07-09-2026, 09:07 AM
Chapter 25 – Monday
1 December 2025 – Monday
The grill held that first grey light that always comes before the real morning. The tube light was off. The night bulb near the bathroom was off too. Ma was on her side of the bed, turned toward the wall, one arm folded under the pillow. The old peach nighty had ridden up in her sleep. It sat at her knees. The cloth had twisted around her waist. I could see the soft skin of her calves and the full shape of her thighs. Higher, under the thin cotton, the heavy round shape of her breasts lay against the mattress, rising and falling with her breath. She had not put a bra on last night. I had seen that when she pulled the nighty over her head in the kitchen. In this light it was even clearer.
The payal made no sound because her feet were still.
I got up carefully so the mattress would not creak. I went to the bathroom. I closed the door as much as the weak latch allowed. I sat down to finish the morning work I always did first, before tea, before brushing, before anything else. I looked at the floor. I tried not to think about the green saree on the chair, or the two black bras, or the kitchen wall downstairs.
That was when I heard the sound from the main room.
A soft click. Then the heavier sound of the latch being turned from outside, as if someone who knew our lock had used a key. Then footsteps. Not hers. Heavier. A man’s weight on our thin floor.
I stopped.
My first thought was that I had not locked the door properly after last night. My second thought was worse.
I finished as fast as I could, pulled my pants up, and stood. I did not flush. I did not want the sound. I put my eye to the gap between the bathroom door and the frame, the same gap that had shown me too many things already.
The peach nighty was not on her.
Ma was on her back on our bed. The sheet was pushed down. She was bare. Completely bare except for the gold chain, the silver bracelet, and the payal on her ankles. The morning light from the grill fell across her stomach and the heavy soft weight of her breasts. They had spread a little with her lying down, the dark nipples tight in the cool air. Her hair was open on the pillow. Her knees were apart.
Azad Sahab was over her.
The black pathani from last night was half off. The top hung from one shoulder. The lower part was open. His chest was dark and broad. There was hair on it. His trousers were pushed down only as far as he needed. I could not see everything from the slit, but I could see enough. His body boxed her the same way it had boxed her against the fridge wall. One of his hands held her wrist above her head, against our pillow. The other hand was on her breast, not gentle, owning the weight of it.
Her arms were around him. Not pushing. Holding.
The payal rang when her feet moved.
I could not believe what I was seeing. It was morning. I was in the house. She knew I was in the house. Still she had taken the nighty off. Still she was lying under him on the same bed where I had slept three feet away.
“Azad… he is inside,” she whispered. Her voice was the same low voice from the kitchen last night. “The door is not even closed properly.”
“Then let him hear.” His voice was rough from sleep and from not sleeping enough. “You told the boy you accepted it. Accepted means this also. Not only dinner and tea.”
“I did not call you for this hour.”
“You opened the door.”
She did not have an answer for that. She only pulled him down by the back of his neck and kissed him the way she had kissed him against the fridge — mouth open, no small beginning. The sound of it carried across the folding table. Wet. Hungry. Her bangles clicked against his shoulder.
He broke the kiss and looked at her face.
“You did not sleep.”
“No.”
“Because of me.”
“Because of many things.” She lifted her hips a little, seeking him. “Don’t talk so much now. You said you waited since celebration. So take. But keep your voice down. Please.”
He laughed once, short, into her throat.
“You say please and then you open your legs like this. You know what you are.”
“I know.” Her breath caught when his hand left her breast and went lower. I could not see where his fingers went. The angle of his back blocked it. But I saw her mouth open. I saw her head tip back. I heard the small sound she tried to keep in her throat. “Azad… ah… not so hard”
His hand kept moving. The wet sound was faint but clear in the small room. “You are already like this. In the morning. After one kiss in my kitchen. Say it.”
“I am…” She bit her lip. The payal chimed as her feet flexed. “I am ready. You can feel it.”
“Say it.”
She turned her face toward the bathroom wall, toward me without knowing, or maybe knowing. Her eyes were half closed. There was colour on her throat, on her chest, on the upper curve of her breasts where his mouth had already been.
“I want you inside,” she said, very low. “I thought about it the whole night. I should not have. But I did. Now do it. Properly. The way you do. I can take it.”
He pushed the pathani further off his hips.
From the slit I saw him then.
