As soon she left the washroom, I went back to help my cousins and others to arrange dinner for the guests
I throw myself into function logistics—directing waiters, rearranging buffet tables, and laughing too loudly at Rohan's nervous jokes. The physical labor is a welcome distraction from the tension still crackling in the air like static.
Across the hall, Mom emerges from the restroom, her green salwar now bearing a faint water stain where the lassi splash had been hastily scrubbed. She avoids my orbit entirely, anchoring herself beside Dad near the head table. Yet twice, my peripheral vision catches her gaze flickering toward me as I lift heavy dessert trays—a fleeting, unguarded moment of assessment before her expression shutters again.
Suddenly Priya tugs my sleeve, complaining about a missing chair for Great-Aunt Shobha, and when I glance back, Mom is staring rigidly at her untouched rasmalai, fingers tracing the rim of her plate like a prisoner counting bars.
My focus shifts entirely to the function chaos—heaving steel thalis of biryani onto buffet tables, guiding elderly relatives through the jostling crowd, and finally wrestling a heavy teak chair for Great-Aunt Shobha.
Priya beams as I manoeuvre it through the packed hall, her earlier frustration forgotten. Mom watches from her rigid perch beside Dad, her expression unreadable as you strain under the chair's weight.
When I pass her table, sweat-dampened shirt clinging to my back, her knuckles tighten around her untouched glass of water—a minuscule flinch betraying her awareness of my proximity.
She doesn't speak, doesn't glance my way again, but the tension radiating from her stiff posture is a silent counterpoint to the function's forced merriment. Later, as I wipe biryani grease from my hands, I catch her reflection in a mirrored pillar—her gaze fixed not on the festivities, but on the vacant space where I had been standing moments earlier, her lower lip caught pensively between her teeth.
I approach the cluster of aunties where Mom sits rigidly beside Aunty Meera, her damp dupatta now artfully rearranged to hide the stain.
"Anything more for dinner or dessert?" I ask to them.
My voice cutting through their chatter about jewellery designs. Mom's knuckles whiten around her water glass, her gaze fixed on the tablecloth as if studying its floral pattern.
Aunty Geeta beams up at me, patting Mom's arm.
"So attentive, your son! We're stuffed, beta—but fetch your mother another jalebi? She barely touched hers." She said to me.
Mom flinches at the touch and the suggestion, her eyes darting to me with raw panic before she forces a tight smile.
"No need," she murmurs, pushing her half-eaten sweet away. "I've had enough."
The unspoken tension hangs thick—her refusal feels less about jalebis and more about rejecting any gesture that might bridge the careful distance she's built.
Aunty Meera leans in conspiratorially, oblivious.
"Di, you must share your diet secret! Looking so youthful in this salwar..." Her fingers pluck at Mom's sleeve, making the fabric shift dangerously across her chest.
Mom recoils almost imperceptibly, her breath catching as she pulls her dupatta tighter.
"No secret," she deflects, voice strained. "Just... stress." Mom said.
Her eyes flicker to me again, accusatory and weary, before she adds with brittle lightness,
"Ajay, why don’t you check on Priya? She wanted help with the photo booth." She said to me.
It’s a transparent dismissal, her knuckles pale where they grip the edge of the table. The aunties exchange puzzled glances at her abruptness, the air thickening with awkward silence.
I turn away, the weight of her rejection settling like stone in my gut. Across the hall, Priya waves frantically from the garishly decorated photo booth, tangled in a sequined dupatta.
"Ajay! Fix this—I look like a wrapped gift!" she groans, shoving gold fabric at you.
As you adjust the slippery material around her shoulders, I catch Mom watching again in the booth's mirrored backdrop. Her reflection shows lips pressed into a bloodless line, eyes dark and unreadable.
When she notices I’ve seen her, she jerks her gaze away, busying herself with straightening Dad’s already-perfect kurta collar. Her fingers tremble against the fabric. Dad pats her hand absently, engrossed in conversation with Rohan’s father, unaware of her silent turmoil.
