14-08-2026, 08:00 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 Continued
Then she spoke without looking at me.
“Azad will come for a short time after dinner. Around eight-thirty or nine. He will not stay late. I told him the building will be full of noise and people, so it is better he comes only for a little while.”
I kept my eyes on the flame of the nearest diya.
“You invited him on celebrations night.”
“Yes. He asked if he could come to see the lights and wish us. I said yes. It is one evening.”
She turned her head and looked at me directly. The tilak on her forehead was still fresh.
“I need you to give us some space when he is here. Not the whole night. One hour, maybe a little more. You can go downstairs and watch the crackers with the other boys from the building. Or walk to the main road and come back. I do not want the three of us sitting in this small room making polite conversation while the whole building is celebrating. It will feel forced.”
The request was calm, almost intellectual in its framing — space, comfort, the size of the room, the awkwardness of three people. Underneath it was the clear prioritisation I had come to recognise.
“You want me out of the house so you can have him here.”
“I want one hour of ease in my own house on celebration night. You can give me that. You have given me harder things.”
She stood up carefully, the red saree falling into place around her legs. The gold border caught the light of the diyas. She looked taller, more formal, and at the same time completely in control of the decision she had just announced.
“I am not asking you to leave the building or disappear. I am asking for a short gap. When he leaves I will message you. You come back up. We will light the remaining diyas together and sit.”
I stayed seated on the floor near the temple corner. The smell of incense and oil lamps filled the small space between us.
“People will see him coming upstairs on celebration night.”
“People have already seen many things. One more will not change their mouths. I am not hiding him. I am also not performing for them. He will come, he will sit for a short while, he will leave. You will give the space I have asked for. That is all.”
Her tone remained even, but the finality was absolute. She had decided the evening’s structure and was now informing me of my part in it.
I stood up. My knees felt stiff from sitting on the floor.
“I will go down when he is due.”
“Thank you.” She said it simply, without excessive gratitude. Then she reached out and adjusted the collar of my shirt the way she had at the mall, a brief motherly touch that sat strangely beside the request she had just made.
“Wear the new shirt if you go out. The one we bought. You look better in it.”
The rest of the hour before eight-thirty passed in a thin, careful quiet. She changed the oil in two diyas that had begun to smoke. She checked her phone once. She warmed the food that would be offered if he stayed long enough to eat. I sat on the bed and watched her move through the small flat in the red saree. Every time she bent, the silk pulled across her hips. Every time she raised her arms to fix a light, the blouse tightened across her chest. The image from the bathroom gap — the heavy bare breasts, the unhooked bra, the petticoat sitting low — kept returning whether I wanted it or not.
At eight-twenty she looked at me and nodded once.
“You should go now. He will be here in a few minutes. I will message when the gate closes behind him.”
I stood up, took the new shirt from the chair, and put it on. At the door I paused.
“Ma.”
“Yes.”
“Happy Anniversary.”
Her face softened for a moment, the festival softness that still belonged to the two of us.
“Happy Anniversary, Sunny. Go. Don’t sit on the stairs and wait. Properly go down and come back when I call.”
I left. The corridor smelled of incense from other flats and the sharper smoke of crackers. I walked down the three floors slowly. The white sedan was already visible near the entrance, parked a little away from the direct light. I did not stop to look longer. I walked out of the building gate and toward the main road, the sound of the building’s celebration growing behind me, the knowledge of who was climbing the stairs to our flat settling heavily in my chest.
The gap she had asked for had begun.
The red saree, the open invitation, and the controlled absence of her son — all of it sat together under the same celebration sky.
Then she spoke without looking at me.
“Azad will come for a short time after dinner. Around eight-thirty or nine. He will not stay late. I told him the building will be full of noise and people, so it is better he comes only for a little while.”
I kept my eyes on the flame of the nearest diya.
“You invited him on celebrations night.”
“Yes. He asked if he could come to see the lights and wish us. I said yes. It is one evening.”
She turned her head and looked at me directly. The tilak on her forehead was still fresh.
“I need you to give us some space when he is here. Not the whole night. One hour, maybe a little more. You can go downstairs and watch the crackers with the other boys from the building. Or walk to the main road and come back. I do not want the three of us sitting in this small room making polite conversation while the whole building is celebrating. It will feel forced.”
The request was calm, almost intellectual in its framing — space, comfort, the size of the room, the awkwardness of three people. Underneath it was the clear prioritisation I had come to recognise.
“You want me out of the house so you can have him here.”
“I want one hour of ease in my own house on celebration night. You can give me that. You have given me harder things.”
She stood up carefully, the red saree falling into place around her legs. The gold border caught the light of the diyas. She looked taller, more formal, and at the same time completely in control of the decision she had just announced.
“I am not asking you to leave the building or disappear. I am asking for a short gap. When he leaves I will message you. You come back up. We will light the remaining diyas together and sit.”
I stayed seated on the floor near the temple corner. The smell of incense and oil lamps filled the small space between us.
“People will see him coming upstairs on celebration night.”
“People have already seen many things. One more will not change their mouths. I am not hiding him. I am also not performing for them. He will come, he will sit for a short while, he will leave. You will give the space I have asked for. That is all.”
Her tone remained even, but the finality was absolute. She had decided the evening’s structure and was now informing me of my part in it.
I stood up. My knees felt stiff from sitting on the floor.
“I will go down when he is due.”
“Thank you.” She said it simply, without excessive gratitude. Then she reached out and adjusted the collar of my shirt the way she had at the mall, a brief motherly touch that sat strangely beside the request she had just made.
“Wear the new shirt if you go out. The one we bought. You look better in it.”
The rest of the hour before eight-thirty passed in a thin, careful quiet. She changed the oil in two diyas that had begun to smoke. She checked her phone once. She warmed the food that would be offered if he stayed long enough to eat. I sat on the bed and watched her move through the small flat in the red saree. Every time she bent, the silk pulled across her hips. Every time she raised her arms to fix a light, the blouse tightened across her chest. The image from the bathroom gap — the heavy bare breasts, the unhooked bra, the petticoat sitting low — kept returning whether I wanted it or not.
At eight-twenty she looked at me and nodded once.
“You should go now. He will be here in a few minutes. I will message when the gate closes behind him.”
I stood up, took the new shirt from the chair, and put it on. At the door I paused.
“Ma.”
“Yes.”
“Happy Anniversary.”
Her face softened for a moment, the festival softness that still belonged to the two of us.
“Happy Anniversary, Sunny. Go. Don’t sit on the stairs and wait. Properly go down and come back when I call.”
I left. The corridor smelled of incense from other flats and the sharper smoke of crackers. I walked down the three floors slowly. The white sedan was already visible near the entrance, parked a little away from the direct light. I did not stop to look longer. I walked out of the building gate and toward the main road, the sound of the building’s celebration growing behind me, the knowledge of who was climbing the stairs to our flat settling heavily in my chest.
The gap she had asked for had begun.
The red saree, the open invitation, and the controlled absence of her son — all of it sat together under the same celebration sky.
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