Yesterday, 11:28 PM
The steel spoon scbangd against the ceramic bowl with a soft clink as Ma scooped another generous portion of *alur dom*, the golden curry dripping thickly onto Rohan's already crowded plate. The steam curled upwards in lazy spirals, carrying the rich scent of mustard oil and bay leaves that mingled with the general cacophony of dinner conversation. Ma's fingers—still faintly stained yellow from turmeric—lingered near Rohan's wrist for a fraction longer than necessary as she adjusted his plate.
"Rohan," she said, and her voice had taken on that particular timbre it only ever did when addressing him—softer around the edges, like wool worn smooth with use. The overhead light caught the silver threading through her dark hair as she tilted her head, her gaze finding his with an insistence that made his shoulders stiffen imperceptibly.
"You must come over more often."
The words weren't a suggestion. They never were.
A grain of rice stuck to Rohan's lower lip; he swiped it away hastily with his thumb before it could draw attention. His glasses slid down the bridge of his nose—they always did when he was nervous—and he pushed them back up with a knuckle, buying time. The potato chunk he'd been about to spear with his fork remained suspended mid-air, the tines gleaming under the fluorescent kitchen light.
His eyes darted—quick as a sparrow—to where his father sat at the head of the table. Ravi Uncle had gone very still, his fingers curled loosely around his water glass. He took a slow, deliberate sip, the ice cubes clinking softly as he considered Ma over the rim. The condensation beaded and slid down the sides, leaving damp trails on the worn tablecloth.
"That's very kind of you, Debjani," he said at last. His voice was pleasant enough, but there was something beneath it—something that made the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. "Though his studies require discipline." He set the glass down with a quiet finality, the base meeting the wood with a soft thud that somehow felt louder than it was. "Perhaps occasionally."
Rohan's shoulders slumped—just a fraction, just for a second—before he caught himself and nodded. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed.
Later, long after the last guest had shuffled out the door with promises to meet again soon and the last of the laughter had faded into the humid Kolkata night, the apartment felt strangely hollow. The kind of quiet that comes after too much noise, when your ears ring with the absence of sound. The curtains—cheap cotton printed with fading flowers—still held the ghost of spices in their fibers.
Dad stretched with a groan, his spine popping audibly as he arched backwards in his chair. "Gifts!" Grandma announced suddenly, her voice cutting through the post-dinner lethargy. Her eyes—sharp despite her age—twinkled with barely suppressed excitement.
I knelt by the modest pile of presents, my knees pressing into the cool tile. The wrapping paper crinkled satisfyingly beneath my fingers as I tore into the first one—a crisp blue shirt from Grandma, still smelling faintly of the marketplace. Next came the cricket bat from Dad, its handle still rough and unweathered by use. Ma's handmade sweater emerged from its cocoon of paper, the stitches slightly uneven where she'd gotten distracted during her favorite television serials.
And then—Rohan's gift.
It sat apart from the others, wrapped in paper that had clearly been folded and refolded by uncertain hands. The tape was too thick in some places, absent in others. I peeled it back carefully, the paper giving way to layers of tissue so thin they tore at the slightest pressure.
The breath left my lungs in a rush.
Nestled in the paper wasn't the comic book I'd been expecting—the one I'd pointed out to Rohan just last week in the shop near college—but something far more impossible. Something that didn't belong in our cramped flat with its leaking taps and second-hand furniture.
The PlayStation gleamed up at me, its black casing polished to a mirror shine. The controller felt alien in my hands—too heavy, too cold.
"What on earth—?" Dad's voice came from somewhere above me, rough with disbelief. He crouched down beside me, his work-roughened fingers hovering over the console as though afraid it might disappear if touched.
Ma had gone very still by the sink, a plate dangling forgotten from her soapy hands. Water dripped steadily onto the floor, pooling around her bare feet. Her eyes—wide and uncomprehending—flicked from the glossy box to my face and back again.