I throw myself into the final chores—clearing overflowing dessert plates, ushering tipsy uncles toward waiting cabs, and helping staff stack chairs. The physical exertion numbs the lingering tension, and by the time the last guest stumbles out clutching leftover gulab jamun, the hall feels hollowed-out and peaceful.
Mom remains a distant figure throughout—directing cleanup with clipped efficiency near the exit, her green salwar a muted emerald stain against the garish lights. Only once, when I lift a heavy speaker cabinet onto a trolley, her gaze snaps to my straining shoulders.
She takes half a step forward, hand twitching at her side as if to intervene, before freezing and turning sharply to scold a waiter for mishandling the floral arrangements.
As the final vendor locks the main doors, she stands alone by the deserted head table, tracing a water ring on the wood with absent fingertips, the rigid set of her spine finally softening into exhaustion.
Dad and uncle claps my shoulder, reeking of whiskey and contentment. "Well done, beta. Handled it like a pro." He yawns, stretching.
"Car's packed. Priya's already snoring in the back." He said to me.
Mom approaches silently, her movements weary as she gathers her purse. She avoids my eyes, focusing on Dad.
"I'll drive," she murmurs, taking the keys from his lax grip. "You're in no state to drive."
Dad grumbles good-naturedly but slides into the passenger seat. As I move toward the rear door, Mom's voice stops me, low and frayed.
"Ajay." She doesn't turn, her knuckles white on the steering wheel. "Sit up front. I... need help staying awake."
It's a flimsy excuse—Priya's sprawled form blocks the backseat—but the raw vulnerability beneath the command is unmistakable. I slide into the front passenger seat, the leather creaking loudly in the sudden silence.
The city blurs past—neon signs smearing across rain-slicked windows. Mom drives with rigid focus, her profile etched in dashboard light. The scent of jasmine and spilled lassi clings to her. Minutes stretch, thick with unspoken words. She looked through mirror seeing dad, my younger brother and priya sleeping. Finally, her voice cracks the quiet, barely above a whisper, making sure only us hear it.
"You looked at me like that on purpose. At the venue." Her eyes remain fixed on the road, but her jaw tightens.
"To punish me for the rules."
It isn’t a question. Ahead, traffic lights cast shifting shadows across her face—amber, then red, then green—revealing the exhaustion beneath her anger. Priya’s soft snores from the back emphasize the intimacy of the accusation.
I shift in my seat, leather groaning. "Punish you? No." The lie tastes stale. "I just... like seeing you in green."
Her knuckles whiten on the steering wheel. She accelerates slightly, weaving through a gap in the trucks.
"Liar," she breathes, the word sharp as glass. "You wanted them to see you looking. Wanted me humiliated."
A tremor runs through her hands. She flicks on the indicator, the rhythmic click filling the car like a metronome counting down to something inevitable. Outside, monsoon rain begins to sheet down, blurring the world beyond the glass into watery abstraction. Dad mumbles in his sleep, oblivious.
I looked back to make sure my dad and all others were sleeping. Then I said to her.
"Mom, why do I need others to see me looking at you? I am not that stupid and make myself like an idiot."
Mom's breath hitches as my words hang between us, the only sound Priya's muffled snores and the rhythmic swish of wipers battling the downpour.
Her knuckles remain bone-white on the steering wheel, but her gaze flicks to the rearview mirror—confirming the sleeping forms—before settling back on the rain-lashed road.
"Not stupid?" she echoes, her voice a frayed whisper. "Then cruel." She accelerates slightly, tires hissing on wet asphalt.
"Because you knew. You knew every glance felt like a brand when others could see." Her throat works as she swallows, the dashboard lights catching the sheen of unshed tears.
"That green salwar... it was armor, Ajay. And you made sure everyone watched as you stripped it off me with your eyes." Mom looked at me and said.
The accusation hangs, raw and trembling, as the car plunges through a tunnel, darkness swallowing us both whole for three heartbeats.
"Mom, you don't have to worry about it. No one was noticing what I did with my eyes. I told you, mom, I just liked you in that dress." I replied.
Mom's grip tightens on the steering wheel until her knuckles gleam like porcelain in the dashboard glow. A bitter laugh escapes her—a dry, hollow sound swallowed by the drumming rain.
