[Authorsunny]

Chapter 16 Continued

Then she spoke without looking at me.

“Azad will come for a short time after dinner. Around eight-thirty or nine. He will not stay late. I told him the building will be full of noise and people, so it is better he comes only for a little while.”

I kept my eyes on the flame of the nearest diya.

“You invited him on celebrations night.”

“Yes. He asked if he could come to see the lights and wish us. I said yes. It is one evening.”

She turned her head and looked at me directly. The tilak on her forehead was still fresh.

“I need you to give us some space when he is here. Not the whole night. One hour, maybe a little more. You can go downstairs and watch the crackers with the other boys from the building. Or walk to the main road and come back. I do not want the three of us sitting in this small room making polite conversation while the whole building is celebrating. It will feel forced.”

The request was calm, almost intellectual in its framing — space, comfort, the size of the room, the awkwardness of three people. Underneath it was the clear prioritisation I had come to recognise.

“You want me out of the house so you can have him here.”

“I want one hour of ease in my own house on celebration night. You can give me that. You have given me harder things.”

She stood up carefully, the red saree falling into place around her legs. The gold border caught the light of the diyas. She looked taller, more formal, and at the same time completely in control of the decision she had just announced.

“I am not asking you to leave the building or disappear. I am asking for a short gap. When he leaves I will message you. You come back up. We will light the remaining diyas together and sit.”

I stayed seated on the floor near the temple corner. The smell of incense and oil lamps filled the small space between us.

“People will see him coming upstairs on celebration night.”

“People have already seen many things. One more will not change their mouths. I am not hiding him. I am also not performing for them. He will come, he will sit for a short while, he will leave. You will give the space I have asked for. That is all.”

Her tone remained even, but the finality was absolute. She had decided the evening’s structure and was now informing me of my part in it.

I stood up. My knees felt stiff from sitting on the floor.

“I will go down when he is due.”

“Thank you.” She said it simply, without excessive gratitude. Then she reached out and adjusted the collar of my shirt the way she had at the mall, a brief motherly touch that sat strangely beside the request she had just made.

“Wear the new shirt if you go out. The one we bought. You look better in it.”

The rest of the hour before eight-thirty passed in a thin, careful quiet. She changed the oil in two diyas that had begun to smoke. She checked her phone once. She warmed the food that would be offered if he stayed long enough to eat. I sat on the bed and watched her move through the small flat in the red saree. Every time she bent, the silk pulled across her hips. Every time she raised her arms to fix a light, the blouse tightened across her chest. The image from the bathroom gap — the heavy bare breasts, the unhooked bra, the petticoat sitting low — kept returning whether I wanted it or not.

At eight-twenty she looked at me and nodded once.

“You should go now. He will be here in a few minutes. I will message when the gate closes behind him.”

I stood up, took the new shirt from the chair, and put it on. At the door I paused.

“Ma.”

“Yes.”

“Happy Anniversary.”

Her face softened for a moment, the festival softness that still belonged to the two of us.

“Happy Anniversary, Sunny. Go. Don’t sit on the stairs and wait. Properly go down and come back when I call.”

I left. The corridor smelled of incense from other flats and the sharper smoke of crackers. I walked down the three floors slowly. The white sedan was already visible near the entrance, parked a little away from the direct light. I did not stop to look longer. I walked out of the building gate and toward the main road, the sound of the building’s celebration growing behind me, the knowledge of who was climbing the stairs to our flat settling heavily in my chest.

The gap she had asked for had begun.

The red saree, the open invitation, and the controlled absence of her son — all of it sat together under the same celebration sky.

[Authorsunny]

Chapter 16.5 – The Seventy Minutes and the Return

23 November 2025 – Sunday night

The message from Ma had not yet come. I had been walking for what felt like a long time but was probably only twenty minutes. The main road was loud with festival traffic — families on scooters, children waving sparklers through auto windows, the repeated sharp cracks of bombs from the side lanes. I kept moving because standing still made the thoughts worse.

I stopped near the small juice centre that stayed open late and bought a bottle of water I did not need. The owner wished me Happy Anniversary. I nodded and walked on. Every time a white car passed I felt my stomach tighten even though I already knew his car was parked near our building. The knowledge did not stop the reaction.

I turned into a quieter lane and sat on the low boundary wall of a closed shop. From there the upper floors of our building were partially visible between the other structures. The fairy lights we had put up were on. Other windows blinked with their own decorations. Crackers burst in irregular intervals, throwing brief orange light across the walls. Somewhere on the second or third floor a loud aarti recording started and then stopped again.

I tried to calculate the time. I had left at approximately eight-twenty. She had said one hour, maybe a little more. The phone remained silent in my pocket. I took it out, checked the brightness, and put it back. The screen had no new notifications.

The thoughts that came were not orderly. They arrived in pieces.

The red saree. The way she had looked after the Laxmi Pujan, tilak still fresh on her forehead, the gold border of the saree catching the diya light. The calm voice in which she had asked me to give them space. The bathroom gap from the afternoon — the heavy bare shape of her breasts when the bra came off, the petticoat sitting low on her waist, the practised way she had hooked the blouse. The black kurti from the previous evening and the mixed scent I had held against my face for those few seconds before guilt made me put it down.

All of it rearranged itself around the fact that right now, in the same 10-by-12 room where we had just done the laxmi pujan, Azad was sitting with her.

I wondered whether she had kept the diyas burning. I wondered whether she had offered him prasad. The thought of an atheist man accepting prasad from the thali we had used for Laxmi Pujan produced a strange, sharp discomfort that was not only jealousy. It was something older and more complicated — a cultural boundary I had never needed to examine until my mother invited it into the house on the night of the festival itself.

I stood up and walked again. The lane opened onto a slightly larger road where a group of boys were bursting a long string of crackers. The sound was deafening for a few seconds. When it faded I realised my hands were closed into fists inside my pockets. I opened them.

The phone vibrated at nine-thirty-one.

*He has left. You can come.*

Two short sentences. No emoji. No additional softening.

I walked back faster than I had walked away. The white sedan was gone from its earlier spot. The building entrance smelled of gunpowder and incense. I climbed the floors slowly, giving myself the final minute to prepare for whatever version of the room I was about to enter.

The door was unlocked. I pushed it open.

The first thing that reached me was the smell. The incense from the pooja was still present, but under it and around it was a different note — stronger, sweeter, slightly metallic. Attar. Not the light perfume Ma usually wore. Something heavier, the kind sold in small glass bottles in certain markets, the kind that clung to clothes and skin for hours. It was unmistakable and it did not belong to any celebration tradition I knew.

The fairy lights were still on. Most of the diyas on the temple shelf had been extinguished; only two still burned with low flames. The red saree Ma had worn for the pooja was no longer on her body. She sat on the edge of the bed in the old cotton nighty, her hair open and slightly disordered, as if fingers had moved through it and then tried to smooth it back. The tilak on her forehead had been partially wiped; a faint red smear remained near her hairline. Her mouth looked softer, fuller. There was a small, irregular redness on the left side of her throat that had not been there when I left.

On the folding table stood a rectangular box that had not been there before. It was covered in dark green cloth with thin gold geometric patterns — the kind of packaging I had seen in shops that sold things for Eid or for formal other occasions. Beside it sat a small glass bottle of attar with a tight black cap, half used.

Ma looked up when I entered. Her expression was calm, almost tired, but not guilty.

“You came quickly.”

“You messaged.”

She nodded and gestured toward the chair.

“Sit. Drink water. You look warm.”

[Authorsunny]

Chapter 16.5 Continued

I did not sit immediately. I closed the door and stood near it for a moment, taking in the rest of the small changes. The pallu of the red saree was dbangd over the back of the chair, neatly but not with the same precision she had used when she first put it on. One end of it hung lower than the other. The temple corner looked slightly disturbed — the steel plate with flowers had been moved a few inches, and a single marigold had fallen to the floor near the leg of the table.

The green-cloth box sat in the centre of the folding table like a quiet announcement.

“What is that?” I asked.

Ma glanced at it.

“He brought it. Dates and some dry fruits. And the attar. He said it was from their house. His mother still prepares these things for occasions.”

