28-08-2026, 04:28 PM
(This post was last modified: 04-09-2026, 03:46 PM by Authorsunny. Edited 1 time in total. Edited 1 time in total.)
Chapter 23 - Weekend
29 November 2025 – Saturday
I woke to the sound of the pressure cooker and the soft, regular chime of silver. The tube light was off. Morning light sat in a pale strip across the grill and stopped short of the bed. Ma was already in the kitchen corner. She had not gone down. She had not even opened the main door except once, early, to take the milk packet from the boy and close it again.
She wore an old cotton nighty, the faded peach one with the thinner straps. It sat loosely on her shoulders. She had not put on a bra. When she reached for the container on the upper shelf the cloth lifted at the back and the full round weight of her hips showed plainly against the thin fabric. She did not adjust it. She did not look toward the bed to see if I was watching. She simply continued stirring the kadhai.
“Tea is ready,” she said when she heard the mattress creak. “Come. No rush today. It’s Saturday.”
I washed my face and sat at the folding table. She brought two steel cups and sat opposite me, one leg folded under her. The nighty had slipped off her left shoulder. The mark that had been on her neck the week before was almost gone; only a faint shadow remained. She drank her tea slowly and spoke as if the previous days had already been folded and put away.
“I told Azad Sahab I am not stepping out this weekend. After that woman on the stairs I don’t feel like giving anyone extra material. Let the building settle.”
She said his name the way she used to say Papa’s name when he was still alive — ordinary, unhidden, part of the morning.
“He understood?”
“He understood after some talking. He wanted me to come down in the evening. I said no. Not today.” She tore a small piece of last night’s leftover paratha and dipped it in the tea. “He gets restless when he doesn’t see me. Men are like that. Your father used to become the same if I stayed at my mother’s for two days.”
She spoke of both men in the same breath without lowering her voice. The comparison sat on the table between the two cups.
After breakfast she did not change immediately. She swept the floor in the same nighty, the payal keeping time with the broom. When she bent near the almirah the neckline fell forward and the heavy soft shape of her breasts moved freely inside the cloth. I looked. She saw that I looked. She only straightened, pushed her hair behind her ear, and went on sweeping.
“The dust collects faster in this weather” she said. “Help me lift the folding table later. I want to wipe under it properly.”
We lifted it together around eleven. Her nighty was damp under the arms from the work. She wiped the floor on her hands and knees, the cloth riding up her thighs. When she sat back on her heels to wring the cloth she left it there. The peach fabric had stuck to the upper part of her thighs. She noticed the direction of my eyes only long enough to say, “Pass me the dry towel,” and then continued.
The rest of the morning passed in small, ordinary talk that kept circling back to him without any special announcement.
She mentioned that he preferred less sugar in his tea. She mentioned that he had sent a voice note in the morning, short, only asking if she had slept. She played it once, low volume, while standing at the stove. His voice filled the small kitchen corner for eight seconds. She smiled at the phone the way a woman smiles at a message from the man she is used to.
In the afternoon she finally changed, but she did not go in the bathroom to change. She stood in the kitchen corner, pulled the nighty over her head in one movement, and put on a loose maroon kameez with an old salwar. For a few seconds she was only in her beige bra and petticoat. The cups were full. The band sat low on her back. She hooked the kameez, smoothed it once, and came back to the bed with her phone as if the sequence had been the most ordinary thing in the house.
She sat with her legs folded and scrolled. Every few minutes she typed. Sometimes she laughed under her breath. Once she read a line aloud without being asked.
“He says the watchman told him Sunita has been quiet since that night. Good. Let her stay quiet.”
Then she added, almost to herself, “I told him again not to do anything. No shifting them out, no warning through the husband. It will only make more noise. I don’t want noise in this building right now.”
She looked at me after she said it.
“You also think I am right, no? Better to let it die.”
“Yes Ma. It's better that way.”
“Good.” She typed a short reply and put the phone down. “He listens when I speak firmly. Not always on the first sentence, but he listens.”
The sentence had the same shape as the ones she used to use about Papa when he had been difficult about money or about visiting relatives. The house absorbed it without comment.
Evening came early because we had not gone out. She made simple khichdi and a thin kadhi. While we ate she asked about office only in passing and then returned to the weekend.
“Tomorrow I will make something better.”
