16-08-2026, 10:13 AM
(This post was last modified: 04-09-2026, 02:18 PM by Authorsunny.)
Chapter 17 – Part 5 Continued
I spoke again, keeping my voice even.
Ma looked at me. There was no guilt in her expression, only a calm tiredness of having to explain.
“I never used to do many things. Life is not frozen at the same rules forever. Eat your food, Sunny.”
Azad Sahab served her a spoonful of biryani as well. She did not refuse that either. The two of them began eating from the shared non-veg dishes while I ate the paneer and dal. The division on the table felt deliberate.
Conversation moved in slow circles. Azad Sahab asked about the new shirts we had bought for me, whether the size was correct, whether I needed anything else for office. His questions were polite and slightly remote, the questions of a man performing concern rather than feeling it. Ma answered some of them on my behalf, the way she used to when I was younger. Every time she leaned forward to speak, the wide neckline of the blouse opened further and the black lace edge became visible for a moment. Azad Sahab’s eyes dropped each time without shame.
Under the table something shifted. I could not see the exact movement, but I saw Ma’s posture change. Her shoulders tightened and then released. Her thighs, under the peach chiffon, pressed together once and then relaxed. A faint colour rose again along her throat. She kept her eyes on her plate and continued eating, but her breathing had become shallower. Azad Sahab’s right shoulder moved in a small, rhythmic way that suggested his hand was occupied beneath the tablecloth. Ma’s free hand, the one not holding the spoon, rested on the edge of the table with the fingers slightly curled.
I forced myself to speak, if only to break the private circuit that had formed between them.
“The red box. You still haven’t said what is inside.”
Ma glanced at the two red boxes on the fourth chair.
“He told me to open it at home. I will open it at home.”
Azad Sahab smiled without looking up from his plate.
“You already bought the earrings,” I said. “That was also a gift.”
“The earrings are different. The other box is different.” He finally looked at me. “Your mother understands the difference. You will also understand when she opens it.”
Ma remained silent. The under-table movement seemed to have stopped, but the colour on her neck had not fully faded. She reached for her water glass and drank slowly. When she kept the glass down, Azad Sahab’s hand rose above the table again and rested openly on her bare upper arm, thumb stroking once along the soft skin.
“You are quiet,” he said to her.
“I am eating.”
“You are thinking too much about the boy sitting opposite us.”
The sentence was crude in its directness. Ma’s eyes flicked toward me and then back to him.
“Don’t speak like that.”
“It is the truth. He is sitting right here. He has eyes. He has already seen more than most sons see. Pretending otherwise is useless.”
I felt the words land in the centre of my chest. Ma did not defend me.
A few minutes later Azad Sahab leaned toward her and spoke near her ear. This time the words were soft enough that I caught only fragments.
“…later… when he is not with us… I want to properly see what is under that blouse”
Ma’s spoon stopped halfway to her mouth. Her eyes closed for a brief second. When she opened them again she stared at the tablecloth as if it required all her concentration. The shamelessness of the comment — spoken in a restaurant, with her son sitting two feet away — hung in the air between the three of us. She did not tell him to stop. She did not move her chair away. She simply absorbed it and continued eating.
I kept my voice steady with effort.
“Are we going for the crackers after this?”
Ma nodded without looking up.
“Yes. I told you. We will buy them and go home. In the evening we will burst some in the lane.”
Azad Sahab sat back, the private moment ended for now.
“The market near the highway will still be open. We can finish quickly. Whatever Sunny wants, put it in the cart. No counting.”
The generosity again. The display of money and ease. I nodded once and returned to the paneer that had gone slightly cold on my plate.
Azad Sahab commented on the quality of the biryani. Ma agreed. Underneath the normal words the earlier under-table contact and the whispered remark about the black lace continued to sit between them like an open secret. Every time Ma shifted in her chair the peach chiffon moved across her legs and the thin straps of the blouse threatened to slip again. Azad Sahab watched each small movement with the calm ownership of a man who already knew he would be removing those same clothes later.
When the bill came he paid it without letting Ma’s hand reach her bag. She did not protest this time. The fight about paying for one shirt earlier in the day seemed to have exhausted her need to balance the ledger.
We stood. Ma adjusted the pallu and smoothed the front of her blouse with both hands. The gesture pushed her breasts together for a moment under the fitted fabric. Azad Sahab’s eyes followed the movement openly. She caught him looking and held his gaze for a second longer than required before turning toward the exit.
I picked up the shopping bags and the two red boxes. The closed red box felt heavier than its size warranted. Whatever was inside already carried the weight of the lunch, the non-veg she had accepted from his hand, the under-table touch I had only been able to read through her body, and the crude, intimate words he had spoken about the lace she wore under the peach chiffon.
