23-10-2026, 08:18 PM
Chapter 29 - Dinner
December 06, 2025
The tube light was still off. Ma had been lying on her side for more than an hour, one palm resting on her stomach, the other tucked under her cheek. I had stayed on the wooden seat under the window, phone in my hand, watching the follower count on her new post climb another twenty and then stopping myself from opening the photographs again.
At a little past five she opened her eyes and blinked at the grill.
“Sunny.” Her voice was thick. “What time is it?”
“Five-ten.”
She sat up slowly. The cream kameez had ridden high again; a wide band of stomach showed above the green salwar, soft and unmarked except for the faint line the net saree had left the night before. She pushed the cloth down without looking at me and rubbed her eyes with the back of her wrist.
“Tea,” she said. “I will make it. You must be hungry also. We did not eat anything proper after poha.”
She stood. The movement pulled at her lower back; I saw the small wince before she straightened. In the kitchen corner she filled the vessel and waited with one hand braced on the counter while the water heated. The old peach nighty she had changed into after the cream was still on her. No bra. The thin cotton clung where she had sweated against the sheet.
When the tea was ready she brought both glasses to the folding table and sat on the corner nearest me, the way she had in the morning. The nighty pulled across her chest when she leaned to push the sugar bowl closer. She took a sip, set the glass down, and pressed her lower back again.
“It is still burning,” she said. “The marks. And the back is pulling every time I stand. The cream helped for some time. Now it is the same.”
“You can stay here,” I said. “I will go down and tell Ammi you are not well. She will understand.”
Ma looked at the glass. Her thumb moved once along the rim. “No. Azad Sahab messaged in the morning. His maid is not coming. He told me to cook something simple for Ammi. If I stay up here after saying yes, it will look like I am making a story. He will also not like that. And you know how short tempered he is, so I don't even want to spoil his mood.”
She finished the tea in small sips. When the glass was empty she stood, rinsed both, and went to the almirah. From the lower shelf she took out the old light-blue salwar kameez she used to wear for the market before the new clothes started. The cloth was soft, almost thin at the elbows. She held it against herself, looked at it, then at me.
“This one,” she said. “In front of Ammi. The other sarees… she will say something. Better this. Plain.”
She changed behind the thin curtain. I heard the nighty come off, the small sound of the salwar being stepped into, the kameez pulled over her head. When she stepped out the neckline sat high enough to cover most of the bite. No lipstick. No kajal. Hair tied back with the same rubber band. She looked smaller than she had in the black net saree. She also looked tired in a way the party clothes had hidden.
“Ready?” she asked.
I nodded. We locked the door and went down. At the ground floor Ma pressed the bell once, waited, then pressed it again. After the third ring the latch moved from inside.
Ammi opened the door. She was shorter than Ma, thinner through the shoulders, grey hair pulled tight at the nape. Her eyes moved from Ma’s face to the light-blue kameez, then to me, then back to Ma. She did not smile.
“Come,” she said. “Azad told me. He said you would cook.”
We stepped inside. The living room smelled of the same medicinal ointment I had noticed the night I watched from the bushes, and of something older underneath—wood polish and closed windows. Ammi walked ahead and sat in the wooden armchair near the window. She did not offer water. Ma stood for a second near the sofa, then sat on the edge, hands in her lap. I remained standing until Ammi pointed at the plastic chair opposite her.
“Sit, beta,” she said. “How is your new job going on?”
“It is going well, ammi,” I said. “New. Meetings. The usual.”
She nodded as if the answer had already been filed. “Good. Boys should work. Sitting at home is not good. Your mother also used to work. Hotel, parlour. Now she has time.” She looked at Ma. “Azad called in the morning, he said you would come to cook dinner. He also mentioned that you are having some back pain.”
“Yes Ammi. Since morning,” Ma said. Her voice was careful, the way it got when she was measuring each word. “I took the medicine. It is a little better when I sit. Standing is a little difficult.”
“Hmm.” Ammi adjusted the pallu on her shoulder. “Yesterday was the big function, no? Taj. Azad told me in the morning. Dhiraj Malhotra’s anniversary. How was it? Many people?”
Ma’s fingers tightened once in her lap. “It was… crowded. Speeches. Food. We came back late. Azad Sahab knew most of them. I only stood.”