"This is..." She trailed off, her voice thin. "This is too much. Why would he—?"
Dad picked up the console with careful hands, turning it over as though searching for some clue as to its provenance. His brow furrowed deeply—the way it always did when confronted with something beyond his understanding.
"Rohan's father gave this?" he asked, though he already knew the answer. His voice had taken on that particular tone—low and strained, the way it got when discussing things we couldn't afford.
I nodded mutely, my throat suddenly dry. The extravagant gift sat heavy in my lap, its presence an accusation.
Later—much later—when the flat was dark and still and the only sounds were the occasional rumble of a passing rickshaw and the creak of old pipes, I lay awake beneath the thin cotton sheet. The PlayStation sat on my desk, untouched.
Voices drifted from the kitchen—low and urgent, just barely audible through the thin walls.
"...impossible." Dad's voice was sharp, edged with something I couldn't quite name. "That Rolex alone costs more than my annual salary. And this?" A pause, thick with unspoken implications. "He claims he's in textiles. I don't believe him, Debjani."
Ma's reply came softer, muffled by the persistent hum of the refrigerator. "Bimalesh, stop it. You don't know anything. Just suspect everyone."
The silence that followed was heavier than before.
After my birthday, Rohan became a fixture in our flat—his presence slowly working its way into the fabric of our daily lives like a vine creeping up a wall. He'd appear at our door most evenings, his college uniform rumpled from the humid climb upstairs, his glasses fogged with condensation.
Ma welcomed him each time with the same warm smile, her hands still dusted with flour or turmeric from whatever she'd been cooking. "Sit, sit," she'd urge, already ladling extra rice onto his plate before he'd even taken off his shoes.
Rohan's initial stiffness—that careful guardedness he carried like armor—began to melt under her persistent ministrations. He lingered longer each time, finding reasons to stay well after homework was finished. Sometimes he'd help Grandma shell peas on the balcony, his fingers moving with surprising dexterity for someone so otherwise awkward. Other times he'd sit cross-legged on the floor, listening with rapt attention as Dad spun tales of storms near the Cape of Good Hope—stories he'd told a hundred times before but which Rohan treated with the reverence of scripture.
Our small living room—crowded with mismatched furniture and stacks of Dad's nautical charts—felt fuller with him there. Brighter.
Ravi Uncle started dropping by too, always arriving with gifts clutched in his manicured hands. For Dad, it was bottles of imported whiskey—Chivas Regal, Johnnie Walker Blue—their labels glossy and foreign-looking against our modest side table.
"For the sailor!" he'd boom each time, clapping Dad on the shoulder with enough force to make him rock forward slightly.
The two men would retreat to our cramped balcony, their chairs scbanging against the concrete floor. The humid Kolkata nights pressed in around them—heavy with the scent of frying oil from street vendors and the distant clamor of temple bells. Their glasses sweated condensation onto the wrought-iron table while the city hummed below—a constant symphony of honking cars and bicycle bells and the occasional burst of firecrackers from some unseen celebration.
Dad leaned back in his plastic chair, legs stretched out comfortably, while Ravi Uncle perched stiffly upright, his silk kurta straining slightly across his shoulders whenever he reached for his drink. They spoke in low murmurs punctuated by occasional laughter—their voices thick with whiskey and the unspoken weight of whatever lay between them.
Ma moved between them like a silent shadow, balancing plates of crisp pakoras still sizzling from the oil. Her bangles chimed softly with each precise movement—a gentle counterpoint to the men's deeper voices. The scent of fried onions and cumin clung to her sari as she bent to refill their glasses.
Ravi Uncle's fingers always lingered a second too long when taking the plate from her—just enough to be noticeable if you were paying attention. His eyes tracked the graceful arc of her wrist as she retreated, his gaze lingering on the fall of her dupatta.
Soon, Ravi Uncle was a near-weekly fixture—his arrivals timed to coincide perfectly with Ma finishing dinner. He'd fill our small flat with his loud presence and the sharp tang of his expensive cologne—something woody and foreign that clung to the curtains long after he'd gone.