We walked out of the restaurant together.
I spoke again, keeping my voice even.
Ma looked at me. There was no guilt in her expression, only a calm tiredness of having to explain.
“I never used to do many things. Life is not frozen at the same rules forever. Eat your food, Sunny.”
Azad Sahab served her a spoonful of biryani as well. She did not refuse that either. The two of them began eating from the shared non-veg dishes while I ate the paneer and dal. The division on the table felt deliberate.
Conversation moved in slow circles. Azad Sahab asked about the new shirts we had bought for me, whether the size was correct, whether I needed anything else for office. His questions were polite and slightly remote, the questions of a man performing concern rather than feeling it. Ma answered some of them on my behalf, the way she used to when I was younger. Every time she leaned forward to speak, the wide neckline of the blouse opened further and the black lace edge became visible for a moment. Azad Sahab’s eyes dropped each time without shame.
Under the table something shifted. I could not see the exact movement, but I saw Ma’s posture change. Her shoulders tightened and then released. Her thighs, under the peach chiffon, pressed together once and then relaxed. A faint colour rose again along her throat. She kept her eyes on her plate and continued eating, but her breathing had become shallower. Azad Sahab’s right shoulder moved in a small, rhythmic way that suggested his hand was occupied beneath the tablecloth. Ma’s free hand, the one not holding the spoon, rested on the edge of the table with the fingers slightly curled.
I forced myself to speak, if only to break the private circuit that had formed between them.
“The red box. You still haven’t said what is inside.”
Ma glanced at the two red boxes on the fourth chair.
“He told me to open it at home. I will open it at home.”
Azad Sahab smiled without looking up from his plate.
“You already bought the earrings,” I said. “That was also a gift.”
“The earrings are different. The other box is different.” He finally looked at me. “Your mother understands the difference. You will also understand when she opens it.”
Ma remained silent. The under-table movement seemed to have stopped, but the colour on her neck had not fully faded. She reached for her water glass and drank slowly. When she kept the glass down, Azad Sahab’s hand rose above the table again and rested openly on her bare upper arm, thumb stroking once along the soft skin.
“You are quiet,” he said to her.
“I am eating.”
“You are thinking too much about the boy sitting opposite us.”
The sentence was crude in its directness. Ma’s eyes flicked toward me and then back to him.
“Don’t speak like that.”
“It is the truth. He is sitting right here. He has eyes. He has already seen more than most sons see. Pretending otherwise is useless.”
I felt the words land in the centre of my chest. Ma did not defend me.
A few minutes later Azad Sahab leaned toward her and spoke near her ear. This time the words were soft enough that I caught only fragments.
“…later… when he is not with us… I want to properly see what is under that blouse”
Ma’s spoon stopped halfway to her mouth. Her eyes closed for a brief second. When she opened them again she stared at the tablecloth as if it required all her concentration. The shamelessness of the comment — spoken in a restaurant, with her son sitting two feet away — hung in the air between the three of us. She did not tell him to stop. She did not move her chair away. She simply absorbed it and continued eating.
I kept my voice steady with effort.
“Are we going for the crackers after this?”
Ma nodded without looking up.
“Yes. I told you. We will buy them and go home. In the evening we will burst some in the lane.”
Azad Sahab sat back, the private moment ended for now.
“The market near the highway will still be open. We can finish quickly. Whatever Sunny wants, put it in the cart. No counting.”
The generosity again. The display of money and ease. I nodded once and returned to the paneer that had gone slightly cold on my plate.
Azad Sahab commented on the quality of the biryani. Ma agreed. Underneath the normal words the earlier under-table contact and the whispered remark about the black lace continued to sit between them like an open secret. Every time Ma shifted in her chair the peach chiffon moved across her legs and the thin straps of the blouse threatened to slip again. Azad Sahab watched each small movement with the calm ownership of a man who already knew he would be removing those same clothes later.
When the bill came he paid it without letting Ma’s hand reach her bag. She did not protest this time. The fight about paying for one shirt earlier in the day seemed to have exhausted her need to balance the ledger.
We stood. Ma adjusted the pallu and smoothed the front of her blouse with both hands. The gesture pushed her breasts together for a moment under the fitted fabric. Azad Sahab’s eyes followed the movement openly. She caught him looking and held his gaze for a second longer than required before turning toward the exit.
I picked up the shopping bags and the two red boxes. The closed red box felt heavier than its size warranted. Whatever was inside already carried the weight of the lunch, the non-veg she had accepted from his hand, the under-table touch I had only been able to read through her body, and the crude, intimate words he had spoken about the lace she wore under the peach chiffon.
We walked out of the restaurant together.
![[+]](https://xossipy.com/themes/sharepoint/collapse_collapsed.png)