12-12-2025, 02:17 AM
CHAPTER – 76
The haveli's upper floor was shrouded in the thick silence of midnight, broken only by the distant hum of a ceiling fan straining against the humid air. Feroz lay on his wide teak bed in the master suite, the room dimly lit by a single bedside lamp that cast long shadows across the intricate Persian rug and the old wooden almirah filled with faded family albums. He was sixty-two, but tonight he felt every year of it—and none at all. His phone rested on his chest, the screen's blue glow illuminating his weathered face, the salt-and-pepper beard neatly trimmed, his eyes—usually calm and paternal—now narrowed with a mix of guilt and something far more primal.
He had lied to Kavya. The photos weren't deleted. Not completely. In the seconds after receiving them, before his conscience had fully kicked in, he had saved them to a hidden app on his phone—a password-protected vault disguised as a calculator. He told himself it was a mistake, a momentary lapse, that he would delete them tomorrow. But tomorrow had come and gone three times now, and here he was, thumb swiping through the images one by one, his breathing growing heavier with each scroll.
The first photo: Kavya in the wine-red satin nightie, the robe open and slipping off one shoulder, her hand positioned teasingly between her thighs. Feroz's eyes traced every detail slowly, deliberately. The way the satin clung to the soft curve of her hips, molding to the gentle swell of her abdomen. Her toned legs, smooth and lightly tanned from the Delhi sun, extended gracefully in the mirror pose, the muscles subtly defined from her daily walks with Trisha. He lingered on her armpits—exposed as she raised one arm to hold the phone—smooth, flawless, a faint sheen of sweat from the excitement of posing, the skin there pale and unblemished, a contrast to the richer tone of her arms. And the deep cleavage: the lace trim dipping low, framing the full, rounded breasts that rose and fell with what he imagined was her nervous breath. The mangalsutra nestled between them, glinting like a forbidden reminder of who she truly belonged to.
His free hand rested on his stomach, fingers twitching as if to touch the screen. He felt a stirring in his pajamas, unwelcome but undeniable.
The second: Midnight-blue sheer nightie, almost transparent in the soft bedroom light. Her deep cleavage was even more pronounced here, the fabric doing little to conceal the dark circles of her nipples pressing against it. Feroz's gaze followed the smooth line of her armpits again—raised as she adjusted the robe—velvety and inviting, the kind of detail he had never allowed himself to notice before. Her toned legs were crossed in the pose, the muscles flexing slightly, leading up to the subtle curve of her thighs. Every inch of her screamed youth, beauty, and a sensuality he had no right to witness. His breath came shorter now, the guilt coiling in his chest like smoke, but he couldn't stop swiping.
Third: Blush-pink lace bra and panty set, the robe barely covering anything. The deep V of the bra accentuated her cleavage, the lace barely containing the fullness of her breasts. Feroz zoomed in unconsciously, tracing the smooth hollows of her armpits—clean-shaven, silky, a faint shadow of stubble from the day—then down to her toned legs, long and shapely, the calves defined from years of walking the old Delhi markets. The curve of her hips in the lace panties was hypnotic, the fabric riding up slightly to reveal the soft inner thighs. He felt his pajamas tent, his hand moving lower of its own accord, but he stopped himself, clenching his fist.
Fourth: Emerald saree dbangd low on her hips, the sleeveless blouse backless and tight. The deep cleavage was framed by the saree's border, her breasts rising with each breath she must have taken while posing. Feroz's eyes lingered on the exposed armpits—smooth, raised as she held the phone—then down to her bare midriff, the gentle curve of her waist flaring to hips, and her toned legs peeking through the saree's slit, strong and elegant. The way the fabric clung to her curves made his mouth dry.
Fifth: Crimson georgette saree, pallu slipped off one shoulder, backless blouse revealing smooth skin. The cleavage was the deepest here, the blouse pushing her breasts up in a tantalizing swell. Armpits smooth and inviting in the side pose, legs toned and crossed, every curve accentuated by the flowing material. Feroz's heart pounded as he studied her, the guilt now a distant hum beneath the rush of blood in his ears.
He set the phone down for a moment, rubbing his face with both hands. "Ya ,.'," he whispered, "forgive me." But the images had awakened something long dormant, and as he lay back, his mind wandered to that night—the power cut night—when the line between father-in-law and something else had blurred for the first time. And now, looking at these photos, that night came rushing back.
On the other hand The late-night messages had become a secret ritual for Danish and Trisha.
