10-07-2026, 12:06 AM
Chapter 11
Some other corner in Pune
"Huh... w-where... am I...?"
A dull, relentless throb pounded inside Probal's skull as consciousness returned in broken, scattered fragments. For several long moments, he couldn't distinguish dream from reality.
His vision remained blurred, swimming before his eyes until, little by little, the haze began to lift. The first thing he saw was a plain ceiling above him. Beneath it, an old fan rotated lazily, its rhythmic creaking filling the eerie silence of the room. As his senses slowly awakened, unfamiliar details emerged one after another—the neatly arranged wooden furniture, the faded curtains gently swaying in the warm afternoon breeze, the faint fragrance of burning incense lingering in the air. Nothing about this place belonged to him. Every object whispered the same unsettling truth.
His heartbeat quickened.
"This... isn't the prison."
The realization struck him with such force that he instinctively pushed himself upright. The sudden movement sent a sharp stab of pain exploding through his head, forcing him to grimace. A strained groan escaped his lips as he clutched his temple, waiting for the dizziness to subside. His breathing grew heavier, his eyes wandering across the unfamiliar room in desperate search of something—anything—that could explain how he had ended up here.
Then another realization froze him completely.
His prison shirt was gone.
His chest was completely bare. Only the loose white prison trousers remained, tied carelessly around his waist as though someone had deliberately removed everything else while he lay unconscious.
"What...?"
His voice barely emerged as a whisper. His eyes widened in disbelief, scanning every corner of the room before finally settling on the small wall clock hanging above the door.
6:00 PM.
For several seconds he simply stared.
His breathing turned shallow.
"No... that's impossible..."
The last thing he remembered with certainty was Komolini's visit to the prison. It had been a little after eleven in the morning. She had stood before him with trembling eyes, carrying the unbearable weight of a marriage that had already begun to crumble.
Then...
His jaw tightened.
Ganpat.
That monstrous prison officer.
The humiliation returned with terrifying clarity. Ganpat had forced him into that degrading spectacle of polishing another man's shoes, not because it served any purpose, but simply because he enjoyed watching another human being stripped of every last shred of dignity. Every mocking smile, every taunting word, every satisfied glance had been a declaration of victory. Even now, remembering that wicked grin made Probal's blood boil.
His fists slowly clenched.
Then came the papers.
One document after another had been placed before him like the final blows of an execution.
The divorce papers.
The cruel legal verdict that had reduced him from a husband to a forgotten chapter in someone else's life.
He had signed them.
He had actually signed both.
His fingers tightened until his knuckles turned pale.
"I... signed them..."
The whispered confession echoed inside the silent room.
The pain in his head was nothing compared to the ache spreading through his chest. In a matter of minutes, everything he had once called his own had slipped through his trembling fingers. His marriage... his pride... his future... even the hope of walking out of prison with something left worth living for... all of it had vanished before his helpless eyes.
He shut his eyes tightly, struggling to steady his breathing, but the memories refused to let go.
Komolini's tear-filled face appeared before him once again.
Then, almost instantly, it was replaced by Ganpat's triumphant smile.
The contrast twisted something deep inside him, leaving behind a crushing mixture of grief, humiliation, and helpless rage.
Then, without warning, another memory surfaced.
His eyes snapped open.
"The injection..."
Yes...
Just after Komolini had walked away.
Just after the crushing reality of the signed divorce had finally sunk in.
Someone had grabbed hold of him.
He remembered struggling.
Then came the unmistakable sting of a needle piercing the flesh of his arm.
Cold.
Sharp.
Deliberate.
After that...
Nothing.
Not a sound.
Not a face.
Not even a dream.
Only endless darkness swallowing his consciousness whole.
Almost instinctively, his fingers moved over the side of his arm, searching for the place where the needle had entered, as though the tiny wound might somehow explain everything.
"What... did they inject into me...?"
His thoughts spiraled out of control.
A sedative?
Some kind of medicine?