Ammi’s eyes stayed on her. “I saw you when you were leaving. Near the gate. Full dressing. Hair, makeup, that black saree. The blouse was… open. From the back also, I think. Building has eyes, Anjali. Everyone would have seen you get into the car like that.”
Ma’s shoulders had gone still. She glanced at me, then back at Ammi. Colour had risen under the bite. “Ammi… the function had a dress code. Azad Sahab said the clothes should look proper. He chose the blouse. I wore what he asked.”
Ammi gave a short breath. Not quite a laugh. “So if tomorrow he says wear nothing and come down, you will wear nothing? Is that the rule now? He says, you do?”
Ma’s mouth opened. For a second no sound came. Then the words arrived tighter than before. “Ammi, what are you saying? Please. Sunny is sitting here. Do not talk like this in front of him.”
“So what?” Ammi said. She did not raise her voice. The chair creaked when she shifted. “He lives in the same room. He sees the marks on your neck. He hears the building. I am only saying what I saw with my own eyes. You did not look like a woman who has a grown son. You looked like those women who stand outside hotels and smile for photographs. I have lived in this building for thirty years. I know the difference.”
Ma’s eyes had gone wet at the corners. She did not wipe them. Her hands stayed clasped. “I wore what was required for one evening. If it was wrong, Azad Sahab can tell me himself. I am not going to sit here and discuss my clothes while my son is listening. Please ammi.”
Ammi studied her for a long moment. The television was on low in the corner. Then she sat back.
“Anyway. The reason you are here is food. Chicken is in the fridge. Make a simple curry. Not too much oil. And egg fry—two eggs for me. I will have two rotis and a little rice. You both can also eat. Azad will be late, so we will not wait for him.”
Ma stood. She did not answer. Her face had closed. She walked toward the kitchen without looking at either of us. The light-blue kameez moved against her back. I heard the fridge door open, then the sound of a steel bowl set on the counter.
Ammi turned to me. “You do not eat meat?”
“No, Ammi.”
“Why? At your age you should eat. Look at Azad. He eats everything. Chicken, mutton, whatever is made. That is why he has energy for so much work. You will also become weak if you only eat vegetables.” She raised her voice toward the kitchen without turning her head. “Make something for the boy also. Aloo or whatever is there. Do not only cook non-veg.”
From the kitchen came the short sound of a knife striking the board. Ma did not reply.
I sat down. Ammi put the remote in my hand and asked me to change the channel if I wanted to. I changed it to a sports channel. I watched because the alternative was watching Ammi’s face or listening to the small, careful sounds Ma was making with the vessels. Ammi stayed in the armchair, one hand resting on the wooden arm, eyes half on the match and half on the kitchen doorway. Every few minutes she called an instruction in the same flat tone.
“Cut the onion smaller. Last time the pieces were big.”
“Less chilli in the curry. My stomach does not take much now.”
“The eggs should be soft in the middle. Not dry.”
Each time Ma answered with a short “Haan, Ammi” that did not carry any heat. I could hear the gas clicking on, water running, the dull thud of the chicken being moved from one bowl to another. After twenty minutes I stood and walked to the kitchen doorway.
Ma was at the counter, back to me. The light-blue kameez had stuck slightly at her lower back from the heat of the stove. One hand kept returning to press the sore place while the other held the knife. The chicken was already marinating in a steel bowl. She had started chopping tomatoes.
“Ma,” I said, keeping my voice low. “I can cut the rest. You sit for five minutes. Your back—”
Ammi’s voice came from the hall before I finished. “What are you doing there, beta? Come out. Men do not stand in the kitchen. Let her do the work. She knows how.”
I stayed in the doorway. “She has been saying since morning that the back is paining, Ammi. I can help with the cutting. It is not much.”
Ammi appeared behind me. She looked past my shoulder at Ma, then at me. Her mouth had thinned. “She was well enough yesterday to stand in high heels and that open blouse. Makeup, hair, everything. Today one small cooking for an old woman and already the face is heavy. I know these dramas.”
Ma turned. The knife was still in her right hand. Her eyes were wet again, but the voice that came out was steady. “Beta, please go and sit. I do not want any tamasha in this house. Azad Sahab will not like it if he hears. I will finish the food. You go.”
I looked at her. She gave a small, almost invisible shake of the head. I stepped back into the hall. Ammi followed and returned to the armchair. On the screen the batsman had been given out. Neither of us spoke for a long time.
