11-09-2026, 10:49 PM
Chapter 27 (Continued)
3 December, 2025
“Sunny. Sunny beta, get up.”
My name.
The ordinary voice. The tea voice. The college voice. The voice that has pulled me out of this bed for years.
I made the yawn first.
Too big. I cut it and made a smaller one. I rubbed my face with both hands and sat up as if the room had only now become a room. She was at the kitchen edge, one hand on the curtain, looking at me the way she looks when the clock has already started and the son is still in yesterday.
“Good Morning,” I said. My voice came out thick. I let it. Sleep can take the blame for that.
“Good Morning beta. Get up. Tea is almost ready.”
I looked at her properly, the way a son is allowed to look. Saree. Light green blouse. Pallu pinned. Head towel still packed, a few wet curls at the temple where the towel had loosened. Kajal already done. The gold chain. The silver bracelet. The payal. She looked like a woman who had decided to be ready before the lane woke.
“You bathed so early today?” I said. I put surprise in it. Real surprise was not hard. She usually did the headwash later, after I left, or on Sunday when the whole morning belonged to her.
“Yes.” She went back to the board. The knife started again. “Got up early only. Eyes opened and sleep did not come back. Thought, finish the bath first.”
I put my feet down. The floor was cool. I kept sitting so the pants would not speak.
“Back is fine now?”
She made a small sound, not quite a laugh. “That is why I bathed. Hot water. Now it is feeling good. Energetic only. I am fine now.”
Energetic.
The word sat on the onion smell.
“Okay,” I said.
“Go, brush. Tea will get cold.”
I stood.
I turned a little toward the almirah first, enough to hide the front of the pants, and took the towel from the chair. I held it in front of me like a person who is only carrying a towel into the bathroom. She did not look up from the board. The knife kept time.
The bathroom was still warm.
Steam on the upper tile. The bucket was half full. The maroon blouse was in the bucket, pushed down with yesterday’s cotton, already dark with water. She must have dropped them in before the tap started. The smell in here was soap and her shampoo and a little of the balm that heat had lifted off her skin and left on the air.
I closed the door as far as the weak latch allowed.
I opened the tap so the water would cover sound. I brushed first because if I did not brush I would taste last night’s sleep through whatever came next. Paste. The cheap mint. I spat. I rinsed. I looked at my face in the small mirror. It looked like a person who had been awake for an hour and was pretending it was five minutes.
I could not hold it.
Yesterday’s navel moving when she breathed. The clean underarms on the bed, both arms up, the sleeveless cut leaving them open to the tube light. This morning’s bare back. The lotion on her ass. The side of her breast. The dark nipple. The panty. The dark blue lace hooking.
I put my back to the wall where I could still see the gap.
If the gap went dark, if her feet came, the payal would warn me. That was the thought. The same thought as Monday morning.
I pulled the grey pants down.
My dick came out already wet at the head. Hard enough that the first touch of air made my stomach jump. I looked at it because I always look at it now. I cannot help it.
It is not small in a joke way. It is a normal young man’s dick. It fills a fist. It stands. It has been enough for my own hand for years.
But it is significantly smaller than what I saw in that hotel video.
That sentence has been living in me since the night I unlocked her phone and did not stop the file in time. White sheets. Her hair fallen forward. Her mouth on him. The way her fingers could not close all the way around the base. The thick vein. The broad head. The sound she made when she tried to take more and had to come off and go down again. I had watched it twice and then locked the phone and sat on the closed lid of this same toilet and hated my own body for getting hard at my mother’s mouth on another man’s dick.
Ever since that day the comparison sits ready.
In the bathroom at dawn. At the office desk. On the bike. In this fist.
His was a man’s. Heavy. Darker. The kind that makes a woman’s wrist look smaller. Mine looks like what it is — twenty-one, used only by me, never inside anyone.
I spat in my palm and I started stroking.
Harder than Monday.
I did not try to be kind to it. I wanted it over. I wanted the heat out of my stomach before I had to sit across the folding table and drink tea she had made with the same hands that had just gone over her own breasts. I kept my eyes on the gap. The curtain of the kitchen was a paler strip beyond the wood. I could hear the knife. I could hear her humming stop and start.
The pictures would not come in order.
