Next few days nothing much happened. But as the days goes I could see Mom was not much worried about my ogling.
Mom's vigilance dissolves gradually her shoulders losing their defensive hunch while kneading dough, her saree pallu slipping lower as she leans into the fridge without hurried adjustments. During evening prayers, she lets her dupatta slide entirely off her shoulders, exposing the delicate dip of her collarbones for long minutes before Priya’s footsteps prompt its retrieval.
By Thursday’s lunch prep, she chops vegetables facing me directly no curtain drawn, no tactical sidestep, her gaze drifting past mine as if my presence were merely another fixture in the kitchen.
When fetching turmeric from the high shelf, she arches deliberately, kameez stretching taut across her midriff, granting me an uninterrupted view of her silhouette against monsoon-gray light. She hums softly while stirring sambar, undisturbed when my stare lingers on the sway of her hips, a ceasefire signed without words, her movements fluid where they once flinched.
Only once does tension resurface, Priya spills milk near my feet, and Mom bends swiftly to mop it neckline gaping but freezes mid-wipe when she catches my rapt attention. She rises slowly, clutching the sodden cloth, cheeks flushing crimson before she turns abruptly to rinse it without comment, knuckles whitening around the faucet handle for three silent seconds before relaxation flows back into her posture.
Mom's pattern of allowance crystallizes, she never initiates or encourages, yet her defenses dissolve strategically when my gaze lingers. While kneading dough for parathas, she bends lower than necessary over the counter, saree pallu dipping to expose the shadowed valley between her breasts and holds the posture for five steady breaths before Priya's approaching footsteps prompt adjustment.
Later, retrieving jars from the high shelf near my study nook, she stretches deliberately kameez riding up to reveal the lace trim of her bra, her eyes fixed on the spice labels while my stare traces the exposed swell. When Priya interrupts monsoon-muffled silence by demanding help with math homework, Mom pauses mid-task, hands wrist-deep in rice flour and lets her neckline sag slightly as she turns toward Priya's voice, granting me a prolonged glimpse of cleavage before tightening her drape.
Her actions remain plausibly domestic, yet timed with silent precision, a fragile equilibrium where denial fades but invitation never quite forms. Only her knotted fingers betray tension when my appreciative sigh echoes in a quiet kitchen.
Friday dawns thick with humidity. Mom kneels before the balcony shrine rosary beads threaded through trembling fingers when monsoon gusts whip her pallu sideways. She doesn't retrieve it immediately, letting the silk pool around her waist as she murmurs prayers, her thin cotton blouse plastered damply against her spine by sweat and wind.
My footsteps halt at the doorway, she tenses but continues chanting, shoulders rigid beneath translucent fabric. Thunder rumbles. Slowly, deliberately, she pivots toward the altar, a quarter-turn that exposes the curve of her breast beneath her arm's angle.
"Go study," she whispers without breaking rhythm, her command contradicted by the vulnerability in her posture.
When Priya calls from the kitchen, Mom scrambles to rearrange her pallu fingers fumbling, but not before my murmur "Beautiful" escapes from my mouth looking at Mom.
She freezes mid-adjustment, cheeks flushing crimson. "Silence," she hisses at her reflection in the brass lamp, voice cracking like dry kindling.
By afternoon, tension crystallizes during gulab jamun prep. Mom leans over simmering syrup, her saree's U-neck blouse gaping perilously as steam rise.
My gaze anchors on the swell of her cleavage, dark against starched cotton. Mom stiffens but doesn't retreat. Instead, she stirs slower, deeper, letting syrup drizzle thickly from her ladle.
"Ajay," she says abruptly, still facing the stove, "taste this."
She extends the spoon blindly forearm brushing my chest, her neckline stretching further with the reach.
My younger brother suddenly came to kitchen and suddenly slams the freezer door.
Mom jerks back, syrup splattering the counter. "Clumsy," she mutters, dabbing droplets from her blouse fabric clinging damply. Priya who was in kitchen suddenly frowns.
"Mom, your shirt’s stained!" She said to Mom.
Mom forces a laugh and said. "Only sugar, beta. Fetch napkins?"
Later, folding laundry in the dim hallway, Mom bends from the waist—intentionally slow, stacking towels as her pallu slips off one shoulder.
Moonlight from the balcony catches the lace edge of her bra strap when she pauses mid-fold, holding the posture until my exhale sharpens the silence.
