12-06-2026, 10:27 AM
(This post was last modified: 12-06-2026, 10:32 AM by Mintu08. Edited 2 times in total. Edited 2 times in total.)
Chapter 2
By the time the cycle rickshaw finally stopped outside her building, the evening had settled comfortably over the neighborhood. Familiar apartment windows glowed with warm yellow light, television sounds drifted through partially open balconies, and the smell of dinner being prepared floated through the humid Kolkata air. Komolini paid the rickshaw puller, adjusted her handbag on her shoulder, and slowly made her way toward the entrance. The ride home had done little to settle the turmoil inside her mind. If anything, it had given her too much time to think.
As she reached her front door, her eyes drifted downward once more toward the faint tea stain lingering stubbornly on the edge of her pallu. The sight immediately drew another sigh from her. The stain itself was insignificant. A little water would probably remove it completely. Yet every time she looked at it, she was reminded of how helplessly she had laughed on Madhumita's veranda. The memory still embarrassed her. Not because she had laughed, but because she had forgotten herself entirely. For a few minutes she had ceased being the anxious wife of an imprisoned man and had instead become the same woman who once sat with friends and exchanged ridiculous stories over cups of tea. The stain felt like evidence of that temporary lapse in seriousness.
Unfortunately, Hiyan was exactly the sort of person who would notice evidence.
The realization immediately deepened her discomfort. Her son had become unusually observant during the past few weeks. Perhaps worry sharpened people. Perhaps anxiety made them pay attention to details they would otherwise ignore. Whatever the reason, Hiyan seemed to notice everything now. He noticed when she skipped meals. He noticed when she slept poorly. He noticed when she returned from a phone call looking troubled. The tea stain would not survive more than a few minutes in his presence without attracting attention.
What troubled her even more was the thought of him waiting inside.
Lately she often caught him standing silently in front of Probal's photograph. He never lingered long enough to make it obvious, but a mother noticed such things. Sometimes she would walk into the drawing room and find him staring thoughtfully at the frame before quickly pretending he had been looking for something else. Other times he would return from college appearing perfectly normal until she looked closely enough to see the exhaustion hiding beneath the surface. He never complained, yet she understood enough about young people to know that not everyone would treat the situation with kindness. Questions would be asked. Rumors would spread. Some people would offer sympathy while others offered curiosity disguised as concern. A few would undoubtedly enjoy the gossip. Hiyan carried all of it quietly.
And still, despite everything, he remained gentle.
Every evening he somehow found his way toward her. Sometimes he sat beside her without speaking. Sometimes he asked questions about lawyers or phone calls. Sometimes he simply hugged her. In those moments she would find herself brushing her fingers through his silky hair exactly as she had done when he was little, feeling both immense affection and fierce anger at the same time. Affection for the son who tried so hard to be strong. Anger toward the circumstances forcing him to do so.
The thought lingered with her as she stood outside the apartment.
Then another problem demanded her attention.
The blouse.
Only now, standing still after the long journey home, did she fully appreciate how uncomfortable she had become. The humid Kolkata weather had been unforgiving, and the fabric clung unpleasantly to her skin. She shifted slightly and immediately felt the dampness beneath her arms. The sensation alone was enough to make her wince. A bath suddenly became the most urgent item on her agenda. Before facing Hiyan, before discussing lawyers, before answering questions, she needed a bath.
The realization became even more pressing when she absentmindedly turned her face and caught the faintest trace of perspiration. Komolini immediately grimaced.
Wonderful.
The day seemed determined to embarrass her from beginning to end.
As she stood there adjusting her pallu, another thought unexpectedly entered her mind. The pleasant absurdity of Madhumita's teasing vanished, replaced by a much harsher image. She found herself imagining the places she might soon have to visit in Sholapur. Dusty government offices. Rusting ceiling fans turning lazily above worn wooden desks. Stacks of files covered in years of accumulated dust. Sweaty havaldars seated beneath stained walls while paperwork moved at the speed of exhaustion. The image was so vivid that a small shiver travelled through her.
And somewhere amidst those unfamiliar offices and unfamiliar faces sat Probal.
Waiting.