The towel ending at her upper thighs. The tuck working too hard. The drop of water running to the payal. The curtain and her naked back. That ass. The raised arm. The dark nipple in the side light. Her palm spreading lotion over the cheek of her own seat as if it were only skin. The hotel. Her lips stretched. The wet sound. The way she had looked up once, toward him or toward the phone I still do not know. Monday’s shut windows. The two tied condoms in our bin, heavy, more cum in each than I make in a full finish. His seed in rubber in our house. My hand on my smaller dick while her yesterday clothes sat in the bucket two feet away.
I did not pick anything up.
I did not put my face near the bucket. I did not touch the maroon blouse. The thought came and I pushed it down with the same fist I was using. That line was still there. Watching was already a theft. Taking her cloth into this would be something I would not come back from in the same morning.
I stroked faster.
My other hand went to the wall. The tile was wet. My mouth opened and I shut it. A sound stayed in my throat. I thought of her standing at the mirror with kajal while I did this ten feet away. I thought of the word energetic. I thought of her looking back at the bed. Had she seen. Had the snore been enough. Had she stood there knowing.
I came hard.
It jumped in my fist and kept going, more than I wanted, spilling over my fingers and onto the wet tile near the bucket. For two or three seconds there was only the body’s stupid relief. My knees went loose. I bit the inside of my cheek and waited for the last pulse to finish.
The comparison did not leave.
Even in the finish it was there. A few pulses. A young man’s amount. Not the weight I had lifted out of the dustbin. Not the amount that had made the rubber hang.
I washed.
I washed again. I used soap on my hand three times. I opened the tap fuller and pushed the white off the tile with my foot until the floor looked only like bath water. I took off the grey pants fully, took off the inner, and stood under the mug. Cold first. Then a little from the bucket she had left. I put toothpaste in my mouth a second time even though I had already brushed. I did not want any taste that belonged to the last five minutes.
The guilt came.
It came. I will not say it did not.
It did not sit down the way it did on Monday.
Monday morning I had walked out of this bathroom feeling like I had dirtied the shirt she had ironed. Today the guilt stood, looked at me, and did not pull a chair. Maybe because I had already done it once and the second time is lighter. Maybe because she had stood naked in our kitchen and hummed. Maybe because the body does not care about the word Ma when it has been shown a thing and told to sleep through it. I wrapped the towel at my waist. I picked up the grey pants and the inner and I did not look at the bucket again.
I opened the door.
The flat felt cooler after the bathroom. The onion had gone into oil. Jeera. The first tadka smell of the day. She was not at the stove.
She was on the bed.
Sitting on her side, the new saree tucked carefully so it would not crease, the head towel still packed, the light green blouse holding her chest in that clean sleeveless line. She had her phone in both hands. The glass was black. She pressed the side button. Pressed it longer. The red light of her cheap charger was on at the folding table, the wire stretching to the socket near the wall. She pulled the wire, looked at the pin, pushed it in again as if a tighter push would wake a dead thing.
The moment I came out she looked up.
Her eyes went to the towel at my waist and then to my face and then back to the phone, fast. Not a long look. A mother’s look that has already moved on to the next problem.
“This phone is not working since morning,” she said.
The panic was under it. Not loud. Not a cry. The small panic of a person whose whole day now lives in a black glass.
“I put it on charge also, see.” She turned the phone so I could see the black. “Whole night it was on charge. In the morning also I put. It is not coming back. Nothing. Not even the battery picture.”
I stood there in the towel, hair wet, the smell of soap still on me, and I felt the other heat try to rise again only because she was sitting on the same sheet with her pallu a little loose at the shoulder. I walked to the bed before that thought could grow a body.
“Show me, let me check,” I said.
She put it in my hand. Our fingers touched. Her skin was still cool from the lotion. Mine was warm from the tap.
I pressed the side button. Nothing. I pressed the side button and the volume together, as shown in youtube videos. Nothing. I tapped the back with two fingers, not hard, the stupid tap people do when they have already accepted it is dead. The glass stayed dead.
“See,” she said. Her voice went thinner. “I told you. Only two years old and already this drama. Yesterday also it died in the evening. Now morning also. If someone is calling, how will I know. If…”
She cut herself.
She did not say his name.
She did not have to.
I looked at her charger. The red light was on. The wire was the old one, the one that gets warm if it stays in too long. I pulled her phone off that wire.
“Wait,” I said. “Yours maybe is gone. Try mine.”
My charger was on the floor on my side, near the socket I use for the laptop. I sat on the edge of the bed in the towel and bent. The towel opened a little at my thigh. I did not adjust it in a hurry. I did not want the hurry to look like anything. I plugged her dead phone into my charger.
