Misc. Erotica ...And My Mother doesn't Remain Ours

[garamrohan]

I was panting when I reached the road beside our house. I quickly leaned against the wall of a nearby godown, hiding myself in its shadow. I didn’t know why, but I felt an urge to stay out of sight. My eyes remained fixed on the empty road.


I swallowed hard. A strange uneasiness twisted in my stomach.

And then he appeared…. The rambo guy.

This time he looked unusually excited. He stood near the neighboring plot, staring directly at our house. His clothes were as messy as ever, and the old sack still hung from his shoulder. He stayed there for several minutes, scanning the road. The neighbourhood was completely deserted.

That was when I understood something chilling.The trouble with that rambo guy had not ended. Jiju had only delayed it. The man had simply been waiting for him to leave. And the moment he saw Jiju go, he returned.
Just then, my beautiful mummy stepped out of the house.She was wearing a graceful green saree. Earlier in the morning I had noticed how it had caught Jiju’s attention for a short moment, something I still hadn’t been able to digest properly.

Her pallu covered her head, and she carried a small puja thali in her hand. The fair, delicate hands full of green, glass bangles – very common in Maharashtra. She looked like the very image of a traditional Indian woman; calm, dignified, and devoted to her home and family.

Unaware of the man standing barely fifty feet away, she walked towards the tulsi plant in the courtyard. She began her daily ritual. She offered water, placed kunku (Sindhoor, vermilion)  on the leaves, and set the bhog before it. Then she slowly started doing pradakshina around the tulsi.

Mummy had just begun the second round of pradakshina when something suddenly shifted. The rambo guy, who had been standing like a shadow near the neighbouring plot, jerked forward as if some wild impulse had taken over him. And he couldn’t control the urge to yell out his patent, disgusting words… “Maja…”

Lust had completely overtook him. In the next instant he started running toward her, his sack bouncing wildly against his shoulder. His footsteps were rough and hurried on the silent road.

Mummy abruptly turned her head. The moment her eyes fell on the man charging toward her, the calm on her face shattered. The puja thali trembled in her hands. For a fraction of a second she stood frozen, unable to believe what she was seeing. Then fear took over. The thali fell to the floor, the metal plate clattering faintly against the stone floor near the doorway. She gathered the edge of her saree and hurried toward the house. She almost stumbled as she rushed for the door, while the rambo guy continued to close the distance behind her. The quiet neighborhood suddenly felt terrifyingly exposed.

In a moment she had vanished into the interior of the house, the door swinging wide behind her. She was in so much shock and panic that she didn’t think of closing the door. The rambo guy reached the threshold seconds later. Without slowing down he threw the dirty sack from his shoulder; it landed heavily beside the entrance. 

His movements were frantic, almost animal-like, as if some wild excitement had completely overtaken him. In his haste he struggled with his filthy denim jeans right there at the doorway, kicking them aside carelessly before rushing further into the house. Within seconds he too disappeared inside, leaving the verandah and the road all silent. The abandoned sack and his dirty denim pants at the threshold kept troubling my mind to anticipate what was going to happen inside the house.

I remained glued to the wall, my body stiff as stone. My chest rose and fell unevenly, and yet I felt as if the air around me had suddenly become too heavy to breathe. But along with it came a deep, burning shame. I was standing there, hiding like a coward while terrible things were happening to mummy inside my own house. My thoughts spun wildly, each one darker than the last. I remembered what that rambo guy had done to mummy earlier, the ugly incident that had shaken our world. The memory made my stomach twist with anger and disgust.

Yet the thought of walking into the house terrified me. I knew I did not have the courage to confront that rambo guy. Still, I could not remain there doing nothing. After a few moments of helpless pacing, I forced myself to move. Slowly, cautiously, I stepped away from the godown wall and approached the house, my heart pounding loudly in my ears. I didn’t dare enter through the front door. Instead, I began walking around the left side of the house,  the side at which my room and my parents' room were. Keeping close to the boundary wall,I tried listening, trying to understand the inside position.I was struggling between dread and the desperate need to know whether mummy was safe.

