10-02-2026, 10:22 PM
The rumours didn't die down after the classroom incident with Professor Deshmukh. If anything, they grew legs and started running faster.
By the end of the week, the college gbangvine had turned vicious. My Friend Rohan's loose talk had done its damage — he kept adding "details" every time someone asked: how Maa and Uncle laughed late at night in the kitchen, how Papa never said a word, how she dressed "like she wants attention." He said it with a smirk, like it was funny. It wasn't.
In the boys' hostel group chat, screenshots of the reunion photos circulated again — zoomed in on her low pallu, the way her saree clung in the class. Captions like: "Bhai ki maa toh full item hai." "Uncle ke saath, dad silent? Yeh kya polyandry hai be?" Laughing emojis everywhere.
In class, guys started giving me looks — sideways glances, half-smiles when I walked past. One idiot in the back row whispered loud enough for me to hear: "Arre, teri maa aaj bhi college aayi kya? Blouse tight pehen ke?" The row laughed. I clenched my fists but didn't turn. What could I say?
Lunchtime in the canteen became hell. The same three seniors — Vikram, Amit, Rohit — sat at their bench like kings. When I passed with my tray, Vikram called out.
"Oye hero! Aa na baith. Teri maa ke baare mein baat kar rahe the."
I stopped. Heart pounding.
They didn't lower their voices.
Amit grinned. "Yaar, sach bata — ghar mein kya scene hai? Teeno ek bed pe? Ya bari bari kate ho?"
Rohit added fuel. "Aur dressing… bilkul porn star wali aunty. Low saree, tight blouse. College aake professor ko bhi line de di. Deshmukh toh ab bhi us din ki baat karta hai."
The table around them laughed. Phones out, recording discreetly.
Vikram leaned forward. "Bata na bhai. Teri maa itni hot kyun hai? 46 mein bhi curves killer. Hum bhi try kar len kya? Invite kar na ghar pe."
The laughter got louder. Someone clapped.
I felt heat rise in my face. Hands shaking. I wanted to punch something — Vikram's face, the table, anything. But I knew if I reacted, it would only get worse. They'd call me "mummy's boy" next.
I just walked away. Tray untouched. Stomach in knots.
That evening, I came home late. Didn't tell Maa anything at first. Sat in my room, scrolling through the group chats I'd been added to secretly. More photos. More jokes. "Bhai ki maa ka onlyfans link do yaar." "Uncle lucky bastard."
I felt sick.
Maa knocked on the door around 9. Came in with a glass of milk. Sat on the bed edge.
"Kya hua beta? Sab theek ?"
I looked up. Lied "Kuch Nahi maa, vo exams & presure"
By mid-week, the humiliation had layers.
In the morning assembly line, a group of second-years behind me started whispering loud enough:
“Bhai, teri maa professor ko bhi impress kar gayi”
Laughter. Someone mimicked a low whistle. I stared straight ahead, jaw tight
Lunch in the canteen became impossible. The seniors’ bench had become their stage. Vikram, Amit, Rohit — always there, always loud when I passed.
One day Vikram called out across the tables:
“Oye mummy ka beta! Aa na, aaj teri maa ka special prasad laaya hai kya?”
The whole canteen turned. Phones came out slow. Someone filmed from the side.
Amit joined in:
“Yaar bata na — ghar mein kya chal raha hai"
Rohit laughed hardest. “College aake bhi professor ko line de di. Deshmukh toh ab lecture mein bhi smile karta hai jab teri attendance ki baat aati hai.”
More laughter. A girl from my batch giggled behind her hand. A guy I used to play cricket with shook his head like he pitied me.
I stood there with my tray. Hands shaking so hard the plate rattled. Stomach twisting. I wanted to scream, throw the tray, punch Vikram’s face till it bled. But I knew — one reaction and it would explode bigger. They’d call me weak, mummy’s boy, say I couldn’t handle “the truth.”
I just turned. Walked out. Food untouched. Sat in the empty stairwell behind the library for twenty minutes, breathing hard, eyes burning.
