He reached for his phone out of habit and opened the fake Instagram account. No reply yet. The follow request was still pending. A strange mix of relief and disappointment washed over him. Maybe she won’t reply. That would be better. This was a stupid idea anyway. But even as he thought it, he knew he was lying to himself. The idea had taken root too deeply after last night’s release.
By mid-morning the apartment was alive with Holi energy. Sonam was already in a white kurti, laughing as she mixed colours in the kitchen with the maid. Kalpana moved between rooms, organising plates of gujiya and thandai, her own simple white cotton saree draped elegantly, the pallu tucked at her waist. When she bent to adjust something on the low table, Keshav caught himself staring again at the curve of her back and the way the thin fabric outlined her full hips. Stop it. She’s your mother. You played Holi with her every year as a kid. Why is everything different now? Because of what you saw? Because of those videos? Because she actually replied to some of those men? He forced himself to look away and joined Sonam in carrying the colour packets to the balcony.
The society Holi celebrations were in full swing by eleven. Families gathered in the central garden, music playing, people already smeared with pink, green, and yellow. Keshav played along, throwing light colours at Sonam and some neighbours, laughing when they got him back. But his mind kept drifting. Every time he saw his mother in the crowd — her saree now lightly dusted with colours, a smear of pink on her cheek, her hair slightly loose — the images from the phone and the bathroom window flashed back. The way water had clung to her heavy breasts. The short video of her turning slowly in red lace. The dozens of dick pics in her message requests that she had rejected. She blocks them all… but she talked to the decent ones. What did they say to her? Why did she keep replying? Is she lonely? Does Dad even know about those videos she made? The questions wouldn’t stop.
Around noon, while the family took a short break for thandai and snacks on the balcony, Keshav slipped into his room under the excuse of changing his colour-stained shirt. He checked the fake account again.
The request had been accepted.
His heart started pounding harder than it should. There was a new message from Kalpana Rao.
He opened it with trembling fingers.
Kalpana Rao 10:52 AM Hello Aryan, Thank you for your kind message. I’m glad you found my comment on that post helpful. Literature has a way of connecting people across distances. How did you come across my profile exactly? I don’t post very often these days.
Keshav stared at the screen for a long moment. She had replied. His mother had actually replied to “Aryan”. He felt a rush of something hot and guilty at the same time. She’s talking to me. Not as her son. As some stranger who likes books. This is wrong… but I can’t stop now. He quickly typed a reply, trying to sound natural and respectful, the way a 28-year-old corporate lawyer might.
