15-08-2026, 02:24 PM
(This post was last modified: 04-09-2026, 02:16 PM by Authorsunny.)
Chapter 17 – Part 1 Continued
I stepped to the bathroom door and pushed it open wider. She stood with her back to me, both hands holding the ends of the thin gold chain at the nape of her neck. The sleeveless blouse left her entire upper back bare except for the thin straps and the black bra band. The skin looked warm and smooth.
“The clasp,” she said. “It always sticks. Close it for me please.”
I took the two ends. My fingers brushed the back of her neck. The chain was fine, the clasp was small and needed pressure. I worked it closed while standing close enough to smell the light perfume she had already sprayed on her wrists and the clean scent of her skin. When the clasp finally clicked she lowered her hands and turned her head slightly.
“Thank you beta. You haven't changed yet? Get ready, we will get late otherwise”.
Her face was only a short distance from mine. The wide scoop of the blouse showed the full soft line of her cleavage and the black lace beneath. She held my gaze for a second longer than necessary, then nodded toward the door.
I stepped out. She followed a moment later, carrying the folded peach silk chiffon saree. She was now in only the fitted sleeveless blouse and the petticoat. The thin straps and wide neck made her look more exposed than she ever did in a kurti. The black lace peeped at the edges of the neckline with every breath. The petticoat clung to the round heavy shape of her hips and seat. She walked to the larger mirror near the almirah, the one with the wider glass that she used only when she needed full-length view, and placed the saree on the bed for a moment.
I sat on the chair and watched because there was nowhere else to look in the small room.
She unfolded the saree carefully. Soft peach silk chiffon, light and expensive-looking, with a fine sheen that moved even in the ordinary tube light. A wide gold zari border ran along the edge. Tiny woven butis were scattered across the body of the fabric so that they caught the light only when the cloth shifted. I had never seen her wear this saree before. It did not look like something she had bought from the usual local shops. The quality sat quietly above the clothes she had worn for years.
She stepped into the first pleats, working with both hands, measuring and folding against her petticoat. The chiffon was delicate, she handled it slowly. Once the pleats were tucked and secured at the waist she brought the long end around and dbangd the pallu over her left shoulder. The light material settled against her body and followed every curve the full breasts under the fitted blouse, the soft waist, the heavy round hips. She pinned the pallu at the shoulder with a small gold brooch, then turned slowly in front of the mirror, checking the fall from the front, the side and the back.
The sleeveless blouse with its thin straps and wide scoop neck left her arms and the upper swell of her breasts open. Every time she raised her arms to adjust the pallu the black lace shifted and the soft flesh moved. The gold zari border of the saree framed her hips and the lower curve of her seat when she turned. The whole effect was lighter, more fluid and more openly feminine than the heavier silk she had worn for the puja.
She looked at my reflection in the mirror.
“You have not seen this one before.”
“No.”
“It was kept aside. Today felt like the right day.” She smoothed the pallu once more with both hands. “Does the neck look too open?”
“Mmm, yeah. But….it looks… fine.”
She gave a small, knowing smile and did not ask again.
She sat on the edge of the bed, the soft peach chiffon pooling around her legs, and opened the small bottle of nail polish. The colour was same peach that matched the saree exactly. She began with her toenails, bending forward so that the wide scoop of the blouse fell further open. The black lace and the full upper curve of her breasts were clearly visible from where I sat. She painted each toenail with slow, careful strokes, then blew on them lightly. After the toes she started on her fingernails, resting one hand at a time on her thigh.
Halfway through the left hand she looked up.
“Sunny, hold this for a minute.”
She held out the open bottle. I stood and took it. She finished the remaining nails while I held the bottle steady. The proximity made the dilemma sharper. The soft peach polish, the careful way she worked, the open neckline only inches away, the knowledge that all of this careful preparation was for the man who would soon be waiting downstairs, everything sat together in the same moment. Part of me wanted to stay exactly where I was, holding the bottle, watching her hands and the rise of her breath. The other part wanted to step back and put distance between myself and the clear fact that she was making herself beautiful for someone else.
She finished, took the bottle from me, closed it, and held both hands out in front of her, fingers spread, waiting for the polish to set.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “For all the help today.”
I nodded and returned to the chair.
She then looked at my face in the mirror.
“You are quiet today.”
“I am fine.”