The realization immediately stripped away whatever amusement remained from the afternoon. Behind every joke, every laugh, every discussion about sarees and train journeys, that reality remained unchanged. Her husband was still imprisoned hundreds of kilometers away. No amount of laughter could alter that fact.
A soft sigh escaped her lips.
Without allowing herself time to think further, she pressed the doorbell.
The familiar sound echoed from inside the apartment. Footsteps approached. Locks clicked one after another. The door finally opened, revealing Bidisha standing on the other side. The robust maid was a sight to witness as Komolini studied some perticular things...
Two clear bite marks on Bidisha's neck and cheek as she stood by the door puppy eyed.
Reaching inside with a quick shove past her maid, Komolini shoved the bag aside on the sofa and noticed small bite marks on her maid's neck and a bigger on the cheek. She had come back after almost two weeks due to her husband being sick but now despite the marks, there was a strange glow on Bidisha's face. Almost as if she had some very private intimate moments. Komolini got up and asked her..."what took you so much time to get back?"
"Didi...actually, he didn't allow me to..." Bidisha plays with her saree edges and takes such a deep breath that her swell of her orbs was quite prominent to Komolini's eyes. She noticed a clear growth on her maid's previously decently rounded breasts and felt a pang of jealousy to the fact that Bidisha probably had very intimate moments with her husband recently. Her eyes noticed the waist fold of her maid and she almost wanted to say....
"What's with the swell of your breasts and the fatty layer down there?? You fooled around with your husband rather than coming to work??"
But somehow, Komolini stopped and rather asked..."From day after tomorrow there is no need to come!"
Bidisha was upset all of a sudden and asked "but why boudi?? I promise no more delays!"
Ignoring the sulking tone of her maid, Kamolini spoke ahead.
"Bidisha, I'll be leaving tomorrow."
The younger woman looked up immediately.
"Leaving?"
"To Sholapur."
The cloth in Bidisha's hand stopped moving.
"Tomorrow?"
Komolini nodded.
"The train is around early noon. Hiyan and I will be going."
The statement naturally triggered curiosity.
"Both of you?"
"Yes."
"How many days will you stay?"
"I don't know."
"Where will you—"
"Bidisha."
The interruption arrived gently but firmly.
The housemaid immediately fell silent.
"Don't ask so many questions. Finish your cleaning."
The younger woman raised both hands in surrender.
"Fine, Boudi."
A brief silence followed.
Then Komolini asked the question that mattered.
"Where's Hiyan?"
"On the terrace."
The answer produced immediate relief.
A quiet wave of gratitude passed through her.
Thank God.
The thought arrived before she could stop it.
The last thing she wanted at that moment was to encounter her son while still carrying evidence of the afternoon on her saree. Her eyes drifted downward once more toward the stubborn tea stain near the edge of her pallu. Somehow it seemed even more noticeable now than it had outside the door.
The realization strengthened her resolve.
Bath first.
Questions later.
The scorching heat of Kolkata had not been kind to her either. Sitting for hours in Madhumita's comparatively cool drawing room had made her forget how oppressive the afternoon had become outside. The moment she had stepped back into the open air, the humidity had wrapped itself around her like an unwelcome blanket. Then came the cycle rickshaw ride. Then the traffic. Then the waiting at signals beneath the sun-baked streets.
Now every part of her felt uncomfortable.
The blouse clung unpleasantly beneath the saree. Her hair felt slightly disordered despite her efforts to keep it neat. The entire day seemed to have attached itself stubbornly to her skin.
She shifted slightly and immediately grimaced.
A bath had transformed from a preference into a necessity.
Across the room, Bidisha resumed her cleaning duties. Yet as she passed behind Komolini, a brief expression crossed her face. It lasted less than a second. A slight cringe. A fleeting reaction that would have escaped most observers entirely.
Unfortunately for Komolini, she noticed it.
The realization arrived instantly.
Heat rushed into her cheeks.
Good heavens.
The younger woman had probably spent the last several minutes politely pretending not to notice her condition after a long afternoon outdoors.
Komolini looked away immediately.
The embarrassment felt almost ridiculous.
First the tea stain.
Then the laughter.
Then the cycle rickshaw.
