16-08-2026, 03:04 PM
(This post was last modified: 04-09-2026, 02:18 PM by Authorsunny. Edited 1 time in total. Edited 1 time in total.)
Chapter 17 - Part 6
24 November 2025 – Monday (continued)
As we left the mall, we walked to the parking lot. Azad Sahab told me to load the shopping bags in the boot. Then we all got in the car and drove out of the mall towards crackers market.
The cracker market sat on an open stretch of ground near the highway, a temporary city of coloured tents and smoke. Even in the afternoon the air already smelled of gunpowder. Children ran between the stalls with sparklers. Men shouted prices. The ground was littered with torn packaging and spent matches from people testing small bombs.
Azad Sahab parked a little away from the main entrance. As soon as the car stopped Ma turned in her seat and looked straight at me.
“Come. Today you will choose whatever you want. No looking at the price. I am serious.”
Her voice had changed. The controlled, slightly distant tone from the restaurant was gone. In its place was the older, warmer voice I remembered from childhood celebration when she used to take me to the small local stall near our previous building and let me pick two extra packets of anaars even when money was tight.
I stepped out. She was already walking ahead, the soft peach material moving quickly around her legs. Azad Sahab locked the car and followed at a slower pace, hands in his pockets, watching her with an expression that mixed amusement and ownership.
Ma stopped at the first big stall and began pointing.
“Sunny, come here. These long ones — the rockets — take two packets. And those chakris, the big ones. You used to love them when you were small.”
“Ma, we don’t need so many.”
“We need exactly this many. It is celebration . For once don’t calculate.” She turned to the stall owner. “Give me four packets of the rockets, six of the chakris, and those colour bombs in the blue box. Yes, those.”
The man began pulling packets off the shelves. Azad Sahab came up beside her and spoke quietly.
“Let him choose also. You are selecting everything yourself.”
Ma glanced at him, then at me, and smiled — a real, open smile that reached her eyes.
“You choose then,” she said to me. “Anything. That big anaar, the one that goes on the ground and throws colours. And the laris. Take the long lari. We will hang it from the window grill later.”
I pointed at a few things. Each time she nodded immediately and added two more packets to the pile. The stall owner’s eyes kept moving between the three of us, trying to understand who was paying and who was in charge. When the first heap looked large enough Azad Sahab simply took out his card and handed it over without asking for the total. The man swiped it on a small machine that worked on battery. No one mentioned the amount.
We moved to the next stall. Ma’s excitement did not reduce. She picked up a packet of small bombs, turned to me, and pressed it into my hands.
“Remember how you used to close your ears and still ask for one more? Take these. We will burst them near the gate so the sound travels.”
“You are buying too much.”
“I am buying the right amount.” She looked at Azad Sahab. “Tell him it is all right.”
Azad Sahab shrugged, the gesture casual and absolute.
“It is all right. Take whatever she is giving. Your mother has decided to enjoy today.”
There was a mild edge under the words — a reminder that her enjoyment was happening under his money and his time. Ma either did not notice or chose not to notice. She was already at the third stall, asking about the price of a large fountain that threw silver sparks for almost a minute.
While she spoke to the seller, Azad Sahab stood close behind her. His hand rested again on her back, fingers spread. When she leaned forward to examine a packet, his hand slid a little lower, settling openly on the curve of her hip over the chiffon. She froze for half a second, then continued speaking to the seller as if the touch was normal. Her voice remained steady, but the back of her neck coloured.
I looked away and pretended to study a row of sparklers.
At the fourth stall Ma suddenly turned and called me closer. She took both my wrists and poured a fistful of small paper bombs into my open palms.
“These are the ones that make the loudest sound for their size. We will keep them for the end. When most people have finished, we will start these.”
Her fingers brushed my palms as she adjusted the bombs so they would not fall. The gesture was pure motherly affection, the kind she had not shown so openly in weeks. For a moment the rest of the market — Azad Sahab, the money, the lunch, the jewellery boxes waiting in the car — receded. She looked at me the way she used to when I was twelve and she had managed to buy an extra packet of something I wanted.
“We will burst them together tonight,” she said. “Just you and me in the lane. Like before.”
“Like before,” I repeated with a broad smile on my face.
Whatever was going on between them, seeing Ma so happy and childish, made me truly happy.
She nodded, satisfied, and turned back to the stall. Azad Sahab watched the exchange without comment. When Ma moved to the next pile of packets his hand returned to her hip, higher this time, thumb moving once in a slow arc. She reached back almost absently and covered his hand with her own for a second before removing it. The correction was gentle, not rejecting.
