Coerced Shadow: Entrapment of my mother

[Rupakpolo1]

It has been a month after our last day out with Ravi uncle. Ma continuous refusal to go out with him  made me upset. I asked Ma about it. She got irritated and told me "You will not understand".
I asked - “Why?”
Mom- “I am married to your dad. Going out with someone other than your dad is not acceptable in society. People will talk”
I asked- “But Rohan uncle is our friend”
Mom- “Yes, he is. But he is a widow. You will understand when you grow up”

One sticky Tuesday afternoon, Ravi Uncle arrived clutching a glossy gold-trimmed invitation card. Ma was folding laundry on the sofa, her brow furrowed at the sudden intrusion. "Debjani," he announced, his voice slick with triumph. "Rohan’s birthday—next Saturday. At my house." He slid the card onto her like a winning hand. "You must come. All of you." He leaned against the doorframe, adjusting his shirt. "I’ve invited only a few colleagues—upper crust types, you understand. No relatives." His smile widened. "They’re all outside bengal . Wouldn’t make it." He paused, letting the implication hang. "So it’s just... us. And the boys, of course."

Ma picked up the card. Its thick, textured paper felt alien against her calloused fingers. She traced the embossed silver lettering: *Master Rohan Agarwal’s Birthday Celebration*. Her eyes flickered to Rohan, who hovered nervously behind his father, twisting the hem of his college shirt. "Saturday?" Ma asked softly. "Rohan, you didn’t tell me. You will grow one year old” Rohan flinched, staring at his shoes.

"I will definitely attend, Ravi ji," Ma declared, her voice suddenly firm. She placed the invitation carefully on the table. "Tell me what I can do to help arrange things. Sweets? Decorations?" She gestured toward our modest kitchen. "I can make mishti doi, sandesh..."

Ravi Uncle waved a dismissive hand, his gold cufflink flashing. "No need, Debjani. Everything's handled." He leaned against the doorframe, puffing his chest slightly. "I've handed all work to a vendor party—top caterers from Park Street, decorators from Camac Street." He smirked. "They'll transform the penthouse. Balloons, banners…." His eyes lingered on Ma's faded cotton sari. "All you need to do is come. And wear something... special." His gaze dropped pointedly to her neckline. "That pearl necklace, perhaps? and the saree I gifted you?"

Ma’s fingers tightened around the invitation card. She set it aside carefully. "Ravi ji," she said, her voice unnaturally bright, "I will be there." She turned to me. "Ayan, tomorrow we go to New Market. We need to buy a gift for Rohan."

The next morning, Kolkata’s sticky heat clung like wet cloth. We pushed through the market’s chaos—vendors hawking plastic buckets, incense sticks, pirated Marvel DVDs. Ma marched past glittering toy stalls without glancing at remote cars or superhero figures. Instead, she stopped at a cramped fabric stall dbangd in polyester shirts. "Two," she ordered, pointing at plain blue cotton. The shopkeeper measured hastily while Ma inspected collars. "For Rohan," she murmured, rubbing the fabric between thumb and forefinger. "Durable." She added grey trousers—college-uniform stiff—and paid from her worn purse.

Next day when Rohan was with me after college and my mom was busy in the kitchen, he disclosed something sinister. We were crammed on my narrow bed, sketching superheroes in my notebook. Rohan’s pencil snapped suddenly. He didn’t flinch. Instead, he leaned close, his whisper sticky as Kolkata’s humidity: "My birthday? It’s not Saturday. It’s not now." He glanced toward the kitchen door, where Ma clanged pots. "Dad lied. He told me to tell you and aunty that it was my birthday." His knuckles whitened around the broken pencil. "He said... if I listen, if I help him... your Ma can be my Ma forever." The words hung like a monsoon cloud, heavy, suffocating.

I stared at him. "What?"

Rohan twisted the broken pencil stub. "He promised." His whisper sounded like rusted hinges. "If I tell you and aunty that Saturday's my birthday... he'll make sure Aunty stay." He glanced toward the kitchen where Ma clattered dishes. "Forever with me and even dad”.