His cock was already hard. It was thick, darker than the rest of him, with a heavy vein running along the side. The head was broad and wet. It stood up against the soft skin of her inner thigh. He took it in his fist and rubbed the head against her. I still could not see her pussy. His body and her thigh hid it. But I heard how wet she was. I heard the slide. I saw her stomach tighten.
“Look at you,” he said. “Widow of this building. Mother of that boy. And in the morning you are dripping for the man who collects your rent.”
“Don’t say it like that.”
“It is the truth.” He put the head in place. He did not push yet. He only held it there, letting her feel the size. “This is not a boy’s thing. You know that. You felt it in the hotel. You felt it on celebration night. Tell me you missed this.”
“I missed it.” The words came out of her as if they had been waiting. “I missed it too much. That is the problem. Now put it in. Slowly first. You are… you are a lot.”
He pushed.
Not all at once. The first inch made her gasp. Her hand left his neck and gripped the sheet. The gold chain lifted and fell in the hollow of her throat. He pushed again. Another inch. The vein disappeared into her. Her mouth opened without sound. Her knees came up. The payal rang twice, sharp.
“Take it,” he said. His voice had dropped into that flat command he used when he stopped asking. “This is what you kept postponing for neighbours and for your son’s clock. Take all of it.”
“I am taking… ah… Azad, wait… it is too deep like this…”
He did not wait the way she asked. He gave her a second, only a second, then he put his weight in and went to the base. I saw his stomach meet hers. I saw her whole body accept the length of him. Her breasts shook once. A thin sound left her, high and broken, the sound of a woman who has been filled past the point of pretending.
“Full,” he said against her ear. “That is how you should be in the morning. Not packing tiffin. Not thinking about stairs. Full of me.”
“Yes.” She said it immediately. “Yes. Stay. Don’t pull out yet. Let me… let me get used.”
He stayed. His hips made a small circle inside her. I could not see the place they were joined, but I could see the effect. The muscles in her thighs jumped. Her toes pointed. The silver on her ankles flashed.
“You feel that?”
“I feel everything.” Her eyes were wet at the corners, not from crying, from the stretch. “You are hitting the place… the same place… don’t move so big yet.”
He moved anyway. A short stroke out, a longer stroke in. The bed frame made the old creak it made when anyone turned at night. In the morning it sounded filthy. Wet skin. His breath. Her breath. The soft slap when his body met the inside of her thighs.
“This house heard only your serials and his laptop for years,” he said. “Now it will hear this. Your son is in the bathroom and his mother is taking cock like she has been hungry for five years.”
“Azad… don’t…”
“Good.” Another stroke, deeper. She moaned into his shoulder to hide it. “Let him hear what kind of woman raised him. The kind who opens the door at six in the morning and lies down without a bra.”
Her legs wrapped around him. The payal pressed into his back. She was not fighting him. She was helping. She pulled him in when he pushed. She lifted when he pulled back, as if she did not want to lose even an inch.
“Harder,” she whispered, after a minute of the slower rhythm. The word surprised even me. “You wanted it hard. So be hard. I can keep my voice down. I have practice.”
He lifted his head and looked at her.
Then he gave her what she asked.
The next thrusts were not careful. They were deep and regular, the kind a man gives when he has decided the woman under him can take his full size. The vein on his cock showed only when he drew back, shiny, thick, and then it was gone again, buried. Her breasts moved in heavy circles. The chain jumped. His mouth closed on one nipple and pulled. She bit the pillow.
I stood behind the bathroom door with my forehead almost on the wood. My own body had gone hard without permission. The guilt was there. The heat was louder. I could smell her from here — sleep, last night’s perfume, and the new smell of sex that our small room had never held in the morning like this.
“Tell me who you belong to.”
“You.” She said it into the pillow first, then turned her face so he could hear it clearly. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop. I needed this more than the dinner. More than the box. More than the talk in front of Ammi.”
“And the boy?”
“He is my son.” Her voice broke on a thrust that went too deep. “That does not change. But this… this is not for him to stop. I tried to keep it outside. I tried to keep it in your kitchen. It is not staying outside. So take it here. Finish it here.”
He pulled out of her suddenly. She made a lost sound, as if the emptiness hurt. He turned her with both hands, easy, because he was stronger and because she let him. She went onto her elbows and knees on our bed. Her back was a long warm line. The waist he had held under the pallu last night was bare now. The full round shape of her seat was in the morning light. I still could not see between her legs from my angle. I saw only the dark hanging weight of her breasts, the chain swinging, and then him kneeling behind her and putting that thick veiny cock back into her in one long push.