She said it without embarrassment. A gift from another household, offered on the night of Laxmi Pujan, placed on the same table where the pooja thali had rested an hour earlier. The cultural mismatch was obvious. She had accepted it anyway.

I walked to the table and looked at the box more closely without opening it. The cloth was expensive, the kind that was reused year after year for formal offerings. The attar bottle had no brand label. When I lifted it the smell became stronger — rose and something darker, musk or oud. It was the same scent that now lived in the air of the flat and, more faintly, on her skin.

“You accepted it on celebration night.”

“Yes.” She adjusted the neckline of the nighty with one hand. The redness on her throat moved when she swallowed. “He brought it with good intention. I did not see the point in refusing. Dates are dates. Dry fruits are dry fruits. The festival does not become impure because the box came from his house.”

The sentence was calm and absolute. It left no space for the discomfort I felt.

I sat down on the chair. The red saree pallu brushed my arm. Up close it still held the smell of incense and, underneath, the same heavy attar.

Ma watched me for a few seconds and then spoke again, her voice quieter.

“You are looking at everything as if the room has been changed into something else. It has not. He came. We sat. He gave the box. He left. The diyas were already burning when he arrived. I did not stop the festival for him. I simply allowed one guest inside it.”

“You extinguished most of the diyas.”

“Some of them were smoking. I put them out. Two are still burning. You can light more if you want.”

She said it as if the detail was practical and nothing more. I looked at the two remaining flames. They were low and steady. The rest of the temple shelf looked exactly as it had after the aarti, except for the displaced flower plate and the single marigold on the floor.

The jealousy sat in my chest like a physical object. It was not only about the time she had given him. It was about the red saree that had been worn for Lakshmi Pujan and then worn for him. It was about the tilak that had been partially wiped. It was about the attar that now layered itself over the incense. It was about the fact that a man who did not pray to the idols in our corner had sat in this room on this night and left behind a gift that belonged to another calendar of sacred days.

“I know what you are thinking,” she said suddenly. “You are thinking that celebration and his presence cannot sit together. That the gift is wrong for the night. That I should have asked him to come on some other evening. I considered all of that before I said yes. Then I decided that the house is mine as well, and if I want to receive one person on this night I will receive him. The goddess does not become smaller because an atheist man sat in the same room for forty minutes.”

“He is not just an atheist man, Ma. He is the man you are with.”

“Yes. He is. I have not denied that. I am not going to deny it on celebration night either. The festival is about light and prosperity and the home. I kept the light. I kept the home. I also kept the part of my life that now includes him. Both things happened in the same evening. You will have to let them exist together.”

She drank her water and kept the glass on the table beside the green box. The attar smell rose again when she moved.

I looked at the redness on her throat. She noticed the direction of my gaze and did not cover it.

“It will fade,” she said simply. “By morning it will be less. Do not make a story out of every mark.”

“You are speaking as if these things are ordinary.”

“They are becoming ordinary for me. That is the part you are still resisting.”

She sat back down on the bed. The nighty settled around her legs. One shoulder had slipped slightly, showing the soft beginning of her upper arm and the edge of her collarbone. The heavy attar scent moved with her. I thought of the afternoon glimpse through the bathroom gap — the unhooked bra, the full bare weight of her breasts, the petticoat — and then of the same body now sitting across from me after seventy minutes alone with him. The jealousy sharpened into something that felt almost like grief.

“Did you offer him prasad?” I asked.

She looked at me for a long moment.

“I offered him tea and the dates he himself had brought. I did not make a performance of the prasad. He did not ask for it. We did not turn the evening into a religious debate. He came as a guest. I received him as a guest who is also more than a guest. That is all.”

“And the saree?”

“What about the saree?”

“You wore it for the pooja. Then you kept it on while he was here.”

Her eyes stayed steady.

“Yes. I did not change between the aarti and his arrival. There was no time and there was no need. The saree was for the evening. The evening included both the pooja and his visit. I am not going to split myself into two different women for the same night.”

The statement landed with quiet finality. She had refused the separation I was still trying to maintain in my head — the sacred and the physical, the mother who did Laxmi Pujan and the woman who carried a man’s mark on her throat and his attar on her skin. In her mind they had already become one continuous person.

I looked again at the green-cloth box and the small bottle of attar. The cultural dissonance remained. A gift that belonged to another rhythm of faith and celebration now sat in the centre of our table. She had accepted it, placed it there, and defended the decision without raising her voice.

“I don’t know how to feel about any of this,” I said finally.

“You do not have to know tonight. You only have to sleep in this house and get up tomorrow. The rest can take its time.”

She stood up, extinguished the two remaining diyas with a wet finger, and switched off the fairy lights one by one. The room fell into the softer darkness of the single night bulb near the bathroom. She came back to the bed and lay down on her side, facing me.

“The box can stay on the table until morning,” she said. “We will put the dates in a steel container later. The attar — I will keep it. I like the smell.”

She closed her eyes. After a few minutes her breathing slowed, but I did not think she was fully asleep. The redness on her throat remained visible even in the dim light. The heavy scent of attar continued to move quietly through the air of the small flat, layering itself permanently over the memory of incense and oil lamps.

I lay on my back and stared at the ceiling.

The seventy minutes were over.

The guest had come and gone.

The festival had continued around his presence.

And my mother had returned to her side of the bed carrying both the tilak of the goddess and the mark of the man, refusing to treat them as contradictions.

The green box sat on the table in the dark.

The attar remained on her skin.

And the small house held the full weight of a celebration night that had refused to stay simple.

[Authorsunny]

Is Sunny a mature adult or a stupid ass kid who doesn't know how to respect his mother's personal life and its privacy? When two adults who lost their respective spouses are trying to build a life together, what is his bloody problem lol

Trying to sniff everything like a street dog and lifting his leg to make a scene. This whole investigative attitude of Sunny is getting tiring now, when will he grow up!

~RCF

Hi RCF,

Thank you for the thoughtful comment. I really appreciate you taking the time to share your thoughts.

This story is written entirely from Sunny’s point of view in a diary-style format. My goal is to keep it as close to real life as possible, without clear heroes or villains. It’s more of a life journey than a traditional story.

At this stage, Sunny isn’t being investigative. He’s simply observing everything around him, processing it in his own way, and still not ready to fully accept what’s happening. That tension is intentional.

Thanks again for the feedback. Looking forward to hearing more of your thoughts as the story continues.

[Authorsunny]

Chapter 17 – Part 1

24 November 2025 – Monday

The morning after Laxmi Pujan began with the heavy, lingering smell of attar still sitting in the corners of the flat. The green-cloth box of dates and dry fruits remained on the folding table exactly where it had been left the previous night. Two diyas on the temple shelf had burned themselves out completely; only blackened wicks and a thin film of oil remained. The fairy lights were off. Daylight came in through the grill in a flat, grey November way.

I woke to the sound of Ma’s voice.

She was in the kitchen corner, phone pressed between her shoulder and ear, pouring water into the steel vessel with one hand. The old nighty she wore had slipped off one shoulder. Her hair was open and slightly tangled from sleep. She spoke in a low, warm tone that was already different from the voice she used with me.

“Yes… I slept… the mark is still there a little… don’t laugh… yes, I am listening…”

A short pause. She smiled at whatever he said, the same private smile I had seen in the dark two nights earlier.

“Today is better. The building will be quieter in the afternoon. Most people go out… yes, I can come… Sunny is here, but it is all right… I will ask him…”

She turned slightly and saw that my eyes were open. She did not end the call or change her tone.

“He is awake now… I will speak to him and message you… yes… saree with sleeveless blouse… as you decide… all right, Azad Sahab… I will call when we leave.”

She cut the call, kept the phone on the counter, and looked at me with a calm, almost bright expression.

“Good morning. Wake up now, it is already late.”

I sat up. The sheet fell to my waist. The air in the room still carried the denser scent from the previous night.

“That was Azad uncle?” I said.

“Yes. He asked about today. There is a mall near the highway with better shops for clothes and a proper cracker market a little further. He suggested we go together. Clothes for you, some things for the house, and crackers for the evening. He will come with the car.”

She said it as if she was announcing a normal family outing.

“We?”