He praised Ma's cooking with the precision of a connoisseur—analyzing the balance of coconut milk and mustard paste in her *chingri malai curry* with an intensity that made the hairs on my arms stand up.
"Debjani, you've outdone yourself!" he'd declare each time, making Dad puff up with pride beside him.
One particularly humid evening—the kind where the air felt thick enough to chew—Ravi Uncle leaned back in his chair, swirling amber whiskey in his glass. The ice cubes had long since melted, leaving the liquid diluted and lukewarm.
"Bimalesh," he began with studied casualness, "I've got a tricky situation." He sighed dramatically—the kind of sigh meant to draw attention. "A sudden business trip to Chennai next week. One week, perhaps."
His gaze slid to Rohan, who froze mid-bite.
"Leaving the boy alone with the cook..." Ravi Uncle shook his head slowly, his expression carefully arranged into something resembling concern. "It doesn't sit right."
He turned to Ma then, his smile wide but his eyes sharp.
"Debjani, would it be too much trouble...?"
Before he could finish, Dad clapped him on the shoulder with enough force to make him rock forward slightly. "Nonsense! Rohan's practically family already. He'll stay here!"
Ma nodded quickly, wiping her hands on her apron. "Of course, Ravi bhaiya. We'd be happy to have him."
Relief flooded Rohan's face—bright and sudden—before he could college his expression back to neutrality.
Ravi Uncle beamed, raising his glass. "Excellent! I knew I could count on you." The whiskey caught the light as he tilted it towards us. "To family!"
The day Ravi Uncle left for Chennai, Rohan arrived with an oversized duffel bag—the kind athletes used—his college uniform freshly pressed. Ma fussed over him immediately, adjusting his collar with fingers that lingered briefly—an unconscious maternal gesture.
That night, as we lay side by side on the makeshift mattress in my room—the ceiling fan creaking overhead and stirring the mosquito net dbangd around us—Rohan suddenly rolled onto his side.
"Hey," he whispered, his voice tight with something between curiosity and hesitation.
His next words came out in a rush—like he'd been holding them in all day and couldn't contain them any longer:
"Have you ever... seen them? Your parents. When they are alone?”
The question landed like a dropped coin—metallic and unexpected. My fingers clenched the sheet reflexively.
"What do you mean?" I asked, though I knew.
Rohan exhaled sharply through his nose—a sound of frustration. "Close," he pressed. "Like—"
His hand moved vaguely in the dark—fingers intertwining in a way that made my stomach flutter strangely.
Outside, the rhythmic scbang of Ma washing dishes paused—as if she'd heard us through the thin walls. The silence stretched until Rohan added, softer now:
"My dad has... women. Different ones. I've seen him getting intimate with them."
Confusion prickled my skin. "Intimate?" I echoed, wrinkling my nose.
Rohan's knuckles whitened around his pencil—I could hear the faint creak of wood under pressure. "You know," he whispered, eyes fixed on the paper. "Like... naked. Doing things…or if not naked, kissing each other.”
Silence pooled between us—thick and uncomfortable. Through the cracked door, Ma's muffled voice drifted from the kitchen—a soft reprimand to Grandma about burnt milk.
I shook my head violently, the cot creaking beneath me. "No," I hissed, curling my fingers into fists.
Rohan exhaled through his nose, pushing his spectacles up with one finger. "Your parents are just careful," he murmured, his gaze sliding toward my bedroom door. "They won't do anything where you could... catch them."
The humid night pressed against the mosquito net as Rohan unzipped his collegebag with exaggerated slowness. His fingers emerged clutching his phone—the screen's glow casting eerie shadows across his face.
I recoiled as he tapped twice, then thrust the device toward me. Two figures writhed on screen—mouths locked in a wet, twisting dance that made my stomach lurch. The woman's fingers raked through the man's hair as he grabbed her hips, pulling her closer until—
I shoved the phone away, my palms slick with sweat.