“You are not fine. You are thinking too many things. I can see it.” She turned to face me fully. The jhumkas swung and then settled. “I am getting ready and going for shopping with Azad Sahab. You are coming with us. That is the plan for today. I want you to be part of it without carrying that heavy face the whole time. Can you do that?”
The question was soft. The expectation underneath it was not.
“I will try.”
“Trying is enough for now.” She reached up and smoothed the collar of the Shirt I was wearing, a brief motherly gesture that sat strangely against the elaborate way she herself was dressed. “Wear the new dark jeans. It would look better. Go.”
I went to the washroom and changed my pants with darker jeans. When I came out she was waiting for her nails to dry completely.
She looked at me and said, "See, I told you. It looks good now.”
Then she stood, slipped her feet into a pair of soft gold sandals with a thin strap and a low heel, and walked once more to the mirror. The light peach chiffon moved with her. The gold zari border caught the tube light. The heavy jhumkas she now put on swung against her neck. She added the thin gold bangles, the maroon bindi, and a careful line of kajal. The lipstick she chose was a soft rose that sat close to the colour of the polish.
When she finally turned away from the mirror the transformation was complete. The expensive peach silk chiffon saree, the fitted sleeveless blouse with its thin straps and wide scoop, the black lace underneath that only I had seen in full, the fresh nail polish, the jhumkas, the bangles, the bindi, everything had been arranged with slow, deliberate care. She looked like a woman who knew exactly how she wanted to be seen.
She picked up her handbag and checked her phone.
“He has started,” she said. “He will be here in fifteen minutes. Take whatever you need. Wallet, keys, phone. We should go down in time.”
I stood and collected my things. The small flat felt even smaller with her standing in the centre of it in that saree. She had prepared herself in front of me, asked for my help with the clasp and the nail polish, and allowed me to watch the entire process. At the same time every detail had been chosen for the man who was already on his way.
She walked to the door and looked back once.
“Come. Don’t make that face the whole day. It is only shopping and crackers. We will be home before evening.”
I followed her out of the flat and down the stairs. The soft peach chiffon whispered with every step. The thin straps of the blouse left her shoulders bare. Behind us the 10-by-12 room still held the faint smell of nail polish and her perfume. Ahead of us the white car would soon appear, and the day she had dressed for would properly begin.
I stepped to the bathroom door and pushed it open wider. She stood with her back to me, both hands holding the ends of the thin gold chain at the nape of her neck. The sleeveless blouse left her entire upper back bare except for the thin straps and the black bra band. The skin looked warm and smooth.
“The clasp,” she said. “It always sticks. Close it for me please.”
I took the two ends. My fingers brushed the back of her neck. The chain was fine, the clasp was small and needed pressure. I worked it closed while standing close enough to smell the light perfume she had already sprayed on her wrists and the clean scent of her skin. When the clasp finally clicked she lowered her hands and turned her head slightly.
“Thank you beta. You haven't changed yet? Get ready, we will get late otherwise”.
Her face was only a short distance from mine. The wide scoop of the blouse showed the full soft line of her cleavage and the black lace beneath. She held my gaze for a second longer than necessary, then nodded toward the door.
I stepped out. She followed a moment later, carrying the folded peach silk chiffon saree. She was now in only the fitted sleeveless blouse and the petticoat. The thin straps and wide neck made her look more exposed than she ever did in a kurti. The black lace peeped at the edges of the neckline with every breath. The petticoat clung to the round heavy shape of her hips and seat. She walked to the larger mirror near the almirah, the one with the wider glass that she used only when she needed full-length view, and placed the saree on the bed for a moment.
I sat on the chair and watched because there was nowhere else to look in the small room.
She unfolded the saree carefully. Soft peach silk chiffon, light and expensive-looking, with a fine sheen that moved even in the ordinary tube light. A wide gold zari border ran along the edge. Tiny woven butis were scattered across the body of the fabric so that they caught the light only when the cloth shifted. I had never seen her wear this saree before. It did not look like something she had bought from the usual local shops. The quality sat quietly above the clothes she had worn for years.
She stepped into the first pleats, working with both hands, measuring and folding against her petticoat. The chiffon was delicate, she handled it slowly. Once the pleats were tucked and secured at the waist she brought the long end around and dbangd the pallu over her left shoulder. The light material settled against her body and followed every curve the full breasts under the fitted blouse, the soft waist, the heavy round hips. She pinned the pallu at the shoulder with a small gold brooch, then turned slowly in front of the mirror, checking the fall from the front, the side and the back.