Group chats kept buzzing. New memes: my face photoshopped onto a crying baby with caption “When your mom is hotter than your girlfriend.” Reunion dance photo edited with hearts around Maa and Uncle. “Family goals or family holes?” someone wrote. Emojis of fire and laughing faces.
I muted everything. But notifications still came. Anonymous DMs: “Bhai sach bata, teri maa kitne uncles ke saath?” “Photo bhej na, private dekh lenge.”
I deleted the apps for a day. Then reinstalled because I had to check if it was getting worse.
It was.
By Friday, even some girls I knew started giving pity looks in corridors. One classmate — Priya, who used to talk to me normally — came up quietly after class.
“Listen… ignore kar. Log jealous hain bas. Teri mom… she’s confident. That’s all.”
But her voice had that same pity. Like I was the victim in some sad story.
I nodded. Didn’t speak. Went home early.
That night I sat in my room, door locked. Scrolled through the worst messages. Felt small. Powerless. Like the whole college had stripped me naked and laughed.
I didn’t tell Maa.
I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, wondering how long I could take it before something broke.
I had been carrying the weight for days — the whispers in corridors, the memes in group chats, the way people looked at me like I was part of some dirty joke. Rohan’s face kept flashing in my mind: that same smirk every time he “shared” another detail about Maa and Uncle, like it was entertainment.
I found him near the bike parking lot. He was leaning on his Activa, scrolling on his phone, laughing at something with two other guys from our batch. When he saw me coming, the laugh faded a little. He straightened up.
“Arre hero,” he said, trying to keep the tone light. “Kya hua? Face itna serious kyun?”
I stopped two steps away. Hands in pockets so they wouldn’t shake. Voice low but steady.
“Rohan. Band kar yeh sab.”
He blinked. Looked at his friends. They shifted uncomfortably but didn’t move.
“Kya band karun bhai? Main toh bas—”
“Bas?” I cut him off. Stepped closer. “Bas mazak? Bas ‘funny story’? Mere ghar ke baare mein, meri maa ke baare mein, sabko bata raha hai jaise koi serial hai. Photos forward kar raha hai. Seniors ko bhi bol raha hai. Kyun?”
He tried the grin again. “Arre yaar, chill. Sab jaante hain toh kya farak padta hai? Teri maa hot hai, log bolenge hi na. Jealousy hai bas.”
One of his friends snorted. I ignored him. Kept eyes on Rohan.
“Jealousy? Tu mera dost tha. Ghar aaya tha. Chai pi thi Maa ke haath ki. Aur ab unhi cheezon ko joke bana raha hai? Mere liye sharminda feel kar raha hoon college mein har din. Log mujhe ‘mummy ka beta’ bol rahe hain. Group mein memes daal rahe hain. Aur tu bol raha hai ‘chill’?”
Rohan’s grin slipped. He looked around — parking lot emptying, but a few people still lingering, ears open.
“Bhai… main toh mazak mein—”
“Mazak mein?” My voice rose just enough. “Meri maa 46 saal ki hai. Do bacchon ki maa hai. Ghar sambhaalti hai. Aur tu uske dressing, uske rishton ko porn joke bana raha hai? Tu sochta hai yeh funny hai? Mere liye yeh funny nahi hai. Mere liye yeh dard hai.”
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked down at his shoes.
The other two guys started backing away slowly. “Yaar hum chalte hain…”
I didn’t stop them. Kept looking at Rohan.
“Ab se — ek bhi word nahi. Ek bhi photo forward nahi. Ek bhi ‘mazak’ nahi. Warna…”
I let it hang. Didn’t need to finish. He knew me well enough — I wasn’t the fighting type, but right now, the anger in my eyes was real.
Rohan exhaled slow. Rubbed the back of his neck.
“Sorry yaar. Sach mein. Main… over kar gaya. Delete kar deta hoon sab. Group se nikal jaunga agar tu chahe.”
I didn’t soften immediately. Just nodded once.
“Nahi nikalna. Bas band kar. Aur agar seniors ya koi aur pooche — bol dena galti ho gayi. Aur sorry bol dena mere taraf se bhi, agar zarurat pade.”
He looked up. Eyes guilty.
“Theek hai. Promise.”