Or something far more sinister?
Why had they drugged him?
Who had brought him out of the prison?
Why was he lying inside a stranger's bedroom instead of a prison cell?
And most terrifying of all...
What had happened during the missing three hours?
The unanswered questions crashed against his aching mind one after another, each one darker than the last, until the suffocating silence of the room itself began to feel like part of a carefully planned trap.
The silence inside the room was suddenly disturbed by the delicate sound of glass bangles. The soft chhan... chhan... echoed faintly from somewhere beyond the bedroom, followed by slow, measured footsteps approaching the door. Probal instinctively straightened despite the heaviness in his body. His eyes remained fixed on the entrance as every step seemed to grow louder in the suffocating silence. His pulse quickened. Whoever was outside was in no hurry.
The footsteps stopped.
For several agonizing seconds nothing happened. Then, with a slow metallic click, the handle turned. The old wooden door creaked open just enough for a woman dressed in a traditional Nauvari saree to step inside. Her thick braid was tied neatly in the Maharashtrian style, and in one hand she carried a glass of warm milk. She wore a gentle smile, yet there was something unreadable behind it—something that prevented Probal from feeling even the slightest sense of relief.
"Dear... relax."
The word immediately unsettled him.
"Dear?" he repeated, unable to hide the suspicion in his voice.
As he struggled to sit straighter, another dull ache spread through his body. His muscles felt unusually weak, and the memories he had been trying to piece together suddenly returned with startling clarity. The prison cell... Ganpat's mocking smile... the humiliation... the divorce papers... and finally, the cold sting of a needle piercing his arm before everything had dissolved into darkness.
His breathing became uneven.
"What... have you done to me?" he asked, his throat dry.
Instead of answering, the woman walked closer and gently rested her hand on his bare shoulder. Probal immediately stiffened and instinctively pulled the bedsheet higher across his chest. She noticed his discomfort at once and quietly withdrew her hand without taking offense.
"My name is Shakuntala," she said with calm reassurance. "I'm a beauty and wellness specialist."
The introduction only deepened his confusion.
"A beauty specialist?" he repeated. "Where am I? Who brought me here? Why am I not in prison anymore?"
Shakuntala simply looked at him for a moment before raising a finger to her lips.
"Shh..."
There was no threat in her voice, yet the gesture itself made Probal's uneasiness grow. Leaning slightly closer, she lowered her voice to a near whisper.
"We need to groom you, dear."
The words struck him like ice.
His expression froze.
Ganpat had spoken those exact words before everything had gone black.
A cold chill crawled slowly down his spine. This was no coincidence. Whatever had begun inside that prison had not ended there. It had merely moved somewhere else.
Without offering any further explanation, Shakuntala walked toward a nearby cupboard and returned carrying a thick maroon leather-bound book. It bore no title, no author's name, and no markings of any kind. The worn leather suggested it had passed through many hands over the years. She placed it gently in Probal's hands.
"When you've rested," she said softly, "read this. It will answer some of your questions."
The choice of words lingered in his mind.
Some questions.
Not all.
Before leaving, she placed the glass of warm milk on the bedside table and gave his cheek a brief, almost motherly pat. Under different circumstances, the gesture might have been comforting. Instead, it only deepened the strange feeling that everyone around him knew something he did not. She quietly left the room, and the door closed behind her with a soft click that echoed through the silence.
Left alone once again, Probal looked from the closed door to the mysterious book resting in his lap. Every instinct warned him not to trust anything in this place, yet the unanswered questions tormenting his mind drew him toward it.
He reached for the cover, determined to uncover at least one truth, but before his fingers could open the first page, an overwhelming wave of exhaustion crashed over him. His vision blurred, the book slipped from his weakening hands, and as his eyelids became impossibly heavy, one terrifying thought crossed his mind....
Whatever they injected into me......is making me feel....uh....funny!"
The darkness returned before he could resist it.
....................
On the other hand
"No way, Maa!"