"Liked the dress?" she repeats, her voice frayed thin. "You think that's what this is about?"
Her eyes remain locked on the slick highway, but I see the tremor in her jaw, the way her throat works as she swallows hard.
"It's not the fabric, Ajay. It's the hunger in your eyes—that raw, naked wanting that turns me from your mother into... prey."
She shifts gears with unnecessary force, the engine whining in protest.
"And whether others saw or not changes nothing. *I* felt it. Like a violation."
Her voice drops to a raw whisper, almost lost beneath Priya's snores.
"That's what you can't seem to understand."
Silence thickens between us, broken only by the rhythmic thump of wipers. The rain intensifies, hammering the roof like frantic fingers. Mom exhales shakily, her rigid posture softening incrementally as exhaustion wins over fury.
"I wore it because..." She trails off, biting her lower lip. A confession hangs suspended, fragile, and dangerous.
"Because part of me still craves your admiration. Even now. Even after everything."
The admission seems to startle her, and she rushes to bury it.
"But that part is poison, Ajay. It has to die." Her knuckles relax slightly on the wheel, surrendering to the weight of her own words. "So if you stay... help me kill it. Don't feed it with your looks."
I looked back again to see whether there are any changes in anyone's sleeping pattern. Then I said to her.
"I am not feeding nor poisoning anyone. I want you to look beautiful. That's all, and you did look very prettier than anyone there."
Mom flinches as if struck, her knuckles whitening on the steering wheel again.
"Prettier?" she whispers, the word brittle. Her gaze flicks to the rearview mirror—confirming the sleeping family—before locking onto the rain-slashed windshield.
"That's the poison talking, Ajay. You twist admiration into something sharp." She accelerates slightly, tires hissing on wet asphalt.
"When you say that... when you look like that... it doesn't feel like love. It feels like possession." She continued.
A tremor runs through her voice. "You want me beautiful? Then let me be your mother. Not your... spectacle."
Her hand drifts unconsciously to her throat, fingers tracing the hollow where her pulse races—a silent testament to the war between her words and the flush creeping up her neck.
I looked at her and smiled, then said.
"You are always my mom, always have been, and I wouldn't change that for anything. My mom happens to be prettiest than anyone. That's all."
Mom's breath catches sharply at my words—a soft, wounded sound barely audible over the drumming rain. Her knuckles tighten on the steering wheel again, tendons standing out like cords as she stares rigidly ahead at the slick highway.
"Don't," she whispers, the word frayed and desperate. "Don't call me pretty like it's a prayer."
Her throat works as she swallows hard, the dashboard lights catching the sheen of unshed tears in her eyes.
"Every time you say it, it becomes a knife twisting in the wound we made."
She accelerates slightly, the car lurching through a puddle that sprays the windshield.
"You say you wouldn't change me being your mother? Then *stop making me feel like I'm not*."
Her voice breaks on the last word, raw and stripped bare. The silence that follows is thick with the weight of her confession, the air between us charged with everything unsaid—her shame, my hunger, the impossible chasm, neither knows how to bridge.
"Mom, let's leave this talk as it is now. I don't want dad or priya to hear anything."
Mom's knuckles tighten on the steering wheel at my abrupt shutdown of the conversation. Her lips press into a thin, bloodless line as she stares rigidly ahead at the rain-lashed highway, the dashboard lights etching deep shadows beneath her eyes.
She gives a single, stiff nod—less agreement than surrender—before accelerating slightly, the car surging forward into the downpour with jarring force. The silence that descends is heavier than before, thick with everything left unsaid, vibrating with the tension of her white-knuckled grip and the hitch in her breath whenever a streetlight illuminates the tear tracks she hasn't bothered to wipe away.
Priya shifts in her sleep behind us, murmuring incoherently, but Mom remains a statue beside me, radiating wounded fury and exhaustion in equal measure, the green salwar now looking like a shroud in the gloom.
The rest of the drive is a suffocating limbo. Dad snores softly in the back, oblivious, while Priya’s head lolls against the window.
