13-08-2026, 01:55 PM
(This post was last modified: 04-09-2026, 02:11 PM by Authorsunny.)
Chapter 11 continued
“Listen to me carefully now. I will say this once properly. Azad ji is not a man who needs to invent reasons to see me. He is a man of means. He has property. He has respect in this area. When he wants to speak to me, he calls. When he wants me near him, he asks. I decide whether I go. That decision is mine. Not yours. Not the building’s. Mine. You can feel whatever you feel about it — anger, confusion, jealousy, sadness — all of it is allowed. What is not allowed is trying to security officer me inside this house. I will not accept it.”
I met her eyes again.
“You are asking me to accept that my mother is with another man, that she likes his touch, that she takes his money and his attention, and that I should simply live here as if nothing has changed.”
“I am asking you to accept that your mother is a woman who still has desires, and that she has found someone who answers them. The rest — the money, the car, the gifts — is secondary. It makes life easier, yes. But it is not the main thing. The main thing is that I feel wanted again. After five years of feeling invisible, that matters.”
She paused, then added, more softly but still firm,
“You are not being replaced. You are my son. That place is permanent. But the place of a man in my life was empty, and it is not empty anymore. You will have to make space for that fact.”
The conversation did not end there. It stretched through the morning. She made more tea. We moved from the table to the bed and back again as the light in the room changed. I asked about the future — what if he wanted more, what if he expected her to leave this flat, what if his family created problems because she was a believer in god. She answered each point without drama.
“If he wants more, we will talk about it then. I am not a girl who gets carried away without thinking. If his family creates problems, that will be his matter to handle. I will not remove the small temple from the corner. He already knows who I am. He still comes. That is his choice as much as it is mine.”
“And if I cannot bear it?”
She looked at me for a long time before answering.
“Then you will learn to bear it. Or you will learn to live with the discomfort. Those are the only two options I am offering you right now. I am not going to end this because my son is troubled. I spent too many years ending things for other people’s comfort.”
By the time the conversation finally slowed, it was almost noon. The flat had grown warmer. She stood up, stretched, and the nighty lifted with the movement. The soft waist, the full hips, the heavy shape of her breasts under the cloth — all of it was simply present in the room. She went into the bathroom and closed the door more firmly than usual. When she came out she had changed into a simple salwar kameez. The mark on her neck was still visible above the neckline. She made no attempt to hide it with a dupatta.
She looked at me while tying her hair.
“I am not angry with you for asking all these questions. You have the right to ask. But I also have the right to live. From today I want that to be clear between us. You can talk to me. You can argue with me. You can even tell me you hate what is happening. I will listen. What I will not do is stop.”
She picked up her phone, checked it once, and then kept it face down on the table.
“Azad ji has asked if I am free in the evening. I have not answered yet. I will decide later. If I go, I will tell you. I will not hide it. That is the level of honesty I am prepared to give you. The rest you will have to manage inside yourself.”
The rest of the day passed in a strange, exhausted quiet. She cooked. I tried to work on my laptop. We spoke about ordinary things — the gas cylinder, the leaking soap dish in the bathroom, whether we needed to buy more grocery. The ordinary words sat on top of the morning’s conversation like a thin cloth over something heavy.
In the evening she did not go down. She stayed home. We ate together. After dinner she sat on the bed and applied lotion to her arms and neck with slow, unselfconscious movements. The mark was still there. She touched it once while applying the lotion, as if acknowledging it, then continued.
Before sleeping she spoke one last time into the dim room.
“Sunny. I know this is difficult for you. I am not pretending it is easy. But I also know I cannot go back to the woman who only existed for work and for you. That woman was necessary for a time. She is not necessary forever. I need you to understand that without making me the villain of the house.”
I did not answer. She did not force an answer.
She turned onto her side. After a few minutes her breathing evened out. I lay awake much longer, staring at the ceiling of the small flat, turning every word of the morning over in my mind.
She had not shouted.
She had not cried.
She had not apologised.
She had simply stated the new shape of her life — the physical reality, the religious difference, the social risk, the place she was giving Azad — and had told me, clearly and without drama, that I would have to learn to live inside it.
