16-08-2026, 10:09 AM
(This post was last modified: 04-09-2026, 02:17 PM by Authorsunny.)
Chapter 17 - Part 3
24 November 2025 – Monday (continued)
The mall rose in front of us like a glass-and-steel box full of light and noise. Azad Sahab parked in the covered basement and switched off the engine. For a moment no one moved. The soft peach chiffon of Ma’s saree still held the coolness of the car’s air-conditioning. She adjusted the pallu once, the wide gold zari border sliding across her lap, and then opened the door before he could come around to do it for her.
We walked toward the lift together. The basement smelled of concrete and engine oil. Other families were also arriving — women in bright Banarasi and georgette sarees, men in new kurtas, children already holding plastic toys and sparklers. Beside them Ma looked different. The expensive light chiffon, the sleeveless wide-scoop blouse with its thin straps, the careful makeup and the heavy jhumkas set her apart from the more ordinary festival clothes around us. People noticed. A man in a dark blue kurta glanced at the open neckline and then quickly away. Two women near the lift whispered after we passed.
Azad Sahab walked on her other side, close enough that his sleeve sometimes brushed the bare skin of her arm. He did not move away. When the lift doors opened he placed his palm lightly against her back, guiding her in. The touch lasted only a second, but it was public and deliberate. I stepped in after them and stood near the panel.
The mall was already crowded. Festival sales banners hung from every railing. Loud festival music mixed with the sound of hundreds of conversations. We came out on the first floor. Ma stopped for a moment, looked around, and then turned to me with a practical expression I had not expected so soon.
“First we will finish your clothes,” she said. “Come.”
She did not wait for Azad Sahab’s opinion. She simply started walking toward the men’s section of a large mid-range store that was neither the cheapest nor the most expensive in the mall. Azad Sahab followed without comment, but I saw the small lift of his eyebrows. He had clearly expected the order of shopping to be different.
Inside the store the air was cooler and smelled of new fabric. Ma went straight to the formal shirts and began pulling sizes with the same efficiency she once used when she bought my college uniforms. She held a light-blue cotton shirt against my shoulders, then a white one with a thin self-stripe, then a pale lavender that I would never have chosen myself.
“Try these three,” she said. “And those two pairs of jeans — the darker ones. Your old ones have become too light.”
I took the hangers and went into the trial room. The small cubicle had a mirror on three sides. When I came out in the first shirt she was standing right outside with Azad Sahab a few steps behind her. She stepped forward, adjusted the collar with both hands, and tugged the shoulders to check the fit. Her fingers brushed my neck. The wide scoop of her blouse was directly in my line of sight, the black lace of her bra showed in a thin dark line against the soft upper curve of her breasts whenever she leaned in.
“This one is good,” she said. “The sleeves are proper. Take it.”
She made me try the other two as well. The lavender one she liked more than I did. The jeans she checked by asking me to turn, then pinching the fabric at the waist and the thigh to judge the cut. Throughout the process Azad Sahab remained silent, watching her more than the clothes. Every time she reached up or bent slightly the peach chiffon moved across her hips and the thin straps of the blouse shifted on her shoulders. He did not hide that he was looking.
At the billing counter the total for two shirts and one pair of jeans came to a little over four thousand eight hundred rupees. Ma opened her handbag as if she intended to pay. Azad Sahab’s hand closed over the bill before she could take it.
“I will do this,” he said.
“I can pay for my son’s clothes.”
“You can. But today you will not.” His voice was calm and final. He handed his card to the salesman. The transaction went through.
We left the store with the shopping bag in my hand. The difference in clothing levels felt sharper now. Around us most women wore standard festival sarees or heavy salwar-kameez. Ma’s light peach chiffon with its expensive sheen and open neckline drew second glances. Azad Sahab walked on her right, occasionally placing his hand on her elbow when the crowd thickened. Each time he did it her body accepted the touch without resistance.
The footwear section was on the same floor. The moment we entered, Azad Sahab took over the direction.
“Sit,” he told her, pointing to the low cushioned benches. “You need at least two proper pairs. I don't like your current footwear much.”
Ma sat. The chiffon pooled around her legs. She tried to reach for a simple pair of black sandals priced under two thousand. He gently moved her hand away and called the salesman.