After dinner she oiled her hair sitting on the bed. The kameez sleeves were rolled to the elbow. Oil shone on her forearms and the side of her neck. She did not cover herself when she leaned forward to reach the bottle. The neckline gaped. I kept my eyes on the laptop screen longer than I needed to, then looked again because there was nowhere else in the room to look.
She finished, tied her hair loosely, and said she was tired. We switched off the main light around ten-forty. The night bulb stayed on. She lay on her side. I lay on mine. The payal made one soft sound when she drew her feet up.
Her phone rang.
She looked at the screen, then at me.
“I’ll take it in the kitchen. The volume will disturb you otherwise.”
She got up and went to the kitchen corner. She did not close the thin curtain. She only turned her shoulder slightly toward the wall and answered on low speaker.
I stayed still on the bed and listened.
His voice came first, already mid-sentence.
“—I told you I can speak to the husband tomorrow. One conversation is enough. She will not open her mouth on the stairs again.”
Ma’s reply was immediate and firm.
“No. I already said no. Leave Sunita. If you move them out or even warn them properly, the whole building will make a new story. I don’t want a new story. Let her sit in her flat and talk to her own walls.”
“You are too soft, Anjali.”
“I am not soft. I am practical. We have just started sitting properly in front of people. I don’t want the first proper week to begin with an eviction. Please. For me.”
There was a pause. Then his voice came lower, the edge still in it.
“All right. For now. But if she speaks one more time I will not ask you.”
“She will not. You came up that night. That was enough.”
Another pause. The sound of him shifting, perhaps sitting back.
“How is the boy?”
Ma’s voice changed. It became the voice she used when she spoke of me to relatives, only warmer.
“He is fine. He has been… understanding. More than I expected. After that woman used his name on the stairs he sat with me and spoke like a grown man. He did not make the night heavier. He even…” She stopped, then continued more quietly. “He put the payal on my feet himself. Both of them. Carefully. He said if they are part of this then they should be in the open between us also.”
Azad Sahab made a short sound that was not quite a laugh.
“So the son is fastening what I gave.”
“Don’t say it like that. He did it because he wanted the fighting in this room to stop. He is cooperative. He is trying. That is not a small thing at his age.”
“I know. You have said it three times this week.” His tone softened a fraction. “I want to see you. Not only messages. Come down tomorrow evening. Ammi will sleep early. We can sit in the car or come up for a short while.”
Ma’s answer came slower.
“I am still not ready to step out, Azad Sahab. Not tomorrow. The building is still watching the stairs. Give it some time.”
The change in his voice was sudden. Even from the bed I heard the rise.
“Some more time? This is bullshit. I have not touched you since celebration night. And now, I am supposed to wait because of neighbours?”
Ma lowered her own voice, trying to contain his.
“Don’t shout Azad Sahab, please. He is in the next room.”
“Then come to the kitchen door and speak properly. I am not a boy you can postpone because of neighbours.”
I heard her take a breath. When she spoke again it was the calming tone she used to use on Papa when he came home irritated from work.
“Listen to me Azad Sahab. I am not postponing you. I am postponing the building. There is a difference. Tomorrow stay here. Come in the evening. Eat with us. Sit with Sunny also. It has been days. He should see you as more than the man who collects rent. I will cook. We will sit like normal people. After that we will see about the rest. Don’t be angry on the phone please.”
Silence on the other end lasted several seconds. Then his voice returned, still tight but lower.
“You are inviting me for dinner.”
“Yes. Tomorrow. Evening. Eight-thirty is fine. Nothing heavy. Just sit, eat, talk. Sunny will be here. It will look ordinary.”
“Ordinary.” He repeated the word as if testing it. “All right. I will come. Tell the boy I am coming as a guest, not as the landlord. I don’t want him standing at the door with that closed face.”
“He will not. I will speak to him in the morning.”
“Wear the new saree. The dark green one. And the payal. I want to see them on you when I walk in.”
“I will.”
“And Anjali—”
“Ji?.”
“Don’t make me wait after dinner. I have waited enough this week.”
Ma’s voice dropped further. I could still hear every word.
“I know. We will see that. I can't promise anything. Don’t start that talk now.”
“That's not fair.”
“Please Azad Sahab, we will see. Good night, Azad.”
“Good night darling.”