The cooking took another forty minutes. I heard the pressure cooker whistle once, the sound of rotis being turned on the tawa, the heavier smell of chicken curry moving through the flat and mixing with the ointment smell that never quite left the room. Ma came out once to ask which plates Ammi wanted. Ammi pointed at the steel ones in the rack without getting up. When everything was ready Ma carried two plates to the small dining table. One held two rotis, a little rice, chicken curry, and two pieces of egg fry. The other held aloo sabzi and two rotis. She set them down and remained standing near the kitchen door, wiping her hands on a cloth.
Ammi came to the table, sat, and began to eat. She tasted the curry, nodded once to herself, and said nothing. I sat opposite her because the plate was there. Ma stayed on her feet. When Ammi had finished half the rice she looked up.
“You also eat,” she said to Ma. “Then wash everything. The maid may not come tomorrow morning also. I do not like plates left in the sink. By morning they start smelling and the ants come.”
Ma took a plate for herself, served a small portion of aloo and one roti, and sat at the far end of the table. She ate quickly, without looking at either of us. When she was done she collected all three plates and carried them to the sink. The water ran for a long time. I heard the scrubbing, the clink of steel against steel, the sound of her shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Ammi did not speak again until Ma came out drying her hands on the same cloth.
“Finished,” Ma said. Her voice was flat. “We will go now.”
Ammi looked at her, then at me. The expression that arrived for me was different—smaller, almost pleasant. “Keep coming, Sunny beta. You are a quiet boy. That is good.” She opened the small fridge near the television, took out a silk chocolate still in its gold wrapper, and held it out. “Take it.”
I looked at Ma. She was already at the door, one hand pressed to her lower back, the light-blue kameez creased across the stomach. Ma nodded with heavy expression. I took the chocolate. “Thank you, Ammi.”
We stepped into the corridor. The door closed behind us with a soft click. On the stairs Ma walked slowly. By the second flight her breathing had gone shallow. She stopped once on the landing, palm flat against the wall, and waited until the pull in her back eased enough to continue. I stayed half a step behind. Neither of us spoke until we were inside our flat and the latch was down.
She went straight to the kitchen corner, pulled the light-blue kameez over her head without turning on the tube light, and changed into the old peach nighty. The thin cotton settled over her. She did not put on a bra. When she came back to the bed her face was closed in a way I had not seen since the morning after Sunita. She sat, then lay on her side facing the wall, the same position she had used all afternoon.
I sat on the edge of the mattress. “I told you not to go down. She talks to you like you are hired for the day. I do not like hearing it.”
She turned her head. The bite caught the low light from the grill. Her eyes were dry now, but the voice that came out was sharp. “Just shut up, Sunny. It is none of your business what she says or what I do downstairs. I know what I am doing. You do not have to stand there and teach me every time something happens. Everybody in this building wants to give lessons. You also now. Please stop it. And let me sleep.”
The words landed clean. My throat tightened. I looked at the sheet between us. “I am sorry, Ma.”
She did not answer. She pulled the sheet up to her waist, reached for her phone, glanced at the screen, made a small sound that was almost a tired chuckle, and set it face down on the mattress. Then she closed her eyes.
I lay on my side. The gap between us was the usual width. Outside, a scooter passed and was gone. I opened reels and let them play without sound. At some point the phone in my hand grew heavy. I must have closed my eyes.
The ringtone pulled me back just after ten. Ma answered on the second ring and walked to the kitchen. I kept my breathing even and my eyes shut. Her voice started low, careful.
“Haan… you are staying there for the night? Ohh, had dinner?”
Azad’s voice came through warmer than hers, the register he used when he wanted to pull her out of a mood. I could not take every sentence, but the shape was clear. He was talking about the Instagram photographs. How clean Kunal had made the light. How the deep V had come out exactly the way he had wanted. How many people had already liked the post. How he had been thinking about the way she had looked in the hall while he was travelling.
Ma answered in short pieces at first. “Hmm. I saw. Kunal sent them. … Yes. … Leave it, Azad Sahab.”
He asked what had happened. She said leave it again. He did not leave it. Her voice tightened, still low so it would not carry past the kitchen.
“Ammi,” she said. “She saw me yesterday near the gate when we were leaving. She waited until we were inside and then she asked what I was wearing. In front of Sunny. She said the blouse was open from the back. She said if tomorrow you tell me to go without clothes, will I go. I did not know what to answer. Then the whole time I was cooking she sat in the hall and kept calling instructions. Smaller onion. Less oil. Soft eggs. I finished the curry, the eggs, the rotis, the aloo. I washed every plate. She did not say one word of thanks.”