“You and I. He will drive. It is simpler. The bike is new, no need to take it into that traffic today.”

She poured the tea and brought both glasses to the folding table. When she sat opposite me the nighty stretched across her full breasts.

“I will mostly wear saree again for today,” she said after a first sip. “Something a little better and more comfortable than yesterday’s. Yesterday’s was specifically for puja. Today I want something lighter, something that feels expensive. You also wear something nice, beta. Maybe that new shirt you last wore for the office function. It will suit you.”

I smiled and nodded.

She finished her tea faster than usual, stood up, and opened the almirah. From the upper shelf she took out a carefully folded peach colored saree I had never seen her wear before.

The blouse was the same soft peach, made of raw silk. She also took out a small plastic box of jewellery and a bottle of liquid foundation she rarely used.

“I am going to get ready properly today,” she said, almost to herself. “It is still celebration time. No need to look half-done.”

She carried the folded peach saree, the matching blouse, a fresh petticoat and the small jewellery box into the bathroom and pushed the door until it rested against the frame. The usual narrow gap remained. I stayed near the almirah, close enough to see without making my presence obvious.

The nighty came off first. She pulled it over her head in one smooth motion and dropped it on the stool. For a few clear seconds she stood completely bare except for the plain light-grey panties that sat low on her hips. The morning light from the tiny bathroom window fell across her skin. Her breasts were full and heavy, the dark nipples soft in the warm air. They shifted with the slight movement of her breathing. Her stomach was smooth, the waist still defined, the hips wide and rounded. The grey cloth of the panties cut across the fullest part of her seat, the fabric stretching whenever she turned.

She took the black lace bra from the stool. Thin lace cups, satin underband, delicate enough that skin showed through the pattern. She bent forward from the waist, let her breasts fall into the cups, and reached behind to hook it. The lace settled and lifted, gathering the soft weight into a full, rounded shape. She adjusted each side with her fingers, making sure the underwire sat correctly, then straightened. The black lace against her wheatish skin looked deliberate and private. The deep cleavage it created was already pronounced.

Next she stepped into the petticoat, pulled it up, and tied the drawstring firmly at her waist. The cotton sat smooth over her hips. Then she picked up the soft peach blouse. It was sleeveless, made of the same fine material as the saree, with a wide scoop neck and thin straps that left her shoulders and the upper part of her chest completely open. She slipped her arms through the straps and pulled the blouse down. The wide neck dropped low. The thin straps sat delicately on her shoulders. The fit was close, it held her firmly and made the soft upper curve of her breasts rise clearly above the neckline. The black lace of the bra was visible in a thin line along the edges whenever she moved.

She then pulled out a golden necklace from the jewelry box and tried to put it on. She tried to clasp the hook multiple times, but she just couldn't do it.

Then she called out.

“Sunny. Come for a minute.”

[Authorsunny]

Chapter 17 – Part 1 Continued

I stepped to the bathroom door and pushed it open wider. She stood with her back to me, both hands holding the ends of the thin gold chain at the nape of her neck. The sleeveless blouse left her entire upper back bare except for the thin straps and the black bra band. The skin looked warm and smooth.

“The clasp,” she said. “It always sticks. Close it for me please.”

I took the two ends. My fingers brushed the back of her neck. The chain was fine, the clasp was small and needed pressure. I worked it closed while standing close enough to smell the light perfume she had already sprayed on her wrists and the clean scent of her skin. When the clasp finally clicked she lowered her hands and turned her head slightly.

“Thank you beta. You haven't changed yet? Get ready, we will get late otherwise”.

Her face was only a short distance from mine. The wide scoop of the blouse showed the full soft line of her cleavage and the black lace beneath. She held my gaze for a second longer than necessary, then nodded toward the door.

I stepped out. She followed a moment later, carrying the folded peach silk chiffon saree. She was now in only the fitted sleeveless blouse and the petticoat. The thin straps and wide neck made her look more exposed than she ever did in a kurti. The black lace peeped at the edges of the neckline with every breath. The petticoat clung to the round heavy shape of her hips and seat. She walked to the larger mirror near the almirah, the one with the wider glass that she used only when she needed full-length view, and placed the saree on the bed for a moment.

I sat on the chair and watched because there was nowhere else to look in the small room.

She unfolded the saree carefully. Soft peach silk chiffon, light and expensive-looking, with a fine sheen that moved even in the ordinary tube light. A wide gold zari border ran along the edge. Tiny woven butis were scattered across the body of the fabric so that they caught the light only when the cloth shifted. I had never seen her wear this saree before. It did not look like something she had bought from the usual local shops. The quality sat quietly above the clothes she had worn for years.

She stepped into the first pleats, working with both hands, measuring and folding against her petticoat. The chiffon was delicate, she handled it slowly. Once the pleats were tucked and secured at the waist she brought the long end around and dbangd the pallu over her left shoulder. The light material settled against her body and followed every curve the full breasts under the fitted blouse, the soft waist, the heavy round hips. She pinned the pallu at the shoulder with a small gold brooch, then turned slowly in front of the mirror, checking the fall from the front, the side and the back.

The sleeveless blouse with its thin straps and wide scoop neck left her arms and the upper swell of her breasts open. Every time she raised her arms to adjust the pallu the black lace shifted and the soft flesh moved. The gold zari border of the saree framed her hips and the lower curve of her seat when she turned. The whole effect was lighter, more fluid and more openly feminine than the heavier silk she had worn for the puja.

She looked at my reflection in the mirror.

“You have not seen this one before.”

“No.”

“It was kept aside. Today felt like the right day.” She smoothed the pallu once more with both hands. “Does the neck look too open?”

“Mmm, yeah. But….it looks… fine.”

She gave a small, knowing smile and did not ask again.

She sat on the edge of the bed, the soft peach chiffon pooling around her legs, and opened the small bottle of nail polish. The colour was same peach that matched the saree exactly. She began with her toenails, bending forward so that the wide scoop of the blouse fell further open. The black lace and the full upper curve of her breasts were clearly visible from where I sat. She painted each toenail with slow, careful strokes, then blew on them lightly. After the toes she started on her fingernails, resting one hand at a time on her thigh.

Halfway through the left hand she looked up.

“Sunny, hold this for a minute.”

She held out the open bottle. I stood and took it. She finished the remaining nails while I held the bottle steady. The proximity made the dilemma sharper. The soft peach polish, the careful way she worked, the open neckline only inches away, the knowledge that all of this careful preparation was for the man who would soon be waiting downstairs, everything sat together in the same moment. Part of me wanted to stay exactly where I was, holding the bottle, watching her hands and the rise of her breath. The other part wanted to step back and put distance between myself and the clear fact that she was making herself beautiful for someone else.

She finished, took the bottle from me, closed it, and held both hands out in front of her, fingers spread, waiting for the polish to set.

“Thank you,” she said quietly. “For all the help today.”

I nodded and returned to the chair.

She then looked at my face in the mirror.

“You are quiet today.”

“I am fine.”

“You are not fine. You are thinking too many things. I can see it.” She turned to face me fully. The jhumkas swung and then settled. “I am getting ready and going for shopping with Azad Sahab. You are coming with us. That is the plan for today. I want you to be part of it without carrying that heavy face the whole time. Can you do that?”

The question was soft. The expectation underneath it was not.

“I will try.”

“Trying is enough for now.” She reached up and smoothed the collar of the Shirt I was wearing, a brief motherly gesture that sat strangely against the elaborate way she herself was dressed. “Wear the new dark jeans. It would look better. Go.”

I went to the washroom and changed my pants with darker jeans. When I came out she was waiting for her nails to dry completely.

She looked at me and said, "See, I told you. It looks good now.”

Then she stood, slipped her feet into a pair of soft gold sandals with a thin strap and a low heel, and walked once more to the mirror. The light peach chiffon moved with her. The gold zari border caught the tube light. The heavy jhumkas she now put on swung against her neck. She added the thin gold bangles, the maroon bindi, and a careful line of kajal. The lipstick she chose was a soft rose that sat close to the colour of the polish.