She ended the call. I heard her stand still in the kitchen for almost a full minute before she came back. She switched off the night bulb on her way. The mattress dipped when she lay down. The payal chimed once.
29 November 2025 – Saturday
I woke to the sound of the pressure cooker and the soft, regular chime of silver. The tube light was off. Morning light sat in a pale strip across the grill and stopped short of the bed. Ma was already in the kitchen corner. She had not gone down. She had not even opened the main door except once, early, to take the milk packet from the boy and close it again.
She wore an old cotton nighty, the faded peach one with the thinner straps. It sat loosely on her shoulders. She had not put on a bra. When she reached for the container on the upper shelf the cloth lifted at the back and the full round weight of her hips showed plainly against the thin fabric. She did not adjust it. She did not look toward the bed to see if I was watching. She simply continued stirring the kadhai.
“Tea is ready,” she said when she heard the mattress creak. “Come. No rush today. It’s Saturday.”
I washed my face and sat at the folding table. She brought two steel cups and sat opposite me, one leg folded under her. The nighty had slipped off her left shoulder. The mark that had been on her neck the week before was almost gone; only a faint shadow remained. She drank her tea slowly and spoke as if the previous days had already been folded and put away.
“I told Azad Sahab I am not stepping out this weekend. After that woman on the stairs I don’t feel like giving anyone extra material. Let the building settle.”
She said his name the way she used to say Papa’s name when he was still alive — ordinary, unhidden, part of the morning.
“He understood?”
“He understood after some talking. He wanted me to come down in the evening. I said no. Not today.” She tore a small piece of last night’s leftover paratha and dipped it in the tea. “He gets restless when he doesn’t see me. Men are like that. Your father used to become the same if I stayed at my mother’s for two days.”
She spoke of both men in the same breath without lowering her voice. The comparison sat on the table between the two cups.
After breakfast she did not change immediately. She swept the floor in the same nighty, the payal keeping time with the broom. When she bent near the almirah the neckline fell forward and the heavy soft shape of her breasts moved freely inside the cloth. I looked. She saw that I looked. She only straightened, pushed her hair behind her ear, and went on sweeping.
“The dust collects faster in this weather” she said. “Help me lift the folding table later. I want to wipe under it properly.”
We lifted it together around eleven. Her nighty was damp under the arms from the work. She wiped the floor on her hands and knees, the cloth riding up her thighs. When she sat back on her heels to wring the cloth she left it there. The peach fabric had stuck to the upper part of her thighs. She noticed the direction of my eyes only long enough to say, “Pass me the dry towel,” and then continued.
The rest of the morning passed in small, ordinary talk that kept circling back to him without any special announcement.
She mentioned that he preferred less sugar in his tea. She mentioned that he had sent a voice note in the morning, short, only asking if she had slept. She played it once, low volume, while standing at the stove. His voice filled the small kitchen corner for eight seconds. She smiled at the phone the way a woman smiles at a message from the man she is used to.
In the afternoon she finally changed, but she did not go in the bathroom to change. She stood in the kitchen corner, pulled the nighty over her head in one movement, and put on a loose maroon kameez with an old salwar. For a few seconds she was only in her beige bra and petticoat. The cups were full. The band sat low on her back. She hooked the kameez, smoothed it once, and came back to the bed with her phone as if the sequence had been the most ordinary thing in the house.
She sat with her legs folded and scrolled. Every few minutes she typed. Sometimes she laughed under her breath. Once she read a line aloud without being asked.
“He says the watchman told him Sunita has been quiet since that night. Good. Let her stay quiet.”
Then she added, almost to herself, “I told him again not to do anything. No shifting them out, no warning through the husband. It will only make more noise. I don’t want noise in this building right now.”
She looked at me after she said it.
“You also think I am right, no? Better to let it die.”
“Yes Ma. It's better that way.”
“Good.” She typed a short reply and put the phone down. “He listens when I speak firmly. Not always on the first sentence, but he listens.”
The sentence had the same shape as the ones she used to use about Papa when he had been difficult about money or about visiting relatives. The house absorbed it without comment.
Evening came early because we had not gone out. She made simple khichdi and a thin kadhi. While we ate she asked about office only in passing and then returned to the weekend.
“Tomorrow I will make something better.”