Now this.
The day seemed determined to strip away every shred of dignity she possessed.
Meanwhile Bidisha, perhaps realizing she had been caught reacting, suddenly became very interested in dusting a shelf that almost certainly did not require dusting.
Komolini chose the wiser option and said nothing.
Instead she adjusted her handbag, gathered the edge of her saree, and headed toward her room. The promise of cool water and a few minutes of privacy felt increasingly appealing. Beyond that waited Hiyan, discussions about train tickets, preparations for the journey, and the difficult days ahead.
But first she intended to wash away the dust, the heat, the tea stain, and perhaps some of the confusion of the afternoon.
Taking a deep breath she rushed upstairs to her room and discarded each shed of cloth from her fiercely burning body for some reason. The small jolts of thrill and curiosity with small pangs of fear made her quickly strip naked and with some wobbles of her fleshy waist and buttocks she ran inside and turned on the shower. Oh! Just how much she needed this bath indeed. The droplets fell on her face as an imaginary Madhumita gazed at her from the mirror....
"Eager to see your husband or curious to see a new culture hmmmm?"
Komolini applies the soap gel on her big ample breasts and scolds the hallucinating image of her bestie inside the mirror reflection .."Shut up! I will free Probal and return back soon, Hiyan misses him so much, he can't focus.." she stopped as she just poked her big deep navel with one soapy finger. The splongy sound made a small obscene emission but she didn't mind as Madhumita from the reflection teases again....."focus on the girls of his college?"
Komolini thumped her soapy hands on her either waist with a firm flesh slapping sound due to her big broad hips as her lips opened with irkness...."oh stop it! I meant studies!"
"Hmmmmm okay then! Take your bath and get fresh and feed the poor boy waiting for you all day!" Madhumita smiles and vanishes within few moments inside the mirror as Komolini thinks of the awful wierd suggestion of wearing the chiffon saree with open hair and sleeveless blouse and entering the rusty dusty security officer station and the smell.....what the smell might be? Her restless mind wondered as she suddenly felt some imaginary ant biting the upper drenched labia which was pretty puffed up, given her healthy weight.
By the time Komolini emerged from the shower, she felt at least partially restored. The long stream of cool water had washed away the dust of the streets, the discomfort of the cycle rickshaw ride, and some of the heaviness that had settled upon her during the journey home. Not all of it, of course. Worry did not disappear so easily. But the simple act of bathing allowed her to feel like herself again. She selected a fresh saree from her wardrobe, one of her simpler cotton pieces that required little thought yet somehow always suited her. It lacked the elegance of the chiffon saree Madhumita had spent an entire afternoon promoting, but it carried the quiet dignity she preferred. After dressing, she stood before the mirror and carefully twisted her hair back into a firm bun. A few silver strands glimmered among the darker ones, but she paid them little attention. A touch of powder across her cheeks and hands helped combat the lingering humidity, and soon she felt considerably more presentable than she had upon entering the apartment.
For a few moments she remained standing before the mirror. Her fingers rose almost unconsciously toward the shakha-pola resting upon her wrists.
The familiar bangles had accompanied her through most of her married life. She touched them gently, and as always, the thought of Probal followed immediately. The ache arrived without warning. One moment she was simply adjusting her saree; the next she found herself wondering how he was spending his evening. Whether he had eaten. Whether anyone had spoken to him kindly that day. Whether he was sleeping properly. The thought of him sitting alone in that distant prison made something tighten painfully inside her chest. She lowered her eyes and took a slow breath. Tomorrow she needed to book tickets. Duronto Express. The name repeated itself in her mind like an instruction. Once dinner preparations were complete, she would sit down with her phone and make the arrangements. Every task accomplished felt like one step closer to bringing him home.
The kitchen offered its usual comfort. Cooking had always possessed a strange ability to calm her thoughts. Soon the aroma of spices and fish filled the apartment. The pabda fish simmered gently as she stirred the gravy with practiced ease. One hand held the spatula while the fingers of the other tapped softly against the kitchen counter in an unconscious rhythm. Her mind drifted between ingredients and worries. The journey. The tickets. The train. Sholapur. Lawyers.
security officer stations. Probal. Everything seemed to occupy her thoughts simultaneously.