When she finally turned away from the mirror the transformation was complete. The expensive peach silk chiffon saree, the fitted sleeveless blouse with its thin straps and wide scoop, the black lace underneath that only I had seen in full, the fresh nail polish, the jhumkas, the bangles, the bindi, everything had been arranged with slow, deliberate care. She looked like a woman who knew exactly how she wanted to be seen.

She picked up her handbag and checked her phone.

“He has started,” she said. “He will be here in fifteen minutes. Take whatever you need. Wallet, keys, phone. We should go down in time.”

I stood and collected my things. The small flat felt even smaller with her standing in the centre of it in that saree. She had prepared herself in front of me, asked for my help with the clasp and the nail polish, and allowed me to watch the entire process. At the same time every detail had been chosen for the man who was already on his way.

She walked to the door and looked back once.

“Come. Don’t make that face the whole day. It is only shopping and crackers. We will be home before evening.”

I followed her out of the flat and down the stairs. The soft peach chiffon whispered with every step. The thin straps of the blouse left her shoulders bare. Behind us the 10-by-12 room still held the faint smell of nail polish and her perfume. Ahead of us the white car would soon appear, and the day she had dressed for would properly begin.

[Authorsunny]

[img]<a href=[/img]" />

[Authorsunny]

This is my point of view, make her completely remove traditional dress like saree shalwar etc, change into western type of mature woman like this. Even she is in the house or goes out side. This could be hot while imagine this mother.

Thanks for the suggestion, buddy. But I don't think this kind of transformation is what this story is about, at least not yet.

Anyway, maybe another story, another day.

Feel free to generate images relevant to this story and post them, though; that would be interesting.

[Authorsunny]

Chapter 17 - Part 2


24 November 2025 – Monday (continued)

I walked half a step behind her, carrying nothing except my wallet and phone, already feeling the weight of the day that was about to unfold.

On the second-floor landing Mrs. Desai was standing with two other women from the building, all three holding small steel plates with diyas and sweets for the usual celebration exchange. They looked up as we came down. The conversation between them stopped for a second.

Mrs. Desai’s eyes moved over Ma from the open neckline of the blouse down to the way the light chiffon clung to her hips and then back up to the jhumkas and the careful makeup. One of the other women, the one from the first floor who always wore thick glass bangles, raised her eyebrows just enough to be noticed.

“Happy celebration , Anjali ben,” Mrs. Desai said, her voice sweet and sharp at the same time. “Arre, looking so fresh today. New saree?”

Ma stopped and folded her hands politely.

“Happy celebration . Yes, an old one I had kept aside. You also look nice.”

The third woman, older, from the ground-floor corner flat, smiled with her lips only.

“Going out with Sunny beta? Or someone is coming to pick you up?”

The question was not innocent. Everyone in the building had seen the white sedan enough times by now.

Ma answered without any change in expression.

“We are going for some shopping. Crackers and a few clothes. Happy celebration to your family also.”

She moved past them before more questions could come. I followed. I felt their eyes on my back the entire way down the last flight of stairs. One of them said something in a low voice that I could not catch, but the short laugh that followed was clear enough.

Outside, the November morning was bright and slightly cool. The lane still smelled of last night’s gunpowder and incense. The white sedan was parked a few metres away from the entrance, engine already running. Azad Sahab stood beside the open passenger door. He wore a crisp cream pathani suit and dark sunglasses that he removed when he saw us.

His eyes went straight to Ma. He did not hide the appreciation. They moved slowly over the soft peach chiffon, the wide scoop of the blouse, the bare shoulders, the way the light material followed the full shape of her breasts and the round curve of her hips, the jhumkas, the fresh bindi, the painted nails. The look lasted long enough for anyone watching to notice.

“Happy celebration ,” he said, his voice warmer than the polite tone he usually used in front of others.

Ma’s cheeks coloured slightly, but she did not look away.

“Happy celebration , Azad Sahab.”

He opened the door wider and held it. As she moved to sit, his hand rested for a moment on the bare skin of her upper arm, just above the elbow, guiding her in. The touch was light and familiar. She did not pull away. The chiffon of the saree whispered against the car seat as she settled.

I walked around to the other side. He looked at me over the roof of the car and gave a short nod, just like the last time.

“Sunny. Happy celebration to you too. Sit comfortably.”

I sat in the back. The door closed. The air-conditioning was already cool. The moment the car began to move away from the building I saw Mrs. Desai and the other two women still standing near the entrance, watching the sedan leave. One of them had her phone out, but I could not tell if she was taking a photograph or only checking a message.

Inside the car the atmosphere changed at once. Azad Sahab glanced sideways at Ma while driving, the sunglasses now resting on the dashboard.

“The jhumkas were the right choice,” he said. “They move when you turn your head. I like that.”

Ma smiled at the windscreen, a small private smile.

“They are old. I have had them for years.”

“Then they have been waiting for the right day to come out again.” He shifted gears smoothly. “The blouse also. The neck is better than the ones you usually wear. It shows you properly.”

She did not scold him or ask him to lower his voice. She only adjusted the pallu a little, which had the effect of drawing the wide scoop neck slightly lower for a second before she settled it again.

“Don’t start in the car,” she said, but there was no real warning in her tone. “Sunny is here.”

“Sunny is not a child.” He glanced at me in the rear-view mirror for a brief moment. “He already understands more than he says. Isn’t that right, Sunny?”

I met his eyes in the mirror and then looked away without answering. The silence that followed was comfortable for them and heavy for me.

Ma turned the conversation toward practical things, as if trying to create a safer surface.

“First the mall,” she said. “Clothes. Sunny needs one or two better shirts and maybe jeans. After that we can buy some clothes for both of us. Then crackers. I don’t want to keep him out the whole day. In the evening we should be home to light the diyas again and burst some crackers in the lane.”

[Authorsunny]

Chapter 17 - Part 2 Continued

Azad nodded.

“We will finish in time. I have already kept the boot empty for the crackers. Whatever Sunny wants, let him choose freely. celebration comes once a year.”

The generosity was deliberate. It sat in the car like another presence.

Ma looked at him for a moment and then spoke in a firmer voice.

“You are paying for everything again. I don’t like that.”

“It is celebration .”

“Even then. At least let me buy one thing for you. Something small. I can afford one proper shirt or maybe a wallet or something. I don’t want this whole day to be only you giving.”

He smiled, the same slow smile I had seen at the restaurant weeks earlier.

“You want to buy something for me?”

“Yes. I insist. You can pay for Sunny’s clothes and the crackers and whatever else. But one thing for you will be from me. I have a little money of my own still.”

He did not refuse immediately. He drove in silence for half a minute, then spoke without looking at her.

“If it is important to you, all right. One item. You choose. But nothing expensive. I will not argue about it in the shop.”

Ma looked satisfied, as if she had won a small and necessary point.

“Good. Then it is decided.”

The car moved through the late-morning Andheri traffic. Festival congestion had already begun. Loudspeakers from some societies played aarti recordings. Children waved sparklers even though it was still daylight. Every time the car stopped at a light, Azad Sahab’s eyes returned to Ma. Once he reached across and adjusted the edge of her pallu where it had slipped too far down her shoulder. His fingers brushed the thin strap of the blouse and the bare skin beside it. She let him.

“You look like a different woman today,” he said quietly. “Not the one who used to come down only for milk and vegetables.”

“I am the same woman.”

“No. That woman did not wear this saree or sit in my car looking like this. That woman did not let me touch her arm in front of her son’s building. You have changed.”

Ma glanced quickly at me in the back seat and then back at him.

“Speak carefully.”

“I am speaking the truth. You have started living again. That is all I am saying.”

The words hung in the cool air of the car. I watched the side of her face. A faint colour remained on her cheeks. She did not deny what he had said.

They began discussing the shopping list in more detail. Which section of the mall first, whether the cracker market near the highway would be less crowded in the afternoon, whether she needed anything for the house. Every now and then Azad Sahab would add a remark that was only for her, about the way the chiffon moved when she shifted in the seat, about how the peach colour made her skin look warmer, about how he had thought of this particular saree when he had first seen it. Ma answered some of the remarks and ignored others, but she never told him to stop.