I turned to leave. Stopped. Looked back.
“Aur Rohan… agli baar kisi ki maa ke baare mein aise mat bolna. Kabhi nahi pata kis din tera beta same feel karega.”
He didn’t answer. Just nodded.
I left.
The confusion had been building inside me like a slow leak — drop by drop, day by day — until it felt like my chest was full of water I couldn’t drain.
I knew something was different at home.
Was this normal? Was it wrong? Was I supposed to feel okay with it?
I couldn’t talk to Maa — she’d just smile that calm smile and say “everything is fine, beta,” like she always did when she wanted to end a conversation. Papa? He’d get uncomfortable, change the topic to my studies. Uncle? No way. He barely spoke to me directly anymore.
So I went to the only person who might listen without laughing or judging too hard: my cousin sister, Dipti. She was 23, same age as me, lived in the city for her job, but we’d always been close — the kind of cousins who texted memes at 2 a.m. and told each other secrets.
I called her that evening after dinner. Sat on the terrace, away from the house lights, voice low.
“Didi… mujhe baat karni hai. Serious wali.”
She answered on the second ring. “Bol na, kya hua? Awaaz itni serious kyun?”
I took a breath. Told her everything — not the dirty college jokes, but the real stuff. The way Maa had changed after going to native place. How Uncle smiled more now. How Papa seemed quieter but not angry. The bed arrangements I’d accidentally seen once or twice. The tension in the air that felt like love but also like something forbidden. How college rumours were making me question if my family was “broken” or “wrong.”
I ended with the question that had been choking me for weeks.
“Didi… yeh sab sahi hai kya? Ya galat? Main confuse hoon. Ghar mein sab normal behave kar rahe hain jaise kuch bada nahi ho raha, par mujhe lagta hai kuch bada ho raha hai. Aur main… main isme kya karun?”
There was a long silence on the other end. I could hear her breathing, thinking.
Then she spoke soft, careful.
“Listen, bhai. Main sach bolungi. Yeh jo ho raha hai… yeh traditional ‘sahi’ nahi hai. Society ke hisaab se galat hai. Log judge karenge, bolenge immoral, ganda, family destroy kar raha hai. College mein jo log mazak uda rahe hain, woh isi wajah se uda rahe hain — kyuki yeh unke liye shocking hai, forbidden hai.”
Another pause.
“Par… sahi ya galat sirf rules se nahi decide hota. Yeh tere ghar ke log hain. Tere maa-baap-chacha. Agar woh teeno khush hain, ek doosre ko hurt nahi kar rahe, force nahi kar rahe… toh yeh unka personal matter hai. Adult choice hai. Consent hai. Pyar hai — alag tarike ka, complicated, par real.”
I swallowed. “Par main kya feel karun? Mujhe guilt hota hai. Jaise main kuch galat jaan kar bhi chup hoon.”
Dipti sighed. “Guilt is normal. Confusion bhi normal hai. Tu abhi young hai, yeh sab process kar raha hai. Par sun — tu unka judge mat ban. Unhone tujhe paala hai, tujhe protect kiya hai. Ab tu unko judge karega toh sirf khud ko hurt karega. Agar comfortable nahi lag raha, toh dheere-dheere baat kar sakta hai Maa se. Seedha bol de — ‘Maa, mujhe samajh nahi aa raha, batao kya chal raha hai.’ Woh shayad khul ke batayegi.”
I stared at the dark sky. “Aur agar main accept nahi kar paaya?”
“Toh bhi theek hai. Tu apne feelings ko force mat kar. Time de khud ko. Par ghar se door mat bhaag. Yeh family hai — complicated, imperfect, par family.”
She paused again.
“Aur college wale? Ignore kar. Unka time waste hai. Tu apni life pe focus kar. Padhai, friends, future. Jo ghar mein ho raha hai… woh tere future ko define nahi karega. Tu define karega.”
I felt tears prick my eyes. First time in weeks I wasn’t angry — just tired, sad, but a little lighter.
“Thanks, Didi.”
“Anytime, bhai. Call karna jab bhi chahiye. Aur yaad rakh — tu akela nahi hai is confusion mein.”