It started innocently enough—a quick check on Rajesh ji’s health when Kavya fell asleep on video call. But Danish found himself lingering, and Trisha always replied within minutes. Nights turned into hours of typing in the dark, screens glowing like shared campfires across 1,400 kilometres.
Danish told himself it was family concern. Trisha told herself it was maternal affection. Both knew it was more.
One Tuesday night, Kavya had crashed early after a long day helping Trisha with cleaning.
Danish called, they talked softly for 45 minutes, then she dozed off mid-sentence, her face peaceful on the screen.
He ended the call at 12:37 AM.
Then opened the chat with “Mummy ji ❤️”.
Danish 12:39 AM Namaste Mummy ji ? Kavya just fell asleep. How’s Papa ji today?
Mummy ji 12:40 AM Namaste beta ? He’s good, walked the whole park today without stopping. Complaining about the bland food though ? You’re up late again?
Danish 12:41 AM Office deadlines. But worth it to hear about Papa ji’s progress. Jai Shri Krishna ?
They chatted for twenty minutes about Rajesh ji’s new herbal tea regime, Kavya’s latest kitchen mishap burnt rotis.
Danish 1:03 AM Mummy ji, you always make the best chai. I tried your elaichi trick—still not the same.
Mummy ji 1:04 AM It’s the love in the hands, beta. Yours will taste perfect when you make it for Kavya.
Danish 1:05 AM Or for you? Next visit, I’ll try under your supervision.
Mummy ji 1:06 AM I’ll be a strict teacher ? No shortcuts.
Danish 1:07 AM I like strict teachers. They bring out the best in me.
A pause. Three dots appeared, disappeared.
Mummy ji 1:09 AM Careful, beta. Flattery will get you extra homework.
Danish 1:10 AM Promise? ?
She sent a laughing emoji. He sent one back.
The teasing had started small like this—light jokes about her cooking, his clumsiness in the kitchen, how he “missed her scoldings”.
But tonight it felt different. Charged.
Mummy ji 1:13 AM You’re in a playful mood tonight.
Danish 1:14 AM Blame the moon. Or the fact that I miss your balcony yoga sessions. Best motivation of the day.
Mummy ji 1:16 AM Beta! That was not for watching ?
Danish 1:17 AM Too late. I learned more from those sessions than from any gym trainer.
Mummy ji 1:18 AM Like what? How to hide behind curtains? ?
Danish 1:19 AM Like how grace looks at 5 AM. You make it seem effortless.
A longer pause.
Mummy ji 1:22 AM Thank you, beta. That’s sweet.
Danish 1:23 AM Not sweet. True.
The chat shifted. They talked about old movies (Trisha’s love for Rajesh Khanna, Danish teasing her about “grandma crushes”). He joked about her “secret dance moves” during yoga. She teased him about his “terrible rolling pin technique” from that Delhi kitchen morning.
Danish 1:48 AM Okay, let’s play a game to pass the time. “Two truths and a lie”. You go first.
Mummy ji 1:50 AM At this hour? Okay…
1. I once won a dance competition in college.
2. I hate elaichi in chai.
3. I’ve never stayed up past 11 PM before you started texting.
Danish 1:51 AM 2 is the lie. You love elaichi (it’s why your chai is addictive).
Mummy ji 1:52 AM Correct! Your turn.
Danish 1:53 AM
1. I broke my arm playing cricket as a kid.
2. I hate sweets.
3. I think about our Delhi mornings every day.
Mummy ji 1:55 AM 2 is the lie. You love gulab jamun.
Danish 1:56 AM Wrong. 2 is true. I do hate sweets. 1 is the lie—I broke my leg, not arm.
Mummy ji 1:57 AM Oh… So 3 is…
Danish 1:58 AM Truth.
A very long pause. Three dots appeared, disappeared four times.
Mummy ji 2:03 AM My turn again.
1. I learned cooking from my mother.
2. I’ve never travelled outside India.
3. I think about that goodbye hug every night.
Danish 2:05 AM 3 is the lie? Please say 3 is the lie.
Mummy ji 2:07 AM No, beta. 2 is the lie. I went to Nepal once. 3 is truth.
Danish 2:08 AM Mummy ji…
Mummy ji 2:09 AM Your turn.
Danish 2:11 AM
1. I love Kavya more than anything.
2. I feel guilty every day.
3. I wish I had kissed you properly that morning.
Mummy ji 2:14 AM Danish… 1 is truth. 2 is truth. 3 must be the lie.