Outside, the evening deepened.
A short while later the front door opened with a familiar force.
Hiyan.
The sound alone was enough to announce his arrival. He entered the apartment carrying the fatigue of another long day and headed instinctively toward his room. Then he stopped.
The smell reached him.
Pabda fish.
His shoulders relaxed immediately.
For the first time all day, a small sigh escaped him.
Home.
The simple aroma carried years of memories. Childhood dinners. Family conversations. Ordinary evenings before life became complicated. He followed the scent toward the kitchen and slowed as he approached the doorway.
His mother stood before the stove exactly as she always had.
Yet something seemed different.
Not visibly.
Not dramatically.
Just enough for him to notice.
The lost expression.
The distant focus in her eyes.
The way her fingers tapped against the counter while her thoughts clearly wandered elsewhere.
Hiyan leaned quietly against the doorway for several seconds without announcing himself. Watching her like this always produced mixed emotions. Relief because she was there. Concern because she looked tired. Admiration because she somehow continued moving forward despite everything.
At that exact moment, unfortunately, Komolini's thoughts betrayed her.
Without warning, a fragment of Madhumita's voice resurfaced in her memory.
"Your husband is in jail and here you are worrying about chiffon sarees."
The memory struck with such unexpected force that a laugh immediately threatened to escape.
She almost heard the rest of it.
"Imagine Hiyan hearing this conversation."
A chuckle rose toward her lips before she could stop it.
Then a hand touched her shoulder.
Komolini nearly jumped.
Her heart gave such a violent thump that she almost dropped the spatula.
She spun around.
Hiyan stood there looking concerned.
"Ma?"
For a brief moment she simply stared at him.
The laughter vanished instantly.
So did every trace of Madhumita's veranda.
The kitchen returned.
The apartment returned.
Reality returned.
And standing before her was the very person whose reaction she had spent the entire journey home imagining.
Hiyan frowned slightly.
"Are you alright?"
Komolini immediately composed herself.
"Of course."
Yet the speed with which she answered only made him more suspicious. Mother and son looked at each other for several seconds, each studying the other with the quiet attentiveness that had become increasingly common in recent weeks. The pabda fish continued simmering gently on the stove, filling the kitchen with its familiar aroma while the ceiling fan stirred the warm evening air above them. Komolini could almost see the questions forming behind Hiyan's eyes. The boy had inherited too much perception for his own good. Fortunately, before he could ask anything, she reached forward and ran her fingers through his hair, disrupting both his thoughts and his carefully maintained expression.
The familiar gesture immediately softened his face.
"You came back at the perfect time," she said, forcing a smile as she turned her attention back toward the stove. "I'm cooking your favourite pabda fish."
A faint smile appeared on Hiyan's lips. He stepped closer and, in a gesture that still surprised her despite how often he did it, rested his forehead lightly against her back. For a brief moment he simply stood there without speaking. The warmth of the kitchen surrounded them. The bubbling gravy provided a steady background rhythm. Komolini continued stirring the fish while feeling the weight of her son's head against her shoulder blade.
It was Hiyan who finally broke the silence.
His voice emerged slightly muffled.
"You don't have to worry about the tickets anymore."
Komolini frowned faintly.
"What tickets?"
"The train."
Her hand slowed.
"The train?"
Hiyan nodded.
"I booked them."
The spatula stopped moving entirely.
For a second she wondered whether she had heard correctly.
Slowly she turned her head.
"You booked them?"
The young man straightened and finally met her eyes.
"I couldn't wait."
His tone was simple. Matter-of-fact. Almost apologetic.
"I knew we were going anyway, and I thought the seats might fill up if we delayed."
For a moment Komolini simply stared at him.
The words themselves were ordinary.
The meaning behind them was not.
Without asking for praise. Without making an announcement. Without seeking attention. Hiyan had quietly taken responsibility for something she had been carrying in the back of her mind all afternoon.
The realization struck her unexpectedly hard.
Suddenly she remembered the little boy who once needed help tying his shoelaces. The child who used to cling to her hand while crossing roads. The teenager who came running to her whenever life became confusing. Somewhere along the way, without her fully noticing, that child had become a young man capable of carrying burdens beside her.
