Coerced Shadow: Entrapment of my mother

[Rupakpolo1]

Priya returned, lugging a three-tier chocolate cake. Neha flinched as Priya set it down. "Birthday boy!... time to cut the cake"- Ravi Uncle announced, steering Rohan toward the cake. The knife trembled in Rohan’s grip. He sliced through fondant roses without meeting anyone’s eyes. Priya served wedges—thick slabs bleeding ganache onto bone-china plates. Mallika took a precise bite. "Debjani," she said, swallowing, "consider Ravi’s proposal." Ma froze, her fork hovering. "A receptionist role at our Salt Lake office. Simple work—appointments, filing." Mallika dabbed her lips. "It would keep you engaged. Give you purpose beyond... waiting." Her gaze flickered to Ma’s borrowed pearls. "We need women like you. Presentable. Discreet."

"I’m happy as a housewife, Mallika madam," Mom murmured. Her fingers smoothed her crimson silk pallu. "My family is my purpose."

Mallika’s laugh sounded like ice cubes cracking in a glass. "Purpose?" She gestured toward Priya. "Serve the sherry." Priya scrambled to the chrome trolley, pouring amber liquid into crystal glasses. Mallika lifted hers. "This is a ladies' drink, Debjani. Barely any alcohol." She nudged Mom’s untouched glass. "Taste once. Live a little."

Mom’s fingers tightened around her silk pallu. "I don’t drink wine."

Mallika’s laugh cracked like dry clay. "Sherry isn’t wine. It's a ladies' drink." She pushed Mom’s untouched glass closer. "Less alcohol than cough syrup. Taste once." Ravi Uncle shifted uncomfortably. "Mallika madam, if Debjani—" Mallika silenced him with a sharp chop of her hand. "Men don’t dictate women’s pleasures. Priya!" Priya jumped, nearly dropping her own glass. Mallika jerked her chin toward Mom. "Serve Debjani properly."

Priya scurried to Mom’s side, pouring sherry with trembling hands. The liquid glowed amber under the penthouse’s harsh lights. Mom stared at it, her fingers brushed the stem. "Fine," she whispered. "A few sips." Mallika’s smile tightened. She flicked her eyes toward Priya, a quick, coded glance and Priya nodded, scurrying toward the kitchen. Mallika turned to Rohan and me. "Boys! Go play in Rohan’s room. Adults talk."

Rohan grabbed my wrist. His palm felt damp, cold. We fled down the corridor—past chrome-framed photos of Ravi Uncle shaking hands with politicians, past a glass cabinet displaying crystal trophies into Rohan’s bedroom. The door clicked shut behind us. The room smelled of new plastic and stale air-conditioning. Rohan leaned against the door, breathing hard. His eyes darted to a framed poster of Iron Man, the face scratched out with black marker.

"Is she the one?" I whispered, my voice tight. "From the video?"

Rohan nodded, staring at the scratched-out Iron Man face. "Neha." His thumb dug into the poster's plastic coating. "Dad calls her 'the new one'. Before her was Priya. Before Priya... others." He peeled a corner of the poster back, revealing a glossy magazine clipping beneath, a woman bound with velvet ropes, her mouth stuffed with silk. "He films them all. In the main room."

"What main room?" The AC hummed like trapped bees.

"Dad's trophy room," he whispered. "Where he films them. Where he filmed her. He calls it the Playroom."

I stared at Rohan. My throat felt packed with wet sand. "Show me."

He hesitated, thumb still gouging Iron Man’s obliterated face. "He’ll kill me."

"No one’ll know," I whispered, pressing my ear to his bedroom door. Mallika’s voice sliced through the wood, "investment requires discretion Debjani",followed by Ma’s muffled reply. Sherry glasses clinked. "Quick”

Rohan’s fingers dug into my wrist. He led me down the corridor past chrome-framed handshakes with politicians, stopping before a lacquered teak door. "His Playroom," he breathed. "Locked always.”.

I saw there was a keypad lock on the teak door. Rohan punched in *0924*—his birthday, backwards. The lock clicked open. Inside, cold air smelled faintly of leather polish and disinfectant. The room was clinically clean, dominated by a massive bed bolted to the floor. Its padded headboard had thick steel rings welded to it. Chains hung slackly from them, coiled like sleeping snakes. Mirrors covered every wall, floor-to-ceiling panels that reflected our pale faces endlessly. "Watch," Rohan whispered. He slid one mirrored panel sideways. It wasn't a wardrobe. Shelves behind it gleamed under recessed lighting, displaying objects arranged with museum precision: rows of silicone phalluses in unnatural sizes and hues, leather cuffs lined with fake fur, gleaming metal clamps with tiny teeth, feather dusters dyed violent pink. Below them hung braided whips and floggers with weighted tails.

"What are those?" I breathed.

Rohan traced a silicone monstrosity—purple-black, ridged like a sea cucumber. "Dad’s playthings." His whisper slicked the air-conditioned chill. "Trains the new girls."

I stared at the shelf. "Trains?"

Rohan tapped a silicone tentacle-thing—purple-black, ridged like a rotting banana slug. "For the hole." His whisper slicked the air-conditioned chill. "Where girls pee."

I blinked. "What hole?"

Rohan sighed, a puff of condensation fogging the mirrored wall. His finger tapped the silicone tentacle-thing—purple-black, ridged like rotting banana slug. "The hole girls pee from. Between their legs." He glanced at me sideways. "You didn't notice? In Dad's video?"