Danish 2:15 AM 3 is truth.
Silence for six minutes. Both online, no typing.
Mummy ji 2:21 AM We can’t do this.
Danish 2:22 AM I know.
Mummy ji 2:23 AM But I wish the same.
Another silence. This one longer. Nine minutes.
And then they both sent laughing emoji to each other to ease up the tension.
Danish 2:51 AM Mummy ji… close your eyes for 5 seconds. Tell me if this feels familiar ?
[He attaches a short, looping GIF: A woman in a deep-black braa lying back on sheets. A shirtless man is half on top of her, face buried deep in her neck and cleavage, lips open, kissing and lightly sucking the soft skin just above the lace edge while she arches slightly, fingers tangled tightly in his hair, eyes closed in obvious pleasure. Passionate but still “artistic” (no full nudity, just heat).]
![[Image: xbmNgI2.gif]](https://i.imgur.com/xbmNgI2.gif)
Mummy ji 2:53 AM Danish! Where do you even find these things? ?
Danish 2:54 AM Internet magic. But be honest… does it remind you of anything?
Mummy ji 2:56 AM Only of a certain very long “goodbye hug” that refused to end ? Though nobody was lying down that morning!
Danish 2:57 AM Give it time. Next visit I might need an even longer hug. For health reasons, of course.
Mummy ji 2:58 AM Health reasons? ? Doctor Mummy ji will decide the duration.
Danish 2:59 AM I’ll bring a prescription then. “One extended hug from Mummy ji, three times daily.”
Mummy ji 3:00 AM Prescription accepted ? But only if you promise no tickling this time.
Danish 3:01 AM No promises ? That little spot just below your ear looked very ticklish.
Mummy ji 3:02 AM Beta!!! Go to sleep right now ?
Danish 3:03 AM Yes ma’am ? Good night, Mummy ji. Sweet dreams (no neck kisses in them, I promise… maybe).
Mummy ji 3:04 AM Good night, naughty boy ? Jai Shri Krishna ❤️ Dream of parathas instead.
They both delete the GIF with big smiles. Both fall asleep lighter, warmer, hearts fluttering just a little.
It stayed playful. It stayed safe. But the memory of that morning hug lived happily between the lines, wrapped in gentle teasing and loving emojis, exactly where it belonged for now.
The haveli's upper floor was shrouded in the thick silence of midnight, broken only by the distant hum of a ceiling fan straining against the humid air. Feroz lay on his wide teak bed in the master suite, the room dimly lit by a single bedside lamp that cast long shadows across the intricate Persian rug and the old wooden almirah filled with faded family albums. He was sixty-two, but tonight he felt every year of it—and none at all. His phone rested on his chest, the screen's blue glow illuminating his weathered face, the salt-and-pepper beard neatly trimmed, his eyes—usually calm and paternal—now narrowed with a mix of guilt and something far more primal.
He had lied to Kavya. The photos weren't deleted. Not completely. In the seconds after receiving them, before his conscience had fully kicked in, he had saved them to a hidden app on his phone—a password-protected vault disguised as a calculator. He told himself it was a mistake, a momentary lapse, that he would delete them tomorrow. But tomorrow had come and gone three times now, and here he was, thumb swiping through the images one by one, his breathing growing heavier with each scroll.
The first photo: Kavya in the wine-red satin nightie, the robe open and slipping off one shoulder, her hand positioned teasingly between her thighs. Feroz's eyes traced every detail slowly, deliberately. The way the satin clung to the soft curve of her hips, molding to the gentle swell of her abdomen. Her toned legs, smooth and lightly tanned from the Delhi sun, extended gracefully in the mirror pose, the muscles subtly defined from her daily walks with Trisha. He lingered on her armpits—exposed as she raised one arm to hold the phone—smooth, flawless, a faint sheen of sweat from the excitement of posing, the skin there pale and unblemished, a contrast to the richer tone of her arms. And the deep cleavage: the lace trim dipping low, framing the full, rounded breasts that rose and fell with what he imagined was her nervous breath. The mangalsutra nestled between them, glinting like a forbidden reminder of who she truly belonged to.
His free hand rested on his stomach, fingers twitching as if to touch the screen. He felt a stirring in his pajamas, unwelcome but undeniable.