By the time the cycle rickshaw finally stopped outside her building, the evening had settled comfortably over the neighborhood. Familiar apartment windows glowed with warm yellow light, television sounds drifted through partially open balconies, and the smell of dinner being prepared floated through the humid Kolkata air. Komolini paid the rickshaw puller, adjusted her handbag on her shoulder, and slowly made her way toward the entrance. The ride home had done little to settle the turmoil inside her mind. If anything, it had given her too much time to think.
As she reached her front door, her eyes drifted downward once more toward the faint tea stain lingering stubbornly on the edge of her pallu. The sight immediately drew another sigh from her. The stain itself was insignificant. A little water would probably remove it completely. Yet every time she looked at it, she was reminded of how helplessly she had laughed on Madhumita's veranda. The memory still embarrassed her. Not because she had laughed, but because she had forgotten herself entirely. For a few minutes she had ceased being the anxious wife of an imprisoned man and had instead become the same woman who once sat with friends and exchanged ridiculous stories over cups of tea. The stain felt like evidence of that temporary lapse in seriousness.
Unfortunately, Hiyan was exactly the sort of person who would notice evidence.
The realization immediately deepened her discomfort. Her son had become unusually observant during the past few weeks. Perhaps worry sharpened people. Perhaps anxiety made them pay attention to details they would otherwise ignore. Whatever the reason, Hiyan seemed to notice everything now. He noticed when she skipped meals. He noticed when she slept poorly. He noticed when she returned from a phone call looking troubled. The tea stain would not survive more than a few minutes in his presence without attracting attention.
What troubled her even more was the thought of him waiting inside.
Lately she often caught him standing silently in front of Probal's photograph. He never lingered long enough to make it obvious, but a mother noticed such things. Sometimes she would walk into the drawing room and find him staring thoughtfully at the frame before quickly pretending he had been looking for something else. Other times he would return from college appearing perfectly normal until she looked closely enough to see the exhaustion hiding beneath the surface. He never complained, yet she understood enough about young people to know that not everyone would treat the situation with kindness. Questions would be asked. Rumors would spread. Some people would offer sympathy while others offered curiosity disguised as concern. A few would undoubtedly enjoy the gossip. Hiyan carried all of it quietly.
And still, despite everything, he remained gentle.
Every evening he somehow found his way toward her. Sometimes he sat beside her without speaking. Sometimes he asked questions about lawyers or phone calls. Sometimes he simply hugged her. In those moments she would find herself brushing her fingers through his silky hair exactly as she had done when he was little, feeling both immense affection and fierce anger at the same time. Affection for the son who tried so hard to be strong. Anger toward the circumstances forcing him to do so.
The thought lingered with her as she stood outside the apartment.
Then another problem demanded her attention.
The blouse.
Only now, standing still after the long journey home, did she fully appreciate how uncomfortable she had become. The humid Kolkata weather had been unforgiving, and the fabric clung unpleasantly to her skin. She shifted slightly and immediately felt the dampness beneath her arms. The sensation alone was enough to make her wince. A bath suddenly became the most urgent item on her agenda. Before facing Hiyan, before discussing lawyers, before answering questions, she needed a bath.
The realization became even more pressing when she absentmindedly turned her face and caught the faintest trace of perspiration. Komolini immediately grimaced.
Wonderful.
The day seemed determined to embarrass her from beginning to end.
As she stood there adjusting her pallu, another thought unexpectedly entered her mind. The pleasant absurdity of Madhumita's teasing vanished, replaced by a much harsher image. She found herself imagining the places she might soon have to visit in Sholapur. Dusty government offices. Rusting ceiling fans turning lazily above worn wooden desks. Stacks of files covered in years of accumulated dust. Sweaty havaldars seated beneath stained walls while paperwork moved at the speed of exhaustion. The image was so vivid that a small shiver travelled through her.
And somewhere amidst those unfamiliar offices and unfamiliar faces sat Probal.
Waiting.
