12-08-2026, 11:12 PM
(This post was last modified: 04-09-2026, 02:09 PM by Authorsunny.)
Chapter 8 – Public Display of Affection
26 October 2025 – Sunday
I woke up to the sound of the pressure cooker in the tiny kitchen corner. The house was already warm. Ma was moving around in a cream saree with a deep maroon blouse. The blouse was one of the newer ones — the neck sat lower and the cloth fitted closer across her chest. The upper curve of her breasts, pushed up by the beige bra, was clearly visible.
She noticed me watching from the bed.
“You’re awake,” she said. “Tea is ready.”
I sat up. The compact space made every movement of hers feel closer than it should. There was nowhere for the eyes to go except to her.
She poured tea and handed me the steel cup. The new silver bracelet Azad Bhai had given her caught the light on her wrist.
“I’m going to the market after breakfast,” she said. “Need some things for the house. You want anything?”
“No.”
She ate a small bowl of poha standing near the counter, then went into the bathroom to finish getting ready. When she came out she had put on the thin gold chain and the small jhumkas. She checked herself in the small mirror near the washbasin, turning sideways once. The saree clung to her seat. Her waist, still defined, made the flare of her hips look heavier. She was forty-seven but the figure under the cloth was the kind that still made men look twice. I knew it. She knew I knew it.
“Don’t stay cooped up the whole day,” she said while taking her small handbag. “Go out if you want. Sit with your office friends or something.”
She left at ten-forty.
I tried to work on my laptop. The training module refused to hold my attention. At twelve-thirty I decided to go down and buy some eggs and bread. The walk to the small shop near the building gate took less than five minutes.
That was when I saw them.
Azad Bhai’s white sedan was parked a little ahead of the gate. He was standing near the open passenger door. Ma was standing close to him, the cream saree bright in the afternoon light. She was laughing at something he said. One hand held a small packet of vegetables. The other kept adjusting the pallu that kept slipping. He said something else and she tilted her head the way she used to when Papa teased her years ago. Then he reached out and tucked the end of the pallu more firmly on her shoulder. His fingers brushed the bare skin of her upper arm for a second longer than needed.
Two women from the building — Mrs. Shilpa Desai and the woman from the first floor — were standing near the watchman’s chair. They were not even pretending not to look. Mrs. Desai’s eyes moved from Ma’s face to Azad Bhai’s hand and back again. When she saw me she gave a small, knowing smile that made my stomach turn.
Ma turned at that moment and noticed me. Her expression did not change much. She said something to Azad Bhai, nodded, and then walked toward the building with the vegetable packet. He closed the car door, raised a hand in a casual goodbye, and drove off. A couple of men near the tea stall watched the car leave and then looked at Ma as she passed.
She reached me near the stairs.
“You came down?” she asked. Her voice was normal.
“Eggs and bread.”
“I already bought vegetables. Come.”
We climbed the three floors in silence. Inside the flat she put the packet on the counter and removed her sandals. The saree had a faint crease where she had been sitting in the car. She noticed me looking at it and raised an eyebrow.
“He saw me walking with the bags and offered to drop me. The market was crowded. That is all.”
“Mrs. Desai was watching.”
Ma laughed once, short and dismissive. “That woman watches everything. Let her watch. I am not doing anything wrong.”
She said it the way she had started saying many things lately — calmly, with the quiet certainty that her version of events was the only one that mattered. I was young. I saw too much. She was simply living.
She went into the bathroom to change out of the saree. The door did not close fully. Through the gap I saw her unwrap the pleats. The petticoat sat low on her waist. When she lifted the blouse over her head the beige bra came into full view. She then unhooked her bra with one hand and for a brief moment I once again saw the bare side of her breast before she pulled an old nighty on. She came out as if the last ten minutes in the lane had not happened.
We ate lunch mostly in silence. Afterward she sat on the bed with her phone. A message arrived. She smiled, typed a reply, and then looked at me.