I hung up. Sat there a while longer.
By the end of the week, the college gbangvine had turned vicious. My Friend Rohan's loose talk had done its damage — he kept adding "details" every time someone asked: how Maa and Uncle laughed late at night in the kitchen, how Papa never said a word, how she dressed "like she wants attention." He said it with a smirk, like it was funny. It wasn't.
In the boys' hostel group chat, screenshots of the reunion photos circulated again — zoomed in on her low pallu, the way her saree clung in the class. Captions like: "Bhai ki maa toh full item hai." "Uncle ke saath, dad silent? Yeh kya polyandry hai be?" Laughing emojis everywhere.
In class, guys started giving me looks — sideways glances, half-smiles when I walked past. One idiot in the back row whispered loud enough for me to hear: "Arre, teri maa aaj bhi college aayi kya? Blouse tight pehen ke?" The row laughed. I clenched my fists but didn't turn. What could I say?
Lunchtime in the canteen became hell. The same three seniors — Vikram, Amit, Rohit — sat at their bench like kings. When I passed with my tray, Vikram called out.
"Oye hero! Aa na baith. Teri maa ke baare mein baat kar rahe the."
I stopped. Heart pounding.
They didn't lower their voices.
Amit grinned. "Yaar, sach bata — ghar mein kya scene hai? Teeno ek bed pe? Ya bari bari kate ho?"
Rohit added fuel. "Aur dressing… bilkul porn star wali aunty. Low saree, tight blouse. College aake professor ko bhi line de di. Deshmukh toh ab bhi us din ki baat karta hai."
The table around them laughed. Phones out, recording discreetly.
Vikram leaned forward. "Bata na bhai. Teri maa itni hot kyun hai? 46 mein bhi curves killer. Hum bhi try kar len kya? Invite kar na ghar pe."
The laughter got louder. Someone clapped.
I felt heat rise in my face. Hands shaking. I wanted to punch something — Vikram's face, the table, anything. But I knew if I reacted, it would only get worse. They'd call me "mummy's boy" next.
I just walked away. Tray untouched. Stomach in knots.
That evening, I came home late. Didn't tell Maa anything at first. Sat in my room, scrolling through the group chats I'd been added to secretly. More photos. More jokes. "Bhai ki maa ka onlyfans link do yaar." "Uncle lucky bastard."
I felt sick.
Maa knocked on the door around 9. Came in with a glass of milk. Sat on the bed edge.
"Kya hua beta? Sab theek ?"
I looked up. Lied "Kuch Nahi maa, vo exams & presure"
By mid-week, the humiliation had layers.
In the morning assembly line, a group of second-years behind me started whispering loud enough:
“Bhai, teri maa professor ko bhi impress kar gayi”
Laughter. Someone mimicked a low whistle. I stared straight ahead, jaw tight
Lunch in the canteen became impossible. The seniors’ bench had become their stage. Vikram, Amit, Rohit — always there, always loud when I passed.
One day Vikram called out across the tables:
“Oye mummy ka beta! Aa na, aaj teri maa ka special prasad laaya hai kya?”
The whole canteen turned. Phones came out slow. Someone filmed from the side.
Amit joined in:
“Yaar bata na — ghar mein kya chal raha hai"
Rohit laughed hardest. “College aake bhi professor ko line de di. Deshmukh toh ab lecture mein bhi smile karta hai jab teri attendance ki baat aati hai.”
More laughter. A girl from my batch giggled behind her hand. A guy I used to play cricket with shook his head like he pitied me.
I stood there with my tray. Hands shaking so hard the plate rattled. Stomach twisting. I wanted to scream, throw the tray, punch Vikram’s face till it bled. But I knew — one reaction and it would explode bigger. They’d call me weak, mummy’s boy, say I couldn’t handle “the truth.”
I just turned. Walked out. Food untouched. Sat in the empty stairwell behind the library for twenty minutes, breathing hard, eyes burning.
Group chats kept buzzing. New memes: my face photoshopped onto a crying baby with caption “When your mom is hotter than your girlfriend.” Reunion dance photo edited with hearts around Maa and Uncle. “Family goals or family holes?” someone wrote. Emojis of fire and laughing faces.
