Coerced Shadow: Entrapment of my mother

[Rupakpolo1]

Rohan whirled around, his face bone-white in the monitor’s residual glow. Sweat slicked his temples. "You can't tell," he breathed, his voice trembling with raw panic. "Anyone. Especially not your Ma or Dad. Ever."

“My dad will know. He always knows, he will suspect me of sharing his private things ." He yanked the silver memory stick out, shoving it deep into his pocket like burying evidence. "Promise me, Ayan!" His whisper was a terrified plea.

I nodded, mute.The woman’s choked sob echoed in my skull. I couldn't speak.

Rohan wiped his palms on his trousers and turned off the monitor with a decisive click. The blue glow vanished, plunging us into darkness. For a moment, we stood frozen, listening—only our shaky breaths betrayed us. Then Rohan grabbed my wrist and yanked me toward the door. His fingers were clammy.

The hallway outside seemed impossibly bright after the suffocating darkness of his room. The scent of rich spices—cardamom, cumin, something expensive as well hit us first. Then the clink of cutlery. We crept forward just as uniformed waiters emerged from the service elevator, balancing silver trays laden with dishes I'd only seen in magazine ads: golden-brown kebabs glistening with saffron butter, biryani steaming in sealed clay pots, delicate phirni set in edible silver leaf cups. The spread covered their massive dining table, dwarfing Ma's humble home-cooked meals.

After the dinner, the car ride home was thick with silence. Streetlights strobed through the Ambassador’s windows, painting fleeting stripes on Dad’s grim profile and Ma’s rigid shoulders.

Ma broke the quiet first, her voice unnaturally bright against the darkness. "That apartment, Bimalesh," she started, twisting her sari pallu nervously. "Did you see the marble flooring in the entryway? So cool underfoot, even in this heat." She glanced sideways at Dad, who stared straight ahead, hands gripping the steering wheel like an anchor. "And those recessed lights in the ceiling... very modern. Perhaps..." she hesitated, "...perhaps we could consider something similar? Just for the living room floor? That old tile is cracked anyway."

Dad didn't turn his head. The streetlight glare caught the hard set of his jaw. "Marble?" His voice was low, rough. "Debjani, that marble costs lakhs." He snorted, a harsh sound in the cramped car. "Cool feet? We have a ceiling fan. Works fine." He flicked the indicator violently. "That apartment... It's all a show. Cold. Empty. Like a hotel lobby, not a home." He paused, the silence heavy. "Money spent just to be seen spending it. Wasteful."

Ma flinched as if slapped. Her fingers tightened on her pallu, twisting the fabric. "Yes... wasteful," she echoed softly. The false brightness vanished. She stared straight ahead at the dark road. "Bimalesh..." Her voice dropped, hesitant. "I... I wanted to ask you something."

Dad grunted, navigating a sharp turn. "Go ahead."

Ma twisted her sari pallu tighter. "what you think about the part time job that Ravi wanted to take up when you will not be around” - she asked softly.

Dad- “You said no to him. What is the point of discussing?”

Ma sighed - “I don’t know how you will react. It seems earning will not be bad. You have seen how rich he is”

Dad’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. The Ambassador lurched as he braked harder than necessary at a red light. Streetlight glare washed over his face, etching deep lines around his mouth. "Rich?" The word scbangd out, low and dangerous. "Debjani, that man's wealth is..." He trailed off, jaw working, staring straight ahead at the empty intersection. The light turned green. He didn't move. He did not continue the previous statement and said - "You said no. Firmly. I heard you. Why bring it up again?" His voice was flat, but beneath it ran a current of something hard and unyielding.

Ma flinched, shrinking back slightly against the worn vinyl seat. Her fingers worried the edge of her sari. "I... I thought..." Her voice faltered. "The money wouldn't be unwelcome, Bimalesh. You know that. college fees, Ayan's books..." She glanced back at me, a flicker of guilt in her eyes before turning to him again. "But... but that wasn't the only reason." Her voice dropped to a near whisper. "Those six months you're gone... you know how it is for me to stay like this without you. Filling the hours... keeping busy... it helps the waiting." She looked down at her lap. "I thought... a little work... something respectable... might pass the time better than just household chores."

Dad said - “If you were interested, you could have said yes. I would not have mind”

Ma replied - “I am not interested. Can I ask you something why maa always goes to Apu Da’s house when you leave? Why doesn't she stay with us?” Her voice was small, hesitant. “She only comes a month before you return. When you leave… She leaves after a month too.” She twisted her pallu tighter. “It makes the house… emptier.”

My dad sighed- “I don’t know why she does that.”

After we reached home, mom asked me to go to sleep. I went to my room and lied on my bed. That night, sleep refused to come. Every time I closed my eyes, the images flickered behind my eyelids – the woman's tear-streaked face frozen in terror, Ravi Uncle's possessive hand pinning her wrist, the slick sweat on his back.

I tossed and turned, the sheets tangling around my legs. The humid Kolkata night pressed in, thick and suffocating. The ceiling fan whirred uselessly, stirring only warm air. Around midnight, a strange sound pierced the quiet – a rhythmic creaking of bedsprings, low murmurs I couldn't decipher. It came from my parents' room. Curiosity, sharp and sudden, cut through the fog of horror in my mind. I slid silently out of bed.