Rohan grinned, retrieving his phone like a prized trophy. "See? That's what married people do." His whisper slithered through the dark. "Your dad must kiss your mom like that every night."
My fingers curled into the bedsheet, the cotton bunching beneath my nails. "Shut up," I muttered, turning away.
The video's flickering images clung to my eyelids—the arch of that woman's back, her fingers twisting in bedsheets.
Rohan nudged my shoulder. "Your mom's lips are perfect for it," he persisted. "Full. Soft."
A mosquito buzzed near my ear. I swatted at it violently. "I said stop." My voice came out sharper than intended.
Outside, Ma's slippers whispered against the kitchen tiles.
Rohan exhaled dramatically, rolling onto his back. The phone's glow illuminated his smug expression. "Fine. But you know I'm right."
The ceiling fan's rhythmic squeak filled the silence. My fingers dug into the mattress. Beneath us, Grandma's muffled cough echoed through the thin floorboards.
"I'm sleepy," I muttered, turning my face toward the wall. The video's pulsing images still burned behind my eyelids—those grasping hands, that wet sound of mouths moving. I wiped my palms against my pajamas.
After Ravi Uncle returned, Rohan started getting picked up by Ma along with me when the college bus dropped us off. He'd stay with us until Ravi Uncle's sleek black sedan pulled up outside our building—the engine idling like a low growl in the alleyway.
Those hours felt suspended—homework spread across our dining table, Ma humming as she chopped vegetables, Rohan stealing glances at her movements as if memorizing the rhythm of her ordinary afternoons.
One particularly sticky evening—the kind where the air clung to your skin like wet paper—we sat cross-legged on my bedroom floor playing snakes and ladders.
I nudged Rohan's knee with mine. "You actually saw your dad with those women?" The question escaped before I could stop it, my voice barely above a whisper.
Rohan's fingers froze on the dice. For a moment, I thought he wouldn't answer.
Then he exhaled sharply, adjusting his glasses. "Not—not directly," he muttered. "But he keeps videos." His voice dropped lower, barely audible over the distant honking of Kolkata traffic outside. "Hidden in a locked drawer in his study. I found the key once." His breath hitched slightly as he rolled the dice—a six. "They're… different women. Every time."
He leaned closer, breath hot against my ear. "I can show you. Only if you come to my house."
The offer hung between us—heavy and forbidden. I never answered.
The day Dad's departure loomed—just a week away—Ravi Uncle invited us to his apartment.
Mom, Dad and I reached Ravi Uncle's building—an imposing structure of glass and steel that towered over the surrounding tenements. The doorman—resplendent in his gold-trimmed uniform—ushered us into the elevator with a deferential nod.
The lift opened directly into Ravi Uncle's penthouse—a fact that made Dad's eyebrows climb towards his hairline. Ma's sandals squeaked against the marble foyer as she stepped inside, her fingers tightening around the strap of her handbag until the knuckles stood out white.
The ceilings stretched impossibly high—hung with a chandelier that scattered diamond-shaped reflections across the walls.
"My god," Dad murmured, craning his neck.
Ravi Uncle chuckled—a low, satisfied sound—and guided us forward with expansive gestures.
"Welcome," he said, spreading his arms wide, "to my humble home."
The words dripped with false modesty.
Ma's breath hitched—just slightly—as she took in the expanse of polished marble, the floor-to-ceiling windows offering panoramic views of the Kolkata skyline. Her fingers—still rough from years of scrubbing floors and kneading dough—fluttered unconsciously to her hair, smoothing down nonexistent flyaways.
Dad's jaw worked silently as his eyes tracked the details—the imported Italian leather sofas, the original artwork hanging in museum-quality frames, the crystal decanters arranged just so on the teak sideboard.
Ravi Uncle watched our reactions with the quiet satisfaction of a magician revealing his best trick.
"Come," he said, leading us further into the apartment—his loafers clicking against the marble with each deliberate step. "Let me show you around."