I sat behind them and listened. The soft peach material, the open neckline, the black lace I had seen that morning, the careful nail polish, the jhumkas he had praised, everything had been arranged for this exact reception. She had asked me to close the necklace clasp. She had asked me to hold the polish bottle. She had let me watch her dbang the saree in the middle of our small room. And now she sat in the front seat of his car accepting his open appreciation.

The car turned onto the wider road that led toward the mall. Azad Sahab spoke again, his voice lower.

“After the clothes and the crackers, if there is time, I want to stop at one more place. A small surprise. Nothing too much.”

Ma looked at him.

“What surprise?”

“You will see the gift. I have already spoken to the man.”

She did not press further. She only smiled once more at the windscreen and settled deeper into the seat. The thin strap of the blouse slipped half an inch down her shoulder. She did not immediately push it back up.

I watched the strap rest against her skin and felt the same tight, complicated heat I had felt that morning while holding the nail-polish bottle. The day was still young. The mall, the shops, the crackers, the unknown surprise, and whatever would come after we returned, all of it still lay ahead. Yet the shape of the day was already clear from the way she sat beside him, the way she accepted his eyes and his comments, and the way she had insisted on buying him one small thing, as if that single purchase could balance everything else he was about to spend.

The car moved forward through the festival traffic.

In the front seat my mother and Azad Sahab continued their quiet, familiar conversation.

In the back seat I sat with the memory of black lace, peach chiffon, and the knowledge that every careful detail of her appearance had already been received exactly as it was meant to be received.

[Authorsunny]

First of all, congratulations, author, on bringing us this story. Your storytelling ability is truly beautiful and wonderful. Xossipy is a platform for telling sex stories, but even though there hasn’t been a single intimate scene in this story yet, you are taking the story forward with great excitement and keeping the readers engaged. I really like how the story is being narrated from the son’s perspective. He is still watching everything unfold from the sidelines, and even after everything happens, he remains confused about whether he should accept it or not.

Mom Heroin of the story
What she says is right in a way. She has spent many years living for others, so saying, “Now I should live my own life,” is understandable. But can she speak this way when it affects her son’s life and hurts him emotionally? Isn’t that selfish?

Up to the point where her actions do not affect her son, what she does is her choice. But if her actions start affecting her son’s life, what will she do?

For example, when mom is looking for a bride for him, suppose the girl’s family learns that the prospective groom’s mother is involved in an extramarital relationship and refuses to proceed with the marriage. Even then, would his mother still speak the same way and defend her actions with such philosophy?

These are all the questions that come to my mind. i'm not degrading or criticizing the mother character.“Whatever happens in the future, will they still be the same as they are now?”

Thank you so much for the kind words and for reading the story!

I am really glad you are enjoying the storytelling and the way it is being told from the son perspective.

Regarding the point about mom looking for a bride and how things might play out if the family of the girl found out, I would say that the story will unfold itself on its own, so I can not really comment on how or what would happen next.

Just keep reading and see where it goes.

[Authorsunny]

Excellent portrait brother! Keep it up.

[Authorsunny]

Chapter 17 - Part 3

24 November 2025 – Monday (continued)

The mall rose in front of us like a glass-and-steel box full of light and noise. Azad Sahab parked in the covered basement and switched off the engine. For a moment no one moved. The soft peach chiffon of Ma’s saree still held the coolness of the car’s air-conditioning. She adjusted the pallu once, the wide gold zari border sliding across her lap, and then opened the door before he could come around to do it for her.

We walked toward the lift together. The basement smelled of concrete and engine oil. Other families were also arriving — women in bright Banarasi and georgette sarees, men in new kurtas, children already holding plastic toys and sparklers. Beside them Ma looked different. The expensive light chiffon, the sleeveless wide-scoop blouse with its thin straps, the careful makeup and the heavy jhumkas set her apart from the more ordinary festival clothes around us. People noticed. A man in a dark blue kurta glanced at the open neckline and then quickly away. Two women near the lift whispered after we passed.

Azad Sahab walked on her other side, close enough that his sleeve sometimes brushed the bare skin of her arm. He did not move away. When the lift doors opened he placed his palm lightly against her back, guiding her in. The touch lasted only a second, but it was public and deliberate. I stepped in after them and stood near the panel.

The mall was already crowded. Festival sales banners hung from every railing. Loud festival music mixed with the sound of hundreds of conversations. We came out on the first floor. Ma stopped for a moment, looked around, and then turned to me with a practical expression I had not expected so soon.

“First we will finish your clothes,” she said. “Come.”

She did not wait for Azad Sahab’s opinion. She simply started walking toward the men’s section of a large mid-range store that was neither the cheapest nor the most expensive in the mall. Azad Sahab followed without comment, but I saw the small lift of his eyebrows. He had clearly expected the order of shopping to be different.

Inside the store the air was cooler and smelled of new fabric. Ma went straight to the formal shirts and began pulling sizes with the same efficiency she once used when she bought my college uniforms. She held a light-blue cotton shirt against my shoulders, then a white one with a thin self-stripe, then a pale lavender that I would never have chosen myself.

“Try these three,” she said. “And those two pairs of jeans — the darker ones. Your old ones have become too light.”

I took the hangers and went into the trial room. The small cubicle had a mirror on three sides. When I came out in the first shirt she was standing right outside with Azad Sahab a few steps behind her. She stepped forward, adjusted the collar with both hands, and tugged the shoulders to check the fit. Her fingers brushed my neck. The wide scoop of her blouse was directly in my line of sight, the black lace of her bra showed in a thin dark line against the soft upper curve of her breasts whenever she leaned in.

“This one is good,” she said. “The sleeves are proper. Take it.”

She made me try the other two as well. The lavender one she liked more than I did. The jeans she checked by asking me to turn, then pinching the fabric at the waist and the thigh to judge the cut. Throughout the process Azad Sahab remained silent, watching her more than the clothes. Every time she reached up or bent slightly the peach chiffon moved across her hips and the thin straps of the blouse shifted on her shoulders. He did not hide that he was looking.

At the billing counter the total for two shirts and one pair of jeans came to a little over four thousand eight hundred rupees. Ma opened her handbag as if she intended to pay. Azad Sahab’s hand closed over the bill before she could take it.

“I will do this,” he said.

“I can pay for my son’s clothes.”

“You can. But today you will not.” His voice was calm and final. He handed his card to the salesman. The transaction went through.

We left the store with the shopping bag in my hand. The difference in clothing levels felt sharper now. Around us most women wore standard festival sarees or heavy salwar-kameez. Ma’s light peach chiffon with its expensive sheen and open neckline drew second glances. Azad Sahab walked on her right, occasionally placing his hand on her elbow when the crowd thickened. Each time he did it her body accepted the touch without resistance.

The footwear section was on the same floor. The moment we entered, Azad Sahab took over the direction.

“Sit,” he told her, pointing to the low cushioned benches. “You need at least two proper pairs. I don't like your current footwear much.”

Ma sat. The chiffon pooled around her legs. She tried to reach for a simple pair of black sandals priced under two thousand. He gently moved her hand away and called the salesman.

“Show the ones in the glass case. The leather ones with the small heel.”

The pairs he selected were clearly more expensive — soft leather, cleaner finish, prices between thirty-eight hundred and fifty-two hundred rupees. Ma looked at the tags and then at him.

“These are not necessary.”

“They are. Try them.”

She slipped off her gold sandals. Her peach-painted toenails looked bright against the store’s pale carpet. She tried the first pair, stood, and walked a few steps. The short heel changed her posture, the chiffon moved differently across her hips. Azad Sahab watched the walk with open attention. When she sat again to remove them his eyes dropped briefly to the open neckline of her blouse before returning to her face.

“The brown ones also,” he said.

She tried those as well. In the end he decided on both pairs. The bill came to a little over nine thousand. Again his card went into the machine before Ma could object. She sat looking at the two boxes for a long moment after the salesman had gone.

“You are spending too much.”

“It is Festival . And you needed them.”

The quiet authority in his voice ended the discussion. She did not thank him extravagantly. She only nodded once, as if accepting that this was now the pattern.

We moved out of the footwear section and stood near the atrium railing for a minute. Below us the ground floor was packed with families. Ma turned to Azad Sahab with a determined expression.