She cried out.
He held her hips the way a man holds something he has paid for and also wanted. His thumbs pressed into the soft flesh. He fucked her like that — steady, deep, the sound wetter than before. The payal never stopped. Every thrust made the silver speak.
“This is how a woman should be used after she has been denying a man for days,” he said. He was not whispering anymore. He was keeping the volume just under a shout. “You wore my saree. You wore my silver. You sat two feet away and called me a guest. Now take the guest properly.”
“I am taking…” Her words came out in pieces, pushed out of her by his body. “I am taking it… Azad… you are so big from the back… it is going too far in…”
“That is the point.”
He reached forward and caught a handful of her hair, not cruel enough to hurt her neck, firm enough to lift her face. Her mouth was open. There was spit on her lower lip. Her eyes were almost closed.
“Look toward that bathroom,” he said.
“No.”
“Look.”
She looked.
I froze. I was sure she could see the dark of my eye in the gap. I was sure the morning had ended for me. But her eyes were unfocused. She was looking at the door, not through it. She was looking because he told her to.
“Your son is in there,” Azad Sahab said. “He has been listening to his mother get opened. Say sorry to him.”
“I am not going to say that.”
He thrust harder, punishing the refusal. Her whole body rocked. The old wooden frame protested.
“Then say the other thing. Say you like it.”
“I like it.” She said it at once, as if the harder thrust had knocked the truth loose. “I like it. I like how you hold me. I like how thick you are. I like that you do not ask like a boy. I like that you come and take. I should not like it this much. I still like it.”
“Good girl.”
The words landed on her like a hand. She shivered. Her arms weakened. She dropped from her elbows to her chest, ass still up, and he followed her down without leaving her body. The new angle made her moan into the mattress, raw and shameless. I had never heard that sound from her. Not in twenty-one years. Not in the kitchen last night. This was the hotel sound. This was the sound from the videos I was not supposed to have. It was in our room now, on our sheet, under our tube light that was still off.
He did not last in that position as long as the first. He pulled out again, turned her onto her back, and pushed her knees toward her own chest. Her breasts flattened and then spilled to the sides. He put himself back in with one look at the place I still could not see, and then he was covering her again, chest to chest, his mouth on hers to swallow the noise.
The bed knocked the wall.
Once. Twice.
“The neighbours,” she gasped into his mouth.
“Let them hear..give me what I came for and I will go.”
She nodded. She kissed him. She used her body. Her legs locked high on his back. She met every thrust. Sweat shone in the line between her breasts and at her temples. The bracelet slid up and down her wrist. She had become, in those minutes, the thing he wanted her to be — not the mother who packed pickle, not the woman who lit diyas, the other one, the one who said yes in a kitchen and then opened the door at dawn.
“I am close,” he said.
“Inside.” She said it without shame. “Do it inside. I will clean after. Just… just give it. I want to feel it. I have been empty since that night.”
He buried himself to the root and stayed there, grinding, the thick vein lost in her, his breath harsh in her hair. His body went tight. He made a low sound that was not words. She held his head and took it. I saw her face when he came — the small wince, then the softness, then the look of a woman who has been filled and is still hungry around it.
He did not pull out at once. He stayed in her, heavy, claiming the minutes after.
That was when he turned his head.
He looked straight at the bathroom door.
Straight at the slit.
Straight at me.
There was no surprise on his face. Only that one-sided smile, colder in the morning light than it had been at our dinner table. He moved his hips once more, slow, still inside her, so that she made a small helpless sound, and he spoke without lowering his voice.
“Come out, Sunny.”
My name in his mouth made the floor tilt.
“You stood there like a good boy and watched your mother take it. Don’t hide now. This is the new rent of this flat. Not seven thousand. This. Her, on this bed, whenever I walk up the stairs. She cooks your food with my seed still in her. Remember that when you eat your paratha. Remember who she opens for. Your father is gone. You are only the son. The man of this house comes from the ground floor.”
Ma did not stop him. She only turned her face toward the bathroom too, flushed, lips swollen, and smiled, almost wickedly.
He continued “Next time don’t close the door. If you want to learn how a woman is used, look properly. She is not hiding anymore.”
Then her voice came from somewhere else.
Not from the bed.
From above me.
“Sunny. Sunny, get up. It is late.”
The bed was not moving.
There was no pathani.
There was no wet sound.
There was only her hand on my shoulder, shaking once, and the ordinary creak of the mattress when she sat down on the edge.