Hiyan stared at his parents in utter disbelief, his voice echoing through the room.
"Tell me this isn't true!"
Komolini slowly walked toward him. Her own heart felt unbearably heavy as she reached out and rested a gentle hand on his shoulder.
"Shona..." she said softly. "I know. I know how impossible this sounds. But... there was no other way."
Hiyan stepped back, shaking his head.
"No other way? You agreed to marry a man we've never even known? And Baba... Baba signed it himself?"
His voice cracked.
"What kind of choice is that?"
The thought alone made him feel powerless. His family—the people who had always protected him—had been cornered into a decision none of them truly wanted.
Komolini continued to rub his shoulder, hoping to steady him.
"He... isn't as terrible as you think," she said carefully after a pause. "He's... strong."
"Strong?"
Hiyan looked at her in surprise.
The moment the word left her lips, Komolini wished she could take it back.
Why did I say that? she wondered and no sooner had the words left her lips than she froze. A strange pulse rippled through her ample bosom, followed by an odd sensation of fullness that seemed to bloom from deep within, as though an unseen force were quietly filling it from the inside. It wasn't painful—only unfamiliar, warm, and curiously distracting. Despite the tension of the conversation with her grown up son.
She had meant only that Ganpat possessed an imposing presence and remarkable physical courage—qualities impossible to ignore. Yet spoken aloud, the word sounded as though she were defending him, and that wasn't what she intended.
A flicker of embarrassment crossed her face.
She quickly corrected herself.
"I don't mean that excuses anything," she said quietly. "I only mean... he's a difficult man to stand against."
Hiyan searched his mother's face.
For the first time, he realized she wasn't trying to justify what had happened.
She was trying to survive it.
"It's just for one night, beta..." Komolini said softly, cupping Hiyan's face. "The next morning, I'll come back to your Baba. Nothing can change what we are."
She looked into her grown son's tear-filled eyes.
The sight pierced her heart.
An overwhelming surge of maternal protectiveness swelled within her, making her chest tighten. She instinctively pulled him into an embrace, gently stroking his back as though he were still the little boy who sought comfort in her arms.
After a few moments, she loosened the embrace and managed a faint smile.
"Don't let your mind wander into dark places, shona."
Again she stopped, a soft gasp catching in her throat as an unfamiliar warmth blossomed through her chest. A slow, insistent throbbing spread within her, leaving her with the strange sensation that her breasts were growing fuller by the second, as though gently filling from within with an unseen weight.
Hiyan stared at her, unable to steady his breathing.
"Are you kidding, Maa?" he whispered. "After... after all this... will Baba even be able to accept you the next day?"
SLAP!
The sharp sound echoed across the room.
Hiyan froze.
His cheek burned where his mother's palm had landed.
Komolini stood before him, her own hand trembling from the force of the slap. Tears streamed down her face, but her voice remained firm.
"How dare you speak to your mother like that?"
She took a shaky breath.
"Do you think I chose this?"
Another tear rolled down her cheek.
"Do you think I wanted to disrespect your Baba?"
Her voice cracked.
"Everything I have done... every humiliation I have endured... has been to keep this family alive."
Silence filled the room.
Hiyan slowly lowered his head.
The anger that had consumed him moments ago gave way to guilt. For the first time, he saw not a mother defending an impossible decision, but a woman crushed by circumstances beyond her control.
Komolini closed the distance between them once more and rested a trembling hand against his cheek—the same cheek she had just struck.
"I'm your mother," she whispered. "Never doubt my love for your father......."
Yet again, a strange warmth spread through her breasts, followed by the unsettling sensation of dampness seeping through the fabric. She felt her heart skipping a beat as confusion overtook her. Whatever was happening to her body was becoming impossible to ignore and no matter how much she hated, she wanted to rush to the washroom figure out the mystery.
Komolini loosened her embrace and stepped back.
"What happened maa?" Hiyan was confused.