There was a pause long enough for the fridge to click on. When Azad spoke again the warmth had thinned.
“Anjali. I already told you how Ammi is. She is old. She talks like this with everyone. You knew before you went down. I cannot sit in a hotel room in Pune and solve what she said about a blouse. You are not a girl. You can handle one evening of her talking and still cook the food.”
Ma’s voice went smaller. “I am not asking you to solve it from there. I am only telling you what happened because you asked. My back is still paining. She gave a full list and watched the whole time. And she said those things about the clothes while Sunny was sitting in the same room. I do not know how to answer that without making it bigger.”
“I did not call to listen to the full list,” he said. The edge was clear now. “I was on the road since morning. You cannot even keep this much inside until I am back? Do the cooking, finish the plates, come upstairs. Do not stand there and give her sentences she can answer. That is all I am saying.”
“Azad Sahab… please. Do not talk to me like that. I am not fighting. I am only—”
A longer silence. When he spoke again the sharpness had been pulled back, not removed.
“Then understand, na. Leave her. You know how she is. I told you in the beginning she would say things. You cook, you wash, you come up. Do not keep discussing with her. Do not discuss me with her. And listen—I bought something for you today. After the meeting. A Puneri saree. Heavy border, good silk. The colour is deep maroon, almost the same as the one you wore for the pooja. It will suit you. Forget what Ammi said tonight. Sleep. I will call in the morning.”
Ma was quiet for several seconds. I heard her shift her weight against the counter. “Hmm. Okay. The saree… thank you.”
The call ended. She stayed in the kitchen. I heard the soft, uneven sound of her breath, then nothing for a long stretch. Water ran once, briefly, as if she had washed her face or simply needed the noise. When she finally came back to the bed the tube light was still off. She lay down on her side without speaking, pulled the sheet to her waist, and turned her face to the wall. Her shoulders moved once, a small tight motion, then went still. I kept my eyes closed. The fan turned over both of us. The chocolate in my pocket had gone soft from the heat of my leg. I did not take it out.
December 06, 2025
The tube light was still off. Ma had been lying on her side for more than an hour, one palm resting on her stomach, the other tucked under her cheek. I had stayed on the wooden seat under the window, phone in my hand, watching the follower count on her new post climb another twenty and then stopping myself from opening the photographs again.
At a little past five she opened her eyes and blinked at the grill.
“Sunny.” Her voice was thick. “What time is it?”
“Five-ten.”
She sat up slowly. The cream kameez had ridden high again; a wide band of stomach showed above the green salwar, soft and unmarked except for the faint line the net saree had left the night before. She pushed the cloth down without looking at me and rubbed her eyes with the back of her wrist.
“Tea,” she said. “I will make it. You must be hungry also. We did not eat anything proper after poha.”
She stood. The movement pulled at her lower back; I saw the small wince before she straightened. In the kitchen corner she filled the vessel and waited with one hand braced on the counter while the water heated. The old peach nighty she had changed into after the cream was still on her. No bra. The thin cotton clung where she had sweated against the sheet.
When the tea was ready she brought both glasses to the folding table and sat on the corner nearest me, the way she had in the morning. The nighty pulled across her chest when she leaned to push the sugar bowl closer. She took a sip, set the glass down, and pressed her lower back again.
“It is still burning,” she said. “The marks. And the back is pulling every time I stand. The cream helped for some time. Now it is the same.”
“You can stay here,” I said. “I will go down and tell Ammi you are not well. She will understand.”
Ma looked at the glass. Her thumb moved once along the rim. “No. Azad Sahab messaged in the morning. His maid is not coming. He told me to cook something simple for Ammi. If I stay up here after saying yes, it will look like I am making a story. He will also not like that. And you know how short tempered he is, so I don't even want to spoil his mood.”
She finished the tea in small sips. When the glass was empty she stood, rinsed both, and went to the almirah. From the lower shelf she took out the old light-blue salwar kameez she used to wear for the market before the new clothes started. The cloth was soft, almost thin at the elbows. She held it against herself, looked at it, then at me.
“This one,” she said. “In front of Ammi. The other sarees… she will say something. Better this. Plain.”