“Show the ones in the glass case. The leather ones with the small heel.”
The pairs he selected were clearly more expensive — soft leather, cleaner finish, prices between thirty-eight hundred and fifty-two hundred rupees. Ma looked at the tags and then at him.
“These are not necessary.”
“They are. Try them.”
She slipped off her gold sandals. Her peach-painted toenails looked bright against the store’s pale carpet. She tried the first pair, stood, and walked a few steps. The short heel changed her posture, the chiffon moved differently across her hips. Azad Sahab watched the walk with open attention. When she sat again to remove them his eyes dropped briefly to the open neckline of her blouse before returning to her face.
“The brown ones also,” he said.
She tried those as well. In the end he decided on both pairs. The bill came to a little over nine thousand. Again his card went into the machine before Ma could object. She sat looking at the two boxes for a long moment after the salesman had gone.
“You are spending too much.”
“It is Festival . And you needed them.”
The quiet authority in his voice ended the discussion. She did not thank him extravagantly. She only nodded once, as if accepting that this was now the pattern.
We moved out of the footwear section and stood near the atrium railing for a minute. Below us the ground floor was packed with families. Ma turned to Azad Sahab with a determined expression.
“Now something for you. I already said it in the car. One thing. From me.”
He smiled, the same slow smile.
“I told you it is not needed.”
“It is needed for me. I don’t want to walk around this mall only receiving. Come.”
She did not wait for further argument. She walked toward a men’s accessories and formal-wear section two stores away. Azad Sahab exchanged a brief look with me — half amusement, half resignation — and followed her. I walked behind them carrying the bags.
Inside the store she went straight to the formal shirts and began looking at the sizes that would fit him. She pulled out a light-grey cotton shirt with a subtle texture, held it up against his chest without asking, and nodded to herself.
“This colour is good. You wear too much cream and white. Try it.”
“I am not trying shirts today.”
“You are. Go.”
The firmness in her voice was the same firmness she sometimes used with me when she had decided a matter was closed. Azad Sahab looked at her for a second longer, then took the shirt and went into the trial room. While he was inside Ma stood with her arms folded, the shopping bags at her feet, the peach chiffon and open neckline drawing occasional glances from other customers. She looked completely at ease.
He came out wearing the grey shirt. It fitted him well across the shoulders. Ma stepped forward, adjusted the collar in exactly the same way she had adjusted mine earlier, and checked the sleeves. Her fingers brushed the side of his neck. The gesture was intimate in its domesticity. Standing so close to him in the fitted sleeveless blouse, the soft upper curve of her breasts moved visibly with her breathing. He looked down at her with an expression that was no longer amused.
“It is good,” she said. “We are taking it.”
“Anjali.”
“Don’t argue please. This one is from me. Give me the bill.” she said with a smile.
At the counter the salesman looked between the two of them and then at me, trying to understand the configuration. Ma took out her own card — the one linked to the small savings she still controlled — and paid the three thousand two hundred rupees without letting Azad Sahab touch the machine. When the payment went through she gave a short, satisfied breath and took the bag herself.
“Now it is balanced a little,” she said.
Azad Sahab did not look offended. He looked at her with something closer to quiet pleasure.
“You are stubborn.”
“I have always been stubborn. You only started noticing recently.”
They stood there for a moment longer than necessary, the new shirt bag in her hand, the other shopping bags in mine, the crowd of the mall moving around them.
We walked back toward the atrium. Azad Sahab took the bags from me without asking and transferred them to his left hand so that his right hand remained free. That hand settled again at the Ma’s back as we moved through the crowd. She did not remove it.
I walked half a step behind them and watched the way the soft peach material shifted across her hips with every step, the way the wide scoop of the blouse revealed the black lace edge when she turned her head to speak to him, the way her peach-painted fingers rested lightly against the shopping bag she had paid for herself. The morning images — her bare breasts in the bathroom, the black lace bra, the necklace clasp, the open dbanging of the saree in our small room — sat just under the surface of everything I was seeing now.
She had given me the first attention of the day. She had made sure I received new clothes. She had insisted on buying one thing for him with her own money. And still the clear centre of the outing remained the man who walked beside her with his hand on her back and his eyes returning to her open neckline whenever he thought no one was looking.