His hand settled casually against the small of Ma's back—a touch that lingered just a second too long—as he guided her forward.
Dad didn't seem to notice this.
![[Image: IMG-9321.jpg]](https://i.ibb.co/vx8HJvxL/IMG-9321.jpg)
"Rohan," she said, and her voice had taken on that particular timbre it only ever did when addressing him—softer around the edges, like wool worn smooth with use. The overhead light caught the silver threading through her dark hair as she tilted her head, her gaze finding his with an insistence that made his shoulders stiffen imperceptibly.
"You must come over more often."
The words weren't a suggestion. They never were.
A grain of rice stuck to Rohan's lower lip; he swiped it away hastily with his thumb before it could draw attention. His glasses slid down the bridge of his nose—they always did when he was nervous—and he pushed them back up with a knuckle, buying time. The potato chunk he'd been about to spear with his fork remained suspended mid-air, the tines gleaming under the fluorescent kitchen light.
His eyes darted—quick as a sparrow—to where his father sat at the head of the table. Ravi Uncle had gone very still, his fingers curled loosely around his water glass. He took a slow, deliberate sip, the ice cubes clinking softly as he considered Ma over the rim. The condensation beaded and slid down the sides, leaving damp trails on the worn tablecloth.
"That's very kind of you, Debjani," he said at last. His voice was pleasant enough, but there was something beneath it—something that made the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. "Though his studies require discipline." He set the glass down with a quiet finality, the base meeting the wood with a soft thud that somehow felt louder than it was. "Perhaps occasionally."
Rohan's shoulders slumped—just a fraction, just for a second—before he caught himself and nodded. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed.
Later, long after the last guest had shuffled out the door with promises to meet again soon and the last of the laughter had faded into the humid Kolkata night, the apartment felt strangely hollow. The kind of quiet that comes after too much noise, when your ears ring with the absence of sound. The curtains—cheap cotton printed with fading flowers—still held the ghost of spices in their fibers.
Dad stretched with a groan, his spine popping audibly as he arched backwards in his chair. "Gifts!" Grandma announced suddenly, her voice cutting through the post-dinner lethargy. Her eyes—sharp despite her age—twinkled with barely suppressed excitement.
I knelt by the modest pile of presents, my knees pressing into the cool tile. The wrapping paper crinkled satisfyingly beneath my fingers as I tore into the first one—a crisp blue shirt from Grandma, still smelling faintly of the marketplace. Next came the cricket bat from Dad, its handle still rough and unweathered by use. Ma's handmade sweater emerged from its cocoon of paper, the stitches slightly uneven where she'd gotten distracted during her favorite television serials.
And then—Rohan's gift.
It sat apart from the others, wrapped in paper that had clearly been folded and refolded by uncertain hands. The tape was too thick in some places, absent in others. I peeled it back carefully, the paper giving way to layers of tissue so thin they tore at the slightest pressure.
The breath left my lungs in a rush.
Nestled in the paper wasn't the comic book I'd been expecting—the one I'd pointed out to Rohan just last week in the shop near college—but something far more impossible. Something that didn't belong in our cramped flat with its leaking taps and second-hand furniture.
The PlayStation gleamed up at me, its black casing polished to a mirror shine. The controller felt alien in my hands—too heavy, too cold.
"What on earth—?" Dad's voice came from somewhere above me, rough with disbelief. He crouched down beside me, his work-roughened fingers hovering over the console as though afraid it might disappear if touched.
Ma had gone very still by the sink, a plate dangling forgotten from her soapy hands. Water dripped steadily onto the floor, pooling around her bare feet. Her eyes—wide and uncomprehending—flicked from the glossy box to my face and back again.
"This is..." She trailed off, her voice thin. "This is too much. Why would he—?"
Dad picked up the console with careful hands, turning it over as though searching for some clue as to its provenance. His brow furrowed deeply—the way it always did when confronted with something beyond his understanding.