A man at the neighbouring stall was speaking loudly to his friend. The words were not directed at us, but they hung in the dusty air. Ma’s shoulders stiffened slightly. Azad heard it too. He did not react beyond a small, private smile that lasted less than a second. Ma finished her selection at that stall faster than the previous ones and moved on.
By the time we had covered most of the market the boot of the car was going to be full. Azad paid at each place without once asking for a discount or checking the addition. The total must have been several thousand rupees.
As we walked back toward the car Ma fell into step beside me and linked her arm through mine. The physical closeness was sudden and deliberate.
“You are quiet again,” she said.
“Just watching.”
“Watch less. Carry more.” She laughed softly and shifted one of the larger bags into my other hand. “In the evening we will light everything. I want the long lari to hang from our window. And the big anaar we will put near the gate so everyone sees the colours.”
“You are very excited.”
“It is festival . Noise, smoke, your face when a rocket goes up properly. That is all.”
Azad Sahab walked on her other side. He did not attempt to separate her arm from mine. He simply existed there, paying for the bags we carried, owning the afternoon that made her laughter possible.
When we reached the car he opened the boot. Ma began arranging the packets carefully so nothing would break. While she bent over the boot, Azad Sahab stood close behind her and spoke near her ear, just loud enough for me to catch pieces.
“You look happy when you are buying things for him. I like watching that. Later I want to see the same face for a different reason.”
Ma kept arranging the packets. Her reply was low and almost lost under the sound of a distant bomb.
“Not here. Please.”
“I am only saying what I will do. You already know.”
She closed the boot with a firm push and turned. Her face was composed, but her eyes were darker than they had been a minute earlier. She looked at me and smiled again, the motherly smile that tried to push the other current away.
“Done. Now we go home.”
Azad Sahab unlocked the car and waited for her to sit in the front. As she moved past him his hand brushed the side of her waist, open and lingering. She entered the car without acknowledging the touch.
I sat in the back with the smell of gunpowder already clinging to my clothes and the shopping bags. Ma turned in her seat and looked at me once more.
“Tonight we will burst the crackers. Promise.”
“Promise,” I said.
She faced forward again. Azad Sahab started the engine. In the rear-view mirror his eyes met mine for a brief, unreadable second before he looked at the road.
The market disappeared behind us. The bags of crackers filled the boot. And in the front seat my mother sat with the residual warmth of having chosen toys for her son and the quieter, heavier knowledge of the words that had been spoken against her ear while she bent over those same toys.
24 November 2025 – Monday (continued)
As we left the mall, we walked to the parking lot. Azad Sahab told me to load the shopping bags in the boot. Then we all got in the car and drove out of the mall towards crackers market.
The cracker market sat on an open stretch of ground near the highway, a temporary city of coloured tents and smoke. Even in the afternoon the air already smelled of gunpowder. Children ran between the stalls with sparklers. Men shouted prices. The ground was littered with torn packaging and spent matches from people testing small bombs.
Azad Sahab parked a little away from the main entrance. As soon as the car stopped Ma turned in her seat and looked straight at me.
“Come. Today you will choose whatever you want. No looking at the price. I am serious.”
Her voice had changed. The controlled, slightly distant tone from the restaurant was gone. In its place was the older, warmer voice I remembered from childhood celebration when she used to take me to the small local stall near our previous building and let me pick two extra packets of anaars even when money was tight.
I stepped out. She was already walking ahead, the soft peach material moving quickly around her legs. Azad Sahab locked the car and followed at a slower pace, hands in his pockets, watching her with an expression that mixed amusement and ownership.
Ma stopped at the first big stall and began pointing.
“Sunny, come here. These long ones — the rockets — take two packets. And those chakris, the big ones. You used to love them when you were small.”
“Ma, we don’t need so many.”
“We need exactly this many. It is celebration . For once don’t calculate.” She turned to the stall owner. “Give me four packets of the rockets, six of the chakris, and those colour bombs in the blue box. Yes, those.”
The man began pulling packets off the shelves. Azad Sahab came up beside her and spoke quietly.
“Let him choose also. You are selecting everything yourself.”
Ma glanced at him, then at me, and smiled — a real, open smile that reached her eyes.
“You choose then,” she said to me. “Anything. That big anaar, the one that goes on the ground and throws colours. And the laris. Take the long lari. We will hang it from the window grill later.”
I pointed at a few things. Each time she nodded immediately and added two more packets to the pile. The stall owner’s eyes kept moving between the three of us, trying to understand who was paying and who was in charge. When the first heap looked large enough Azad Sahab simply took out his card and handed it over without asking for the total. The man swiped it on a small machine that worked on battery. No one mentioned the amount.