The pin went in.
I left it there.
3 December, 2025
“Sunny. Sunny beta, get up.”
My name.
The ordinary voice. The tea voice. The college voice. The voice that has pulled me out of this bed for years.
I made the yawn first.
Too big. I cut it and made a smaller one. I rubbed my face with both hands and sat up as if the room had only now become a room. She was at the kitchen edge, one hand on the curtain, looking at me the way she looks when the clock has already started and the son is still in yesterday.
“Good Morning,” I said. My voice came out thick. I let it. Sleep can take the blame for that.
“Good Morning beta. Get up. Tea is almost ready.”
I looked at her properly, the way a son is allowed to look. Saree. Light green blouse. Pallu pinned. Head towel still packed, a few wet curls at the temple where the towel had loosened. Kajal already done. The gold chain. The silver bracelet. The payal. She looked like a woman who had decided to be ready before the lane woke.
“You bathed so early today?” I said. I put surprise in it. Real surprise was not hard. She usually did the headwash later, after I left, or on Sunday when the whole morning belonged to her.
“Yes.” She went back to the board. The knife started again. “Got up early only. Eyes opened and sleep did not come back. Thought, finish the bath first.”
I put my feet down. The floor was cool. I kept sitting so the pants would not speak.
“Back is fine now?”
She made a small sound, not quite a laugh. “That is why I bathed. Hot water. Now it is feeling good. Energetic only. I am fine now.”
Energetic.
The word sat on the onion smell.
“Okay,” I said.
“Go, brush. Tea will get cold.”
I stood.
I turned a little toward the almirah first, enough to hide the front of the pants, and took the towel from the chair. I held it in front of me like a person who is only carrying a towel into the bathroom. She did not look up from the board. The knife kept time.
The bathroom was still warm.
Steam on the upper tile. The bucket was half full. The maroon blouse was in the bucket, pushed down with yesterday’s cotton, already dark with water. She must have dropped them in before the tap started. The smell in here was soap and her shampoo and a little of the balm that heat had lifted off her skin and left on the air.
I closed the door as far as the weak latch allowed.
I opened the tap so the water would cover sound. I brushed first because if I did not brush I would taste last night’s sleep through whatever came next. Paste. The cheap mint. I spat. I rinsed. I looked at my face in the small mirror. It looked like a person who had been awake for an hour and was pretending it was five minutes.
I could not hold it.
Yesterday’s navel moving when she breathed. The clean underarms on the bed, both arms up, the sleeveless cut leaving them open to the tube light. This morning’s bare back. The lotion on her ass. The side of her breast. The dark nipple. The panty. The dark blue lace hooking.
I put my back to the wall where I could still see the gap.
If the gap went dark, if her feet came, the payal would warn me. That was the thought. The same thought as Monday morning.
I pulled the grey pants down.
My dick came out already wet at the head. Hard enough that the first touch of air made my stomach jump. I looked at it because I always look at it now. I cannot help it.
It is not small in a joke way. It is a normal young man’s dick. It fills a fist. It stands. It has been enough for my own hand for years.
But it is significantly smaller than what I saw in that hotel video.
That sentence has been living in me since the night I unlocked her phone and did not stop the file in time. White sheets. Her hair fallen forward. Her mouth on him. The way her fingers could not close all the way around the base. The thick vein. The broad head. The sound she made when she tried to take more and had to come off and go down again. I had watched it twice and then locked the phone and sat on the closed lid of this same toilet and hated my own body for getting hard at my mother’s mouth on another man’s dick.
Ever since that day the comparison sits ready.
In the bathroom at dawn. At the office desk. On the bike. In this fist.
His was a man’s. Heavy. Darker. The kind that makes a woman’s wrist look smaller. Mine looks like what it is — twenty-one, used only by me, never inside anyone.
I spat in my palm and I started stroking.
Harder than Monday.
I did not try to be kind to it. I wanted it over. I wanted the heat out of my stomach before I had to sit across the folding table and drink tea she had made with the same hands that had just gone over her own breasts. I kept my eyes on the gap. The curtain of the kitchen was a paler strip beyond the wood. I could hear the knife. I could hear her humming stop and start.
The pictures would not come in order.