My cheeks burned. The video flashed behind my eyes—Neha pinned against velvet, whimpering—but I'd squeezed them shut when Ravi Uncle unzipped his trousers. "I saw... movement," I mumbled. "But not... that."

Rohan snorted—a wet, ugly sound. He snatched the silicone tentacle off the shelf. Its ridges glistened under recessed lights. "Girls have a hole here." He jabbed it toward his own crotch. "Not a stick. A slit." He mimed stabbing the tentacle forward. "Dad trains them to take bigger things. Deeper." His finger traced a flogger's weighted tails. "Hurts less if they're stretched first. That's why he films it—to see if they scream pretty."

I stared at the purple-black tentacle. "Why?"

Rohan shrugged, tossing it back onto the shelf like spoiled fruit. "I heard my dad tell them this will help them to survive bigger customers. I don’t understand what he meant by that." He nudged a chrome-plated clamp with his toe. "Why d'you think your mom wears blouses?" His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "Not shirts like men. Tight silk ones? With hooks?" He mimed pinching his own nipple through his kurta. "To cover the bumps. Girls have bumps there."

He snatched a tiny metal clamp dangling from a velvet hook. Its jaws ended in sharpened points. "Nipple clamp," he announced, squeezing it open. The spring whined thinly in the echoey room. "Dad puts these on their bumps—tight." He gestured toward his own chest. "He turns the screw." His fingers twisted an imaginary dial. "Hurts. Makes them cry. I saw in one video, he told one girl, this will help her to tolerate the pain when customers bite her bumps" He pointed at a rubber ball strapped with leather straps. "Ball gag. Shoves it in their mouth. So they don’t scream too loud." His gaze drifted to a thick leather collar studded with steel rings. "Collars. Like dogs." He kicked a coiled whip lying on the floor—braided leather ending in frayed strands. "Whips. For their backs. Or..." He trailed off, eyes flicking toward the bed's steel rings. "...other places and there are so many”

My head spun. The Playroom’s mirrors fractured my reflection—a dozen pale Ayan’s staring back, wide-eyed. Rohan moved to another mirrored panel. He slid it sideways. Behind it wasn't clothes. Shelves groaned under thick leather-bound albums, spines stamped with gold numbers: *001*, *002*, *003*. Rohan grabbed *007*. Dust puffed as he slammed it onto a chrome-and-glass table. "Dad maintain the album for every girl," he muttered, flipping it open.

The first page: a woman laughing in a park, sunlight catching her dupatta. Next: same woman, blouse unbuttoned, breasts spilling from lace. Then: naked on Ravi Uncle’s bed, wrists cuffed to the headboard. Page after page—her bent over a velvet ottoman, a masked man driving into her from behind; her gagged in black leather, whip marks laddering her back; her kneeling, tears streaking mascara, sucking a silicone tentacle thicker than my wrist and then there was more picture of her. Rohan whispered. "She cheated on husband with Dad." He tapped her tear-streaked face. "Dad filmed everything. Trapped her. Now her husband left her." He slammed the album shut. Dust motes danced in the AC’s chill.

"We need to leave," Rohan hissed, eyes darting to the door. "Dad comes to check the cameras sometimes." He shoved album *007* back onto the shelf, its spine clicking against leather-bound *006*. Before sliding the mirrored panel closed, he lunged toward a low cabinet disguised as part of the mirrored wall. With a soft *click*, its hidden door swung open. Inside sat a sleek silver laptop humming faintly. Rohan snatched it. "Dad’s," he breathed, clutching it to his chest like stolen treasure. "He types passwords while shouting at Mallika Aunty on speakerphone. Thinks no one notices." He slid the cabinet door shut, the mirror seamless again.

We scrambled back to Rohan’s bedroom, the laptop radiating illicit heat against his kurta. He bolted the door, muffling Mallika’s sharp voice still slicing through the penthouse air. Dropping onto his bed, Rohan flipped the laptop open. The screen bloomed to life, demanding a password. His fingers flew over the keys: `M@ll1k@0924`. The desktop wallpaper flashed—a grotesque close-up of Neha’s tear-streaked face, mascara smeared like oil, a chrome ball gag protruding from her lips. Rohan - “My dad like to keep his last girl picture in his laptop desktop”

He double-clicked an unmarked icon—a stylized eye. A grid of sixteen video feeds filled the screen, each showing a different angle of the penthouse in grainy monochrome. "See?" Rohan whispered, jabbing a finger. "Every room. Even mine." He clicked on the feed showing the living area. The camera, mounted high in a corner, gave a fish-eye view. Ma was slumped sideways on the white leather sofa, her crimson Banarasi silk pooling around her like drying blood. One hand pressed weakly against her temple. Mallika sat rigidly beside her, leaning close, lips moving silently. Ravi Uncle hovered near the chrome bar trolley, swirling sherry in his glass.

Rohan clicked another button. Sound flooded the laptop speakers—tinny, distant, but unmistakable.

"...just a headache, Mallika madam," Ma mumbled, her voice thick, slurred. Her hand trembled against her temple. Her crimson silk pallu had slipped, exposing the borrowed pearls gleaming coldly against her damp skin. She slumped sideways on the white leather sofa. "Too much... sherry..."

Mallika leaned closer, her grey coils unmoving. "Nonsense, Debjani," her voice crackled through the laptop speakers, tinny and sharp. "You’re simply unaccustomed to civilized pleasures." She patted Ma’s knee, a gesture devoid of warmth. "Priya! Take her to the guest suite. Let her rest."