16-08-2026, 04:45 PM
(This post was last modified: 04-09-2026, 03:15 PM by Authorsunny. Edited 1 time in total. Edited 1 time in total.)
Chapter 17 - Part 7
24 November 2025 – Monday (continued)
The car joined the main road again. The smell of gunpowder from the boot mixed with the cooler evening air coming through the slightly open window. She had turned the radio down until only a soft film song remained. For a few minutes no one spoke.
Azad Sahab broke the silence first, eyes on the road.
“You bought enough crackers for two buildings.”
Ma smiled without looking at him.
“It is once a year. Let him enjoy.”
“He is enjoying. He already got his main gift early.” Azad’s voice stayed casual, almost lazy. “The bike. Most boys wait until after celebration for something like that. He got it before the festival even started.”
I felt the words land squarely in the back seat. Ma’s shoulders shifted a little.
“That was different,” she said.
“Was it? Money went out. Something expensive came home. Same thing.” He glanced at her. “I don’t mind. I am only saying he is not short of gifts this year.”
Ma stayed quiet for a moment. Then she spoke, her tone carefully even.
“The bike was necessary. He travels every day. Crackers are for fun. Don’t mix the two Azad Sahab”
“I am not mixing. I am reminding.” Azad Sahab’s hand left the gear and rested on her knee over the chiffon for a second before returning to the wheel. “He has the bike. He has new clothes. He has a boot full of crackers. Happy celebration to him.”
I spoke from the back.
“I didn’t ask for the bike as a festival gift.”
Azad met my eyes briefly in the rear-view mirror.
“No one said you asked. Your mother decided. I paid. That is the full story. No need to make it complicated.”
Ma turned her face toward the window. The soft peach material of her saree moved with the turn. She did not defend me further, nor did she agree with him out loud. The silence that followed felt like agreement by omission.
The buildings of our area started appearing. The light had begun to soften into early evening. More crackers were already being burst in the side lanes. Ma’s phone buzzed once. She checked it, typed a short reply, and kept it face down on her lap.
As we came within two turns of the building, the conversation in the front seat dropped lower. Their heads tilted slightly toward each other. Words became harder to catch. I heard fragments.
“…not in the house tonight…”
“…he will be busy with the crackers…”
“…the place near the signal is fine…”
Ma’s reply was almost a whisper.
“One hour. Not more. I still have to light the diyas and burst crackers with him, I promised him that.”
Azad Sahab said something I could not hear. Whatever it was made Ma’s breath catch audibly. She looked straight ahead through the windscreen, lips pressed together, then gave a very small nod.
I leaned forward a little.
“What are you both talking about?”
Ma glanced back at me. Her expression had changed. The playful mother who had poured paper bombs into my hands at the market was still there, but something else sat in front of it now.
“Nothing important. Traffic talk.”
Azad Sahab did not bother with the same effort.
“We are deciding timings. Your mother has a small work after we drop you. She will come home in some time.”
Ma shot him a quick look, then turned to me again.
“I need to stop somewhere for a short while. You take the crackers upstairs and start arranging them. I will come by sevent to sevent thirty. We will still have enough time to burst everything before it gets too late.”
“Where do you need to stop?” I asked.
“Just some work. Don’t ask so many questions now. The bags are heavy. You will need both hands.”
The car turned into our lane. The building entrance came into view. A few children were already lighting sparklers near the gate. Two women from the ground floor stood talking; both looked up as the white sedan slowed.
Azad Sahab stopped a few metres short of the entrance, not directly under the light. He kept the engine running. Ma opened her door. The moment she stepped out, the evening air moved the light chiffon around her legs. She waited while I pulled the cracker bags from the boot. Azad Sahab remained in the driver’s seat, one wrist resting on the steering wheel, watching her.
Ma came around to my side and helped adjust the heavier bags so the weight distributed evenly.
“Go upstairs,” she said. “Keep the long lari separate. We will hang it first. And don’t start anything without me. I want to light the first one with you.”
“You are coming back soon?”
“Yes. Maximum one and a half hours. Maybe less.” She reached up and brushed some imaginary dust from my shoulder, a motherly gesture that felt suddenly thin. “Happy celebration again. Go.”
Azad Sahab spoke from inside the car, his voice carrying just enough.
“Don’t wait on the stairs, Sunny. Your mother will message when she is near.”
Ma gave him a short look that mixed warning and acceptance, then turned back to me.
“Go.”
I walked toward the entrance with the bags. Behind me I heard the passenger door close. When I reached the first step I looked back. Ma had already sat inside again. Azad Sahab said something that made her lean closer to him. His hand rose and settled on the bare skin of her upper arm, thumb moving once. Then the car pulled away from the lane and turned the corner, taking the soft peach chiffon and the open neckline and the residual smell of gunpowder with it.
I stood on the steps for a few seconds longer than necessary. The children near the gate stared at the number of bags I was carrying. One of the women from the ground floor looked from the disappearing car to me and then away.