When I reached the small window of my room, from where the window of my parent’s room was visible, I stopped several steps away from it, not daring to go too close. From where I stood, I could see nothing inside of their bedroom; only the pale curtain waving slightly in the still air. But the sounds reached me clearly enough. At first it was only muffled movement, the dull sound of something brushing against furniture, and the hustling rustle of cloth.

Then I heard mummy’s voice, low and trembling,
“Nako na… Hath jodate mi”
(“Please no. I beg you”)

 She was pleading and trying to reason with a hopeless, maniac who was now sexually frustrated and wanted her feminine body for pleasure. She kept speaking something, the exact words themselves were unclear, swallowed by the walls, but the tone carried a desperate uneasiness that made my heart sink. The impatient breaths and harsh murmurs that I was hearing sounded more like grunts than speech.

I stood frozen, my hands clenched into fists, my mind refusing to accept what those sounds were beginning to suggest. There were quick shuffling noises now, along with the creaking of the bed.  And once I heard something fall lightly, followed by a frightened gasp that I knew was from mummy. 

The curtain fluttered again, stirred by the movement inside, and the faint rhythm of struggling breaths drifted out through the window. It had a blend of predatory hisses of the rambo guy with helpless weeps and painful, controlled moans of mummy.  My whole body trembled. Every instinct in me told me to rush in, to stop the corruption of my mummy for the second time. She was turning out to be an object of lust and satisfaction for the weirdo and it was my duty to stop it. 

Yet overpowering emotions kept my feet rooted to the ground. I felt sick with fear and humiliation, listening from a distance like a helpless witness of my mummy’s pounding. My thoughts raced wildly - memories of how rambo guy forcefully enjoyed my mummy on the ghat, the humiliation and mental burden it had caused to mummy and me to some extent. And now, standing there outside, hearing those uneasy sounds and broken voices, I felt the terrible weight of helplessness pressing down on me. I had disappointed myself. I could never stand up for my mummy, I thought.

Suddenly a sharp cry tore through the silence of the house. It was a cry so raw and desperate that it made my heart melt in my chest. For a moment everything inside seemed to fall still. Then came a noise of the rambo guy laughing with happiness. His unsteady voice, harsh and disturbed, echoing faintly through the half-open window. In a crude, triumphant tone he muttered, “Maja Maja.. Bahot Maja…” The words crawled under my ear as if boiled oil had been poured in. 

After that I heard hurried movements again, heavier footsteps crossing the room. A moment later there was a clatter from the direction of the kitchen. It was the sound of metal utensils knocking against each other, something being opened or pushed aside, it was clear that rambo guy was wandering in there without the slightest care. Drawers rattled, a vessel rolled briefly across the floor, and then there was the dull thump of someone moving around the shelves. I remained outside unable to walk away from the sounds that kept thundering me.

A short while later, I heard movement at the front door. Instinctively I moved along the home wall towards the front side of the house and watched from a distance. The rambo guy emerged onto the veranda and started pulling on the same dirty denim jeans he had thrown at the door. His expression looked strangely satisfied, almost relaxed, as if nothing unusual had happened at all. 

What made the sight even more gross was the thing hanging at his hand — one of mummy’s bras. The cups had been stuffed with juicy apples, and he was carrying the straps over his shoulder as though it were some kind of ridiculous trophy. Then he stepped down and stuffed both the apples and the bra into his filthy sack. He swung the sack back over his shoulder. Without the slightest hurry, he stepped down onto the quiet road and began walking out of the colony with slow, satisfied strides, like a man who had simply finished a routine job, leaving behind a silence that felt heavier than anything I had ever known.

I started walking back towards the window to our parents room. My legs still trembled, but slowly, with hesitant steps, I moved closer to the window this time. Keeping my body pressed against the wall, I tiptoed toward the same side window. My heart pounded so loudly that I was afraid someone inside might hear it. Gathering what little courage I had, I raised myself just enough to look inside from a distance.