The second: Midnight-blue sheer nightie, almost transparent in the soft bedroom light. Her deep cleavage was even more pronounced here, the fabric doing little to conceal the dark circles of her nipples pressing against it. Feroz's gaze followed the smooth line of her armpits again—raised as she adjusted the robe—velvety and inviting, the kind of detail he had never allowed himself to notice before. Her toned legs were crossed in the pose, the muscles flexing slightly, leading up to the subtle curve of her thighs. Every inch of her screamed youth, beauty, and a sensuality he had no right to witness. His breath came shorter now, the guilt coiling in his chest like smoke, but he couldn't stop swiping.
Third: Blush-pink lace bra and panty set, the robe barely covering anything. The deep V of the bra accentuated her cleavage, the lace barely containing the fullness of her breasts. Feroz zoomed in unconsciously, tracing the smooth hollows of her armpits—clean-shaven, silky, a faint shadow of stubble from the day—then down to her toned legs, long and shapely, the calves defined from years of walking the old Delhi markets. The curve of her hips in the lace panties was hypnotic, the fabric riding up slightly to reveal the soft inner thighs. He felt his pajamas tent, his hand moving lower of its own accord, but he stopped himself, clenching his fist.
Fourth: Emerald saree dbangd low on her hips, the sleeveless blouse backless and tight. The deep cleavage was framed by the saree's border, her breasts rising with each breath she must have taken while posing. Feroz's eyes lingered on the exposed armpits—smooth, raised as she held the phone—then down to her bare midriff, the gentle curve of her waist flaring to hips, and her toned legs peeking through the saree's slit, strong and elegant. The way the fabric clung to her curves made his mouth dry.
Fifth: Crimson georgette saree, pallu slipped off one shoulder, backless blouse revealing smooth skin. The cleavage was the deepest here, the blouse pushing her breasts up in a tantalizing swell. Armpits smooth and inviting in the side pose, legs toned and crossed, every curve accentuated by the flowing material. Feroz's heart pounded as he studied her, the guilt now a distant hum beneath the rush of blood in his ears.
He set the phone down for a moment, rubbing his face with both hands. "Ya ,.'," he whispered, "forgive me." But the images had awakened something long dormant, and as he lay back, his mind wandered to that night—the power cut night—when the line between father-in-law and something else had blurred for the first time. And now, looking at these photos, that night came rushing back.
On the other hand The late-night messages had become a secret ritual for Danish and Trisha.
It started innocently enough—a quick check on Rajesh ji’s health when Kavya fell asleep on video call. But Danish found himself lingering, and Trisha always replied within minutes. Nights turned into hours of typing in the dark, screens glowing like shared campfires across 1,400 kilometres.
Danish told himself it was family concern. Trisha told herself it was maternal affection. Both knew it was more.
One Tuesday night, Kavya had crashed early after a long day helping Trisha with cleaning.
Danish called, they talked softly for 45 minutes, then she dozed off mid-sentence, her face peaceful on the screen.
He ended the call at 12:37 AM.
Then opened the chat with “Mummy ji ❤️”.
Danish 12:39 AM Namaste Mummy ji ? Kavya just fell asleep. How’s Papa ji today?
Mummy ji 12:40 AM Namaste beta ? He’s good, walked the whole park today without stopping. Complaining about the bland food though ? You’re up late again?
Danish 12:41 AM Office deadlines. But worth it to hear about Papa ji’s progress. Jai Shri Krishna ?
They chatted for twenty minutes about Rajesh ji’s new herbal tea regime, Kavya’s latest kitchen mishap burnt rotis.
Danish 1:03 AM Mummy ji, you always make the best chai. I tried your elaichi trick—still not the same.
Mummy ji 1:04 AM It’s the love in the hands, beta. Yours will taste perfect when you make it for Kavya.
Danish 1:05 AM Or for you? Next visit, I’ll try under your supervision.
Mummy ji 1:06 AM I’ll be a strict teacher ? No shortcuts.
Danish 1:07 AM I like strict teachers. They bring out the best in me.
A pause. Three dots appeared, disappeared.
Mummy ji 1:09 AM Careful, beta. Flattery will get you extra homework.
Danish 1:10 AM Promise? ?
She sent a laughing emoji. He sent one back.
The teasing had started small like this—light jokes about her cooking, his clumsiness in the kitchen, how he “missed her scoldings”.
But tonight it felt different. Charged.
Mummy ji 1:13 AM You’re in a playful mood tonight.
Danish 1:14 AM Blame the moon. Or the fact that I miss your balcony yoga sessions. Best motivation of the day.
Mummy ji 1:16 AM Beta! That was not for watching ?
Danish 1:17 AM Too late. I learned more from those sessions than from any gym trainer.
