13-08-2026, 10:25 PM
(This post was last modified: 04-09-2026, 02:13 PM by Authorsunny. Edited 1 time in total. Edited 1 time in total.)
Chapter 14 – Mall Shopping
21 November 2025 – Friday
The morning began with the smell of floor cleaner and the sound of the bathroom tap running. Ma had woken earlier than usual. By the time I came out of the bathroom she had already wiped the folding table, folded the previous day’s clothes, and kept two steel glasses of tea ready. She was wearing a simple navy-blue salwar kameez with a matching dupatta. Her hair was tied in a neat plait. The silver bracelet and the thin gold chain were both on. She looked practical, organised, and quietly determined.
“We are going to the mall today. celebrations shopping. Clothes for you, some lights, sweets, and two or three things for the house. We should leave by ten-thirty.”
“Which mall?” I asked.
“The one near Link Road. Bigger, more options. We will take an auto till the station and then a cab if needed. Or we can try the bus. We will see.”
She spoke the way she used to speak when I was in college and she had decided we were going to the fair or to buy new uniforms — firm, prepared, leaving little room for delay. The new bike stood downstairs, but she had already decided that today would be a mother-son shopping day on other transport. I did not argue.
We left at ten-forty. The lane was already busy with pre-celebrations urgency. Vendors selling plastic lights and cheap lanterns had set up near the corner. Ma walked a little ahead of me, the navy dupatta moving with her steps. Even in a simple salwar kameez the shape of her body remained impossible to ignore — the full heavy line of her breasts under the kameez, the defined waist, the round hips that the cloth followed when she turned a corner. I walked behind her and tried to keep my eyes on the road.
The mall was loud with festival music. Families moved in groups. Children ran ahead of their parents. Ma took a trolley and began with practical things — a new set of fairy lights for the window grill, two packets of diyas, a box of good incense sticks. She checked prices carefully, the old habit still alive even though money was no longer as tight as before for her. Once or twice she held up something and asked my opinion. I answered. The conversation stayed on the surface of shopping lists and discounts.
In the men’s section she made me try two shirts and one pair of dark jeans. She stood outside the trial room with her arms folded, assessing each one with the same serious expression she used to wear when checking my college shoes for holes. When I came out in the second shirt she stepped closer, adjusted the collar with both hands, and said, “This one. The colour suits your face.”
Her fingers brushed my neck lightly as she fixed the collar. The gesture was purely motherly. It still left a small, complicated warmth under my skin.
By two-thirty we had most of the things. She looked at her phone once, typed a short message, and then slipped it back into her handbag.
“We will eat something properly before we leave,” she said. “There is a restaurant on the second floor. Better seating.”
I followed her into the lift. She stood beside me, close enough that her shoulder touched mine whenever someone else entered. The perfume she wore was mild but distinct. In the closed space of the lift it became stronger.
The restaurant was half-full. We were given a table for four near the glass wall that looked out over the atrium. Ma ordered thali meals for both of us without asking too many questions — one pure vegetarian, one with a non-veg option. When the waiter left she poured water for me first, then for herself.
“You are quiet today,” she said.
“Just tired.”
“It is more than tired. You have been carrying a face since the bike came. I see it. Today I wanted us to do something ordinary together before the festival. Shopping, food, walking around. Ordinary things still matter.”
I nodded. The ordinary things did matter. They also felt thinner than before, stretched over everything that now lived underneath them.
The food had not yet arrived when I saw him.
Azad bhai walked into the restaurant as if he had been expected. He wore a light grey pathani suit, clean and well-fitted, the kind that quietly signalled money without shouting it. His beard was neatly trimmed. He carried no shopping bags. He saw Ma first, and the change in his face was immediate and unguarded — a warmth that softened his eyes and lifted the corners of his mouth. Then he looked at me and the expression adjusted, becoming polite, measured, slightly distant.
Ma’s face opened in a way I had not seen directed at anyone else in years.
“You came,” she said. It was not a question.
“I was in the area,” he replied, still standing. “You mentioned you would be here. I thought I would join for a short while if you both allow.”
The words were courteous. The confidence underneath them was not. He had not asked permission before arriving. He had simply arrived.
Ma looked at me for a fraction of a second, then back at him.
“Sit. We have just ordered.”
He took the chair opposite her, which placed him diagonally from me. The waiter appeared almost immediately. Azad ordered only a fresh lime soda and a plate of kebabs to share. His voice when he spoke to the waiter was calm and used to being obeyed.
For the first few minutes the conversation stayed on safe ground — the traffic, the crowd in the mall, the quality of the fairy lights Ma had bought. He listened to her with complete attention. When she spoke he tilted his head slightly. When she smiled he smiled back without delay. The flirting was not crude. It lived in the way he looked at her, in the small remarks that landed just beyond the line of ordinary politeness.
“That colour suits you,” he said once, nodding toward her navy kameez. “You should wear it more often. It makes your face look fresher.”
Ma’s cheeks coloured lightly. She did not look away.
“I wear whatever is practical.”
“Practical can also be beautiful. You manage both.”
The compliment sat on the table between them like a small, private object. I looked down at my plate.
When he turned to me the temperature of his voice changed. It remained polite, even concerned, but the warmth drained out of it.
“Sunny. How is the new bike? Settled in?”
“Yes. It’s good.”
“Ride carefully. These roads are not kind. Your mother worries.”