"Uh shona....uhnmmm..."
For reasons she couldn't explain, a strange discomfort had begun to build inside her. Almost instinctively, she pulled the end of her saree tighter across her chest, making sure the pallu covered her completely.
She turned to leave.
"Maa...we need to talk!!!"
"Uh later Hiyan!"
Hiyan's trembling voice stopped her.
"Why are you going? I'm... I'm shattered."
She paused but didn't look back.
Still wounded by his earlier accusation, she answered more sharply than she intended.
"If you suspect your mother once more, I will..."
The sentence died on her lips.
Without finishing it, she hurried out of the room.
Her pace quickened until she reached the small washroom just outside. Closing the door behind her, she leaned against it for a moment, trying to steady her breathing and she entered a external washroom of the flat and the moment she entered, she gazed at her breasts still covered by the pallu, but her mind purred out words of thrill and discomfort combined.....
"What is happening to me? Why do these suddenly feel so full... as if something is slowly filling them from within?"
She stood before the mirror.
With trembling fingers, she slowly pushed aside the edge of her pallu, revealing her big ample breasts clad in just the blouse but the next moment her eyes widened in absolute shock.
"No..." she whispered to herself. "It can't be..."
The reflection stole the breath from her lungs.
Faint but unmistakable damp patches had formed across the front of her blouse making an obscene mark around the nipple areas.
Her eyes widened in horror.
"Oh god....it can't be..."
She instinctively pressed a hand against her chest. Over the past few days since she has left Kolkata, she had noticed an unfamiliar heaviness, a persistent feeling of fullness, and moments when her breathing seemed deeper than usual. She had dismissed them as stress.
Now the signs suddenly seemed connected.
A chill ran down her spine.
"How is this possible?" she whispered.
She was no longer a young woman. Nothing about this made sense.
For several long seconds, she simply stared at her reflection, her mind racing through every possibility. Fear, confusion, and disbelief crowded her thoughts....
"Are they milk patches??"
Some other corner in Pune
"Huh... w-where... am I...?"
A dull, relentless throb pounded inside Probal's skull as consciousness returned in broken, scattered fragments. For several long moments, he couldn't distinguish dream from reality.
His vision remained blurred, swimming before his eyes until, little by little, the haze began to lift. The first thing he saw was a plain ceiling above him. Beneath it, an old fan rotated lazily, its rhythmic creaking filling the eerie silence of the room. As his senses slowly awakened, unfamiliar details emerged one after another—the neatly arranged wooden furniture, the faded curtains gently swaying in the warm afternoon breeze, the faint fragrance of burning incense lingering in the air. Nothing about this place belonged to him. Every object whispered the same unsettling truth.
His heartbeat quickened.
"This... isn't the prison."
The realization struck him with such force that he instinctively pushed himself upright. The sudden movement sent a sharp stab of pain exploding through his head, forcing him to grimace. A strained groan escaped his lips as he clutched his temple, waiting for the dizziness to subside. His breathing grew heavier, his eyes wandering across the unfamiliar room in desperate search of something—anything—that could explain how he had ended up here.
Then another realization froze him completely.
His prison shirt was gone.
His chest was completely bare. Only the loose white prison trousers remained, tied carelessly around his waist as though someone had deliberately removed everything else while he lay unconscious.
"What...?"
His voice barely emerged as a whisper. His eyes widened in disbelief, scanning every corner of the room before finally settling on the small wall clock hanging above the door.
6:00 PM.
For several seconds he simply stared.
His breathing turned shallow.
"No... that's impossible..."
The last thing he remembered with certainty was Komolini's visit to the prison. It had been a little after eleven in the morning. She had stood before him with trembling eyes, carrying the unbearable weight of a marriage that had already begun to crumble.
Then...
His jaw tightened.
Ganpat.
That monstrous prison officer.