The sleeveless blouse with its thin straps and wide scoop neck left her arms and the upper swell of her breasts open. Every time she raised her arms to adjust the pallu the black lace shifted and the soft flesh moved. The gold zari border of the saree framed her hips and the lower curve of her seat when she turned. The whole effect was lighter, more fluid and more openly feminine than the heavier silk she had worn for the puja.
She looked at my reflection in the mirror.
“You have not seen this one before.”
“No.”
“It was kept aside. Today felt like the right day.” She smoothed the pallu once more with both hands. “Does the neck look too open?”
“Mmm, yeah. But….it looks… fine.”
She gave a small, knowing smile and did not ask again.
She sat on the edge of the bed, the soft peach chiffon pooling around her legs, and opened the small bottle of nail polish. The colour was same peach that matched the saree exactly. She began with her toenails, bending forward so that the wide scoop of the blouse fell further open. The black lace and the full upper curve of her breasts were clearly visible from where I sat. She painted each toenail with slow, careful strokes, then blew on them lightly. After the toes she started on her fingernails, resting one hand at a time on her thigh.
Halfway through the left hand she looked up.
“Sunny, hold this for a minute.”
She held out the open bottle. I stood and took it. She finished the remaining nails while I held the bottle steady. The proximity made the dilemma sharper. The soft peach polish, the careful way she worked, the open neckline only inches away, the knowledge that all of this careful preparation was for the man who would soon be waiting downstairs, everything sat together in the same moment. Part of me wanted to stay exactly where I was, holding the bottle, watching her hands and the rise of her breath. The other part wanted to step back and put distance between myself and the clear fact that she was making herself beautiful for someone else.
She finished, took the bottle from me, closed it, and held both hands out in front of her, fingers spread, waiting for the polish to set.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “For all the help today.”
I nodded and returned to the chair.
She then looked at my face in the mirror.
“You are quiet today.”
“I am fine.”
“You are not fine. You are thinking too many things. I can see it.” She turned to face me fully. The jhumkas swung and then settled. “I am getting ready and going for shopping with Azad Sahab. You are coming with us. That is the plan for today. I want you to be part of it without carrying that heavy face the whole time. Can you do that?”
The question was soft. The expectation underneath it was not.
“I will try.”
“Trying is enough for now.” She reached up and smoothed the collar of the Shirt I was wearing, a brief motherly gesture that sat strangely against the elaborate way she herself was dressed. “Wear the new dark jeans. It would look better. Go.”
I went to the washroom and changed my pants with darker jeans. When I came out she was waiting for her nails to dry completely.
She looked at me and said, "See, I told you. It looks good now.”
Then she stood, slipped her feet into a pair of soft gold sandals with a thin strap and a low heel, and walked once more to the mirror. The light peach chiffon moved with her. The gold zari border caught the tube light. The heavy jhumkas she now put on swung against her neck. She added the thin gold bangles, the maroon bindi, and a careful line of kajal. The lipstick she chose was a soft rose that sat close to the colour of the polish.
When she finally turned away from the mirror the transformation was complete. The expensive peach silk chiffon saree, the fitted sleeveless blouse with its thin straps and wide scoop, the black lace underneath that only I had seen in full, the fresh nail polish, the jhumkas, the bangles, the bindi, everything had been arranged with slow, deliberate care. She looked like a woman who knew exactly how she wanted to be seen.
She picked up her handbag and checked her phone.
“He has started,” she said. “He will be here in fifteen minutes. Take whatever you need. Wallet, keys, phone. We should go down in time.”
I stood and collected my things. The small flat felt even smaller with her standing in the centre of it in that saree. She had prepared herself in front of me, asked for my help with the clasp and the nail polish, and allowed me to watch the entire process. At the same time every detail had been chosen for the man who was already on his way.
She walked to the door and looked back once.
“Come. Don’t make that face the whole day. It is only shopping and crackers. We will be home before evening.”
I followed her out of the flat and down the stairs. The soft peach chiffon whispered with every step. The thin straps of the blouse left her shoulders bare. Behind us the 10-by-12 room still held the faint smell of nail polish and her perfume. Ahead of us the white car would soon appear, and the day she had dressed for would properly begin.
![[+]](https://xossipy.com/themes/sharepoint/collapse_collapsed.png)