The sight inside made my chest tighten painfully. Mummy was sitting on the bed with her back toward the window. Her head was bent low, resting against her knees, and even from where I stood I could tell she was crying quietly. Her long, lustrous hair, which had been so neatly tied earlier during the puja, now hung loose and tangled down her back, clearly disturbed by the struggle. Her blouse looked torn at one shoulder, slipping awkwardly as it hung from the other side, leaving much of her creamy upper back exposed. There were red marks on that fair back that didn’t slip my eyes. The impressions of that dirty rambo man’s fingers moving on her delicate back. 

The room itself looked disturbed too. Things were slightly out of place, her crumbled saree was still hanging by her waist, but most of it was spread on the floor. Seeing her like that filled me with a deep ache and helpless anger. I wanted to rush inside, to say something, to comfort her but the thought of her realizing that I had witnessed this felt unbearable. I remained hidden, swallowing the knot in my throat.

After a few minutes she slowly straightened up. She wiped her face with the edge of her saree and sat still for a moment, as if forcing herself to regain control. Perhaps she too realized that it would not be long before the others in the family returned home. With determination she stood up and began putting the room back in order, adjusting things that had been displaced and picking up small items from the floor. But after a brief pause, she seemed to change her mind. Instead of continuing, she walked quickly toward the door that led to the kitchen, and from there probably to another door taking her to a small washroom in the backyard. 

For several seconds I remained where I was, listening carefully to make sure mummy had really gone toward the backyard. The faint creak of the washroom door and the distant splash of water finally reached my ears. Only then did I gather the courage to move. My feet felt unusually heavy as I stepped quietly toward the front door. I slipped inside, every nerve in my body alert.

I walked to my parents' bedroom through the kitchen. The room carried a strange, suffocating stillness. The bedsheets were crumpled and twisted, pulled out of place due to struggling that happened there moments ago. One corner of the mattress cover hung halfway off the bed and I could see big, damp patches of semen on that mattress. The pillow lay on the floor beside it. The torn blouse that mummy had been wearing earlier was lying near the edge of the bed, its fabric stretched and the whole one side was torn off, leaving it as practically half blouse, just able to cover the right shoulder. 

A sharp, unfamiliar odor lingered faintly in the room (probably of sweat and semen), mixed with the usual scent of incense from the morning puja, creating an atmosphere that made my stomach churn. I stood there silently, looking around at the disorder. The disturbed bedding; the scattered objects; and each detail made the reality of what had happened feel heavier. My chest tightened with anger and helplessness, yet I knew there was nothing I could undo now. My neck lowered in shame and I saw a trail of white sticky semen from the bed to the door of the room, going under my legs. 

After a few uneasy moments, I stepped back toward the front door again, afraid that mummy might return and find me there. I could not stay there any longer. Before the sound of water in the backyard could stop, I had to slip out through the door as quietly as I had entered. Once outside, my steps quickened. I crossed the yard, then the road, almost without realizing it, until I reached the godown wall again. The lane was still empty. No one was around to notice me.

Only then did I stop. I leaned against the rough wall and rubbed my eyes with the back of the hand, trying to steady myself. My mind felt like a storm of emotions colliding together. There was disgust; an ugly, choking disgust at what I had just witnessed. There was fear too, the lingering dread of that unstable man putting hands on my mummy for the second time, this time walking to our home without hesitation. Anger burned somewhere deep inside me, sharp and restless. Yet mixed within all of that was another feeling that disturbed me even more: a strange, confusing excitement that I could not explain. The realization made me uneasy with myself. Why did I feel this way? Why had I stood there listening instead of rushing in? The questions churned endlessly in my mind.

I stared at our house with the door open, breathing slowly, trying to make sense of it all. A troubling thought crept into my mind. Through everything that had happened - The first encounter at the ghat, Jiju confronting the man, the rambo guy returning, mummy inside the house, and myself hiding outside. It felt as though I had only been a silent witness. A powerless character watching a game unfold around me.
 
A powerless and shameful son, who didn’t intervene, and then uselessly worrying about what cannot be undone -  with penis fully erected inside his pants.