The realization immediately stripped away whatever amusement remained from the afternoon. Behind every joke, every laugh, every discussion about sarees and train journeys, that reality remained unchanged. Her husband was still imprisoned hundreds of kilometers away. No amount of laughter could alter that fact.
A soft sigh escaped her lips.
Without allowing herself time to think further, she pressed the doorbell.
The familiar sound echoed from inside the apartment. Footsteps approached. Locks clicked one after another. The door finally opened, revealing Bidisha standing on the other side. The robust maid was a sight to witness as Komolini studied some perticular things...
Two clear bite marks on Bidisha's neck and cheek as she stood by the door puppy eyed.
Reaching inside with a quick shove past her maid, Komolini shoved the bag aside on the sofa and noticed small bite marks on her maid's neck and a bigger on the cheek. She had come back after almost two weeks due to her husband being sick but now despite the marks, there was a strange glow on Bidisha's face. Almost as if she had some very private intimate moments. Komolini got up and asked her..."what took you so much time to get back?"
"Didi...actually, he didn't allow me to..." Bidisha plays with her saree edges and takes such a deep breath that her swell of her orbs was quite prominent to Komolini's eyes. She noticed a clear growth on her maid's previously decently rounded breasts and felt a pang of jealousy to the fact that Bidisha probably had very intimate moments with her husband recently. Her eyes noticed the waist fold of her maid and she almost wanted to say....
"What's with the swell of your breasts and the fatty layer down there?? You fooled around with your husband rather than coming to work??"
But somehow, Komolini stopped and rather asked..."From day after tomorrow there is no need to come!"
Bidisha was upset all of a sudden and asked "but why boudi?? I promise no more delays!"
Ignoring the sulking tone of her maid, Kamolini spoke ahead.
"Bidisha, I'll be leaving tomorrow."
The younger woman looked up immediately.
"Leaving?"
"To Sholapur."
The cloth in Bidisha's hand stopped moving.
"Tomorrow?"
Komolini nodded.
"The train is around early noon. Hiyan and I will be going."
The statement naturally triggered curiosity.
"Both of you?"
"Yes."
"How many days will you stay?"
"I don't know."
"Where will you—"
"Bidisha."
The interruption arrived gently but firmly.
The housemaid immediately fell silent.
"Don't ask so many questions. Finish your cleaning."
The younger woman raised both hands in surrender.
"Fine, Boudi."
A brief silence followed.
Then Komolini asked the question that mattered.
"Where's Hiyan?"
"On the terrace."
The answer produced immediate relief.
A quiet wave of gratitude passed through her.
Thank God.
The thought arrived before she could stop it.
The last thing she wanted at that moment was to encounter her son while still carrying evidence of the afternoon on her saree. Her eyes drifted downward once more toward the stubborn tea stain near the edge of her pallu. Somehow it seemed even more noticeable now than it had outside the door.
The realization strengthened her resolve.
Bath first.
Questions later.
The scorching heat of Kolkata had not been kind to her either. Sitting for hours in Madhumita's comparatively cool drawing room had made her forget how oppressive the afternoon had become outside. The moment she had stepped back into the open air, the humidity had wrapped itself around her like an unwelcome blanket. Then came the cycle rickshaw ride. Then the traffic. Then the waiting at signals beneath the sun-baked streets.
Now every part of her felt uncomfortable.
The blouse clung unpleasantly beneath the saree. Her hair felt slightly disordered despite her efforts to keep it neat. The entire day seemed to have attached itself stubbornly to her skin.
She shifted slightly and immediately grimaced.
A bath had transformed from a preference into a necessity.
Across the room, Bidisha resumed her cleaning duties. Yet as she passed behind Komolini, a brief expression crossed her face. It lasted less than a second. A slight cringe. A fleeting reaction that would have escaped most observers entirely.
Unfortunately for Komolini, she noticed it.
The realization arrived instantly.
Heat rushed into her cheeks.
Good heavens.
The younger woman had probably spent the last several minutes politely pretending not to notice her condition after a long afternoon outdoors.
Komolini looked away immediately.
The embarrassment felt almost ridiculous.
First the tea stain.
Then the laughter.
Then the cycle rickshaw.
Now this.
The day seemed determined to strip away every shred of dignity she possessed.