“He asked if I reached upstairs safely. I told him yes.”
---
26 October 2025 – Sunday
I woke up to the sound of the pressure cooker in the tiny kitchen corner. The house was already warm. Ma was moving around in a cream saree with a deep maroon blouse. The blouse was one of the newer ones — the neck sat lower and the cloth fitted closer across her chest. The upper curve of her breasts, pushed up by the beige bra, was clearly visible.
She noticed me watching from the bed.
“You’re awake,” she said. “Tea is ready.”
I sat up. The compact space made every movement of hers feel closer than it should. There was nowhere for the eyes to go except to her.
She poured tea and handed me the steel cup. The new silver bracelet Azad Bhai had given her caught the light on her wrist.
“I’m going to the market after breakfast,” she said. “Need some things for the house. You want anything?”
“No.”
She ate a small bowl of poha standing near the counter, then went into the bathroom to finish getting ready. When she came out she had put on the thin gold chain and the small jhumkas. She checked herself in the small mirror near the washbasin, turning sideways once. The saree clung to her seat. Her waist, still defined, made the flare of her hips look heavier. She was forty-seven but the figure under the cloth was the kind that still made men look twice. I knew it. She knew I knew it.
“Don’t stay cooped up the whole day,” she said while taking her small handbag. “Go out if you want. Sit with your office friends or something.”
She left at ten-forty.
I tried to work on my laptop. The training module refused to hold my attention. At twelve-thirty I decided to go down and buy some eggs and bread. The walk to the small shop near the building gate took less than five minutes.
That was when I saw them.
Azad Bhai’s white sedan was parked a little ahead of the gate. He was standing near the open passenger door. Ma was standing close to him, the cream saree bright in the afternoon light. She was laughing at something he said. One hand held a small packet of vegetables. The other kept adjusting the pallu that kept slipping. He said something else and she tilted her head the way she used to when Papa teased her years ago. Then he reached out and tucked the end of the pallu more firmly on her shoulder. His fingers brushed the bare skin of her upper arm for a second longer than needed.
Two women from the building — Mrs. Shilpa Desai and the woman from the first floor — were standing near the watchman’s chair. They were not even pretending not to look. Mrs. Desai’s eyes moved from Ma’s face to Azad Bhai’s hand and back again. When she saw me she gave a small, knowing smile that made my stomach turn.
Ma turned at that moment and noticed me. Her expression did not change much. She said something to Azad Bhai, nodded, and then walked toward the building with the vegetable packet. He closed the car door, raised a hand in a casual goodbye, and drove off. A couple of men near the tea stall watched the car leave and then looked at Ma as she passed.
She reached me near the stairs.
“You came down?” she asked. Her voice was normal.
“Eggs and bread.”
“I already bought vegetables. Come.”
We climbed the three floors in silence. Inside the flat she put the packet on the counter and removed her sandals. The saree had a faint crease where she had been sitting in the car. She noticed me looking at it and raised an eyebrow.
“He saw me walking with the bags and offered to drop me. The market was crowded. That is all.”
“Mrs. Desai was watching.”
Ma laughed once, short and dismissive. “That woman watches everything. Let her watch. I am not doing anything wrong.”
She said it the way she had started saying many things lately — calmly, with the quiet certainty that her version of events was the only one that mattered. I was young. I saw too much. She was simply living.
She went into the bathroom to change out of the saree. The door did not close fully. Through the gap I saw her unwrap the pleats. The petticoat sat low on her waist. When she lifted the blouse over her head the beige bra came into full view. She then unhooked her bra with one hand and for a brief moment I once again saw the bare side of her breast before she pulled an old nighty on. She came out as if the last ten minutes in the lane had not happened.
We ate lunch mostly in silence. Afterward she sat on the bed with her phone. A message arrived. She smiled, typed a reply, and then looked at me.
“He asked if I reached upstairs safely. I told him yes.”
---
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