I recoiled, the notebook slipping from my lap.  My throat dried up, unable to shape the words. “Ma wasn't some toy to be traded.”

Rohan’s fingers dug into our table mat, twisting the faded mat. His face had that eerie calm again, like when he'd shown me the videos. "Dad said married women leave husbands all the time," he murmured. "Especially when they get... better offers."

I looked at the kitchen and saw my mom busy on cooking. I turned back to Rohan and whispered - “But she is my mom. She can’t be yours”

Rohan’s fingers twitched, pressing the pencil stub into the notebook so hard it tore through three pages. His breath came fast and shallow, like he’d just sprinted up six flights of stairs. "She can," he hissed. "Dad said—"

My stomach clenched. "But Ma won't leave Baba," I hissed. "She loves him! I love my baba”

Rohan's lips twisted into something that wasn't quite a smile. His fingers plucked at the torn notebook pages. "Your dad's away for months," he whispered. "My dad says aunty can include us in her family." He tapped his temple with a strange, knowing look. "He has a plan and i just need to help him and dad told me the plan will work. Imagine, we will not be friends anymore, we will be brothers". His voice dropped to a feverish hush. "I’ve seen how she touches your hair. I want that too.”

There was silence between us. Rohan continued- “You have to promise me one thing, you will not speak anything about it to aunty”  
I was dumbstruck hearing this absurd conversation. I just nodded my head in affirmation.

Later, when Ravi Uncle’s Mercedes purred at the curb, he leaned against our peeling doorway like a king inspecting his fiefdom. "Debjani," he greeted Ma, ignoring me completely. "Saturday? You’re confirmed?" Ma stood stiffly in the corridor, the fluorescent tube light bleaching her sari to bone-white. "Yes, Ravi ji," she replied, her voice clipped as scissors. "We’ll be there." Uncle’s gaze slid down her frame, lingering where the pearl necklace should have been. "And the Banarasi?" he prompted, silkily persistent. "With the pearls? It would... honour the occasion." Ma’s smile was a blade sheathed in politeness. "Since you insist so much," she said, her tone unnervingly light, "I’ll wear it." Uncle’s satisfied smirk made my stomach twist into knots. Rohan scurried past me without meeting my eyes.

After the car vanished into Kolkata’s smoggy twilight, Ma bolted the door with a sharp *click*. She moved to the kitchen, scrubbing yesterday’s steel thalis with ferocious energy. I slumped at the dining table, tracing a water stain on the wood—a jagged continent adrift in laminate sea. Ma glanced over her shoulder, soap suds clinging to her wrists. "Why so quiet, Ayan?" she asked, her voice softer now, frayed at the edges. "Angry about me not going out with Ravi Uncle?"

I shook my head. The question felt lodged in my throat, a fishbone scbanging raw. "Ma," I whispered, staring at the stain. "Will you ever leave Baba?"

The scrubbing stopped. Suds dripped onto the wet floor. She turned slowly, her damp hands leaving streaks on her sari. "Leave your father?" Her voice sounded thin, like paper tearing. "Why would I do that?" Her eyes narrowed, searching my face. "Did someone say something?"

I stared at my thumbnail digging into the wood grain. Rohan’s desperate whispers echoed—*Dad’ll make her stay forever*. "No," I mumbled. "Just... Ravi Uncle comes so often. Brings things." The words felt clumsy, inadequate.

Ma wiped her hands on her sari hem. "He brings things because he’s rich," she said, her voice brittle. "Not because he cares." She walked to the sink, turning the tap too hard. Water sprayed the stainless steel basin like monsoon rain hitting tin roofs. "I used to think you like him”

“I don’t dislike him,” I mumbled. The lie tasted sour. My thumbnail dug deeper into the water stain—a jagged coastline on our cheap dining table. “I just… miss Baba.”

