14-08-2026, 07:58 PM
(This post was last modified: 04-09-2026, 02:15 PM by Authorsunny. Edited 1 time in total. Edited 1 time in total.)
Chapter 16 – Anniversary celebration
23 November 2025 – Sunday
The morning of celebration carried the usual mixture of smoke, incense and distant crackers, but inside our flat it began with the ordinary sound of the pressure cooker and Ma’s footsteps between the kitchen corner and the temple shelf. I woke later than her. When I opened my eyes she was already dressed in an old cotton nighty, her hair loosely tied, wiping the brass idols one more time even though we had cleaned them the day before.
“Get up,” she said without turning. “There is a lot to do before evening. Bath, fresh clothes, then help me with the rangoli outside the door. After that we will set the thali for Laxmi Pujan.”
Her voice was calm, practical, the same festival-morning voice I had heard for years. Nothing in it referred to the previous evening’s absence or the black kurti she had worn for him. The nighty she had on now was the familiar thin one. When she reached up to adjust the fairy lights that had come loose on one side, the cloth lifted and the soft curve of her waist became visible. I looked for a moment longer than necessary, then got out of bed.
The bathroom was still warm from her bath. A used towel hung on the hook. On the small plastic stool she had left the clothes from the previous evening — the black kurti and the jeans, folded but not yet put away. I stood there longer than I needed to. The kurti still held a faint mixture of her perfume and something else, denser, the lingering trace of another person’s presence that had transferred during the hours she was away. I picked it up. The fabric was soft from wear. I brought it closer without thinking. The scent was intimate, private, and unmistakably mixed. For a few seconds I held it there, breathing it in, before the weight of what I was doing settled over me. I folded the kurti again, placed it back exactly as I had found it, and finished my bath quickly.
When I came out she was laying out the things for the evening pooja on the folding table — a small steel thali, packets of kumkum and turmeric, incense sticks, a box of cotton wicks, fresh flowers she had bought the previous morning, and the new diyas. She glanced at me once and then continued arranging.
“Wear something clean,” she said. “White or light-coloured shirt is better for the evening. We will do the Laxmi Pujan around six-thirty, after the building lights are on.”
The day moved in the familiar festival rhythm. We made a simple rangoli outside the door with coloured powder. She corrected the lines I drew, the way she always had. Neighbours passed on the stairs and exchanged the usual celebration greetings. Mrs. Desai from the second floor stopped for a moment, looked at the rangoli, looked at Ma, and smiled the same thin smile she had been using for weeks. Ma answered her politely and did not prolong the conversation.
In the afternoon she took out the saree she had decided to wear for the pooja — a deep red traditional silk with a wide gold border, one of the few good sarees she still owned from earlier years. The blouse that went with it was maroon, slightly older in cut but fitted. She carried both into the bathroom and closed the door.
The latch of that door had never been strong. This time, grabbing the opportunity, I managed to stand near the almirah, angled just enough, and watched inside the bathroom for a short stretch of time that felt longer than it was.
She had already removed the nighty. She stood in her petticoat and blouse, adjusting the fall of the petticoat first. The white bra she wore was the fuller one; the cups held the heavy soft weight of her breasts firmly, the skin above them smooth under the bathroom light. She unhooked the bra with one hand, and for a brief clear moment I saw the full bare shape of them as she reached for the blouse. They were heavier than the clothes usually revealed, the dark nipples contracting slightly in the air. She slipped the blouse on, fastened the hooks at the back with practised fingers, and then began the long process of pleating the saree. The petticoat sat low on her waist. When she turned to check the length in the small mirror, the full round curve of her hips and seat was outlined clearly under the thin cotton.
I stepped away before she finished. My face felt hot. I went to the window and stood there until I heard the bathroom door open again.
She came out fully dbangd. The deep red saree and gold border made her look older in a dignified way, more like the photographs from my father’s time. The blouse sat snug. The saree pleats were neat. She had put on the gold chain, the bangles, and a small maroon bindi. When she moved, the silk made a soft sound against itself. She looked at me, waiting for the ordinary comment a son was supposed to give.
“You look nice,” I said.
“It is old, but it still fits.” She adjusted the pallu once more. “Help me keep the matching bangles in the thali. Then we will start the preparations for the evening.”
The hours until six-thirty passed in small tasks. She made a simple prasad — sweet rice and a plate of fruits. I washed the diyas and helped fill them with oil. The fairy lights were switched on early. Outside, the building began to fill with the sound of crackers and the smell of smoke. Someone on the floor below played a loud aarti recording and then switched it off again.
At six-fifteen she set the final thali, lit the incense, and called me to sit. We did the Laxmi Pujan together in the small temple corner exactly as we had done for years — the same mantras she remembered from her own mother, the same circling of the diya, the same application of tilak on my forehead and then on hers. The red saree glowed in the light of the multiple diyas. For those twenty minutes the flat felt like it used to feel before everything changed. When the aarti ended she sat back on her heels, the silk pooling around her, and looked at the idols in silence for a long moment.