“Now something for you. I already said it in the car. One thing. From me.”

He smiled, the same slow smile.

“I told you it is not needed.”

“It is needed for me. I don’t want to walk around this mall only receiving. Come.”

She did not wait for further argument. She walked toward a men’s accessories and formal-wear section two stores away. Azad Sahab exchanged a brief look with me — half amusement, half resignation — and followed her. I walked behind them carrying the bags.

Inside the store she went straight to the formal shirts and began looking at the sizes that would fit him. She pulled out a light-grey cotton shirt with a subtle texture, held it up against his chest without asking, and nodded to herself.

“This colour is good. You wear too much cream and white. Try it.”

“I am not trying shirts today.”

“You are. Go.”

The firmness in her voice was the same firmness she sometimes used with me when she had decided a matter was closed. Azad Sahab looked at her for a second longer, then took the shirt and went into the trial room. While he was inside Ma stood with her arms folded, the shopping bags at her feet, the peach chiffon and open neckline drawing occasional glances from other customers. She looked completely at ease.

He came out wearing the grey shirt. It fitted him well across the shoulders. Ma stepped forward, adjusted the collar in exactly the same way she had adjusted mine earlier, and checked the sleeves. Her fingers brushed the side of his neck. The gesture was intimate in its domesticity. Standing so close to him in the fitted sleeveless blouse, the soft upper curve of her breasts moved visibly with her breathing. He looked down at her with an expression that was no longer amused.

“It is good,” she said. “We are taking it.”

“Anjali.”

“Don’t argue please. This one is from me. Give me the bill.” she said with a smile.

At the counter the salesman looked between the two of them and then at me, trying to understand the configuration. Ma took out her own card — the one linked to the small savings she still controlled — and paid the three thousand two hundred rupees without letting Azad Sahab touch the machine. When the payment went through she gave a short, satisfied breath and took the bag herself.

“Now it is balanced a little,” she said.

Azad Sahab did not look offended. He looked at her with something closer to quiet pleasure.

“You are stubborn.”

“I have always been stubborn. You only started noticing recently.”

They stood there for a moment longer than necessary, the new shirt bag in her hand, the other shopping bags in mine, the crowd of the mall moving around them.

We walked back toward the atrium. Azad Sahab took the bags from me without asking and transferred them to his left hand so that his right hand remained free. That hand settled again at the Ma’s back as we moved through the crowd. She did not remove it.

I walked half a step behind them and watched the way the soft peach material shifted across her hips with every step, the way the wide scoop of the blouse revealed the black lace edge when she turned her head to speak to him, the way her peach-painted fingers rested lightly against the shopping bag she had paid for herself. The morning images — her bare breasts in the bathroom, the black lace bra, the necklace clasp, the open dbanging of the saree in our small room — sat just under the surface of everything I was seeing now.

She had given me the first attention of the day. She had made sure I received new clothes. She had insisted on buying one thing for him with her own money. And still the clear centre of the outing remained the man who walked beside her with his hand on her back and his eyes returning to her open neckline whenever he thought no one was looking.

The mall continued its loud festival noise around us.

[Authorsunny]

Chapter 17 – Part 4

24 November 2025 – Monday (continued)

As we left the footwear and clothing sections behind and walked toward the quieter end of the first floor. The crowd thinned a little near the premium stores.

The jewellery store stood behind a glass wall with soft yellow lighting. The name was written in discreet gold letters. As soon as we entered, a man in a dark waistcoat came forward with a recognition that was immediate and deferential.

“Azad Sahab. Please come. We were expecting you might visit today.”

The jeweller’s eyes flicked briefly to Ma and then returned to Azad with a small, knowing inclination of the head. He did not ask who she was. He simply treated her presence as natural and already accounted for. Two assistants cleared a private glass counter near the back and brought out low premium chairs. Azad waited until Ma was seated before he sat beside her. I remained standing a little to the side, the shopping bags still in my hands.

The jeweller unlocked a drawer and placed three trays on the black velvet cloth. Gold earrings of different weights and designs. Azad did not look at the trays first. He looked at Ma’s face, then at the open neckline of her blouse, then at the thin straps on her shoulders.

“Something that sits properly with this neck,” he said to the jeweller, his voice low but clear enough for me to hear. “Not too heavy. She already has jhumkas. Something that rests closer to the skin.”

Ma’s hand moved once to the wide scoop of her blouse, as if she had suddenly become aware of how much skin was visible. Azad’s eyes followed the movement of her fingers. For a moment the air between them felt tighter than the rest of the store.

The jeweller brought a smaller tray. Azad picked up a pair of rose-gold studs with a thin drop of polished stone. He turned them in the light, then held them out toward Ma’s face without actually touching her.

“Look up,” he said.

She lifted her face. He compared the metal against the skin of her cheek and the side of her neck. His knuckles came within a centimetre of her jaw. She held completely still. I watched the soft rise and fall of her breasts under the fitted blouse become a fraction faster.

“These,” he decided. “And keep the other two trays away. We don’t need to waste time.”

I could see the smile of gratitude, genuine affection, and admiration for his dominant yet controlling attitude.

The jeweller inclined his head and removed the extra trays at once. There was no attempt to up-sell. The respect was absolute. Whatever relationship Azad had with this shop, it was not the ordinary customer relationship most people experienced.

While the earrings were being packed, Azad leaned closer to Ma. His voice dropped to a register meant only for her, yet the quiet of the premium store carried most of the words to me.

“The blouse is lower than I thought it would be when you sit like this. Every time you breathe I can see the edge of what you wore underneath.”

Ma’s peach-painted fingers tightened once on the edge of the velvet cloth. She did not look at him. She looked at the glass surface of the counter, with shy smile on her face.

“Not here,” she murmured.

“I am only telling you what is in front of my eyes. You chose to wear it. I am not complaining.”

A small, almost unwilling breath left her mouth. She shifted on the chair. The movement made the thin strap of the blouse slip a few millimetres down her shoulder. Before she could lift it herself, Azad’s hand rose and settled the strap back in place. His fingers rested against the bare skin of her shoulder for two full seconds longer than the adjustment required. The touch was intimate, possessive, and completely open to anyone who happened to look. The jeweller kept his eyes on the billing screen and gave no sign that he had noticed. I noticed.

Ma’s throat moved as she swallowed. She did not push his hand away. When he finally removed it, the place where his fingers had been remained slightly pink.

The bill for the earrings came to a little over seventy-eight thousand rupees. Azad paid with the same card he had used earlier. No discussion. No hesitation. The jeweller placed the small box inside a larger red outer box and tied it with a thin gold ribbon. Then he brought out a second, flatter red box from under the counter and placed it beside the first without being asked.

Azad slid the second box across the velvet toward Ma.

Ma looked at the closed red box. “What is it?”

“You will see later. Not here.”

"Offoo, Azad Sahab, this was not needed. You already bought these earrings for me, they are enough. Please, I can't take it."

"Oh, come on, since when did you start refusing my gifts? I am giving it, I know you will like it." He then looked at me and back to Ma, as if questioning her behavior because of my presence.

She then nodded, smiled and rested her fingers on the lid for a moment but did not open it. The jeweller’s face remained carefully neutral, yet the slight smile at the corner of his mouth suggested he already knew the contents and approved of them.

We stood to leave. As Ma rose from the chair the peach chiffon shifted across her hips and the wide neckline of the blouse dipped forward for a brief second. Azad’s eyes dropped and stayed there deliberately until she straightened. She caught the direction of his gaze. Instead of turning away or covering herself, she held his eyes for a long moment and then looked down, a small, private acceptance in the gesture.

Outside the store the mall noise returned. Azad carried both the red boxes in one hand and the earlier shopping bags in the other. His free hand returned to the Ma’s back, lower than before, fingers spread against the soft curve just above the start of her hips. This time the touch was not guiding. It was claiming. Ma walked with it. Her body had already adjusted to the pressure.

We moved toward the escalators that led to the food court and restaurant level. Halfway there Azad slowed his steps so that Ma and he fell a little behind me. I heard the low murmur of his voice but not every word. What reached me was enough.