The mark on her neck would fade in a day or two.
The conversation would not.
“Listen to me carefully now. I will say this once properly. Azad ji is not a man who needs to invent reasons to see me. He is a man of means. He has property. He has respect in this area. When he wants to speak to me, he calls. When he wants me near him, he asks. I decide whether I go. That decision is mine. Not yours. Not the building’s. Mine. You can feel whatever you feel about it — anger, confusion, jealousy, sadness — all of it is allowed. What is not allowed is trying to security officer me inside this house. I will not accept it.”
I met her eyes again.
“You are asking me to accept that my mother is with another man, that she likes his touch, that she takes his money and his attention, and that I should simply live here as if nothing has changed.”
“I am asking you to accept that your mother is a woman who still has desires, and that she has found someone who answers them. The rest — the money, the car, the gifts — is secondary. It makes life easier, yes. But it is not the main thing. The main thing is that I feel wanted again. After five years of feeling invisible, that matters.”
She paused, then added, more softly but still firm,
“You are not being replaced. You are my son. That place is permanent. But the place of a man in my life was empty, and it is not empty anymore. You will have to make space for that fact.”
The conversation did not end there. It stretched through the morning. She made more tea. We moved from the table to the bed and back again as the light in the room changed. I asked about the future — what if he wanted more, what if he expected her to leave this flat, what if his family created problems because she was a believer in god. She answered each point without drama.
“If he wants more, we will talk about it then. I am not a girl who gets carried away without thinking. If his family creates problems, that will be his matter to handle. I will not remove the small temple from the corner. He already knows who I am. He still comes. That is his choice as much as it is mine.”
“And if I cannot bear it?”
She looked at me for a long time before answering.
“Then you will learn to bear it. Or you will learn to live with the discomfort. Those are the only two options I am offering you right now. I am not going to end this because my son is troubled. I spent too many years ending things for other people’s comfort.”
By the time the conversation finally slowed, it was almost noon. The flat had grown warmer. She stood up, stretched, and the nighty lifted with the movement. The soft waist, the full hips, the heavy shape of her breasts under the cloth — all of it was simply present in the room. She went into the bathroom and closed the door more firmly than usual. When she came out she had changed into a simple salwar kameez. The mark on her neck was still visible above the neckline. She made no attempt to hide it with a dupatta.
She looked at me while tying her hair.
“I am not angry with you for asking all these questions. You have the right to ask. But I also have the right to live. From today I want that to be clear between us. You can talk to me. You can argue with me. You can even tell me you hate what is happening. I will listen. What I will not do is stop.”
She picked up her phone, checked it once, and then kept it face down on the table.
“Azad ji has asked if I am free in the evening. I have not answered yet. I will decide later. If I go, I will tell you. I will not hide it. That is the level of honesty I am prepared to give you. The rest you will have to manage inside yourself.”
The rest of the day passed in a strange, exhausted quiet. She cooked. I tried to work on my laptop. We spoke about ordinary things — the gas cylinder, the leaking soap dish in the bathroom, whether we needed to buy more grocery. The ordinary words sat on top of the morning’s conversation like a thin cloth over something heavy.
In the evening she did not go down. She stayed home. We ate together. After dinner she sat on the bed and applied lotion to her arms and neck with slow, unselfconscious movements. The mark was still there. She touched it once while applying the lotion, as if acknowledging it, then continued.
Before sleeping she spoke one last time into the dim room.
“Sunny. I know this is difficult for you. I am not pretending it is easy. But I also know I cannot go back to the woman who only existed for work and for you. That woman was necessary for a time. She is not necessary forever. I need you to understand that without making me the villain of the house.”
I did not answer. She did not force an answer.
She turned onto her side. After a few minutes her breathing evened out. I lay awake much longer, staring at the ceiling of the small flat, turning every word of the morning over in my mind.
She had not shouted.
She had not cried.
She had not apologised.
She had simply stated the new shape of her life — the physical reality, the religious difference, the social risk, the place she was giving Azad — and had told me, clearly and without drama, that I would have to learn to live inside it.
The mark on her neck would fade in a day or two.
The conversation would not.
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