The towel ending at her upper thighs. The tuck working too hard. The drop of water running to the payal. The curtain and her naked back. That ass. The raised arm. The dark nipple in the side light. Her palm spreading lotion over the cheek of her own seat as if it were only skin. The hotel. Her lips stretched. The wet sound. The way she had looked up once, toward him or toward the phone I still do not know. Monday’s shut windows. The two tied condoms in our bin, heavy, more cum in each than I make in a full finish. His seed in rubber in our house. My hand on my smaller dick while her yesterday clothes sat in the bucket two feet away.
I did not pick anything up.
I did not put my face near the bucket. I did not touch the maroon blouse. The thought came and I pushed it down with the same fist I was using. That line was still there. Watching was already a theft. Taking her cloth into this would be something I would not come back from in the same morning.
I stroked faster.
My other hand went to the wall. The tile was wet. My mouth opened and I shut it. A sound stayed in my throat. I thought of her standing at the mirror with kajal while I did this ten feet away. I thought of the word energetic. I thought of her looking back at the bed. Had she seen. Had the snore been enough. Had she stood there knowing.
I came hard.
It jumped in my fist and kept going, more than I wanted, spilling over my fingers and onto the wet tile near the bucket. For two or three seconds there was only the body’s stupid relief. My knees went loose. I bit the inside of my cheek and waited for the last pulse to finish.
The comparison did not leave.
Even in the finish it was there. A few pulses. A young man’s amount. Not the weight I had lifted out of the dustbin. Not the amount that had made the rubber hang.
I washed.
I washed again. I used soap on my hand three times. I opened the tap fuller and pushed the white off the tile with my foot until the floor looked only like bath water. I took off the grey pants fully, took off the inner, and stood under the mug. Cold first. Then a little from the bucket she had left. I put toothpaste in my mouth a second time even though I had already brushed. I did not want any taste that belonged to the last five minutes.
The guilt came.
It came. I will not say it did not.
It did not sit down the way it did on Monday.
Monday morning I had walked out of this bathroom feeling like I had dirtied the shirt she had ironed. Today the guilt stood, looked at me, and did not pull a chair. Maybe because I had already done it once and the second time is lighter. Maybe because she had stood naked in our kitchen and hummed. Maybe because the body does not care about the word Ma when it has been shown a thing and told to sleep through it. I wrapped the towel at my waist. I picked up the grey pants and the inner and I did not look at the bucket again.
I opened the door.
The flat felt cooler after the bathroom. The onion had gone into oil. Jeera. The first tadka smell of the day. She was not at the stove.
She was on the bed.
Sitting on her side, the new saree tucked carefully so it would not crease, the head towel still packed, the light green blouse holding her chest in that clean sleeveless line. She had her phone in both hands. The glass was black. She pressed the side button. Pressed it longer. The red light of her cheap charger was on at the folding table, the wire stretching to the socket near the wall. She pulled the wire, looked at the pin, pushed it in again as if a tighter push would wake a dead thing.
The moment I came out she looked up.
Her eyes went to the towel at my waist and then to my face and then back to the phone, fast. Not a long look. A mother’s look that has already moved on to the next problem.
“This phone is not working since morning,” she said.
The panic was under it. Not loud. Not a cry. The small panic of a person whose whole day now lives in a black glass.
“I put it on charge also, see.” She turned the phone so I could see the black. “Whole night it was on charge. In the morning also I put. It is not coming back. Nothing. Not even the battery picture.”
I stood there in the towel, hair wet, the smell of soap still on me, and I felt the other heat try to rise again only because she was sitting on the same sheet with her pallu a little loose at the shoulder. I walked to the bed before that thought could grow a body.
“Show me, let me check,” I said.
She put it in my hand. Our fingers touched. Her skin was still cool from the lotion. Mine was warm from the tap.
I pressed the side button. Nothing. I pressed the side button and the volume together, as shown in youtube videos. Nothing. I tapped the back with two fingers, not hard, the stupid tap people do when they have already accepted it is dead. The glass stayed dead.
“See,” she said. Her voice went thinner. “I told you. Only two years old and already this drama. Yesterday also it died in the evening. Now morning also. If someone is calling, how will I know. If…”
She cut herself.
She did not say his name.
She did not have to.
I looked at her charger. The red light was on. The wire was the old one, the one that gets warm if it stays in too long. I pulled her phone off that wire.
“Wait,” I said. “Yours maybe is gone. Try mine.”
My charger was on the floor on my side, near the socket I use for the laptop. I sat on the edge of the bed in the towel and bent. The towel opened a little at my thigh. I did not adjust it in a hurry. I did not want the hurry to look like anything. I plugged her dead phone into my charger.
The pin went in.
I left it there.
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