I opened my eyes.
1 December 2025 – Monday
The grill held that first grey light that always comes before the real morning. The tube light was off. The night bulb near the bathroom was off too. Ma was on her side of the bed, turned toward the wall, one arm folded under the pillow. The old peach nighty had ridden up in her sleep. It sat at her knees. The cloth had twisted around her waist. I could see the soft skin of her calves and the full shape of her thighs. Higher, under the thin cotton, the heavy round shape of her breasts lay against the mattress, rising and falling with her breath. She had not put a bra on last night. I had seen that when she pulled the nighty over her head in the kitchen. In this light it was even clearer.
The payal made no sound because her feet were still.
I got up carefully so the mattress would not creak. I went to the bathroom. I closed the door as much as the weak latch allowed. I sat down to finish the morning work I always did first, before tea, before brushing, before anything else. I looked at the floor. I tried not to think about the green saree on the chair, or the two black bras, or the kitchen wall downstairs.
That was when I heard the sound from the main room.
A soft click. Then the heavier sound of the latch being turned from outside, as if someone who knew our lock had used a key. Then footsteps. Not hers. Heavier. A man’s weight on our thin floor.
I stopped.
My first thought was that I had not locked the door properly after last night. My second thought was worse.
I finished as fast as I could, pulled my pants up, and stood. I did not flush. I did not want the sound. I put my eye to the gap between the bathroom door and the frame, the same gap that had shown me too many things already.
The peach nighty was not on her.
Ma was on her back on our bed. The sheet was pushed down. She was bare. Completely bare except for the gold chain, the silver bracelet, and the payal on her ankles. The morning light from the grill fell across her stomach and the heavy soft weight of her breasts. They had spread a little with her lying down, the dark nipples tight in the cool air. Her hair was open on the pillow. Her knees were apart.
Azad Sahab was over her.
The black pathani from last night was half off. The top hung from one shoulder. The lower part was open. His chest was dark and broad. There was hair on it. His trousers were pushed down only as far as he needed. I could not see everything from the slit, but I could see enough. His body boxed her the same way it had boxed her against the fridge wall. One of his hands held her wrist above her head, against our pillow. The other hand was on her breast, not gentle, owning the weight of it.
Her arms were around him. Not pushing. Holding.
The payal rang when her feet moved.
I could not believe what I was seeing. It was morning. I was in the house. She knew I was in the house. Still she had taken the nighty off. Still she was lying under him on the same bed where I had slept three feet away.
“Azad… he is inside,” she whispered. Her voice was the same low voice from the kitchen last night. “The door is not even closed properly.”
“Then let him hear.” His voice was rough from sleep and from not sleeping enough. “You told the boy you accepted it. Accepted means this also. Not only dinner and tea.”
“I did not call you for this hour.”
“You opened the door.”
She did not have an answer for that. She only pulled him down by the back of his neck and kissed him the way she had kissed him against the fridge — mouth open, no small beginning. The sound of it carried across the folding table. Wet. Hungry. Her bangles clicked against his shoulder.
He broke the kiss and looked at her face.
“You did not sleep.”
“No.”
“Because of me.”
“Because of many things.” She lifted her hips a little, seeking him. “Don’t talk so much now. You said you waited since celebration. So take. But keep your voice down. Please.”
He laughed once, short, into her throat.
“You say please and then you open your legs like this. You know what you are.”
“I know.” Her breath caught when his hand left her breast and went lower. I could not see where his fingers went. The angle of his back blocked it. But I saw her mouth open. I saw her head tip back. I heard the small sound she tried to keep in her throat. “Azad… ah… not so hard”
His hand kept moving. The wet sound was faint but clear in the small room. “You are already like this. In the morning. After one kiss in my kitchen. Say it.”
“I am…” She bit her lip. The payal chimed as her feet flexed. “I am ready. You can feel it.”
“Say it.”
She turned her face toward the bathroom wall, toward me without knowing, or maybe knowing. Her eyes were half closed. There was colour on her throat, on her chest, on the upper curve of her breasts where his mouth had already been.
“I want you inside,” she said, very low. “I thought about it the whole night. I should not have. But I did. Now do it. Properly. The way you do. I can take it.”
He pushed the pathani further off his hips.
From the slit I saw him then.
His cock was already hard. It was thick, darker than the rest of him, with a heavy vein running along the side. The head was broad and wet. It stood up against the soft skin of her inner thigh. He took it in his fist and rubbed the head against her. I still could not see her pussy. His body and her thigh hid it. But I heard how wet she was. I heard the slide. I saw her stomach tighten.