The mall continued its loud festival noise around us.
24 November 2025 – Monday (continued)
The mall rose in front of us like a glass-and-steel box full of light and noise. Azad Sahab parked in the covered basement and switched off the engine. For a moment no one moved. The soft peach chiffon of Ma’s saree still held the coolness of the car’s air-conditioning. She adjusted the pallu once, the wide gold zari border sliding across her lap, and then opened the door before he could come around to do it for her.
We walked toward the lift together. The basement smelled of concrete and engine oil. Other families were also arriving — women in bright Banarasi and georgette sarees, men in new kurtas, children already holding plastic toys and sparklers. Beside them Ma looked different. The expensive light chiffon, the sleeveless wide-scoop blouse with its thin straps, the careful makeup and the heavy jhumkas set her apart from the more ordinary festival clothes around us. People noticed. A man in a dark blue kurta glanced at the open neckline and then quickly away. Two women near the lift whispered after we passed.
Azad Sahab walked on her other side, close enough that his sleeve sometimes brushed the bare skin of her arm. He did not move away. When the lift doors opened he placed his palm lightly against her back, guiding her in. The touch lasted only a second, but it was public and deliberate. I stepped in after them and stood near the panel.
The mall was already crowded. Festival sales banners hung from every railing. Loud festival music mixed with the sound of hundreds of conversations. We came out on the first floor. Ma stopped for a moment, looked around, and then turned to me with a practical expression I had not expected so soon.
“First we will finish your clothes,” she said. “Come.”
She did not wait for Azad Sahab’s opinion. She simply started walking toward the men’s section of a large mid-range store that was neither the cheapest nor the most expensive in the mall. Azad Sahab followed without comment, but I saw the small lift of his eyebrows. He had clearly expected the order of shopping to be different.
Inside the store the air was cooler and smelled of new fabric. Ma went straight to the formal shirts and began pulling sizes with the same efficiency she once used when she bought my college uniforms. She held a light-blue cotton shirt against my shoulders, then a white one with a thin self-stripe, then a pale lavender that I would never have chosen myself.
“Try these three,” she said. “And those two pairs of jeans — the darker ones. Your old ones have become too light.”
I took the hangers and went into the trial room. The small cubicle had a mirror on three sides. When I came out in the first shirt she was standing right outside with Azad Sahab a few steps behind her. She stepped forward, adjusted the collar with both hands, and tugged the shoulders to check the fit. Her fingers brushed my neck. The wide scoop of her blouse was directly in my line of sight, the black lace of her bra showed in a thin dark line against the soft upper curve of her breasts whenever she leaned in.
“This one is good,” she said. “The sleeves are proper. Take it.”
She made me try the other two as well. The lavender one she liked more than I did. The jeans she checked by asking me to turn, then pinching the fabric at the waist and the thigh to judge the cut. Throughout the process Azad Sahab remained silent, watching her more than the clothes. Every time she reached up or bent slightly the peach chiffon moved across her hips and the thin straps of the blouse shifted on her shoulders. He did not hide that he was looking.
At the billing counter the total for two shirts and one pair of jeans came to a little over four thousand eight hundred rupees. Ma opened her handbag as if she intended to pay. Azad Sahab’s hand closed over the bill before she could take it.
“I will do this,” he said.
“I can pay for my son’s clothes.”
“You can. But today you will not.” His voice was calm and final. He handed his card to the salesman. The transaction went through.
We left the store with the shopping bag in my hand. The difference in clothing levels felt sharper now. Around us most women wore standard festival sarees or heavy salwar-kameez. Ma’s light peach chiffon with its expensive sheen and open neckline drew second glances. Azad Sahab walked on her right, occasionally placing his hand on her elbow when the crowd thickened. Each time he did it her body accepted the touch without resistance.
The footwear section was on the same floor. The moment we entered, Azad Sahab took over the direction.
“Sit,” he told her, pointing to the low cushioned benches. “You need at least two proper pairs. I don't like your current footwear much.”
Ma sat. The chiffon pooled around her legs. She tried to reach for a simple pair of black sandals priced under two thousand. He gently moved her hand away and called the salesman.
“Show the ones in the glass case. The leather ones with the small heel.”