"Enough," she whispers, not turning.
Yet she remains bent, blouse gaping for three more heartbeats before straightening.
Her eyes meet mine in the hallway mirror accusation and concession warring in her reflection. She adjusts her pallu with trembling fingers, the movement deliberately languid, exposing collarbone before concealing it.
Mom continued her laundry folding and suddenly pauses mid-fold, a towel half-lifted as her pallu slips entirely off her shoulder, cascading silk pooling around her waist.
The hallway’s dim lamplight catches the deep valley between her breasts, the damp cotton U-shaped blouse gaping open to reveal the shadowed swell of cleavage, the lace trim of her bra stark against sweat-slicked skin.
She freezes, knuckles whitening around the towel’s edge, breath suspended, her reflection in the hallway mirror betraying parted lips and flushed cheeks. For five agonizing seconds, she remains bent exposed as monsoon gusts rattle the balcony door behind me, the humid air thick with jasmine and tension.
Slowly, deliberately, she straightens blouse clinging but doesn’t immediately retrieve the fallen pallu, letting the fabric drape loosely around her hips while her gaze locks onto yours in the glass.
"Priya’s crayons," she murmurs hoarsely, fingers drifting to her collarbone tracing, not concealing before grasping the silk with trembling urgency as footsteps echo down the corridor.
Priya bursts into the hallway clutching a crumpled drawing.
"Ma! Look what I made!"
She thrusts the paper forward a stick-figure family beneath a rainbow oblivious to Mom’s frantic pallu adjustments.
Mom clutches the fabric tightly against her throat, forcing a brittle smile.
"Beautiful, beta," she whispers, eyes darting toward mine unmoving silhouette near the balcony. Priya tugs Mom’s arm.
"Draw with me?" Priya asked mom. Mom hesitates, fingers tightening on silk.
"Later, darling," she deflects, voice strained.
"Go wash hands for dinner." Mom said to her.
As Priya skips away, Mom’s gaze snaps back to my reflection, her blush deepening but this time, her chin lifts defiantly.
She drops the towel she’d been folding onto the pile and turns fully toward me pallu slipping slightly again, with a tremor in her voice and said to me.
"You’ll... drown staring like that."
I smiled at her and I could see small smile forming on her face as she said that to me.
In the kitchen, Mom ladles sambar with rigid shoulders, her pallu pinned securely while Priya chatters about school.
I linger near the spice rack, ostensibly fetching cumin. Mom’s knuckles whiten around the ladle handle when I pause beside her.
"Set the table," she orders without looking, but her hip brushes mine as she reaches past for ghee.
Priya giggles at a spill, Mom spins sharply, dupanta loosening—and catches my gaze lingering on her open neckline. She freezes mid-turn, breath catching. Slowly, deliberately, she steps back creating space and adjusts the fabric with trembling fingers.
"Ajay," she murmurs as Priya bends to wipe the floor. Her eyes flick downward a silent command before she adds louder, "Priya needs help."
Later, folding dress in monsoon humidity, Mom bends low over the basket, pallu slipping again exposing the deep cleavage shadowed beneath damp cotton.
She holds the posture for three steady breaths before straightening abruptly.
"Water the tulsi," she says, tossing me the keys to the terrace shed, a pretext to shift my gaze from her exposed deep cleavages.
"Ok, Mom" I said to mom and despite that I took few seconds extra to completely take my eyes from the exposed valley of her beautiful breast displayed in front of me.
"Hurry," she whispers, voice cracking. "Before rain."
I accept the terrace keys with deliberate slowness fingers brushing hers and flash a knowing smile that lingers just beyond innocence.
Mom's breath catches audibly, she presses trembling knuckles against her collarbone where silk had slipped moments earlier, gaze darting away as if scalded.
As I turn toward the terrace stairs, her reflection in the balcony door darkens hips shifting in a defensive tilt before pivoting sharply back to the laundry basket.
She folds towels with frenetic speed, shoulders rigid beneath damp cotton, pallu hastily secured. Priya's distant chatter drifts from the kitchen.
"Ma, my crayons?" but Mom remains frozen mid-fold, fingers whitening around terrycloth until my footsteps fade upstairs.
Only then does she exhale a shuddering release and press a palm flat over her breast where sweat-darkened blouse fabric clings.