After dinner she oiled her hair sitting on the bed. The kameez sleeves were rolled to the elbow. Oil shone on her forearms and the side of her neck. She did not cover herself when she leaned forward to reach the bottle. The neckline gaped. I kept my eyes on the laptop screen longer than I needed to, then looked again because there was nowhere else in the room to look.
She finished, tied her hair loosely, and said she was tired. We switched off the main light around ten-forty. The night bulb stayed on. She lay on her side. I lay on mine. The payal made one soft sound when she drew her feet up.
Her phone rang.
She looked at the screen, then at me.
“I’ll take it in the kitchen. The volume will disturb you otherwise.”
She got up and went to the kitchen corner. She did not close the thin curtain. She only turned her shoulder slightly toward the wall and answered on low speaker.
I stayed still on the bed and listened.
His voice came first, already mid-sentence.
“—I told you I can speak to the husband tomorrow. One conversation is enough. She will not open her mouth on the stairs again.”
Ma’s reply was immediate and firm.
“No. I already said no. Leave Sunita. If you move them out or even warn them properly, the whole building will make a new story. I don’t want a new story. Let her sit in her flat and talk to her own walls.”
“You are too soft, Anjali.”
“I am not soft. I am practical. We have just started sitting properly in front of people. I don’t want the first proper week to begin with an eviction. Please. For me.”
There was a pause. Then his voice came lower, the edge still in it.
“All right. For now. But if she speaks one more time I will not ask you.”
“She will not. You came up that night. That was enough.”
Another pause. The sound of him shifting, perhaps sitting back.
“How is the boy?”
Ma’s voice changed. It became the voice she used when she spoke of me to relatives, only warmer.
“He is fine. He has been… understanding. More than I expected. After that woman used his name on the stairs he sat with me and spoke like a grown man. He did not make the night heavier. He even…” She stopped, then continued more quietly. “He put the payal on my feet himself. Both of them. Carefully. He said if they are part of this then they should be in the open between us also.”
Azad Sahab made a short sound that was not quite a laugh.
“So the son is fastening what I gave.”
“Don’t say it like that. He did it because he wanted the fighting in this room to stop. He is cooperative. He is trying. That is not a small thing at his age.”
“I know. You have said it three times this week.” His tone softened a fraction. “I want to see you. Not only messages. Come down tomorrow evening. Ammi will sleep early. We can sit in the car or come up for a short while.”
Ma’s answer came slower.
“I am still not ready to step out, Azad Sahab. Not tomorrow. The building is still watching the stairs. Give it some time.”
The change in his voice was sudden. Even from the bed I heard the rise.
“Some more time? This is bullshit. I have not touched you since celebration night. And now, I am supposed to wait because of neighbours?”
Ma lowered her own voice, trying to contain his.
“Don’t shout Azad Sahab, please. He is in the next room.”
“Then come to the kitchen door and speak properly. I am not a boy you can postpone because of neighbours.”
I heard her take a breath. When she spoke again it was the calming tone she used to use on Papa when he came home irritated from work.
“Listen to me Azad Sahab. I am not postponing you. I am postponing the building. There is a difference. Tomorrow stay here. Come in the evening. Eat with us. Sit with Sunny also. It has been days. He should see you as more than the man who collects rent. I will cook. We will sit like normal people. After that we will see about the rest. Don’t be angry on the phone please.”
Silence on the other end lasted several seconds. Then his voice returned, still tight but lower.
“You are inviting me for dinner.”
“Yes. Tomorrow. Evening. Eight-thirty is fine. Nothing heavy. Just sit, eat, talk. Sunny will be here. It will look ordinary.”
“Ordinary.” He repeated the word as if testing it. “All right. I will come. Tell the boy I am coming as a guest, not as the landlord. I don’t want him standing at the door with that closed face.”
“He will not. I will speak to him in the morning.”
“Wear the new saree. The dark green one. And the payal. I want to see them on you when I walk in.”
“I will.”
“And Anjali—”
“Ji?.”
“Don’t make me wait after dinner. I have waited enough this week.”
Ma’s voice dropped further. I could still hear every word.
“I know. We will see that. I can't promise anything. Don’t start that talk now.”
“That's not fair.”
“Please Azad Sahab, we will see. Good night, Azad.”
“Good night darling.”
She ended the call. I heard her stand still in the kitchen for almost a full minute before she came back. She switched off the night bulb on her way. The mattress dipped when she lay down. The payal chimed once.
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