She changed behind the thin curtain. I heard the nighty come off, the small sound of the salwar being stepped into, the kameez pulled over her head. When she stepped out the neckline sat high enough to cover most of the bite. No lipstick. No kajal. Hair tied back with the same rubber band. She looked smaller than she had in the black net saree. She also looked tired in a way the party clothes had hidden.
“Ready?” she asked.
I nodded. We locked the door and went down. At the ground floor Ma pressed the bell once, waited, then pressed it again. After the third ring the latch moved from inside.
Ammi opened the door. She was shorter than Ma, thinner through the shoulders, grey hair pulled tight at the nape. Her eyes moved from Ma’s face to the light-blue kameez, then to me, then back to Ma. She did not smile.
“Come,” she said. “Azad told me. He said you would cook.”
We stepped inside. The living room smelled of the same medicinal ointment I had noticed the night I watched from the bushes, and of something older underneath—wood polish and closed windows. Ammi walked ahead and sat in the wooden armchair near the window. She did not offer water. Ma stood for a second near the sofa, then sat on the edge, hands in her lap. I remained standing until Ammi pointed at the plastic chair opposite her.
“Sit, beta,” she said. “How is your new job going on?”
“It is going well, ammi,” I said. “New. Meetings. The usual.”
She nodded as if the answer had already been filed. “Good. Boys should work. Sitting at home is not good. Your mother also used to work. Hotel, parlour. Now she has time.” She looked at Ma. “Azad called in the morning, he said you would come to cook dinner. He also mentioned that you are having some back pain.”
“Yes Ammi. Since morning,” Ma said. Her voice was careful, the way it got when she was measuring each word. “I took the medicine. It is a little better when I sit. Standing is a little difficult.”
“Hmm.” Ammi adjusted the pallu on her shoulder. “Yesterday was the big function, no? Taj. Azad told me in the morning. Dhiraj Malhotra’s anniversary. How was it? Many people?”
Ma’s fingers tightened once in her lap. “It was… crowded. Speeches. Food. We came back late. Azad Sahab knew most of them. I only stood.”
Ammi’s eyes stayed on her. “I saw you when you were leaving. Near the gate. Full dressing. Hair, makeup, that black saree. The blouse was… open. From the back also, I think. Building has eyes, Anjali. Everyone would have seen you get into the car like that.”
Ma’s shoulders had gone still. She glanced at me, then back at Ammi. Colour had risen under the bite. “Ammi… the function had a dress code. Azad Sahab said the clothes should look proper. He chose the blouse. I wore what he asked.”
Ammi gave a short breath. Not quite a laugh. “So if tomorrow he says wear nothing and come down, you will wear nothing? Is that the rule now? He says, you do?”
Ma’s mouth opened. For a second no sound came. Then the words arrived tighter than before. “Ammi, what are you saying? Please. Sunny is sitting here. Do not talk like this in front of him.”
“So what?” Ammi said. She did not raise her voice. The chair creaked when she shifted. “He lives in the same room. He sees the marks on your neck. He hears the building. I am only saying what I saw with my own eyes. You did not look like a woman who has a grown son. You looked like those women who stand outside hotels and smile for photographs. I have lived in this building for thirty years. I know the difference.”
Ma’s eyes had gone wet at the corners. She did not wipe them. Her hands stayed clasped. “I wore what was required for one evening. If it was wrong, Azad Sahab can tell me himself. I am not going to sit here and discuss my clothes while my son is listening. Please ammi.”
Ammi studied her for a long moment. The television was on low in the corner. Then she sat back.
“Anyway. The reason you are here is food. Chicken is in the fridge. Make a simple curry. Not too much oil. And egg fry—two eggs for me. I will have two rotis and a little rice. You both can also eat. Azad will be late, so we will not wait for him.”
Ma stood. She did not answer. Her face had closed. She walked toward the kitchen without looking at either of us. The light-blue kameez moved against her back. I heard the fridge door open, then the sound of a steel bowl set on the counter.
Ammi turned to me. “You do not eat meat?”
“No, Ammi.”
“Why? At your age you should eat. Look at Azad. He eats everything. Chicken, mutton, whatever is made. That is why he has energy for so much work. You will also become weak if you only eat vegetables.” She raised her voice toward the kitchen without turning her head. “Make something for the boy also. Aloo or whatever is there. Do not only cook non-veg.”