At dinner, dad and mom started talking about arranging a diwali party for family and friends as it has been long we had a party at our home. Dad beams over steaming rotis, tapping his newspaper.
"Diwali party, long overdue. So We'll invite Meena Didi's clan, Rakesh Bhai's family and our friends..."
Mom agreed and while ladling dal, knuckles whitening around the spoon handle. Her eyes dart toward me, brief, electric before settling on her plate.
"The blue curtains need replacing," she murmurs, tracing a grain of rice with her fingertip.
"And Priya's school project will clutter the hall."
Dad waves dismissively. "Details later, Anjali! First, dates—"
She interrupts sharply, "I'll handle decorations. Alone."
Her gaze flicks to me again, a silent warning as she adds softer, "Ajay can assist with... heavy lifting."
"Yeah, that is good idea, Ajay you help your mom with the things she needed." Dad said to me.
"Yeah dad, I can help mom with whatever she want". I said to dad and looked at her.
Dad beams, clapping my shoulder. "Good lad!"
"Decorations... need sorting first," she mutters, voice fraying at the edges.
Her saree pallu slips further down her arm as she reaches for water, exposing the sweat-damp hollow of her throat. She doesn’t adjust it, letting the silk pool like an accusation on the chair back.
My eyes slowly glued to the exposed skin of mom despite my Dad and siblings sitting near to me.
Dad launches into seating arrangements, oblivious as Mom’s breath hitches a shallow, stifled sound when my stare lingers on the exposed pulse point thrumming beneath her skin.
She stared me with fire as I was glued to her exposed skin, trying to hold her saree pallu safe with looking towards me and moving her head to Dad.
I understand that Mom is worried of being watching us by others so I decided to control my eyes despite it falls sometimes to her charming beauties.
Later in the kitchen, Mom scrubs dishes with frenetic energy, water sloshing over the counter, while I lean against the doorway.
Priya’s TV blare from the living room, masking the tension thickening between us.
"The attic boxes," Mom says abruptly, not turning.
Her scrubbing intensifies, soap bubbles cling to her bare forearms where sleeves are rolled high.
"Diwali lights... tangled."
She bends to stack plates, pallu loosening exposing the taut curve of her spine beneath thin cotton. Her posture holds, deliberate and still, for three heartbeats too long.
"Fetch them," she orders, voice tight. "Now."
Her reflection in the window shows flushed cheeks and parted lips, a contradiction to her sharp tone as she grips the counter edge, waiting.
"Ok Mom" I said to her.
I went to attic get lights like mom requested. The attic ladder groans under my weight as I climb into the suffocating heat, cobwebs clinging to my sleeves, dust motes swirling in the single shaft of light from the hallway below. Cardboard boxes slump like exhausted sentinels, labeled in Mom’s precise handwriting 'Diwali 2018', 'Xmas Ornaments', 'Priya’s Baby Clothes', 'Old Photos'.
I find the 'Festival Lights' crate wedged behind Dad’s old cricket gear, its lid warped by monsoon dampness.
As I drag it toward the hatch, a frayed corner catches on a loose floorboard, spilling tangled strings of fairy lights and a cascade of faded marigold garlands.
Below, the clatter of dishes pauses; Mom’s shadow falls across the ladder opening.
"Careful with those," her voice floats up, strained but controlled. "The red ones... they’re fragile."
Her silhouette retreats abruptly when Dad calls from the living room, leaving me kneeling in dust with sun-bleached plastic bulbs digging into my palms.
Back in the hallway, Mom waits, her pallu cinched tight, arms crossed defensively. She eyes the dusty crate as I lower it, her gaze skittering away from my sweat-drenched shirt.
"Untangle them properly," she orders, gesturing to the verandah floor. "Not here."
She turns toward the kitchen, then hesitates, fingers tapping her elbow. "And... wipe your hands first."
Her voice drops to a whisper, sharp as a blade. "Don’t touch anything clean."
As I haul the crate past her, she shrinks back against the wall, the faint scent of her sweat and turmeric hanging between us, her knuckles whitening where they grip her elbows.
"Ok Mom" I said to her and I sat on a chair and slowly tried to untangle the lights like mom told me.
The fairy lights coil like venomous snakes in my lap, bulbs brittle with age, wires fused into impossible knots by years of monsoon dampness.
I work methodically, prising apart tangles while sweat trickles down my temples.
