Curiosity ignited first—a spark of innocent wonder, or so I told myself. Who showers in the middle of the day? The heat was oppressive, sure, but Mummy usually bathed in the evenings, emerging fresh and jasmine-scented for dinner. My heart quickened, a traitorous rhythm that echoed the water’s patter. I should have grabbed the cash and left; the drawer was right there, unlocked as always. But the sound pulled at me, a siren’s call laced with the forbidden thrill of the unknown. What harm in listening a Mummyent longer? The air in the room felt thicker, charged, carrying faint wisps of steam through the cracked bathroom door—scented with her soap, that floral warmth that clung to her skin like a lover’s breath.
I edged closer, cash forgotten, my breath shallow and ragged. The bathroom ventilator hummed faintly above the shower’s cascade, a small grille high on the wall, positioned just right to vent steam out to the exterior. From the floor, it was out of reach, but the bed stood sentinel nearby—a massive wooden frame with carved posts and a sturdy headboard that Papa had imported from Rajasthan, its dark mahogany gleaming like oiled skin. Climb it? The thought bloomed unbidden, a dark flower unfurling in my mind. I’d scaled trees as a kid, furniture during play, but this… this was different. This was transgression, a deliberate step into the shadows where sons weren’t meant to tread. My pulse thundered in my ears, drowning out reason. Just a peek, I rationalized, to see if she’s okay. But deep down, in the churning pit of my gut, I knew it was a lie. I wanted to see her—all of her, unveiled, vulnerable, the woman behind the maternal veil.
Hands trembling, I gripped the bedpost, its wood smooth and warm under my palms, like touching forbidden flesh. I hoisted myself up, sneakers scraping softly against the frame as I balanced on the edge of the mattress, then climbed higher, using the headboard’s ornate carvings as handholds. My arms strained, muscles burning with the effort, but adrenaline surged through me, hot and electric. At the top, perched precariously like a thief in his own home, I pressed my face to the ventilator grille—cool metal kissing my cheek, slats angled just enough to offer a fractured view into the steam-filled sanctuary below.
And there she was.
Mummy—Savitri—stood under the showerhead, eyes closed, head tilted back as water cascaded over her like a lover’s relentless caress. The steam softened the edges, turning the scene into something ethereal, dreamlike, but the details pierced me sharp as knives. Her body, usually hidden beneath sarees and housecoats, was gloriously bare: full breasts heavy and swaying gently with each breath, nipples dark and pebbled from the cool water’s kiss, droplets racing down the generous curves to pool in her navel before spilling lower. Her skin glowed olive-gold, slick and shining, every inch a testament to her quiet vitality—the yoga-toned arms lifting to rinse shampoo from her hair, the subtle flex of her thighs as she shifted her weight. Lower still, the dark triangle of curls at the apex of her legs, water matting it flat, revealing the plump mound beneath, lips parted slightly as rivulets traced intimate paths between them.