The humiliation returned with terrifying clarity. Ganpat had forced him into that degrading spectacle of polishing another man's shoes, not because it served any purpose, but simply because he enjoyed watching another human being stripped of every last shred of dignity. Every mocking smile, every taunting word, every satisfied glance had been a declaration of victory. Even now, remembering that wicked grin made Probal's blood boil.
His fists slowly clenched.
Then came the papers.
One document after another had been placed before him like the final blows of an execution.
The divorce papers.
The cruel legal verdict that had reduced him from a husband to a forgotten chapter in someone else's life.
He had signed them.
He had actually signed both.
His fingers tightened until his knuckles turned pale.
"I... signed them..."
The whispered confession echoed inside the silent room.
The pain in his head was nothing compared to the ache spreading through his chest. In a matter of minutes, everything he had once called his own had slipped through his trembling fingers. His marriage... his pride... his future... even the hope of walking out of prison with something left worth living for... all of it had vanished before his helpless eyes.
He shut his eyes tightly, struggling to steady his breathing, but the memories refused to let go.
Komolini's tear-filled face appeared before him once again.
Then, almost instantly, it was replaced by Ganpat's triumphant smile.
The contrast twisted something deep inside him, leaving behind a crushing mixture of grief, humiliation, and helpless rage.
Then, without warning, another memory surfaced.
His eyes snapped open.
"The injection..."
Yes...
Just after Komolini had walked away.
Just after the crushing reality of the signed divorce had finally sunk in.
Someone had grabbed hold of him.
He remembered struggling.
Then came the unmistakable sting of a needle piercing the flesh of his arm.
Cold.
Sharp.
Deliberate.
After that...
Nothing.
Not a sound.
Not a face.
Not even a dream.
Only endless darkness swallowing his consciousness whole.
Almost instinctively, his fingers moved over the side of his arm, searching for the place where the needle had entered, as though the tiny wound might somehow explain everything.
"What... did they inject into me...?"
His thoughts spiraled out of control.
A sedative?
Some kind of medicine?
Or something far more sinister?
Why had they drugged him?
Who had brought him out of the prison?
Why was he lying inside a stranger's bedroom instead of a prison cell?
And most terrifying of all...
What had happened during the missing three hours?
The unanswered questions crashed against his aching mind one after another, each one darker than the last, until the suffocating silence of the room itself began to feel like part of a carefully planned trap.
The silence inside the room was suddenly disturbed by the delicate sound of glass bangles. The soft chhan... chhan... echoed faintly from somewhere beyond the bedroom, followed by slow, measured footsteps approaching the door. Probal instinctively straightened despite the heaviness in his body. His eyes remained fixed on the entrance as every step seemed to grow louder in the suffocating silence. His pulse quickened. Whoever was outside was in no hurry.
The footsteps stopped.
For several agonizing seconds nothing happened. Then, with a slow metallic click, the handle turned. The old wooden door creaked open just enough for a woman dressed in a traditional Nauvari saree to step inside. Her thick braid was tied neatly in the Maharashtrian style, and in one hand she carried a glass of warm milk. She wore a gentle smile, yet there was something unreadable behind it—something that prevented Probal from feeling even the slightest sense of relief.
"Dear... relax."
The word immediately unsettled him.
"Dear?" he repeated, unable to hide the suspicion in his voice.
As he struggled to sit straighter, another dull ache spread through his body. His muscles felt unusually weak, and the memories he had been trying to piece together suddenly returned with startling clarity. The prison cell... Ganpat's mocking smile... the humiliation... the divorce papers... and finally, the cold sting of a needle piercing his arm before everything had dissolved into darkness.
His breathing became uneven.
"What... have you done to me?" he asked, his throat dry.
Instead of answering, the woman walked closer and gently rested her hand on his bare shoulder. Probal immediately stiffened and instinctively pulled the bedsheet higher across his chest. She noticed his discomfort at once and quietly withdrew her hand without taking offense.
"My name is Shakuntala," she said with calm reassurance. "I'm a beauty and wellness specialist."