Mummy ji 1:18 AM Like what? How to hide behind curtains? ?
Danish 1:19 AM Like how grace looks at 5 AM. You make it seem effortless.
A longer pause.
Mummy ji 1:22 AM Thank you, beta. That’s sweet.
Danish 1:23 AM Not sweet. True.
The chat shifted. They talked about old movies (Trisha’s love for Rajesh Khanna, Danish teasing her about “grandma crushes”). He joked about her “secret dance moves” during yoga. She teased him about his “terrible rolling pin technique” from that Delhi kitchen morning.
Danish 1:48 AM Okay, let’s play a game to pass the time. “Two truths and a lie”. You go first.
Mummy ji 1:50 AM At this hour? Okay…
1. I once won a dance competition in college.
2. I hate elaichi in chai.
3. I’ve never stayed up past 11 PM before you started texting.
Danish 1:51 AM 2 is the lie. You love elaichi (it’s why your chai is addictive).
Mummy ji 1:52 AM Correct! Your turn.
Danish 1:53 AM
1. I broke my arm playing cricket as a kid.
2. I hate sweets.
3. I think about our Delhi mornings every day.
Mummy ji 1:55 AM 2 is the lie. You love gulab jamun.
Danish 1:56 AM Wrong. 2 is true. I do hate sweets. 1 is the lie—I broke my leg, not arm.
Mummy ji 1:57 AM Oh… So 3 is…
Danish 1:58 AM Truth.
A very long pause. Three dots appeared, disappeared four times.
Mummy ji 2:03 AM My turn again.
1. I learned cooking from my mother.
2. I’ve never travelled outside India.
3. I think about that goodbye hug every night.
Danish 2:05 AM 3 is the lie? Please say 3 is the lie.
Mummy ji 2:07 AM No, beta. 2 is the lie. I went to Nepal once. 3 is truth.
Danish 2:08 AM Mummy ji…
Mummy ji 2:09 AM Your turn.
Danish 2:11 AM
1. I love Kavya more than anything.
2. I feel guilty every day.
3. I wish I had kissed you properly that morning.
Mummy ji 2:14 AM Danish… 1 is truth. 2 is truth. 3 must be the lie.
Danish 2:15 AM 3 is truth.
Silence for six minutes. Both online, no typing.
Mummy ji 2:21 AM We can’t do this.
Danish 2:22 AM I know.
Mummy ji 2:23 AM But I wish the same.
Another silence. This one longer. Nine minutes.
And then they both sent laughing emoji to each other to ease up the tension.
Danish 2:51 AM Mummy ji… close your eyes for 5 seconds. Tell me if this feels familiar ?
[He attaches a short, looping GIF: A woman in a deep-black braa lying back on sheets. A shirtless man is half on top of her, face buried deep in her neck and cleavage, lips open, kissing and lightly sucking the soft skin just above the lace edge while she arches slightly, fingers tangled tightly in his hair, eyes closed in obvious pleasure. Passionate but still “artistic” (no full nudity, just heat).]
Mummy ji 2:53 AM Danish! Where do you even find these things? ?
Danish 2:54 AM Internet magic. But be honest… does it remind you of anything?
Mummy ji 2:56 AM Only of a certain very long “goodbye hug” that refused to end ? Though nobody was lying down that morning!
Danish 2:57 AM Give it time. Next visit I might need an even longer hug. For health reasons, of course.
Mummy ji 2:58 AM Health reasons? ? Doctor Mummy ji will decide the duration.
Danish 2:59 AM I’ll bring a prescription then. “One extended hug from Mummy ji, three times daily.”
Mummy ji 3:00 AM Prescription accepted ? But only if you promise no tickling this time.
Danish 3:01 AM No promises ? That little spot just below your ear looked very ticklish.
Mummy ji 3:02 AM Beta!!! Go to sleep right now ?
Danish 3:03 AM Yes ma’am ? Good night, Mummy ji. Sweet dreams (no neck kisses in them, I promise… maybe).
Mummy ji 3:04 AM Good night, naughty boy ? Jai Shri Krishna ❤️ Dream of parathas instead.
They both delete the GIF with big smiles. Both fall asleep lighter, warmer, hearts fluttering just a little.
It stayed playful. It stayed safe. But the memory of that morning hug lived happily between the lines, wrapped in gentle teasing and loving emojis, exactly where it belonged for now.
![[+]](https://xossipy.com/themes/sharepoint/collapse_collapsed.png)