The narrow strip of light beneath their door beckoned. I crept closer, pressing my ear against the warm wood. Whispers. Soft gasps. The creaking intensified. My heart hammered against my ribs. Slowly, cautiously, I went towards the balcony and peered through the gap in their window facing the common balcony.The dim light from a single bedside lamp spilled onto the bed. Ma and Dad lay tangled together, naked, skin gleaming with sweat in the lamplight. Dad’s broad back was slick, muscles straining as he moved above her. Ma’s eyes were closed, her head thrown back against the pillow, her mouth open in a soft, breathless pant. Her fingers gripped his shoulders tightly.

"Bimalesh," she murmured, her voice thick with emotion. "Your smell... I'll miss it. Miss this moment of togetherness" Her hips arched up, pressing closer. Dad groaned, burying his face in the crook of her neck, breathing her in. His hands roamed her body possessively, tracing familiar paths over her curves and paths he wouldn't touch again for months. The sight was dizzying. This was intimacy that I was seeing for the first time but nothing like the violent display on Rohan's screen. This was warmth, tenderness, and devotion. Their bodies moved together in a rhythm born of years, of familiarity, of love.

Dad murmured something low and soothing, brushing damp strands of hair from her forehead. He kissed her deeply, passionately, their bodies moving together in a rhythm that was fierce yet tender, utterly unlike the violence burned into my mind. Sweat glistened on their skin, catching the lamplight. Ma arched her back, her fingers digging into Dad's shoulders, not in terror, but in desperate, clinging need. A soft cry escaped her lips – not pain, but something raw and yearning.

Dad left a week later, his duffel bag heavy on his shoulder. The goodbye was quiet, Ma's eyes red-rimmed but dry. She hugged him fiercely at the door, breathing him in one last time. The house felt cavernous without him. The routine shifted. Every evening, Ma picked up Rohan along with me after college from the bus stand. Rohan used to stay with us till the time Ravi uncle came to our house to pick him up. Mom used to help him to complete his homeworks and we used to do joint study.

Ravi Uncle started appearing more often, always with a plausible reason. "Debjani, I was passing by the New Market," he'd announce, stepping into our modest living room, effortlessly filling the space. He'd set down bags bulging with groceries.

"Eggs," he'd say, placing them on the kitchen counter. "The freshest batch today." Or, "Your mother's arthritis medicine, Debjani. The chemist near my office had it." His eyes lingered on Ma, assessing her reaction. She thanked him politely, her smile tight, her hands busy immediately putting things away, creating distance. Sometimes, she'd offer tea, her movements stiff. He'd accept, sitting at our small dining table, his expensive watch gleaming under the tube light, his gaze tracking her around our kitchen. The air crackled with unspoken tension – his ostentatious generosity, her forced gratitude, the specter of what we'd seen hanging thick between us. I'd hover near the doorway, watching the memory of the woman's terrified eyes flashing whenever Ravi Uncle smiled.

One afternoon, sprawled on my bedroom floor wrestling with algebra, the forbidden images surfaced again. Rohan sat beside me, doodling spaceships. "Rohan," I whispered, lowering my voice so Ma wouldn't overhear from the kitchen. "Those videos... your dad... how many are there?"

Rohan froze, his pencil hovering mid-rocket. He pushed his glasses up, eyes darting to the closed door. "Lots," he breathed, barely audible. "Different folders. Different... ladies." His cheeks flushed crimson. "He calls them... his girls." He leaned closer, his whisper urgent and strangely clinical. "Once I saw him naked with one lady, he found it out, he did explain everything about sex. How men and women... join. How the man puts his... thing... inside the woman. How they move. How it feels. He told me when right time comes, he will teach me more about this"

My own face burned. The algebra book blurred before me. The sounds from my parents' room echoed – Ma's gasp, Dad's low murmur. Before I could stop myself, the words tumbled out, hushed and raw. "I... I saw my parents. Once. Doing... that."

Rohan froze mid-doodle. His pencil snapped against the paper. Slowly, he turned his head. His eyes, magnified behind his thick lenses, widened impossibly, swallowing his entire face. He stared at me, utterly still, like a startled lizard. "You... saw?" His whisper was choked, disbelieving. "Debjani Aunty... naked?"

Heat exploded across my face, scalding my ears and neck. I instantly regretted saying anything. "Yeah," I mumbled, staring hard at the incomprehensible algebra symbols. "Once. Accidentally."

Rohan didn't move. His voice dropped to a breathless hush, thick with morbid fascination. "Debjani Aunty... naked?" He repeated the words like a forbidden incantation. "What... what did she look like?" His eyes were huge, unblinking, fixed on mine with an intensity that made my skin crawl. "She must look... like an angel." He breathed the word "angel" with a reverence that felt grotesque, twisted.

I was shocked hearing those questions. I told him- “ I don't like saying such things about mom. I just wanted to know what they are doing”

Rohan’s gaze didn’t waver. He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "My dad explained it," he murmured, pushing his glasses up. "He said when we grow old, every adult has this... body need. Like hunger. Or thirst. It’s natural." He picked at the broken pencil lead. "He told me... since my mom isn’t here anymore... he does this with his girls." His eyes flickered towards the kitchen door where Ma’s soft humming drifted through. "But your dad," he continued, his voice tinged with something like envy, "he has Debjani Aunty. That’s why... he enjoys it with her." He said "enjoys" with a strange emphasis, his gaze distant, as if picturing something impossible and sacred.