"Rohan's father gave this?" he asked, though he already knew the answer. His voice had taken on that particular tone—low and strained, the way it got when discussing things we couldn't afford.
I nodded mutely, my throat suddenly dry. The extravagant gift sat heavy in my lap, its presence an accusation.
Later—much later—when the flat was dark and still and the only sounds were the occasional rumble of a passing rickshaw and the creak of old pipes, I lay awake beneath the thin cotton sheet. The PlayStation sat on my desk, untouched.
Voices drifted from the kitchen—low and urgent, just barely audible through the thin walls.
"...impossible." Dad's voice was sharp, edged with something I couldn't quite name. "That Rolex alone costs more than my annual salary. And this?" A pause, thick with unspoken implications. "He claims he's in textiles. I don't believe him, Debjani."
Ma's reply came softer, muffled by the persistent hum of the refrigerator. "Bimalesh, stop it. You don't know anything. Just suspect everyone."
The silence that followed was heavier than before.
After my birthday, Rohan became a fixture in our flat—his presence slowly working its way into the fabric of our daily lives like a vine creeping up a wall. He'd appear at our door most evenings, his college uniform rumpled from the humid climb upstairs, his glasses fogged with condensation.
Ma welcomed him each time with the same warm smile, her hands still dusted with flour or turmeric from whatever she'd been cooking. "Sit, sit," she'd urge, already ladling extra rice onto his plate before he'd even taken off his shoes.
Rohan's initial stiffness—that careful guardedness he carried like armor—began to melt under her persistent ministrations. He lingered longer each time, finding reasons to stay well after homework was finished. Sometimes he'd help Grandma shell peas on the balcony, his fingers moving with surprising dexterity for someone so otherwise awkward. Other times he'd sit cross-legged on the floor, listening with rapt attention as Dad spun tales of storms near the Cape of Good Hope—stories he'd told a hundred times before but which Rohan treated with the reverence of scripture.
Our small living room—crowded with mismatched furniture and stacks of Dad's nautical charts—felt fuller with him there. Brighter.
Ravi Uncle started dropping by too, always arriving with gifts clutched in his manicured hands. For Dad, it was bottles of imported whiskey—Chivas Regal, Johnnie Walker Blue—their labels glossy and foreign-looking against our modest side table.
"For the sailor!" he'd boom each time, clapping Dad on the shoulder with enough force to make him rock forward slightly.
The two men would retreat to our cramped balcony, their chairs scbanging against the concrete floor. The humid Kolkata nights pressed in around them—heavy with the scent of frying oil from street vendors and the distant clamor of temple bells. Their glasses sweated condensation onto the wrought-iron table while the city hummed below—a constant symphony of honking cars and bicycle bells and the occasional burst of firecrackers from some unseen celebration.
Dad leaned back in his plastic chair, legs stretched out comfortably, while Ravi Uncle perched stiffly upright, his silk kurta straining slightly across his shoulders whenever he reached for his drink. They spoke in low murmurs punctuated by occasional laughter—their voices thick with whiskey and the unspoken weight of whatever lay between them.
Ma moved between them like a silent shadow, balancing plates of crisp pakoras still sizzling from the oil. Her bangles chimed softly with each precise movement—a gentle counterpoint to the men's deeper voices. The scent of fried onions and cumin clung to her sari as she bent to refill their glasses.
Ravi Uncle's fingers always lingered a second too long when taking the plate from her—just enough to be noticeable if you were paying attention. His eyes tracked the graceful arc of her wrist as she retreated, his gaze lingering on the fall of her dupatta.
Soon, Ravi Uncle was a near-weekly fixture—his arrivals timed to coincide perfectly with Ma finishing dinner. He'd fill our small flat with his loud presence and the sharp tang of his expensive cologne—something woody and foreign that clung to the curtains long after he'd gone.
He praised Ma's cooking with the precision of a connoisseur—analyzing the balance of coconut milk and mustard paste in her *chingri malai curry* with an intensity that made the hairs on my arms stand up.
