Family of Desire: Getting close to didi and mom

[ashuezy2]

The Family of Desire
Narrator: Eshan (The Son)


Introduction

My name is Eshan, nineteen years old, just started first year at a private university here in Delhi. We live in this posh second-floor builder floor in South Delhi—marble floors, false ceilings, everything fancy. Dad, Mr. Rajesh, runs a textile export business. Typical provider type—always on the phone shouting about shipments, thinks his job is done once he hands over the credit cards. Money is never an issue at home, time is.

Then there’s my sister Gayatri. Twenty-four, works as an accountant in a big firm in Gurgaon. She’s intense—beautiful, but completely shameless. Every weekend she’s out partying at Hauz Khas or Cyber Hub, comes home late smelling of alcohol and expensive perfume. She has her own room, but on some days or when she’s hungover, she crawls into my bed, hugs me like I’m her teddy bear. Wears Shorts, sometimes top see-through, she doesn’t care at all. Modern, loud, zero fucks given.

And then there’s my mother. Kaveri.

Thirty-eight, but if you see her, you’d swear she’s Gayatri’s older sister. She didn’t age; she just became more ripe, more perfect. Fair skin—with a body that’s dangerous. Thick in all the right places, soft like butter but still firm. No stretch marks, no loose skin like other aunties in the colony. Flawless. She spends her days managing the house and scrolling Instagram, watching influencers and feeling like she’s missing out on life.


Scene 1

It was a Sunday afternoon, that dry Delhi heat hanging heavy in the air. Dad was out playing golf, Gayatri passed out in her room from last night.

I went into my parents’ bedroom to ask for the car keys. The door was slightly open.

Mom was sitting at her dressing table. She had just come out of the shower. No clothes—just a white bath towel wrapped tightly around her body. It was struggling to hold her heavy breasts, pushing them up so high that little cleavage was spilling out, glowing white against the towel. The towel ended high on her thighs, showing off those smooth, hairless, milky-white legs.

She was staring at herself in the mirror, looking unhappy. Pulling at her cheeks, then touching her waist, like she was fighting with her own reflection.

Kaveri Mom: “Uff… Eshan, when did you come? Door band kar na, please.”

I stepped in, closed the door, and started looking for the keys in the drawer.

Eshan: “Just now, Mom. Needed the car keys. What are you staring at in the mirror for so long? Been sitting like this for ten minutes at least.”

Kaveri Mom: “Look at Gayatri… she wears those crop tops and short dresses and looks so stylish. And look at me. Next to her I feel like such a behenji. I take care of myself, go to the gym, but still… I feel so outdated. Kya karoon?”

She turned on the stool to face me. The towel slipped just a little—maybe an inch—revealing the deep, flawless valley between her breasts. She didn’t pull it up. Water droplets were still glistening on her skin like tiny pearls.

Eshan: “Mom, are you serious? Gayatri looks like a stick compared to you. You’re not outdated. You’re classic. Have you seen how the security guards and neighbors stare when you wear a saree? They literally trip over their own feet.”

Kaveri Mom: “Chup kar, Eshan! Don’t talk like that about your mother. ‘They stare at me’… shut up. I’m thirty-eight, beta. My time is gone. Your Papa doesn’t even look up from his phone when I walk into the room.”

Eshan: “That’s Papa’s loss, Mom. Seriously. Zero wrinkles, skin like silk… honestly, if you wore what Gayatri wears, half of Delhi would have a heart attack.”

Kaveri Mom: “Dhat! Pagal ladka. Me in Gayatri’s clothes? Chi. What will people say? ‘Kaveri has gone mad in her old age.’ Bilkul nahi.”

Eshan: “See? This is your problem. You keep thinking you’re old. You’re not. You’re just… hidden. Like some treasure nobody’s opened yet.”

I walked closer and stood behind her. In the mirror I could see everything—wet hair clinging to her neck, flushed cheeks, that heavy chest rising and falling under the towel. The smell of her sandalwood soap was everywhere, making my head spin a little.

Eshan: “You know Vian? The guy who moved in next door? Photography professional?”

Kaveri Mom: “That cute boy with curly hair? Haan, what about him?”

Eshan: “He was telling me yesterday he needs a model for his project. ‘Indian Mother’ theme. He specifically asked if Kaveri Aunty would help. Says your structure is perfect for it.”

Kaveri Mom: “Model? Me? Are you joking? Main ek ladke ke saamne pose karoon? I’ll die of shame, Eshan.”

Eshan: “Why? It’s just art, Mom. Vian is professional. It’ll be good for you. You’ll finally see how beautiful you really are. Just try it once? For me? Prove to yourself you’re not some behenji.”

Mom bit her lower lip, looked back at her reflection. She slowly ran her hand down her wet neck, over the curve of her breast. I saw something flicker in her eyes—fear mixed with this sudden, sharp hunger for someone to tell her she was still desirable.

Kaveri Mom: “You really think… I can pull it off?”

Eshan: “Mom, you won’t just pull it off. You’ll destroy it. You’ll be exactly what they’re looking for.”