The sentence was correct on the surface. Underneath it carried a quiet assertion — that he knew my mother’s worries, that he had a place in them, and that he was now addressing me from that place. I nodded once.
21 November 2025 – Friday
The morning began with the smell of floor cleaner and the sound of the bathroom tap running. Ma had woken earlier than usual. By the time I came out of the bathroom she had already wiped the folding table, folded the previous day’s clothes, and kept two steel glasses of tea ready. She was wearing a simple navy-blue salwar kameez with a matching dupatta. Her hair was tied in a neat plait. The silver bracelet and the thin gold chain were both on. She looked practical, organised, and quietly determined.
“We are going to the mall today. celebrations shopping. Clothes for you, some lights, sweets, and two or three things for the house. We should leave by ten-thirty.”
“Which mall?” I asked.
“The one near Link Road. Bigger, more options. We will take an auto till the station and then a cab if needed. Or we can try the bus. We will see.”
She spoke the way she used to speak when I was in college and she had decided we were going to the fair or to buy new uniforms — firm, prepared, leaving little room for delay. The new bike stood downstairs, but she had already decided that today would be a mother-son shopping day on other transport. I did not argue.
We left at ten-forty. The lane was already busy with pre-celebrations urgency. Vendors selling plastic lights and cheap lanterns had set up near the corner. Ma walked a little ahead of me, the navy dupatta moving with her steps. Even in a simple salwar kameez the shape of her body remained impossible to ignore — the full heavy line of her breasts under the kameez, the defined waist, the round hips that the cloth followed when she turned a corner. I walked behind her and tried to keep my eyes on the road.
The mall was loud with festival music. Families moved in groups. Children ran ahead of their parents. Ma took a trolley and began with practical things — a new set of fairy lights for the window grill, two packets of diyas, a box of good incense sticks. She checked prices carefully, the old habit still alive even though money was no longer as tight as before for her. Once or twice she held up something and asked my opinion. I answered. The conversation stayed on the surface of shopping lists and discounts.
In the men’s section she made me try two shirts and one pair of dark jeans. She stood outside the trial room with her arms folded, assessing each one with the same serious expression she used to wear when checking my college shoes for holes. When I came out in the second shirt she stepped closer, adjusted the collar with both hands, and said, “This one. The colour suits your face.”
Her fingers brushed my neck lightly as she fixed the collar. The gesture was purely motherly. It still left a small, complicated warmth under my skin.
By two-thirty we had most of the things. She looked at her phone once, typed a short message, and then slipped it back into her handbag.
“We will eat something properly before we leave,” she said. “There is a restaurant on the second floor. Better seating.”
I followed her into the lift. She stood beside me, close enough that her shoulder touched mine whenever someone else entered. The perfume she wore was mild but distinct. In the closed space of the lift it became stronger.
The restaurant was half-full. We were given a table for four near the glass wall that looked out over the atrium. Ma ordered thali meals for both of us without asking too many questions — one pure vegetarian, one with a non-veg option. When the waiter left she poured water for me first, then for herself.
“You are quiet today,” she said.
“Just tired.”
“It is more than tired. You have been carrying a face since the bike came. I see it. Today I wanted us to do something ordinary together before the festival. Shopping, food, walking around. Ordinary things still matter.”
I nodded. The ordinary things did matter. They also felt thinner than before, stretched over everything that now lived underneath them.
The food had not yet arrived when I saw him.
Azad bhai walked into the restaurant as if he had been expected. He wore a light grey pathani suit, clean and well-fitted, the kind that quietly signalled money without shouting it. His beard was neatly trimmed. He carried no shopping bags. He saw Ma first, and the change in his face was immediate and unguarded — a warmth that softened his eyes and lifted the corners of his mouth. Then he looked at me and the expression adjusted, becoming polite, measured, slightly distant.
Ma’s face opened in a way I had not seen directed at anyone else in years.
“You came,” she said. It was not a question.
“I was in the area,” he replied, still standing. “You mentioned you would be here. I thought I would join for a short while if you both allow.”
The words were courteous. The confidence underneath them was not. He had not asked permission before arriving. He had simply arrived.
Ma looked at me for a fraction of a second, then back at him.
“Sit. We have just ordered.”
He took the chair opposite her, which placed him diagonally from me. The waiter appeared almost immediately. Azad ordered only a fresh lime soda and a plate of kebabs to share. His voice when he spoke to the waiter was calm and used to being obeyed.
For the first few minutes the conversation stayed on safe ground — the traffic, the crowd in the mall, the quality of the fairy lights Ma had bought. He listened to her with complete attention. When she spoke he tilted his head slightly. When she smiled he smiled back without delay. The flirting was not crude. It lived in the way he looked at her, in the small remarks that landed just beyond the line of ordinary politeness.
“That colour suits you,” he said once, nodding toward her navy kameez. “You should wear it more often. It makes your face look fresher.”
Ma’s cheeks coloured lightly. She did not look away.
“I wear whatever is practical.”
“Practical can also be beautiful. You manage both.”
The compliment sat on the table between them like a small, private object. I looked down at my plate.
When he turned to me the temperature of his voice changed. It remained polite, even concerned, but the warmth drained out of it.
“Sunny. How is the new bike? Settled in?”
“Yes. It’s good.”
“Ride carefully. These roads are not kind. Your mother worries.”
The sentence was correct on the surface. Underneath it carried a quiet assertion — that he knew my mother’s worries, that he had a place in them, and that he was now addressing me from that place. I nodded once.
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