"Debjani, you've outdone yourself!" he'd declare each time, making Dad puff up with pride beside him.
One particularly humid evening—the kind where the air felt thick enough to chew—Ravi Uncle leaned back in his chair, swirling amber whiskey in his glass. The ice cubes had long since melted, leaving the liquid diluted and lukewarm.
"Bimalesh," he began with studied casualness, "I've got a tricky situation." He sighed dramatically—the kind of sigh meant to draw attention. "A sudden business trip to Chennai next week. One week, perhaps."
His gaze slid to Rohan, who froze mid-bite.
"Leaving the boy alone with the cook..." Ravi Uncle shook his head slowly, his expression carefully arranged into something resembling concern. "It doesn't sit right."
He turned to Ma then, his smile wide but his eyes sharp.
"Debjani, would it be too much trouble...?"
Before he could finish, Dad clapped him on the shoulder with enough force to make him rock forward slightly. "Nonsense! Rohan's practically family already. He'll stay here!"
Ma nodded quickly, wiping her hands on her apron. "Of course, Ravi bhaiya. We'd be happy to have him."
Relief flooded Rohan's face—bright and sudden—before he could college his expression back to neutrality.
Ravi Uncle beamed, raising his glass. "Excellent! I knew I could count on you." The whiskey caught the light as he tilted it towards us. "To family!"
The day Ravi Uncle left for Chennai, Rohan arrived with an oversized duffel bag—the kind athletes used—his college uniform freshly pressed. Ma fussed over him immediately, adjusting his collar with fingers that lingered briefly—an unconscious maternal gesture.
That night, as we lay side by side on the makeshift mattress in my room—the ceiling fan creaking overhead and stirring the mosquito net dbangd around us—Rohan suddenly rolled onto his side.
"Hey," he whispered, his voice tight with something between curiosity and hesitation.
His next words came out in a rush—like he'd been holding them in all day and couldn't contain them any longer:
"Have you ever... seen them? Your parents. When they are alone?”
The question landed like a dropped coin—metallic and unexpected. My fingers clenched the sheet reflexively.
"What do you mean?" I asked, though I knew.
Rohan exhaled sharply through his nose—a sound of frustration. "Close," he pressed. "Like—"
His hand moved vaguely in the dark—fingers intertwining in a way that made my stomach flutter strangely.
Outside, the rhythmic scbang of Ma washing dishes paused—as if she'd heard us through the thin walls. The silence stretched until Rohan added, softer now:
"My dad has... women. Different ones. I've seen him getting intimate with them."
Confusion prickled my skin. "Intimate?" I echoed, wrinkling my nose.
Rohan's knuckles whitened around his pencil—I could hear the faint creak of wood under pressure. "You know," he whispered, eyes fixed on the paper. "Like... naked. Doing things…or if not naked, kissing each other.”
Silence pooled between us—thick and uncomfortable. Through the cracked door, Ma's muffled voice drifted from the kitchen—a soft reprimand to Grandma about burnt milk.
I shook my head violently, the cot creaking beneath me. "No," I hissed, curling my fingers into fists.
Rohan exhaled through his nose, pushing his spectacles up with one finger. "Your parents are just careful," he murmured, his gaze sliding toward my bedroom door. "They won't do anything where you could... catch them."
The humid night pressed against the mosquito net as Rohan unzipped his collegebag with exaggerated slowness. His fingers emerged clutching his phone—the screen's glow casting eerie shadows across his face.
I recoiled as he tapped twice, then thrust the device toward me. Two figures writhed on screen—mouths locked in a wet, twisting dance that made my stomach lurch. The woman's fingers raked through the man's hair as he grabbed her hips, pulling her closer until—
I shoved the phone away, my palms slick with sweat.
Rohan grinned, retrieving his phone like a prized trophy. "See? That's what married people do." His whisper slithered through the dark. "Your dad must kiss your mom like that every night."