Meanwhile Bidisha, perhaps realizing she had been caught reacting, suddenly became very interested in dusting a shelf that almost certainly did not require dusting.
Komolini chose the wiser option and said nothing.
Instead she adjusted her handbag, gathered the edge of her saree, and headed toward her room. The promise of cool water and a few minutes of privacy felt increasingly appealing. Beyond that waited Hiyan, discussions about train tickets, preparations for the journey, and the difficult days ahead.
But first she intended to wash away the dust, the heat, the tea stain, and perhaps some of the confusion of the afternoon.
Taking a deep breath she rushed upstairs to her room and discarded each shed of cloth from her fiercely burning body for some reason. The small jolts of thrill and curiosity with small pangs of fear made her quickly strip naked and with some wobbles of her fleshy waist and buttocks she ran inside and turned on the shower. Oh! Just how much she needed this bath indeed. The droplets fell on her face as an imaginary Madhumita gazed at her from the mirror....
"Eager to see your husband or curious to see a new culture hmmmm?"
Komolini applies the soap gel on her big ample breasts and scolds the hallucinating image of her bestie inside the mirror reflection .."Shut up! I will free Probal and return back soon, Hiyan misses him so much, he can't focus.." she stopped as she just poked her big deep navel with one soapy finger. The splongy sound made a small obscene emission but she didn't mind as Madhumita from the reflection teases again....."focus on the girls of his college?"
Komolini thumped her soapy hands on her either waist with a firm flesh slapping sound due to her big broad hips as her lips opened with irkness...."oh stop it! I meant studies!"
"Hmmmmm okay then! Take your bath and get fresh and feed the poor boy waiting for you all day!" Madhumita smiles and vanishes within few moments inside the mirror as Komolini thinks of the awful wierd suggestion of wearing the chiffon saree with open hair and sleeveless blouse and entering the rusty dusty security officer station and the smell.....what the smell might be? Her restless mind wondered as she suddenly felt some imaginary ant biting the upper drenched labia which was pretty puffed up, given her healthy weight.
By the time Komolini emerged from the shower, she felt at least partially restored. The long stream of cool water had washed away the dust of the streets, the discomfort of the cycle rickshaw ride, and some of the heaviness that had settled upon her during the journey home. Not all of it, of course. Worry did not disappear so easily. But the simple act of bathing allowed her to feel like herself again. She selected a fresh saree from her wardrobe, one of her simpler cotton pieces that required little thought yet somehow always suited her. It lacked the elegance of the chiffon saree Madhumita had spent an entire afternoon promoting, but it carried the quiet dignity she preferred. After dressing, she stood before the mirror and carefully twisted her hair back into a firm bun. A few silver strands glimmered among the darker ones, but she paid them little attention. A touch of powder across her cheeks and hands helped combat the lingering humidity, and soon she felt considerably more presentable than she had upon entering the apartment.
For a few moments she remained standing before the mirror. Her fingers rose almost unconsciously toward the shakha-pola resting upon her wrists.
The familiar bangles had accompanied her through most of her married life. She touched them gently, and as always, the thought of Probal followed immediately. The ache arrived without warning. One moment she was simply adjusting her saree; the next she found herself wondering how he was spending his evening. Whether he had eaten. Whether anyone had spoken to him kindly that day. Whether he was sleeping properly. The thought of him sitting alone in that distant prison made something tighten painfully inside her chest. She lowered her eyes and took a slow breath. Tomorrow she needed to book tickets. Duronto Express. The name repeated itself in her mind like an instruction. Once dinner preparations were complete, she would sit down with her phone and make the arrangements. Every task accomplished felt like one step closer to bringing him home.
The kitchen offered its usual comfort. Cooking had always possessed a strange ability to calm her thoughts. Soon the aroma of spices and fish filled the apartment. The pabda fish simmered gently as she stirred the gravy with practiced ease. One hand held the spatula while the fingers of the other tapped softly against the kitchen counter in an unconscious rhythm. Her mind drifted between ingredients and worries. The journey. The tickets. The train. Sholapur. Lawyers.
security officer stations. Probal. Everything seemed to occupy her thoughts simultaneously.
Outside, the evening deepened.