“…when you leaned over the counter… the way the cloth moved… I could see the lace properly for a moment…you are looking so so so damn hot today….darling”

Ma’s reply was too soft to catch, but the tone was not refusal. It was the low, slightly breathless tone of a woman who was being affected and was trying not to show how much. When I glanced back I saw that his hand had moved from her back to the side of her waist, under the free end of the pallu, resting directly against the fitted blouse. His thumb stroked once, slowly, along the line of her lower ribs. Ma’s shoulders tightened and then released. She kept walking.

The erotic charge between them had stepped past the earlier marks and scents and private phone calls. It was now present in open daylight, inside a crowded mall, in the way he touched her, the way he spoke about what the blouse revealed, and the way she allowed both the words and the hands without pulling away. I felt it in the heat that rose under my own skin and in the simultaneous cold weight that settled in my stomach.

We reached the upper level. Azad finally removed his hand and spoke in a normal voice again.

“We will eat here. The place at the corner is quieter. Then we go for the crackers.”

Ma nodded. Her cheeks still held colour. The thin strap of her blouse had slipped again; this time she adjusted it herself, but the movement was slower than necessary, as if she was still feeling the earlier touch of his fingers on her shoulder.

I followed them toward the restaurant, the shopping bags heavier in my hands than they had any right to be.

[Authorsunny]

Chapter 17 – Part 5

24 November 2025 – Monday (continued)

The restaurant occupied a quieter corner of the upper level, separated from the main food court by a glass partition and soft lighting. We were shown to a table for four near the window. Azad Sahab pulled out the chair for Ma and waited until she sat before taking the seat beside her. I sat opposite them. The shopping bags and the two red jewellery boxes were placed on the fourth chair. From where I sat I could see the wide scoop of her blouse clearly every time she leaned forward even slightly. The thin straps looked more delicate under the restaurant lights. The soft peach chiffon had settled around her in loose folds that still followed the shape of her hips when she shifted.

A waiter placed the menus in front of us. Azad Sahab did not open his immediately. He looked at Ma instead.

“You should eat properly. The whole morning has gone in walking.”

“I will. Something light.”

He opened the menu and ran his finger down the section with deliberate openness.

Ma glanced at the menu and then at me before answering.

“It is still festival time. We are eating vegetarian at home these days.”

“At home is at home. Outside is different. One piece will not change anything.” His tone was mild, but the expectation was present. “You eat otherwise, come on, I know that.”

"But never during festival , Azad Sahab," she said, not too strongly, but just so he'd know.

“Then it is time to stop keeping old rules for no reason.” He looked at the waiter.

The waiter noted everything and left. Ma sat with her hands folded on the table. The peach-painted nails looked bright against the white tablecloth. She simply let it stand.

I spoke for the first time since we had entered the restaurant.

“You didn’t ask what I wanted.”

Azad Sahab turned his head toward me with the same polite, slightly distant expression he had used at the earlier mall dinner.

“You will eat what is ordered. Paneer and dal are there. If you want anything extra, say it now.”

“I am fine with that.”

Ma looked at me across the table.

“Eat properly. Don’t make a face about the food. We still have the crackers to buy after this.”

The words were motherly. The timing made them feel like a small instruction to keep the atmosphere smooth.

While we waited, Azad Sahab rested his right arm along the back of Ma’s chair. His fingers hung close to her bare shoulder. Every now and then the tips of his fingers brushed the thin strap of her blouse. She did not move forward or back. She simply allowed the contact to continue.

The food arrived quickly.  The vegetarian dishes were set nearer to me.
“Taste.”

The silence at the table lasted only a second. Then Ma leaned forward slightly and took the piece from his fork. Her lips closed around it. She chewed slowly, eyes lowered. Azad Sahab watched her mouth with open attention. When she swallowed he gave a small nod of satisfaction.

“See. Nothing happened.”

[Authorsunny]

Chapter 17 – Part 5 Continued

I spoke again, keeping my voice even.

Ma looked at me. There was no guilt in her expression, only a calm tiredness of having to explain.

“I never used to do many things. Life is not frozen at the same rules forever. Eat your food, Sunny.”

Azad Sahab served her a spoonful of biryani as well. She did not refuse that either. The two of them began eating from the shared non-veg dishes while I ate the paneer and dal. The division on the table felt deliberate.

Conversation moved in slow circles. Azad Sahab asked about the new shirts we had bought for me, whether the size was correct, whether I needed anything else for office. His questions were polite and slightly remote, the questions of a man performing concern rather than feeling it. Ma answered some of them on my behalf, the way she used to when I was younger. Every time she leaned forward to speak, the wide neckline of the blouse opened further and the black lace edge became visible for a moment. Azad Sahab’s eyes dropped each time without shame.

Under the table something shifted. I could not see the exact movement, but I saw Ma’s posture change. Her shoulders tightened and then released. Her thighs, under the peach chiffon, pressed together once and then relaxed. A faint colour rose again along her throat. She kept her eyes on her plate and continued eating, but her breathing had become shallower. Azad Sahab’s right shoulder moved in a small, rhythmic way that suggested his hand was occupied beneath the tablecloth. Ma’s free hand, the one not holding the spoon, rested on the edge of the table with the fingers slightly curled.

I forced myself to speak, if only to break the private circuit that had formed between them.

“The red box. You still haven’t said what is inside.”

Ma glanced at the two red boxes on the fourth chair.

“He told me to open it at home. I will open it at home.”

Azad Sahab smiled without looking up from his plate.

“You already bought the earrings,” I said. “That was also a gift.”

“The earrings are different. The other box is different.” He finally looked at me. “Your mother understands the difference. You will also understand when she opens it.”

Ma remained silent. The under-table movement seemed to have stopped, but the colour on her neck had not fully faded. She reached for her water glass and drank slowly. When she kept the glass down, Azad Sahab’s hand rose above the table again and rested openly on her bare upper arm, thumb stroking once along the soft skin.

“You are quiet,” he said to her.

“I am eating.”

“You are thinking too much about the boy sitting opposite us.”

The sentence was crude in its directness. Ma’s eyes flicked toward me and then back to him.

“Don’t speak like that.”

“It is the truth. He is sitting right here. He has eyes. He has already seen more than most sons see. Pretending otherwise is useless.”

I felt the words land in the centre of my chest. Ma did not defend me. 
A few minutes later Azad Sahab leaned toward her and spoke near her ear. This time the words were soft enough that I caught only fragments.

“…later… when he is not with us… I want to properly see what is under that blouse”

Ma’s spoon stopped halfway to her mouth. Her eyes closed for a brief second. When she opened them again she stared at the tablecloth as if it required all her concentration. The shamelessness of the comment — spoken in a restaurant, with her son sitting two feet away — hung in the air between the three of us. She did not tell him to stop. She did not move her chair away. She simply absorbed it and continued eating.

I kept my voice steady with effort.

“Are we going for the crackers after this?”

Ma nodded without looking up.

“Yes. I told you. We will buy them and go home. In the evening we will burst some in the lane.”

Azad Sahab sat back, the private moment ended for now.

“The market near the highway will still be open. We can finish quickly. Whatever Sunny wants, put it in the cart. No counting.”

The generosity again. The display of money and ease. I nodded once and returned to the paneer that had gone slightly cold on my plate.

Azad Sahab commented on the quality of the biryani. Ma agreed. Underneath the normal words the earlier under-table contact and the whispered remark about the black lace continued to sit between them like an open secret. Every time Ma shifted in her chair the peach chiffon moved across her legs and the thin straps of the blouse threatened to slip again. Azad Sahab watched each small movement with the calm ownership of a man who already knew he would be removing those same clothes later.

When the bill came he paid it without letting Ma’s hand reach her bag. She did not protest this time. The fight about paying for one shirt earlier in the day seemed to have exhausted her need to balance the ledger.

We stood. Ma adjusted the pallu and smoothed the front of her blouse with both hands. The gesture pushed her breasts together for a moment under the fitted fabric. Azad Sahab’s eyes followed the movement openly. She caught him looking and held his gaze for a second longer than required before turning toward the exit.