Mom navigates the familiar streets with robotic precision, her gaze fixed on the windshield wipers battling the torrential rain. She doesn’t glance at me again, doesn’t speak. Only when she pulls into the driveway does she break the silence, her voice stripped raw and flat.
"Wake them," she orders, already unbuckling her seatbelt and shoving her door open before the engine fully dies, stepping out into the rain without waiting for an umbrella.
She strides toward the front door, her silhouette hunched against the downpour, the wet fabric of her salwar clinging to her back as she fumbles with the keys under the porch light, her movements jerky with suppressed emotion.
My gaze lingers as Mom strides toward the porch, the downpour plastering the emerald salwar against her body with brutal clarity. Rainwater streams down the curve of her hips, tracing every contour of her buttocks as they shift beneath the soaked, translucent fabric.
She pauses at the door, shoulders hunched against the deluge, her fingers fumbling with the lock. For a heartbeat, she glances back—not at me, but at the car where I still sit—and the porch light catches the stark exhaustion in her eyes, the rain mingling with tear tracks on her cheeks.
Her lips part as if to speak, but instead, she wrenches the door open and vanishes inside, leaving only the echo of the slam reverberating through the storm.
As soon as mom went inside the home. I decided to call dad and my siblings to get up.
I shake Dad awake first—he blinks groggily, whiskey-fogged confusion clearing as rain drums against the windshield.
"Home already?" he mumbles, rubbing his eyes before nudging Priya sharply. She startles upright with a yelp, disoriented, dupatta still tangled around her shoulders like a shawl.
Dad fumbles for the door handle, grumbling about the downpour, while Priya whines about her ruined makeup and damp clothes, scrambling out after him without a backward glance.
Inside, the house is dark except for the hallway light left on—Mom's bedroom door already firmly shut, the faint scent of wet jasmine and lassi lingering near the entrance where her soaked footprints darken the tiles.
Dad heads straight for the master bedroom, shrugging off his damp kurta. "Long night," he yawns, disappearing without checking on Mom.
Priya pauses by her room, shooting me a bleary, accusatory glare.
"You owe me a new dupatta," she mutters, slamming her door.
The sudden silence presses in—heavy with the unsaid things from the car, the phantom weight of Mom's tear-streaked face in the rain. I stand alone in the hallway, staring at the closed door of her room. A sliver of light spills from beneath it. Then, soft sounds: a muffled sob, the rustle of wet fabric being peeled off skin. I freeze, heartbeat loud in my ears.
Her voice slices through the door, raw and brittle:
"Go to bed, Ajay."
Not angry. Defeated. The rustling stops abruptly.
I picture her standing there—drenched salwar discarded, hair plastered to her neck, skin chilled from the rain.
"Please," she adds, the word cracking. "Just... let tonight end."
Her shadow shifts under the door, shrinking away as if recoiling from my presence.
The hallway light flickers, casting long, wavering shapes. I take half a step forward, hand lifting toward the knob.
"Mom—"
"*No.*" Her interruption is sharp, final. A choked breath follows. "Whatever you want to say... it won't fix this. It never does."
Silence hangs thick again, broken only by the drumming rain outside and the ragged edge of her breathing.
"I can't keep... surviving these nights." Her voice drops to a near-whisper, stripped bare.
"I wore green because I wanted to feel beautiful. Not... hunted."
The admission hangs in the air like smoke—aching and accusatory. Her shadow moves away entirely, swallowed by the darkness of her room. The sliver of light beneath the door vanishes as her bedside lamp clicks off.
I stood there without saying anything, and then the door clicks open abruptly, startling me mid-step. Mom stands silhouetted against the dim bedroom light, now changed into a simple cotton nightgown—the damp salwar nowhere in sight. Her face is freshly washed but raw, eyes puffy and avoiding mine as she grips the doorframe like a shield.
"Go to bed, Ajay," she repeats, her voice stripped bare of anger—just hollow exhaustion.
The words hang between us like cobwebs in the stale hallway air. Before I can respond, she turns sharply, padding silently toward the master bedroom without glancing back. The door shuts with soft finality behind her, leaving me alone in the sudden stillness—the phantom scent of rain-chilled jasmine and salt tears clinging to the space she occupied moments ago.
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