From the kitchen came the short sound of a knife striking the board. Ma did not reply.
I sat down. Ammi put the remote in my hand and asked me to change the channel if I wanted to. I changed it to a sports channel. I watched because the alternative was watching Ammi’s face or listening to the small, careful sounds Ma was making with the vessels. Ammi stayed in the armchair, one hand resting on the wooden arm, eyes half on the match and half on the kitchen doorway. Every few minutes she called an instruction in the same flat tone.
“Cut the onion smaller. Last time the pieces were big.”
“Less chilli in the curry. My stomach does not take much now.”
“The eggs should be soft in the middle. Not dry.”
Each time Ma answered with a short “Haan, Ammi” that did not carry any heat. I could hear the gas clicking on, water running, the dull thud of the chicken being moved from one bowl to another. After twenty minutes I stood and walked to the kitchen doorway.
Ma was at the counter, back to me. The light-blue kameez had stuck slightly at her lower back from the heat of the stove. One hand kept returning to press the sore place while the other held the knife. The chicken was already marinating in a steel bowl. She had started chopping tomatoes.
“Ma,” I said, keeping my voice low. “I can cut the rest. You sit for five minutes. Your back—”
Ammi’s voice came from the hall before I finished. “What are you doing there, beta? Come out. Men do not stand in the kitchen. Let her do the work. She knows how.”
I stayed in the doorway. “She has been saying since morning that the back is paining, Ammi. I can help with the cutting. It is not much.”
Ammi appeared behind me. She looked past my shoulder at Ma, then at me. Her mouth had thinned. “She was well enough yesterday to stand in high heels and that open blouse. Makeup, hair, everything. Today one small cooking for an old woman and already the face is heavy. I know these dramas.”
Ma turned. The knife was still in her right hand. Her eyes were wet again, but the voice that came out was steady. “Beta, please go and sit. I do not want any tamasha in this house. Azad Sahab will not like it if he hears. I will finish the food. You go.”
I looked at her. She gave a small, almost invisible shake of the head. I stepped back into the hall. Ammi followed and returned to the armchair. On the screen the batsman had been given out. Neither of us spoke for a long time.
The cooking took another forty minutes. I heard the pressure cooker whistle once, the sound of rotis being turned on the tawa, the heavier smell of chicken curry moving through the flat and mixing with the ointment smell that never quite left the room. Ma came out once to ask which plates Ammi wanted. Ammi pointed at the steel ones in the rack without getting up. When everything was ready Ma carried two plates to the small dining table. One held two rotis, a little rice, chicken curry, and two pieces of egg fry. The other held aloo sabzi and two rotis. She set them down and remained standing near the kitchen door, wiping her hands on a cloth.
Ammi came to the table, sat, and began to eat. She tasted the curry, nodded once to herself, and said nothing. I sat opposite her because the plate was there. Ma stayed on her feet. When Ammi had finished half the rice she looked up.
“You also eat,” she said to Ma. “Then wash everything. The maid may not come tomorrow morning also. I do not like plates left in the sink. By morning they start smelling and the ants come.”
Ma took a plate for herself, served a small portion of aloo and one roti, and sat at the far end of the table. She ate quickly, without looking at either of us. When she was done she collected all three plates and carried them to the sink. The water ran for a long time. I heard the scrubbing, the clink of steel against steel, the sound of her shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Ammi did not speak again until Ma came out drying her hands on the same cloth.
“Finished,” Ma said. Her voice was flat. “We will go now.”
Ammi looked at her, then at me. The expression that arrived for me was different—smaller, almost pleasant. “Keep coming, Sunny beta. You are a quiet boy. That is good.” She opened the small fridge near the television, took out a silk chocolate still in its gold wrapper, and held it out. “Take it.”
I looked at Ma. She was already at the door, one hand pressed to her lower back, the light-blue kameez creased across the stomach. Ma nodded with heavy expression. I took the chocolate. “Thank you, Ammi.”
We stepped into the corridor. The door closed behind us with a soft click. On the stairs Ma walked slowly. By the second flight her breathing had gone shallow. She stopped once on the landing, palm flat against the wall, and waited until the pull in her back eased enough to continue. I stayed half a step behind. Neither of us spoke until we were inside our flat and the latch was down.