My fingers curled into the bedsheet, the cotton bunching beneath my nails. "Shut up," I muttered, turning away.
The video's flickering images clung to my eyelids—the arch of that woman's back, her fingers twisting in bedsheets.
Rohan nudged my shoulder. "Your mom's lips are perfect for it," he persisted. "Full. Soft."
A mosquito buzzed near my ear. I swatted at it violently. "I said stop." My voice came out sharper than intended.
Outside, Ma's slippers whispered against the kitchen tiles.
Rohan exhaled dramatically, rolling onto his back. The phone's glow illuminated his smug expression. "Fine. But you know I'm right."
The ceiling fan's rhythmic squeak filled the silence. My fingers dug into the mattress. Beneath us, Grandma's muffled cough echoed through the thin floorboards.
"I'm sleepy," I muttered, turning my face toward the wall. The video's pulsing images still burned behind my eyelids—those grasping hands, that wet sound of mouths moving. I wiped my palms against my pajamas.
After Ravi Uncle returned, Rohan started getting picked up by Ma along with me when the college bus dropped us off. He'd stay with us until Ravi Uncle's sleek black sedan pulled up outside our building—the engine idling like a low growl in the alleyway.
Those hours felt suspended—homework spread across our dining table, Ma humming as she chopped vegetables, Rohan stealing glances at her movements as if memorizing the rhythm of her ordinary afternoons.
One particularly sticky evening—the kind where the air clung to your skin like wet paper—we sat cross-legged on my bedroom floor playing snakes and ladders.
I nudged Rohan's knee with mine. "You actually saw your dad with those women?" The question escaped before I could stop it, my voice barely above a whisper.
Rohan's fingers froze on the dice. For a moment, I thought he wouldn't answer.
Then he exhaled sharply, adjusting his glasses. "Not—not directly," he muttered. "But he keeps videos." His voice dropped lower, barely audible over the distant honking of Kolkata traffic outside. "Hidden in a locked drawer in his study. I found the key once." His breath hitched slightly as he rolled the dice—a six. "They're… different women. Every time."
He leaned closer, breath hot against my ear. "I can show you. Only if you come to my house."
The offer hung between us—heavy and forbidden. I never answered.
The day Dad's departure loomed—just a week away—Ravi Uncle invited us to his apartment.
Mom, Dad and I reached Ravi Uncle's building—an imposing structure of glass and steel that towered over the surrounding tenements. The doorman—resplendent in his gold-trimmed uniform—ushered us into the elevator with a deferential nod.
The lift opened directly into Ravi Uncle's penthouse—a fact that made Dad's eyebrows climb towards his hairline. Ma's sandals squeaked against the marble foyer as she stepped inside, her fingers tightening around the strap of her handbag until the knuckles stood out white.
The ceilings stretched impossibly high—hung with a chandelier that scattered diamond-shaped reflections across the walls.
"My god," Dad murmured, craning his neck.
Ravi Uncle chuckled—a low, satisfied sound—and guided us forward with expansive gestures.
"Welcome," he said, spreading his arms wide, "to my humble home."
The words dripped with false modesty.
Ma's breath hitched—just slightly—as she took in the expanse of polished marble, the floor-to-ceiling windows offering panoramic views of the Kolkata skyline. Her fingers—still rough from years of scrubbing floors and kneading dough—fluttered unconsciously to her hair, smoothing down nonexistent flyaways.
Dad's jaw worked silently as his eyes tracked the details—the imported Italian leather sofas, the original artwork hanging in museum-quality frames, the crystal decanters arranged just so on the teak sideboard.
Ravi Uncle watched our reactions with the quiet satisfaction of a magician revealing his best trick.
"Come," he said, leading us further into the apartment—his loafers clicking against the marble with each deliberate step. "Let me show you around."
His hand settled casually against the small of Ma's back—a touch that lingered just a second too long—as he guided her forward.
Dad didn't seem to notice this.
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