Ma turned off the tap. Silence pooled in the kitchen. “He misses us too,” she said softly. Her wet fingers left dark patches on her sari’s pallu as she approached. “He’s working hard for us.”

“But why can’t he stay?” I pressed, tracing the water stain’s jagged edge. “Like Ravi Uncle stays.”

Ma sighed, a sound like wet laundry settling. She pulled out a chair, its legs scbanging against linoleum. “Your Baba’s work isn’t like Ravi Uncle’s,” she explained, folding her hands tightly.

The Saturday arrived sticky-hot. Ma emerged from her room wrapped in Ravi Uncle’s crimson Banarasi silk. It slithered over her shoulders like spilled pomegranate juice, catching the tube light in gold zari threads. The pearl necklace lay cold against her throat. Her lips were painted glossy red. She smelled of borrowed jasmine perfume and something sharp, like panic sweat.

The taxi crawled through Kolkata’s choked arteries. At Ravi Uncle’s marble-floored penthouse, no balloons bobbed. No magician juggled. Instead, Mallika Sengupta—a partner at Ravi Uncle’s firm—sat stiffly on a white leather sofa. Her grey hair coiled tight as springs. Beside her perched two junior staff: Priya, blinking nervously behind thick glasses, and Neha. Neha wore a tight blue dress. Her smile stretched thin as cling film. Her eyes—dark, bruised-looking—locked onto mine for a heartbeat too long. Recognition punched my gut. She was the woman from Ravi Uncle’s video. The one pinned against velvet, whimpering.

"Debjani!" Ravi Uncle boomed, sweeping forward. His silk kurta smelled of imported cologne and something sharper, like disinfectant. "You wore the Banarasi!" His gaze crawled over Ma’s silk-dbangd shoulders, lingered on the pearls resting above her collarbone. "And the necklace. Perfect." He turned to Mallika. "Mallika madam, let me introduce you to Debjani. Her son and my son are college mates and good friend." Mallika offered a nod brittle as dry twigs. Priya murmured a greeting. Neha stayed silent, twisting a cocktail napkin into shreds.

Ma folded her hands. "Namaskar," she murmured, eyes lowered. Her smile looked pinned on—a paper flower on wet clay.

Mallika leaned forward, her grey hair coiled tight as springs. "Ah, Debjani. Ravi has told us much." Her gaze flickered over Ma's borrowed silk. "He speaks highly of your... kindness. Taking such care of Rohan." Her voice sounded like dry pages turning. "A rare quality these days. By the way, you look beautiful in this saree."

Ma handed the wrapped parcel, the stiff blue shirt and grey trousers to Rohan. "Happy birthday, beta," she murmured. Rohan clutched it like driftwood, knuckles whitening. He didn't meet her eyes.

"Where are the other children, Ravi ji?" Ma asked, scanning the sterile penthouse. Her crimson silk pooled at her feet like spilled wine. "I thought... balloons? Magicians? For Rohan?"

Ravi Uncle chuckled, adjusting his cufflinks. "Ah, Debjani—always practical!" He gestured toward Mallika. "Most of my colleague will not make it today. We had too many customer demand tonight." Mallika nodded stiffly, her phone buzzing against her thigh like an angry hornet. She answered it and said "My driver is here, Priya. Go downstairs to collect the cake and food." Priya scrambled up, glasses slipping down her nose as she vanished toward the elevator. Neha remained frozen on the sofa, shredding her napkin into woodchips. Her bruised eyes flickered to Ravi Uncle—a trapped bird glancing at a cat—before darting away.

"Debjani," Mallika commanded, patting the white leather beside her. "Sit." Ma hesitated, her crimson silk whispering as she settled stiffly. "Ravi tells me your husband works merchant navy," Mallika continued, her voice clipped as a tax audit. "Six months away? Must be hard. Lonely." She gestured vaguely at the penthouse. "No woman should live like this." Ma’s fingers tightened around her silk pallu. "We manage," she murmured, staring at the marble floor’s glacial shine.