23 November 2025 – Sunday
The morning of celebration carried the usual mixture of smoke, incense and distant crackers, but inside our flat it began with the ordinary sound of the pressure cooker and Ma’s footsteps between the kitchen corner and the temple shelf. I woke later than her. When I opened my eyes she was already dressed in an old cotton nighty, her hair loosely tied, wiping the brass idols one more time even though we had cleaned them the day before.
“Get up,” she said without turning. “There is a lot to do before evening. Bath, fresh clothes, then help me with the rangoli outside the door. After that we will set the thali for Laxmi Pujan.”
Her voice was calm, practical, the same festival-morning voice I had heard for years. Nothing in it referred to the previous evening’s absence or the black kurti she had worn for him. The nighty she had on now was the familiar thin one. When she reached up to adjust the fairy lights that had come loose on one side, the cloth lifted and the soft curve of her waist became visible. I looked for a moment longer than necessary, then got out of bed.
The bathroom was still warm from her bath. A used towel hung on the hook. On the small plastic stool she had left the clothes from the previous evening — the black kurti and the jeans, folded but not yet put away. I stood there longer than I needed to. The kurti still held a faint mixture of her perfume and something else, denser, the lingering trace of another person’s presence that had transferred during the hours she was away. I picked it up. The fabric was soft from wear. I brought it closer without thinking. The scent was intimate, private, and unmistakably mixed. For a few seconds I held it there, breathing it in, before the weight of what I was doing settled over me. I folded the kurti again, placed it back exactly as I had found it, and finished my bath quickly.
When I came out she was laying out the things for the evening pooja on the folding table — a small steel thali, packets of kumkum and turmeric, incense sticks, a box of cotton wicks, fresh flowers she had bought the previous morning, and the new diyas. She glanced at me once and then continued arranging.
“Wear something clean,” she said. “White or light-coloured shirt is better for the evening. We will do the Laxmi Pujan around six-thirty, after the building lights are on.”
The day moved in the familiar festival rhythm. We made a simple rangoli outside the door with coloured powder. She corrected the lines I drew, the way she always had. Neighbours passed on the stairs and exchanged the usual celebration greetings. Mrs. Desai from the second floor stopped for a moment, looked at the rangoli, looked at Ma, and smiled the same thin smile she had been using for weeks. Ma answered her politely and did not prolong the conversation.
In the afternoon she took out the saree she had decided to wear for the pooja — a deep red traditional silk with a wide gold border, one of the few good sarees she still owned from earlier years. The blouse that went with it was maroon, slightly older in cut but fitted. She carried both into the bathroom and closed the door.
The latch of that door had never been strong. This time, grabbing the opportunity, I managed to stand near the almirah, angled just enough, and watched inside the bathroom for a short stretch of time that felt longer than it was.
She had already removed the nighty. She stood in her petticoat and blouse, adjusting the fall of the petticoat first. The white bra she wore was the fuller one; the cups held the heavy soft weight of her breasts firmly, the skin above them smooth under the bathroom light. She unhooked the bra with one hand, and for a brief clear moment I saw the full bare shape of them as she reached for the blouse. They were heavier than the clothes usually revealed, the dark nipples contracting slightly in the air. She slipped the blouse on, fastened the hooks at the back with practised fingers, and then began the long process of pleating the saree. The petticoat sat low on her waist. When she turned to check the length in the small mirror, the full round curve of her hips and seat was outlined clearly under the thin cotton.
I stepped away before she finished. My face felt hot. I went to the window and stood there until I heard the bathroom door open again.
She came out fully dbangd. The deep red saree and gold border made her look older in a dignified way, more like the photographs from my father’s time. The blouse sat snug. The saree pleats were neat. She had put on the gold chain, the bangles, and a small maroon bindi. When she moved, the silk made a soft sound against itself. She looked at me, waiting for the ordinary comment a son was supposed to give.
“You look nice,” I said.
“It is old, but it still fits.” She adjusted the pallu once more. “Help me keep the matching bangles in the thali. Then we will start the preparations for the evening.”
The hours until six-thirty passed in small tasks. She made a simple prasad — sweet rice and a plate of fruits. I washed the diyas and helped fill them with oil. The fairy lights were switched on early. Outside, the building began to fill with the sound of crackers and the smell of smoke. Someone on the floor below played a loud aarti recording and then switched it off again.
At six-fifteen she set the final thali, lit the incense, and called me to sit. We did the Laxmi Pujan together in the small temple corner exactly as we had done for years — the same mantras she remembered from her own mother, the same circling of the diya, the same application of tilak on my forehead and then on hers. The red saree glowed in the light of the multiple diyas. For those twenty minutes the flat felt like it used to feel before everything changed. When the aarti ended she sat back on her heels, the silk pooling around her, and looked at the idols in silence for a long moment.
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