The pairs he selected were clearly more expensive — soft leather, cleaner finish, prices between thirty-eight hundred and fifty-two hundred rupees. Ma looked at the tags and then at him.
“These are not necessary.”
“They are. Try them.”
She slipped off her gold sandals. Her peach-painted toenails looked bright against the store’s pale carpet. She tried the first pair, stood, and walked a few steps. The short heel changed her posture, the chiffon moved differently across her hips. Azad Sahab watched the walk with open attention. When she sat again to remove them his eyes dropped briefly to the open neckline of her blouse before returning to her face.
“The brown ones also,” he said.
She tried those as well. In the end he decided on both pairs. The bill came to a little over nine thousand. Again his card went into the machine before Ma could object. She sat looking at the two boxes for a long moment after the salesman had gone.
“You are spending too much.”
“It is Festival . And you needed them.”
The quiet authority in his voice ended the discussion. She did not thank him extravagantly. She only nodded once, as if accepting that this was now the pattern.
We moved out of the footwear section and stood near the atrium railing for a minute. Below us the ground floor was packed with families. Ma turned to Azad Sahab with a determined expression.
“Now something for you. I already said it in the car. One thing. From me.”
He smiled, the same slow smile.
“I told you it is not needed.”
“It is needed for me. I don’t want to walk around this mall only receiving. Come.”
She did not wait for further argument. She walked toward a men’s accessories and formal-wear section two stores away. Azad Sahab exchanged a brief look with me — half amusement, half resignation — and followed her. I walked behind them carrying the bags.
Inside the store she went straight to the formal shirts and began looking at the sizes that would fit him. She pulled out a light-grey cotton shirt with a subtle texture, held it up against his chest without asking, and nodded to herself.
“This colour is good. You wear too much cream and white. Try it.”
“I am not trying shirts today.”
“You are. Go.”
The firmness in her voice was the same firmness she sometimes used with me when she had decided a matter was closed. Azad Sahab looked at her for a second longer, then took the shirt and went into the trial room. While he was inside Ma stood with her arms folded, the shopping bags at her feet, the peach chiffon and open neckline drawing occasional glances from other customers. She looked completely at ease.
He came out wearing the grey shirt. It fitted him well across the shoulders. Ma stepped forward, adjusted the collar in exactly the same way she had adjusted mine earlier, and checked the sleeves. Her fingers brushed the side of his neck. The gesture was intimate in its domesticity. Standing so close to him in the fitted sleeveless blouse, the soft upper curve of her breasts moved visibly with her breathing. He looked down at her with an expression that was no longer amused.
“It is good,” she said. “We are taking it.”
“Anjali.”
“Don’t argue please. This one is from me. Give me the bill.” she said with a smile.
At the counter the salesman looked between the two of them and then at me, trying to understand the configuration. Ma took out her own card — the one linked to the small savings she still controlled — and paid the three thousand two hundred rupees without letting Azad Sahab touch the machine. When the payment went through she gave a short, satisfied breath and took the bag herself.
“Now it is balanced a little,” she said.
Azad Sahab did not look offended. He looked at her with something closer to quiet pleasure.
“You are stubborn.”
“I have always been stubborn. You only started noticing recently.”
They stood there for a moment longer than necessary, the new shirt bag in her hand, the other shopping bags in mine, the crowd of the mall moving around them.
We walked back toward the atrium. Azad Sahab took the bags from me without asking and transferred them to his left hand so that his right hand remained free. That hand settled again at the Ma’s back as we moved through the crowd. She did not remove it.
I walked half a step behind them and watched the way the soft peach material shifted across her hips with every step, the way the wide scoop of the blouse revealed the black lace edge when she turned her head to speak to him, the way her peach-painted fingers rested lightly against the shopping bag she had paid for herself. The morning images — her bare breasts in the bathroom, the black lace bra, the necklace clasp, the open dbanging of the saree in our small room — sat just under the surface of everything I was seeing now.
She had given me the first attention of the day. She had made sure I received new clothes. She had insisted on buying one thing for him with her own money. And still the clear centre of the outing remained the man who walked beside her with his hand on her back and his eyes returning to her open neckline whenever he thought no one was looking.
The mall continued its loud festival noise around us.
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