The introduction only deepened his confusion.
"A beauty specialist?" he repeated. "Where am I? Who brought me here? Why am I not in prison anymore?"
Shakuntala simply looked at him for a moment before raising a finger to her lips.
"Shh..."
There was no threat in her voice, yet the gesture itself made Probal's uneasiness grow. Leaning slightly closer, she lowered her voice to a near whisper.
"We need to groom you, dear."
The words struck him like ice.
His expression froze.
Ganpat had spoken those exact words before everything had gone black.
A cold chill crawled slowly down his spine. This was no coincidence. Whatever had begun inside that prison had not ended there. It had merely moved somewhere else.
Without offering any further explanation, Shakuntala walked toward a nearby cupboard and returned carrying a thick maroon leather-bound book. It bore no title, no author's name, and no markings of any kind. The worn leather suggested it had passed through many hands over the years. She placed it gently in Probal's hands.
"When you've rested," she said softly, "read this. It will answer some of your questions."
The choice of words lingered in his mind.
Some questions.
Not all.
Before leaving, she placed the glass of warm milk on the bedside table and gave his cheek a brief, almost motherly pat. Under different circumstances, the gesture might have been comforting. Instead, it only deepened the strange feeling that everyone around him knew something he did not. She quietly left the room, and the door closed behind her with a soft click that echoed through the silence.
Left alone once again, Probal looked from the closed door to the mysterious book resting in his lap. Every instinct warned him not to trust anything in this place, yet the unanswered questions tormenting his mind drew him toward it.
He reached for the cover, determined to uncover at least one truth, but before his fingers could open the first page, an overwhelming wave of exhaustion crashed over him. His vision blurred, the book slipped from his weakening hands, and as his eyelids became impossibly heavy, one terrifying thought crossed his mind....
Whatever they injected into me......is making me feel....uh....funny!"
The darkness returned before he could resist it.
....................
On the other hand
"No way, Maa!"
Hiyan stared at his parents in utter disbelief, his voice echoing through the room.
"Tell me this isn't true!"
Komolini slowly walked toward him. Her own heart felt unbearably heavy as she reached out and rested a gentle hand on his shoulder.
"Shona..." she said softly. "I know. I know how impossible this sounds. But... there was no other way."
Hiyan stepped back, shaking his head.
"No other way? You agreed to marry a man we've never even known? And Baba... Baba signed it himself?"
His voice cracked.
"What kind of choice is that?"
The thought alone made him feel powerless. His family—the people who had always protected him—had been cornered into a decision none of them truly wanted.
Komolini continued to rub his shoulder, hoping to steady him.
"He... isn't as terrible as you think," she said carefully after a pause. "He's... strong."
"Strong?"
Hiyan looked at her in surprise.
The moment the word left her lips, Komolini wished she could take it back.
Why did I say that? she wondered and no sooner had the words left her lips than she froze. A strange pulse rippled through her ample bosom, followed by an odd sensation of fullness that seemed to bloom from deep within, as though an unseen force were quietly filling it from the inside. It wasn't painful—only unfamiliar, warm, and curiously distracting. Despite the tension of the conversation with her grown up son.
She had meant only that Ganpat possessed an imposing presence and remarkable physical courage—qualities impossible to ignore. Yet spoken aloud, the word sounded as though she were defending him, and that wasn't what she intended.
A flicker of embarrassment crossed her face.
She quickly corrected herself.
"I don't mean that excuses anything," she said quietly. "I only mean... he's a difficult man to stand against."
Hiyan searched his mother's face.
For the first time, he realized she wasn't trying to justify what had happened.
She was trying to survive it.
"It's just for one night, beta..." Komolini said softly, cupping Hiyan's face. "The next morning, I'll come back to your Baba. Nothing can change what we are."
She looked into her grown son's tear-filled eyes.
The sight pierced her heart.
An overwhelming surge of maternal protectiveness swelled within her, making her chest tighten. She instinctively pulled him into an embrace, gently stroking his back as though he were still the little boy who sought comfort in her arms.
