Varsha whooped in delight.
Lunch was simple: curd rice with mango pickle eaten straight from the steel tin, standing at the counter because sitting felt like wasting the quiet. The satin slid against the edge of the counter when she leaned over to rinse the plate, and she caught herself smiling at nothing.
Across the city, in a stuffy twelfth-standard classroom, Karthik stared at the blackboard without seeing it.
The teacher was explaining vectors, but the words floated past him like smoke. All he could hear was his mother's quiet, bitter confession at the breakfast table.
Both of us have been caged too long in this house.
He had never thought of it that way before. To him, Amma was the centre of everything: warm, smiling, always there with food and hugs and scoldings wrapped in love. He had never noticed the tightness around her eyes when Appa spoke, the way her shoulders dropped the moment the door closed behind his father.
And that nightie. God, that nightie. The memory of coffee-brown satin clinging to her body kept flashing behind his eyelids: the soft shape of her breasts when she breathed, the smooth length of her thighs he had never properly seen before, the way she had looked… free. Radiant. Like someone he suddenly wanted to protect from the whole world, especially from the man who was supposed to love her.
The bell rang for lunch break. His friends shouted for him to join them under the tree, but he stayed at his desk, forehead pressed to his folded arms.
What could an eighteen-year-old boy do? He had no money, no power. But the thought of his mother feeling trapped in the same house where he felt safest made something ache inside his chest, fierce and helpless.
He pulled out his phone under the desk and opened a new chat with the only person he wanted to talk to right now.
Karthik (12:47 pm):
Amma, you okay?
The message showed delivered. Three dots appeared almost instantly.
Amma ❤️ (12:48 pm):
I'm good, kanna. Why? Everything alright in college?
Karthik (12:48 pm):
Just miss you.
He hesitated, thumbs hovering.
Karthik (12:49 pm):
You looked really happy this morning. I like it when you're happy.
The dots appeared, vanished, appeared again.
Amma ❤️ (12:51 pm):
You're making me blush in the kitchen, dei ❤️
Study well. Come home soon.
He stared at the heart she sent until the screen went dark, then pressed the phone to his chest like it could hold the feeling a second longer.
In the quiet house, Indhu read the messages twice, felt warmth bloom under the satin, and set the phone down with trembling fingers.
The afternoon stretched ahead, empty and golden and theirs alone.
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