A short while later the front door opened with a familiar force.
Hiyan.
The sound alone was enough to announce his arrival. He entered the apartment carrying the fatigue of another long day and headed instinctively toward his room. Then he stopped.
The smell reached him.
Pabda fish.
His shoulders relaxed immediately.
For the first time all day, a small sigh escaped him.
Home.
The simple aroma carried years of memories. Childhood dinners. Family conversations. Ordinary evenings before life became complicated. He followed the scent toward the kitchen and slowed as he approached the doorway.
His mother stood before the stove exactly as she always had.
Yet something seemed different.
Not visibly.
Not dramatically.
Just enough for him to notice.
The lost expression.
The distant focus in her eyes.
The way her fingers tapped against the counter while her thoughts clearly wandered elsewhere.
Hiyan leaned quietly against the doorway for several seconds without announcing himself. Watching her like this always produced mixed emotions. Relief because she was there. Concern because she looked tired. Admiration because she somehow continued moving forward despite everything.
At that exact moment, unfortunately, Komolini's thoughts betrayed her.
Without warning, a fragment of Madhumita's voice resurfaced in her memory.
"Your husband is in jail and here you are worrying about chiffon sarees."
The memory struck with such unexpected force that a laugh immediately threatened to escape.
She almost heard the rest of it.
"Imagine Hiyan hearing this conversation."
A chuckle rose toward her lips before she could stop it.
Then a hand touched her shoulder.
Komolini nearly jumped.
Her heart gave such a violent thump that she almost dropped the spatula.
She spun around.
Hiyan stood there looking concerned.
"Ma?"
For a brief moment she simply stared at him.
The laughter vanished instantly.
So did every trace of Madhumita's veranda.
The kitchen returned.
The apartment returned.
Reality returned.
And standing before her was the very person whose reaction she had spent the entire journey home imagining.
Hiyan frowned slightly.
"Are you alright?"
Komolini immediately composed herself.
"Of course."
Yet the speed with which she answered only made him more suspicious. Mother and son looked at each other for several seconds, each studying the other with the quiet attentiveness that had become increasingly common in recent weeks. The pabda fish continued simmering gently on the stove, filling the kitchen with its familiar aroma while the ceiling fan stirred the warm evening air above them. Komolini could almost see the questions forming behind Hiyan's eyes. The boy had inherited too much perception for his own good. Fortunately, before he could ask anything, she reached forward and ran her fingers through his hair, disrupting both his thoughts and his carefully maintained expression.
The familiar gesture immediately softened his face.
"You came back at the perfect time," she said, forcing a smile as she turned her attention back toward the stove. "I'm cooking your favourite pabda fish."
A faint smile appeared on Hiyan's lips. He stepped closer and, in a gesture that still surprised her despite how often he did it, rested his forehead lightly against her back. For a brief moment he simply stood there without speaking. The warmth of the kitchen surrounded them. The bubbling gravy provided a steady background rhythm. Komolini continued stirring the fish while feeling the weight of her son's head against her shoulder blade.
It was Hiyan who finally broke the silence.
His voice emerged slightly muffled.
"You don't have to worry about the tickets anymore."
Komolini frowned faintly.
"What tickets?"
"The train."
Her hand slowed.
"The train?"
Hiyan nodded.
"I booked them."
The spatula stopped moving entirely.
For a second she wondered whether she had heard correctly.
Slowly she turned her head.
"You booked them?"
The young man straightened and finally met her eyes.
"I couldn't wait."
His tone was simple. Matter-of-fact. Almost apologetic.
"I knew we were going anyway, and I thought the seats might fill up if we delayed."
For a moment Komolini simply stared at him.
The words themselves were ordinary.
The meaning behind them was not.
Without asking for praise. Without making an announcement. Without seeking attention. Hiyan had quietly taken responsibility for something she had been carrying in the back of her mind all afternoon.
The realization struck her unexpectedly hard.
Suddenly she remembered the little boy who once needed help tying his shoelaces. The child who used to cling to her hand while crossing roads. The teenager who came running to her whenever life became confusing. Somewhere along the way, without her fully noticing, that child had become a young man capable of carrying burdens beside her.
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