I picked up the shopping bags and the two red boxes. The closed red box felt heavier than its size warranted. Whatever was inside already carried the weight of the lunch, the non-veg she had accepted from his hand, the under-table touch I had only been able to read through her body, and the crude, intimate words he had spoken about the lace she wore under the peach chiffon.

We walked out of the restaurant together. 

[Authorsunny]

Bhai aapne story ko bphot amazing tareke se play kiya hai keep it up bro update regurly dalte rehna aur jaldbazzi mat karna kisse ki bolne pe aur story me please....mujhe aapse personally contact karna hai for story purpose can we conected

Thanks for the encouragement, buddy! Reading critical comments, even though I think they're fine, sometimes makes me feel like I'm doing something wrong. 

But comments like yours, bring back the energy and passion to write further.

Sure, I dont know what is the policy here about posting TG or other platforms usernames and all, but you can either msg me or email me on - 

[email protected] 

Thanks again!

[Authorsunny]

great going dear what  a skill not any sex session more exciting feeling this is the beauty please don't miss out this feeling when actual sex session being happened great going  please keep it up

Yeah, expectations for the sex scene are going to be pretty high now. But I’ll make sure to live up to them.

Earlier I was a little skeptical about whether the story could hold attention or keep growing without a proper sex scene for so long… but it actually did. And readers like you clearly enjoy it. So I’m glad. Let’s hope for the best.

[Authorsunny]

One thing must say... Those who are not reading the story, will miss a masterpiece

A very big complement brother. Thank you.

[Authorsunny]

Chapter 17 - Part 6

24 November 2025 – Monday (continued)

As we left the mall, we walked to the parking lot. Azad Sahab told me to load the shopping bags in the boot. Then we all got in the car and drove out of the mall towards crackers market.

The cracker market sat on an open stretch of ground near the highway, a temporary city of coloured tents and smoke. Even in the afternoon the air already smelled of gunpowder. Children ran between the stalls with sparklers. Men shouted prices. The ground was littered with torn packaging and spent matches from people testing small bombs.

Azad Sahab parked a little away from the main entrance. As soon as the car stopped Ma turned in her seat and looked straight at me.

“Come. Today you will choose whatever you want. No looking at the price. I am serious.”

Her voice had changed. The controlled, slightly distant tone from the restaurant was gone. In its place was the older, warmer voice I remembered from childhood celebration when she used to take me to the small local stall near our previous building and let me pick two extra packets of anaars even when money was tight.

I stepped out. She was already walking ahead, the soft peach material moving quickly around her legs. Azad Sahab locked the car and followed at a slower pace, hands in his pockets, watching her with an expression that mixed amusement and ownership.

Ma stopped at the first big stall and began pointing.

“Sunny, come here. These long ones — the rockets — take two packets. And those chakris, the big ones. You used to love them when you were small.”

“Ma, we don’t need so many.”

“We need exactly this many. It is celebration . For once don’t calculate.” She turned to the stall owner. “Give me four packets of the rockets, six of the chakris, and those colour bombs in the blue box. Yes, those.”

The man began pulling packets off the shelves. Azad Sahab came up beside her and spoke quietly.

“Let him choose also. You are selecting everything yourself.”

Ma glanced at him, then at me, and smiled — a real, open smile that reached her eyes.

“You choose then,” she said to me. “Anything. That big anaar, the one that goes on the ground and throws colours. And the laris. Take the long lari. We will hang it from the window grill later.”

I pointed at a few things. Each time she nodded immediately and added two more packets to the pile. The stall owner’s eyes kept moving between the three of us, trying to understand who was paying and who was in charge. When the first heap looked large enough Azad Sahab simply took out his card and handed it over without asking for the total. The man swiped it on a small machine that worked on battery. No one mentioned the amount.

We moved to the next stall. Ma’s excitement did not reduce. She picked up a packet of small bombs, turned to me, and pressed it into my hands.

“Remember how you used to close your ears and still ask for one more? Take these. We will burst them near the gate so the sound travels.”

“You are buying too much.”

“I am buying the right amount.” She looked at Azad Sahab. “Tell him it is all right.”

Azad Sahab shrugged, the gesture casual and absolute.

“It is all right. Take whatever she is giving. Your mother has decided to enjoy today.”

There was a mild edge under the words — a reminder that her enjoyment was happening under his money and his time. Ma either did not notice or chose not to notice. She was already at the third stall, asking about the price of a large fountain that threw silver sparks for almost a minute.

While she spoke to the seller, Azad Sahab stood close behind her. His hand rested again on her back, fingers spread. When she leaned forward to examine a packet, his hand slid a little lower, settling openly on the curve of her hip over the chiffon. She froze for half a second, then continued speaking to the seller as if the touch was normal. Her voice remained steady, but the back of her neck coloured.

I looked away and pretended to study a row of sparklers.

At the fourth stall Ma suddenly turned and called me closer. She took both my wrists and poured a fistful of small paper bombs into my open palms.

“These are the ones that make the loudest sound for their size. We will keep them for the end. When most people have finished, we will start these.”

Her fingers brushed my palms as she adjusted the bombs so they would not fall. The gesture was pure motherly affection, the kind she had not shown so openly in weeks. For a moment the rest of the market — Azad Sahab, the money, the lunch, the jewellery boxes waiting in the car — receded. She looked at me the way she used to when I was twelve and she had managed to buy an extra packet of something I wanted.

“We will burst them together tonight,” she said. “Just you and me in the lane. Like before.”

“Like before,” I repeated with a broad smile on my face.

Whatever was going on between them, seeing Ma so happy and childish, made me truly happy.

She nodded, satisfied, and turned back to the stall. Azad Sahab watched the exchange without comment. When Ma moved to the next pile of packets his hand returned to her hip, higher this time, thumb moving once in a slow arc. She reached back almost absently and covered his hand with her own for a second before removing it. The correction was gentle, not rejecting.

A man at the neighbouring stall was speaking loudly to his friend. The words were not directed at us, but they hung in the dusty air. Ma’s shoulders stiffened slightly. Azad heard it too. He did not react beyond a small, private smile that lasted less than a second. Ma finished her selection at that stall faster than the previous ones and moved on.

By the time we had covered most of the market the boot of the car was going to be full. Azad paid at each place without once asking for a discount or checking the addition. The total must have been several thousand rupees.

As we walked back toward the car Ma fell into step beside me and linked her arm through mine. The physical closeness was sudden and deliberate.

“You are quiet again,” she said.

“Just watching.”

“Watch less. Carry more.” She laughed softly and shifted one of the larger bags into my other hand. “In the evening we will light everything. I want the long lari to hang from our window. And the big anaar we will put near the gate so everyone sees the colours.”

“You are very excited.”

“It is festival . Noise, smoke, your face when a rocket goes up properly. That is all.”

Azad Sahab walked on her other side. He did not attempt to separate her arm from mine. He simply existed there, paying for the bags we carried, owning the afternoon that made her laughter possible.

When we reached the car he opened the boot. Ma began arranging the packets carefully so nothing would break. While she bent over the boot, Azad Sahab stood close behind her and spoke near her ear, just loud enough for me to catch pieces.

“You look happy when you are buying things for him. I like watching that. Later I want to see the same face for a different reason.”

Ma kept arranging the packets. Her reply was low and almost lost under the sound of a distant bomb.

“Not here. Please.”

“I am only saying what I will do. You already know.”

She closed the boot with a firm push and turned. Her face was composed, but her eyes were darker than they had been a minute earlier. She looked at me and smiled again, the motherly smile that tried to push the other current away.

“Done. Now we go home.”

Azad Sahab unlocked the car and waited for her to sit in the front. As she moved past him his hand brushed the side of her waist, open and lingering. She entered the car without acknowledging the touch.

I sat in the back with the smell of gunpowder already clinging to my clothes and the shopping bags. Ma turned in her seat and looked at me once more.

“Tonight we will burst the crackers. Promise.”

“Promise,” I said.

She faced forward again. Azad Sahab started the engine. In the rear-view mirror his eyes met mine for a brief, unreadable second before he looked at the road.

The market disappeared behind us. The bags of crackers filled the boot. And in the front seat my mother sat with the residual warmth of having chosen toys for her son and the quieter, heavier knowledge of the words that had been spoken against her ear while she bent over those same toys.