I climbed the three floors slowly. The bags pulled at my fingers. Inside the flat the temple corner still held the faint memory of yesterday’s incense. The green-cloth box of dates remained on the table.
24 November 2025 – Monday (continued)
The car joined the main road again. The smell of gunpowder from the boot mixed with the cooler evening air coming through the slightly open window. She had turned the radio down until only a soft film song remained. For a few minutes no one spoke.
Azad Sahab broke the silence first, eyes on the road.
“You bought enough crackers for two buildings.”
Ma smiled without looking at him.
“It is once a year. Let him enjoy.”
“He is enjoying. He already got his main gift early.” Azad’s voice stayed casual, almost lazy. “The bike. Most boys wait until after celebration for something like that. He got it before the festival even started.”
I felt the words land squarely in the back seat. Ma’s shoulders shifted a little.
“That was different,” she said.
“Was it? Money went out. Something expensive came home. Same thing.” He glanced at her. “I don’t mind. I am only saying he is not short of gifts this year.”
Ma stayed quiet for a moment. Then she spoke, her tone carefully even.
“The bike was necessary. He travels every day. Crackers are for fun. Don’t mix the two Azad Sahab”
“I am not mixing. I am reminding.” Azad Sahab’s hand left the gear and rested on her knee over the chiffon for a second before returning to the wheel. “He has the bike. He has new clothes. He has a boot full of crackers. Happy celebration to him.”
I spoke from the back.
“I didn’t ask for the bike as a festival gift.”
Azad met my eyes briefly in the rear-view mirror.
“No one said you asked. Your mother decided. I paid. That is the full story. No need to make it complicated.”
Ma turned her face toward the window. The soft peach material of her saree moved with the turn. She did not defend me further, nor did she agree with him out loud. The silence that followed felt like agreement by omission.
The buildings of our area started appearing. The light had begun to soften into early evening. More crackers were already being burst in the side lanes. Ma’s phone buzzed once. She checked it, typed a short reply, and kept it face down on her lap.
As we came within two turns of the building, the conversation in the front seat dropped lower. Their heads tilted slightly toward each other. Words became harder to catch. I heard fragments.
“…not in the house tonight…”
“…he will be busy with the crackers…”
“…the place near the signal is fine…”
Ma’s reply was almost a whisper.
“One hour. Not more. I still have to light the diyas and burst crackers with him, I promised him that.”
Azad Sahab said something I could not hear. Whatever it was made Ma’s breath catch audibly. She looked straight ahead through the windscreen, lips pressed together, then gave a very small nod.
I leaned forward a little.
“What are you both talking about?”
Ma glanced back at me. Her expression had changed. The playful mother who had poured paper bombs into my hands at the market was still there, but something else sat in front of it now.
“Nothing important. Traffic talk.”
Azad Sahab did not bother with the same effort.
“We are deciding timings. Your mother has a small work after we drop you. She will come home in some time.”
Ma shot him a quick look, then turned to me again.
“I need to stop somewhere for a short while. You take the crackers upstairs and start arranging them. I will come by sevent to sevent thirty. We will still have enough time to burst everything before it gets too late.”
“Where do you need to stop?” I asked.
“Just some work. Don’t ask so many questions now. The bags are heavy. You will need both hands.”
The car turned into our lane. The building entrance came into view. A few children were already lighting sparklers near the gate. Two women from the ground floor stood talking; both looked up as the white sedan slowed.
Azad Sahab stopped a few metres short of the entrance, not directly under the light. He kept the engine running. Ma opened her door. The moment she stepped out, the evening air moved the light chiffon around her legs. She waited while I pulled the cracker bags from the boot. Azad Sahab remained in the driver’s seat, one wrist resting on the steering wheel, watching her.
Ma came around to my side and helped adjust the heavier bags so the weight distributed evenly.
“Go upstairs,” she said. “Keep the long lari separate. We will hang it first. And don’t start anything without me. I want to light the first one with you.”
“You are coming back soon?”
“Yes. Maximum one and a half hours. Maybe less.” She reached up and brushed some imaginary dust from my shoulder, a motherly gesture that felt suddenly thin. “Happy celebration again. Go.”
Azad Sahab spoke from inside the car, his voice carrying just enough.
“Don’t wait on the stairs, Sunny. Your mother will message when she is near.”
Ma gave him a short look that mixed warning and acceptance, then turned back to me.
“Go.”
I walked toward the entrance with the bags. Behind me I heard the passenger door close. When I reached the first step I looked back. Ma had already sat inside again. Azad Sahab said something that made her lean closer to him. His hand rose and settled on the bare skin of her upper arm, thumb moving once. Then the car pulled away from the lane and turned the corner, taking the soft peach chiffon and the open neckline and the residual smell of gunpowder with it.
I stood on the steps for a few seconds longer than necessary. The children near the gate stared at the number of bags I was carrying. One of the women from the ground floor looked from the disappearing car to me and then away.
I climbed the three floors slowly. The bags pulled at my fingers. Inside the flat the temple corner still held the faint memory of yesterday’s incense. The green-cloth box of dates remained on the table.
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