“Look at you,” he said. “Widow of this building. Mother of that boy. And in the morning you are dripping for the man who collects your rent.”
“Don’t say it like that.”
“It is the truth.” He put the head in place. He did not push yet. He only held it there, letting her feel the size. “This is not a boy’s thing. You know that. You felt it in the hotel. You felt it on celebration night. Tell me you missed this.”
“I missed it.” The words came out of her as if they had been waiting. “I missed it too much. That is the problem. Now put it in. Slowly first. You are… you are a lot.”
He pushed.
Not all at once. The first inch made her gasp. Her hand left his neck and gripped the sheet. The gold chain lifted and fell in the hollow of her throat. He pushed again. Another inch. The vein disappeared into her. Her mouth opened without sound. Her knees came up. The payal rang twice, sharp.
“Take it,” he said. His voice had dropped into that flat command he used when he stopped asking. “This is what you kept postponing for neighbours and for your son’s clock. Take all of it.”
“I am taking… ah… Azad, wait… it is too deep like this…”
He did not wait the way she asked. He gave her a second, only a second, then he put his weight in and went to the base. I saw his stomach meet hers. I saw her whole body accept the length of him. Her breasts shook once. A thin sound left her, high and broken, the sound of a woman who has been filled past the point of pretending.
“Full,” he said against her ear. “That is how you should be in the morning. Not packing tiffin. Not thinking about stairs. Full of me.”
“Yes.” She said it immediately. “Yes. Stay. Don’t pull out yet. Let me… let me get used.”
He stayed. His hips made a small circle inside her. I could not see the place they were joined, but I could see the effect. The muscles in her thighs jumped. Her toes pointed. The silver on her ankles flashed.
“You feel that?”
“I feel everything.” Her eyes were wet at the corners, not from crying, from the stretch. “You are hitting the place… the same place… don’t move so big yet.”
He moved anyway. A short stroke out, a longer stroke in. The bed frame made the old creak it made when anyone turned at night. In the morning it sounded filthy. Wet skin. His breath. Her breath. The soft slap when his body met the inside of her thighs.
“This house heard only your serials and his laptop for years,” he said. “Now it will hear this. Your son is in the bathroom and his mother is taking cock like she has been hungry for five years.”
“Azad… don’t…”
“Good.” Another stroke, deeper. She moaned into his shoulder to hide it. “Let him hear what kind of woman raised him. The kind who opens the door at six in the morning and lies down without a bra.”
Her legs wrapped around him. The payal pressed into his back. She was not fighting him. She was helping. She pulled him in when he pushed. She lifted when he pulled back, as if she did not want to lose even an inch.
“Harder,” she whispered, after a minute of the slower rhythm. The word surprised even me. “You wanted it hard. So be hard. I can keep my voice down. I have practice.”
He lifted his head and looked at her.
Then he gave her what she asked.
The next thrusts were not careful. They were deep and regular, the kind a man gives when he has decided the woman under him can take his full size. The vein on his cock showed only when he drew back, shiny, thick, and then it was gone again, buried. Her breasts moved in heavy circles. The chain jumped. His mouth closed on one nipple and pulled. She bit the pillow.
I stood behind the bathroom door with my forehead almost on the wood. My own body had gone hard without permission. The guilt was there. The heat was louder. I could smell her from here — sleep, last night’s perfume, and the new smell of sex that our small room had never held in the morning like this.
“Tell me who you belong to.”
“You.” She said it into the pillow first, then turned her face so he could hear it clearly. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop. I needed this more than the dinner. More than the box. More than the talk in front of Ammi.”
“And the boy?”
“He is my son.” Her voice broke on a thrust that went too deep. “That does not change. But this… this is not for him to stop. I tried to keep it outside. I tried to keep it in your kitchen. It is not staying outside. So take it here. Finish it here.”
He pulled out of her suddenly. She made a lost sound, as if the emptiness hurt. He turned her with both hands, easy, because he was stronger and because she let him. She went onto her elbows and knees on our bed. Her back was a long warm line. The waist he had held under the pallu last night was bare now. The full round shape of her seat was in the morning light. I still could not see between her legs from my angle. I saw only the dark hanging weight of her breasts, the chain swinging, and then him kneeling behind her and putting that thick veiny cock back into her in one long push.
She cried out.