I muted everything. But notifications still came. Anonymous DMs: “Bhai sach bata, teri maa kitne uncles ke saath?” “Photo bhej na, private dekh lenge.”
I deleted the apps for a day. Then reinstalled because I had to check if it was getting worse.
It was.
By Friday, even some girls I knew started giving pity looks in corridors. One classmate — Priya, who used to talk to me normally — came up quietly after class.
“Listen… ignore kar. Log jealous hain bas. Teri mom… she’s confident. That’s all.”
But her voice had that same pity. Like I was the victim in some sad story.
I nodded. Didn’t speak. Went home early.
That night I sat in my room, door locked. Scrolled through the worst messages. Felt small. Powerless. Like the whole college had stripped me naked and laughed.
I didn’t tell Maa.
I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, wondering how long I could take it before something broke.
I had been carrying the weight for days — the whispers in corridors, the memes in group chats, the way people looked at me like I was part of some dirty joke. Rohan’s face kept flashing in my mind: that same smirk every time he “shared” another detail about Maa and Uncle, like it was entertainment.
I found him near the bike parking lot. He was leaning on his Activa, scrolling on his phone, laughing at something with two other guys from our batch. When he saw me coming, the laugh faded a little. He straightened up.
“Arre hero,” he said, trying to keep the tone light. “Kya hua? Face itna serious kyun?”
I stopped two steps away. Hands in pockets so they wouldn’t shake. Voice low but steady.
“Rohan. Band kar yeh sab.”
He blinked. Looked at his friends. They shifted uncomfortably but didn’t move.
“Kya band karun bhai? Main toh bas—”
“Bas?” I cut him off. Stepped closer. “Bas mazak? Bas ‘funny story’? Mere ghar ke baare mein, meri maa ke baare mein, sabko bata raha hai jaise koi serial hai. Photos forward kar raha hai. Seniors ko bhi bol raha hai. Kyun?”
He tried the grin again. “Arre yaar, chill. Sab jaante hain toh kya farak padta hai? Teri maa hot hai, log bolenge hi na. Jealousy hai bas.”
One of his friends snorted. I ignored him. Kept eyes on Rohan.
“Jealousy? Tu mera dost tha. Ghar aaya tha. Chai pi thi Maa ke haath ki. Aur ab unhi cheezon ko joke bana raha hai? Mere liye sharminda feel kar raha hoon college mein har din. Log mujhe ‘mummy ka beta’ bol rahe hain. Group mein memes daal rahe hain. Aur tu bol raha hai ‘chill’?”
Rohan’s grin slipped. He looked around — parking lot emptying, but a few people still lingering, ears open.
“Bhai… main toh mazak mein—”
“Mazak mein?” My voice rose just enough. “Meri maa 46 saal ki hai. Do bacchon ki maa hai. Ghar sambhaalti hai. Aur tu uske dressing, uske rishton ko porn joke bana raha hai? Tu sochta hai yeh funny hai? Mere liye yeh funny nahi hai. Mere liye yeh dard hai.”
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked down at his shoes.
The other two guys started backing away slowly. “Yaar hum chalte hain…”
I didn’t stop them. Kept looking at Rohan.
“Ab se — ek bhi word nahi. Ek bhi photo forward nahi. Ek bhi ‘mazak’ nahi. Warna…”
I let it hang. Didn’t need to finish. He knew me well enough — I wasn’t the fighting type, but right now, the anger in my eyes was real.
Rohan exhaled slow. Rubbed the back of his neck.
“Sorry yaar. Sach mein. Main… over kar gaya. Delete kar deta hoon sab. Group se nikal jaunga agar tu chahe.”
I didn’t soften immediately. Just nodded once.
“Nahi nikalna. Bas band kar. Aur agar seniors ya koi aur pooche — bol dena galti ho gayi. Aur sorry bol dena mere taraf se bhi, agar zarurat pade.”
He looked up. Eyes guilty.
“Theek hai. Promise.”
I turned to leave. Stopped. Looked back.