She went straight to the kitchen corner, pulled the light-blue kameez over her head without turning on the tube light, and changed into the old peach nighty. The thin cotton settled over her. She did not put on a bra. When she came back to the bed her face was closed in a way I had not seen since the morning after Sunita. She sat, then lay on her side facing the wall, the same position she had used all afternoon.
I sat on the edge of the mattress. “I told you not to go down. She talks to you like you are hired for the day. I do not like hearing it.”
She turned her head. The bite caught the low light from the grill. Her eyes were dry now, but the voice that came out was sharp. “Just shut up, Sunny. It is none of your business what she says or what I do downstairs. I know what I am doing. You do not have to stand there and teach me every time something happens. Everybody in this building wants to give lessons. You also now. Please stop it. And let me sleep.”
The words landed clean. My throat tightened. I looked at the sheet between us. “I am sorry, Ma.”
She did not answer. She pulled the sheet up to her waist, reached for her phone, glanced at the screen, made a small sound that was almost a tired chuckle, and set it face down on the mattress. Then she closed her eyes.
I lay on my side. The gap between us was the usual width. Outside, a scooter passed and was gone. I opened reels and let them play without sound. At some point the phone in my hand grew heavy. I must have closed my eyes.
The ringtone pulled me back just after ten. Ma answered on the second ring and walked to the kitchen. I kept my breathing even and my eyes shut. Her voice started low, careful.
“Haan… you are staying there for the night? Ohh, had dinner?”
Azad’s voice came through warmer than hers, the register he used when he wanted to pull her out of a mood. I could not take every sentence, but the shape was clear. He was talking about the Instagram photographs. How clean Kunal had made the light. How the deep V had come out exactly the way he had wanted. How many people had already liked the post. How he had been thinking about the way she had looked in the hall while he was travelling.
Ma answered in short pieces at first. “Hmm. I saw. Kunal sent them. … Yes. … Leave it, Azad Sahab.”
He asked what had happened. She said leave it again. He did not leave it. Her voice tightened, still low so it would not carry past the kitchen.
“Ammi,” she said. “She saw me yesterday near the gate when we were leaving. She waited until we were inside and then she asked what I was wearing. In front of Sunny. She said the blouse was open from the back. She said if tomorrow you tell me to go without clothes, will I go. I did not know what to answer. Then the whole time I was cooking she sat in the hall and kept calling instructions. Smaller onion. Less oil. Soft eggs. I finished the curry, the eggs, the rotis, the aloo. I washed every plate. She did not say one word of thanks.”
There was a pause long enough for the fridge to click on. When Azad spoke again the warmth had thinned.
“Anjali. I already told you how Ammi is. She is old. She talks like this with everyone. You knew before you went down. I cannot sit in a hotel room in Pune and solve what she said about a blouse. You are not a girl. You can handle one evening of her talking and still cook the food.”
Ma’s voice went smaller. “I am not asking you to solve it from there. I am only telling you what happened because you asked. My back is still paining. She gave a full list and watched the whole time. And she said those things about the clothes while Sunny was sitting in the same room. I do not know how to answer that without making it bigger.”
“I did not call to listen to the full list,” he said. The edge was clear now. “I was on the road since morning. You cannot even keep this much inside until I am back? Do the cooking, finish the plates, come upstairs. Do not stand there and give her sentences she can answer. That is all I am saying.”
“Azad Sahab… please. Do not talk to me like that. I am not fighting. I am only—”
A longer silence. When he spoke again the sharpness had been pulled back, not removed.
“Then understand, na. Leave her. You know how she is. I told you in the beginning she would say things. You cook, you wash, you come up. Do not keep discussing with her. Do not discuss me with her. And listen—I bought something for you today. After the meeting. A Puneri saree. Heavy border, good silk. The colour is deep maroon, almost the same as the one you wore for the pooja. It will suit you. Forget what Ammi said tonight. Sleep. I will call in the morning.”
Ma was quiet for several seconds. I heard her shift her weight against the counter. “Hmm. Okay. The saree… thank you.”
The call ended. She stayed in the kitchen. I heard the soft, uneven sound of her breath, then nothing for a long stretch. Water ran once, briefly, as if she had washed her face or simply needed the noise. When she finally came back to the bed the tube light was still off. She lay down on her side without speaking, pulled the sheet to her waist, and turned her face to the wall. Her shoulders moved once, a small tight motion, then went still. I kept my eyes closed. The fan turned over both of us. The chocolate in my pocket had gone soft from the heat of my leg. I did not take it out.
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