He held her hips the way a man holds something he has paid for and also wanted. His thumbs pressed into the soft flesh. He fucked her like that — steady, deep, the sound wetter than before. The payal never stopped. Every thrust made the silver speak.
“This is how a woman should be used after she has been denying a man for days,” he said. He was not whispering anymore. He was keeping the volume just under a shout. “You wore my saree. You wore my silver. You sat two feet away and called me a guest. Now take the guest properly.”
“I am taking…” Her words came out in pieces, pushed out of her by his body. “I am taking it… Azad… you are so big from the back… it is going too far in…”
“That is the point.”
He reached forward and caught a handful of her hair, not cruel enough to hurt her neck, firm enough to lift her face. Her mouth was open. There was spit on her lower lip. Her eyes were almost closed.
“Look toward that bathroom,” he said.
“No.”
“Look.”
She looked.
I froze. I was sure she could see the dark of my eye in the gap. I was sure the morning had ended for me. But her eyes were unfocused. She was looking at the door, not through it. She was looking because he told her to.
“Your son is in there,” Azad Sahab said. “He has been listening to his mother get opened. Say sorry to him.”
“I am not going to say that.”
He thrust harder, punishing the refusal. Her whole body rocked. The old wooden frame protested.
“Then say the other thing. Say you like it.”
“I like it.” She said it at once, as if the harder thrust had knocked the truth loose. “I like it. I like how you hold me. I like how thick you are. I like that you do not ask like a boy. I like that you come and take. I should not like it this much. I still like it.”
“Good girl.”
The words landed on her like a hand. She shivered. Her arms weakened. She dropped from her elbows to her chest, ass still up, and he followed her down without leaving her body. The new angle made her moan into the mattress, raw and shameless. I had never heard that sound from her. Not in twenty-one years. Not in the kitchen last night. This was the hotel sound. This was the sound from the videos I was not supposed to have. It was in our room now, on our sheet, under our tube light that was still off.
He did not last in that position as long as the first. He pulled out again, turned her onto her back, and pushed her knees toward her own chest. Her breasts flattened and then spilled to the sides. He put himself back in with one look at the place I still could not see, and then he was covering her again, chest to chest, his mouth on hers to swallow the noise.
The bed knocked the wall.
Once. Twice.
“The neighbours,” she gasped into his mouth.
“Let them hear..give me what I came for and I will go.”
She nodded. She kissed him. She used her body. Her legs locked high on his back. She met every thrust. Sweat shone in the line between her breasts and at her temples. The bracelet slid up and down her wrist. She had become, in those minutes, the thing he wanted her to be — not the mother who packed pickle, not the woman who lit diyas, the other one, the one who said yes in a kitchen and then opened the door at dawn.
“I am close,” he said.
“Inside.” She said it without shame. “Do it inside. I will clean after. Just… just give it. I want to feel it. I have been empty since that night.”
He buried himself to the root and stayed there, grinding, the thick vein lost in her, his breath harsh in her hair. His body went tight. He made a low sound that was not words. She held his head and took it. I saw her face when he came — the small wince, then the softness, then the look of a woman who has been filled and is still hungry around it.
He did not pull out at once. He stayed in her, heavy, claiming the minutes after.
That was when he turned his head.
He looked straight at the bathroom door.
Straight at the slit.
Straight at me.
There was no surprise on his face. Only that one-sided smile, colder in the morning light than it had been at our dinner table. He moved his hips once more, slow, still inside her, so that she made a small helpless sound, and he spoke without lowering his voice.
“Come out, Sunny.”
My name in his mouth made the floor tilt.
“You stood there like a good boy and watched your mother take it. Don’t hide now. This is the new rent of this flat. Not seven thousand. This. Her, on this bed, whenever I walk up the stairs. She cooks your food with my seed still in her. Remember that when you eat your paratha. Remember who she opens for. Your father is gone. You are only the son. The man of this house comes from the ground floor.”
Ma did not stop him. She only turned her face toward the bathroom too, flushed, lips swollen, and smiled, almost wickedly.
He continued “Next time don’t close the door. If you want to learn how a woman is used, look properly. She is not hiding anymore.”
Then her voice came from somewhere else.
Not from the bed.
From above me.
“Sunny. Sunny, get up. It is late.”
The bed was not moving.
There was no pathani.
There was no wet sound.
There was only her hand on my shoulder, shaking once, and the ordinary creak of the mattress when she sat down on the edge.
I opened my eyes.
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