We moved to the next stall. Ma’s excitement did not reduce. She picked up a packet of small bombs, turned to me, and pressed it into my hands.
“Remember how you used to close your ears and still ask for one more? Take these. We will burst them near the gate so the sound travels.”
“You are buying too much.”
“I am buying the right amount.” She looked at Azad Sahab. “Tell him it is all right.”
Azad Sahab shrugged, the gesture casual and absolute.
“It is all right. Take whatever she is giving. Your mother has decided to enjoy today.”
There was a mild edge under the words — a reminder that her enjoyment was happening under his money and his time. Ma either did not notice or chose not to notice. She was already at the third stall, asking about the price of a large fountain that threw silver sparks for almost a minute.
While she spoke to the seller, Azad Sahab stood close behind her. His hand rested again on her back, fingers spread. When she leaned forward to examine a packet, his hand slid a little lower, settling openly on the curve of her hip over the chiffon. She froze for half a second, then continued speaking to the seller as if the touch was normal. Her voice remained steady, but the back of her neck coloured.
I looked away and pretended to study a row of sparklers.
At the fourth stall Ma suddenly turned and called me closer. She took both my wrists and poured a fistful of small paper bombs into my open palms.
“These are the ones that make the loudest sound for their size. We will keep them for the end. When most people have finished, we will start these.”
Her fingers brushed my palms as she adjusted the bombs so they would not fall. The gesture was pure motherly affection, the kind she had not shown so openly in weeks. For a moment the rest of the market — Azad Sahab, the money, the lunch, the jewellery boxes waiting in the car — receded. She looked at me the way she used to when I was twelve and she had managed to buy an extra packet of something I wanted.
“We will burst them together tonight,” she said. “Just you and me in the lane. Like before.”
“Like before,” I repeated with a broad smile on my face.
Whatever was going on between them, seeing Ma so happy and childish, made me truly happy.
She nodded, satisfied, and turned back to the stall. Azad Sahab watched the exchange without comment. When Ma moved to the next pile of packets his hand returned to her hip, higher this time, thumb moving once in a slow arc. She reached back almost absently and covered his hand with her own for a second before removing it. The correction was gentle, not rejecting.
A man at the neighbouring stall was speaking loudly to his friend. The words were not directed at us, but they hung in the dusty air. Ma’s shoulders stiffened slightly. Azad heard it too. He did not react beyond a small, private smile that lasted less than a second. Ma finished her selection at that stall faster than the previous ones and moved on.
By the time we had covered most of the market the boot of the car was going to be full. Azad paid at each place without once asking for a discount or checking the addition. The total must have been several thousand rupees.
As we walked back toward the car Ma fell into step beside me and linked her arm through mine. The physical closeness was sudden and deliberate.
“You are quiet again,” she said.
“Just watching.”
“Watch less. Carry more.” She laughed softly and shifted one of the larger bags into my other hand. “In the evening we will light everything. I want the long lari to hang from our window. And the big anaar we will put near the gate so everyone sees the colours.”
“You are very excited.”
“It is festival . Noise, smoke, your face when a rocket goes up properly. That is all.”
Azad Sahab walked on her other side. He did not attempt to separate her arm from mine. He simply existed there, paying for the bags we carried, owning the afternoon that made her laughter possible.
When we reached the car he opened the boot. Ma began arranging the packets carefully so nothing would break. While she bent over the boot, Azad Sahab stood close behind her and spoke near her ear, just loud enough for me to catch pieces.
“You look happy when you are buying things for him. I like watching that. Later I want to see the same face for a different reason.”
Ma kept arranging the packets. Her reply was low and almost lost under the sound of a distant bomb.
“Not here. Please.”
“I am only saying what I will do. You already know.”
She closed the boot with a firm push and turned. Her face was composed, but her eyes were darker than they had been a minute earlier. She looked at me and smiled again, the motherly smile that tried to push the other current away.
“Done. Now we go home.”
Azad Sahab unlocked the car and waited for her to sit in the front. As she moved past him his hand brushed the side of her waist, open and lingering. She entered the car without acknowledging the touch.
I sat in the back with the smell of gunpowder already clinging to my clothes and the shopping bags. Ma turned in her seat and looked at me once more.
“Tonight we will burst the crackers. Promise.”
“Promise,” I said.
She faced forward again. Azad Sahab started the engine. In the rear-view mirror his eyes met mine for a brief, unreadable second before he looked at the road.
The market disappeared behind us. The bags of crackers filled the boot. And in the front seat my mother sat with the residual warmth of having chosen toys for her son and the quieter, heavier knowledge of the words that had been spoken against her ear while she bent over those same toys.
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