We couldn’t help it. As we gathered outside the room, ready to head out, our eyes kept drifting to her—corner glances, subtle but loaded. Pawan pretended to check his phone, but his gaze lingered on the way the saree clung to her waist when she bent to pick up her purse. Himashu offered to carry her small bag, standing a bit too close, his eyes flicking to the exposed back where the blouse ended daringly low. Me? I felt that familiar twist—pride mixed with something hotter, forbidden. She was my mother, but in this light, with the village breeze teasing her pallu, she was a vision. “Chalo, betas,” she said cheerfully, oblivious or perhaps accustomed to the attention. “Can’t keep the bride’s family waiting longer.”
We set off on foot toward the bride’s home—3 km through the village lanes, a deliberate choice to build the baraat energy. The path was lit by lanterns and more fairy lights strung between trees, the ground still damp from evening rain, making the air even fresher. Groups of guests joined us along the way, laughter echoing as we walked in a loose procession. The dhols had started up again in the distance, calling us forward. Our sherwanis rustled with each step, the mojris crunching on the gravel. Mummy walked between us, her heels clicking softly, the red saree swishing around her ankles. Every gust of wind pressed the fabric against her body, outlining her legs, her hips, the gentle bounce of her curves. The backless blouse meant flashes of her bare back as she turned to chat with a passing aunty—smooth, inviting skin glowing under the lights.
Pawan walked on her left, occasionally brushing arms “accidentally” as he pointed out something in the sky. Himashu on the right, cracking jokes to make her laugh, his eyes dropping when she wasn’t looking. I trailed a step behind, watching it all—the way her smile crinkled her eyes, how the low-cut blouse shifted with her breaths. The old memories from that summer day mingled with the present, making the night air feel charged, electric. Whispers of desire we’d buried long ago stirred again, stronger in this festive haze.
As we walked along that dimly lit village lane, the old memories from that summer day mingled with the present, making the night air feel charged, electric—an invisible current humming just beneath the skin. Whispers of desire we’d buried long ago stirred again, stronger in this festive haze, fed by the rhythmic sway of Mummy’s red saree ahead of us, the silk catching stray glints from distant lanterns and outlining the curve of her hips with every step. The occasional brush of her bare arm against ours—soft, warm, accidental yet lingering—sent small shocks through the three of us. Her laughter floated back on the cool breeze, light and melodic, like an invitation we had always known was there but had never dared accept.
Then it happened in an instant.
The sharp click of her high heel snagged on something slick and hidden in the shadows—a fresh, steaming patch of cow dung left by wandering village cattle earlier that evening. Mummy gasped, a quick intake of breath, arms flailing in a desperate windmill for balance. Gravity was merciless. She went down hard on her side with a muffled thud and a sharp, pained cry that cut straight through the night. The luxurious red silk saree—already clinging slightly to her body from the humid air—splattered across the mess. Dark, wet, sticky patches bloomed instantly across the delicate pallu, seeped into the intricate pleats, and crept upward along the fabric toward her waist, staining the rich crimson with ugly brown streaks. The pungent, earthy stench rose immediately, thick and unmistakable.