My Mothers Friend
Note:
This story is solely my own work and is based entirely on my imagination. It is not taken from real-life characters or events, and any similarities are purely coincidental. Use of this work in any form requires my permission.
It was the month of September, in the year 1998. Ours was but a small village, quiet and humble, where life moved at a gentle pace. Our home was modest—a tiled house that had seen many seasons. My father worked far away in Dubai, and at home, it was only my mother, my grandmother, and me.
Beside our house lived a lady, whom I shall call Mrs Lakshmi. She was around fifty-five years of age, and to my mother, she was more than a neighbour; she was a confidante, a sister of the heart. Almost half her day would be spent in our home. Her husband had passed away in a tragic road accident nearly ten years prior, and since then, she had grown deeply attached to our family.
I was my mother's only child—pampered, protected, and dearly loved. Having no siblings, I was raised with great affection, not only by my mother but also by my grandmother. At that time, I was twenty years of age, having just completed my intermediate studies, and was preparing for government examinations while staying at home.
One particular day, an unbearable boredom seized me. My days had grown monotonous with constant studying. I longed for a moment of escape—perhaps a film to ease my restless mind. Yet I knew well that if I asked my mother, she would refuse without hesitation, especially with a bank exam only ten days away.
Thus, I devised a small lie.
Telling my mother I was heading to the library, I instead made my way to Mrs Lakshmi's house. I shared a unique bond with her—one filled with ease and openness. Matters I could never discuss with my mother—films, college tales, even whispered stories of love—I would freely share with her.
I asked her for some money, and she gave it without question. But I had another request—I wished for her to accompany me to the cinema. I did not care to go alone.
At first, she grew irritated. She had much work to attend to that day. Seeing her displeasure, I withdrew my request, my face clouded with disappointment, and returned the money. Perhaps it was that very expression that softened her heart—for after a moment, she agreed to come with me.
We decided upon a matinee show, keeping our little plan hidden from my mother.
She arrived later, freshly bathed and draped in a graceful brown silk saree. I reached the bus stand first, and she followed separately. Together, we travelled to the town, purchased our tickets, and took our seats in the dimly lit theatre.
The hall was nearly empty—no more than ten or twenty souls scattered about. The air was cool, and the silence comforting. As I sat back, I caught the delicate fragrance of jasmine—it came from the flowers adorning her hair.
"Is this an English film?" she asked.
"Yes," I replied.
She smiled faintly. "It has been a long time since I last watched a film."
"Then why did you resist so much when I asked you to come?" I teased.
She sighed. "Am I of the age for such amusements?"
"Cinema knows no age," I answered lightly.
She merely hummed, and soon the film began.
An hour passed. I was deeply engrossed in the story, yet when I turned toward her, I found she had drifted into sleep.
I returned to the screen—until, quite unexpectedly, my gaze shifted again.
The gentle breeze from the fan had caused the loose end of her saree—the pallu—to slip aside. What I saw in that fleeting moment struck me like a sudden current. My breath faltered.
She remained asleep, unaware.
And in that instant, the film before me faded into insignificance.
A different scene held my attention now—one I had never witnessed before. My eyes lingered, unable to turn away. The more I looked, the more I wished to continue.
Then came the interval.
As the second half began, she once again slipped into slumber. This time, however, the saree did not shift.
Yet I waited.
And after a while, driven by an impulse I scarcely understood, I gently, cautiously, adjusted it myself—just enough.
What I saw then held me captive.
The film ended, though I could scarcely recall its story.
As we stood waiting at the bus stand, the aroma of chicken biryani wafted from a nearby hotel. She asked if we should eat. I agreed—but before we could act, our bus arrived.
I insisted she board it, promising to bring biryani along later. Though she hesitated, I would not yield. She left.
It was around nine in the evening when I returned home, carrying the parcel.
By fortune—or fate—no one was home. A neighbour informed me that my mother and grandmother had gone to attend a relative's funeral.
After bathing, applying powder, and wearing a hint of perfume, I made my way to Mrs. Lakshmi's house with the biryani.
She opened the door.
"When did you arrive?" she asked.
"Just now," I replied. "The bus was late."
"Oh, why trouble yourself for this foolish biryani?" she said.
"You asked for it," I smiled. "No effort is too great."
She returned the smile.
We ate together, and the meal was delightful. That night, she wore a black saree—elegant, striking... unforgettable.
We sat in the hall, talking idly.
"My house is empty tonight," I said after a pause. "And after watching that dreadful film today, I feel... uneasy. Frightened, even."
"Why fear?" she replied. "I am right next door."
"But you would be in your bedroom. If I cried out in fear, you would not hear me."
She looked at me curiously. "Then what will you do?"
"I shall sleep here," I said.
"As you wish."
"Not in the hall," I added softly. "On your bed. Only then will I feel at ease."
She hesitated, then nodded. "Very well."
It was eleven when we lay upon the same bed.
The night was cool, the monsoon breeze whispering through the windows. Yet within me stirred a warmth—a restlessness that would not be quieted.
I sensed it then—this was an opportunity.
Slowly, I placed my hand upon her waist. She did not stir.
For a moment, I kept it there... then gently moved, as though comforting her. My hand travelled upward, hesitantly, toward her chest. With trembling fingers, I began to undo the buttons of her blouse.
One by one.
And just as I reached the final button—
She awoke.
"What are you doing?" she demanded.
"Nothing... nothing at all," I stammered.
"Nothing?" she said sharply. "With my blouse undone? I thought you were but an innocent boy—but you... You are far from it."
I fell silent.
Then suddenly—
I began to weep.
"Why are you crying?" she asked, her tone softening.
"What do you know of my loneliness?" I said between sobs. "All my life, I have studied in boys' schools... lived among men... and now, I remain confined at home. The only women I know are my mother, my grandmother... and you."
My voice trembled.
"I was drawn to you... I could not help it. Many times, I have watched you when you did not know. I believed you would never deny me anything... You are my closest companion. I share everything with you..."
Tears would not cease.
"At last... I ask you this one thing. If you feel even a little affection for me... then within five minutes, switch off the light. If not... I shall leave, and you shall never see my face again."
Five minutes passed.
I rose... and walked toward the door.
And just as I reached it—
The light went out.
The game had begun.