After a few moments, she loosened the embrace and managed a faint smile.
"Don't let your mind wander into dark places, shona."
Again she stopped, a soft gasp catching in her throat as an unfamiliar warmth blossomed through her chest. A slow, insistent throbbing spread within her, leaving her with the strange sensation that her breasts were growing fuller by the second, as though gently filling from within with an unseen weight.
Hiyan stared at her, unable to steady his breathing.
"Are you kidding, Maa?" he whispered. "After... after all this... will Baba even be able to accept you the next day?"
SLAP!
The sharp sound echoed across the room.
Hiyan froze.
His cheek burned where his mother's palm had landed.
Komolini stood before him, her own hand trembling from the force of the slap. Tears streamed down her face, but her voice remained firm.
"How dare you speak to your mother like that?"
She took a shaky breath.
"Do you think I chose this?"
Another tear rolled down her cheek.
"Do you think I wanted to disrespect your Baba?"
Her voice cracked.
"Everything I have done... every humiliation I have endured... has been to keep this family alive."
Silence filled the room.
Hiyan slowly lowered his head.
The anger that had consumed him moments ago gave way to guilt. For the first time, he saw not a mother defending an impossible decision, but a woman crushed by circumstances beyond her control.
Komolini closed the distance between them once more and rested a trembling hand against his cheek—the same cheek she had just struck.
"I'm your mother," she whispered. "Never doubt my love for your father......."
Yet again, a strange warmth spread through her breasts, followed by the unsettling sensation of dampness seeping through the fabric. She felt her heart skipping a beat as confusion overtook her. Whatever was happening to her body was becoming impossible to ignore and no matter how much she hated, she wanted to rush to the washroom figure out the mystery.
Komolini loosened her embrace and stepped back.
"What happened maa?" Hiyan was confused.
"Uh shona....uhnmmm..."
For reasons she couldn't explain, a strange discomfort had begun to build inside her. Almost instinctively, she pulled the end of her saree tighter across her chest, making sure the pallu covered her completely.
She turned to leave.
"Maa...we need to talk!!!"
"Uh later Hiyan!"
Hiyan's trembling voice stopped her.
"Why are you going? I'm... I'm shattered."
She paused but didn't look back.
Still wounded by his earlier accusation, she answered more sharply than she intended.
"If you suspect your mother once more, I will..."
The sentence died on her lips.
Without finishing it, she hurried out of the room.
Her pace quickened until she reached the small washroom just outside. Closing the door behind her, she leaned against it for a moment, trying to steady her breathing and she entered a external washroom of the flat and the moment she entered, she gazed at her breasts still covered by the pallu, but her mind purred out words of thrill and discomfort combined.....
"What is happening to me? Why do these suddenly feel so full... as if something is slowly filling them from within?"
She stood before the mirror.
With trembling fingers, she slowly pushed aside the edge of her pallu, revealing her big ample breasts clad in just the blouse but the next moment her eyes widened in absolute shock.
"No..." she whispered to herself. "It can't be..."
The reflection stole the breath from her lungs.
Faint but unmistakable damp patches had formed across the front of her blouse making an obscene mark around the nipple areas.
Her eyes widened in horror.
"Oh god....it can't be..."
She instinctively pressed a hand against her chest. Over the past few days since she has left Kolkata, she had noticed an unfamiliar heaviness, a persistent feeling of fullness, and moments when her breathing seemed deeper than usual. She had dismissed them as stress.
Now the signs suddenly seemed connected.
A chill ran down her spine.
"How is this possible?" she whispered.
She was no longer a young woman. Nothing about this made sense.
For several long seconds, she simply stared at her reflection, her mind racing through every possibility. Fear, confusion, and disbelief crowded her thoughts....
"Are they milk patches??"
![[+]](https://xossipy.com/themes/sharepoint/collapse_collapsed.png)