“Aur Rohan… agli baar kisi ki maa ke baare mein aise mat bolna. Kabhi nahi pata kis din tera beta same feel karega.”
He didn’t answer. Just nodded.
I left.
The confusion had been building inside me like a slow leak — drop by drop, day by day — until it felt like my chest was full of water I couldn’t drain.
I knew something was different at home.
Was this normal? Was it wrong? Was I supposed to feel okay with it?
I couldn’t talk to Maa — she’d just smile that calm smile and say “everything is fine, beta,” like she always did when she wanted to end a conversation. Papa? He’d get uncomfortable, change the topic to my studies. Uncle? No way. He barely spoke to me directly anymore.
So I went to the only person who might listen without laughing or judging too hard: my cousin sister, Dipti. She was 23, same age as me, lived in the city for her job, but we’d always been close — the kind of cousins who texted memes at 2 a.m. and told each other secrets.
I called her that evening after dinner. Sat on the terrace, away from the house lights, voice low.
“Didi… mujhe baat karni hai. Serious wali.”
She answered on the second ring. “Bol na, kya hua? Awaaz itni serious kyun?”
I took a breath. Told her everything — not the dirty college jokes, but the real stuff. The way Maa had changed after going to native place. How Uncle smiled more now. How Papa seemed quieter but not angry. The bed arrangements I’d accidentally seen once or twice. The tension in the air that felt like love but also like something forbidden. How college rumours were making me question if my family was “broken” or “wrong.”
I ended with the question that had been choking me for weeks.
“Didi… yeh sab sahi hai kya? Ya galat? Main confuse hoon. Ghar mein sab normal behave kar rahe hain jaise kuch bada nahi ho raha, par mujhe lagta hai kuch bada ho raha hai. Aur main… main isme kya karun?”
There was a long silence on the other end. I could hear her breathing, thinking.
Then she spoke soft, careful.
“Listen, bhai. Main sach bolungi. Yeh jo ho raha hai… yeh traditional ‘sahi’ nahi hai. Society ke hisaab se galat hai. Log judge karenge, bolenge immoral, ganda, family destroy kar raha hai. College mein jo log mazak uda rahe hain, woh isi wajah se uda rahe hain — kyuki yeh unke liye shocking hai, forbidden hai.”
Another pause.
“Par… sahi ya galat sirf rules se nahi decide hota. Yeh tere ghar ke log hain. Tere maa-baap-chacha. Agar woh teeno khush hain, ek doosre ko hurt nahi kar rahe, force nahi kar rahe… toh yeh unka personal matter hai. Adult choice hai. Consent hai. Pyar hai — alag tarike ka, complicated, par real.”
I swallowed. “Par main kya feel karun? Mujhe guilt hota hai. Jaise main kuch galat jaan kar bhi chup hoon.”
Dipti sighed. “Guilt is normal. Confusion bhi normal hai. Tu abhi young hai, yeh sab process kar raha hai. Par sun — tu unka judge mat ban. Unhone tujhe paala hai, tujhe protect kiya hai. Ab tu unko judge karega toh sirf khud ko hurt karega. Agar comfortable nahi lag raha, toh dheere-dheere baat kar sakta hai Maa se. Seedha bol de — ‘Maa, mujhe samajh nahi aa raha, batao kya chal raha hai.’ Woh shayad khul ke batayegi.”
I stared at the dark sky. “Aur agar main accept nahi kar paaya?”
“Toh bhi theek hai. Tu apne feelings ko force mat kar. Time de khud ko. Par ghar se door mat bhaag. Yeh family hai — complicated, imperfect, par family.”
She paused again.
“Aur college wale? Ignore kar. Unka time waste hai. Tu apni life pe focus kar. Padhai, friends, future. Jo ghar mein ho raha hai… woh tere future ko define nahi karega. Tu define karega.”
I felt tears prick my eyes. First time in weeks I wasn’t angry — just tired, sad, but a little lighter.
“Thanks, Didi.”
“Anytime, bhai. Call karna jab bhi chahiye. Aur yaad rakh — tu akela nahi hai is confusion mein.”
I hung up. Sat there a while longer.
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