In the kitchen doorway, Mom pauses her silhouette framed against the fluorescent glare, watching my hands manipulate the wires. Her gaze shifts to my concentrated expression, lingering too long before Priya’s giggle from the living room snaps her attention away.
She retreats behind the counter, the rhythmic thud of her knife on chopping board echoing like a metronome counting down tension.
As I finished the untangling of lights.
"Mom, look I finished it." I said to her.
Mom accepts the untangled lights with stiff fingers, her knuckles brushing mine briefly before jerking away as if scalded.
"Thank you," she murmurs, voice flat as she coils the wires into neat loops, too neatly, with clinical precision that belies the tremor in her wrists.
She avoids my gaze entirely while storing them in the hall cupboard, sliding the door shut with unnecessary force that rattles the framed family photo hanging crookedly beside it.
Priya skips past clutching crayons, oblivious as Mom presses her forehead against the cool wood grain for a moment, a silent pause heavy with unsaid tension, before retreating to the kitchen sink, scrubbing her hands under scalding water until the skin flushes pink. The act feels less like cleansing and more like ritual erasure.
Mom’s shoulders tense imperceptibly as she turns fully toward me, her fingers knotting in her saree pallu, a nervous habit she hasn’t displayed in weeks.
"Ajay, could you come with me for shopping tomorrow after your class?"
Her voice is deliberately controlled, stripped of its earlier brittleness, yet her eyes dart toward Priya’s doorway before locking onto mine, a fleeting vulnerability in her gaze.
The request hangs between me, groceries for the party are mundane, but her choice of companionship is charged.
She adds specifics like armor plating: "I need to buy new curtains... and spices for the gulab jamun and other things for party."
Her knuckles whiten around the fridge handle, this chore-sharing is both retreat and concession a public errand where crowded markets might dilute tension, yet prolonged proximity risks exposure.
Outside, monsoon rain thrums against the window, smudging the kitchen’s fluorescent light across her face as she waits, not for refusal, but for the unspoken terms of this fragile truce.
I nod slowly, a deliberate tilt of your head that lingers, and her breath catches audibly.
"Of course, Mom," I reply, leaning back against the chair.
The silence stretches, thick with unsaid provocations: curtains imply visibility, spices recall syrup-stained blouses. Mom shifts her weight, pallu slipping slightly to expose the hollow of her throat, she doesn’t adjust it, while Priya’s laughter floats from the living room, a dissonant soundtrack to the charged stillness.
"Be ready by four," Mom murmurs, turning abruptly to scrub a spotless counter.
"Ok, Mom" I said to her.
Her reflection in the stainless steel backsplash shows flushed cheeks and parted lips, a stark contrast to her rigid posture, before she vanishes into the pantry, the click of the latch echoing like a sealed boundary.
Next day after class i joined with Mom for the shopping. The monsoon humidity clings to the crowded market as I join Mom beneath her worn umbrella, its faded floral fabric barely shielding us both from the drizzle.
She navigates narrow aisles with practiced efficiency, bargaining fiercely for saffron strands, scoffing at turmeric prices, while her saree pallu slips repeatedly in the jostle of bodies.
At the fabric stall, she deliberates over blue curtains, fingertips brushing swatches as shopkeepers hawk polyester blends. When an autorickshaw splashes murky water near my feet, Mom yanks me backward instinctively, her palm pressing hot against my lower back and releases just as abruptly, cheeks flushing beneath damp strands of hair.
She laughs freely when haggling over gulab jamun ingredients, the sound unguarded and bright as rain sluices off tin roofs onto steaming jalebis, yet her posture tenses whenever crowds force proximity, hip brushing mine as she examines pomegranates or shifts to deny accidental contact.
Priya’s requested crayons become an elaborate quest, three shops visited, Mom teasingly debating cerulean versus cyan while her knuckles accidentally graze mine reaching for a box.
By the exit, laden bags cutting into my palms, she pauses to retie her slippery pallu, fingers trembling and murmurs,
"Good help today, Son." She said to me smiling.
"My pleasure Mom" I said to her laughing. We both had a good laugh during the shopping and it was entirely fun being with her. It resulted in decreasing the tension we both had at home since last few days.
I felt like we are being like earlier and I felt more happier than earlier. I can feel that Mom also enjoyed the company of mine and together with my willingness to help her with groceries shopping.
We spend the time with talking, laughing and shopping.
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