Free Sample
Preview from chapter one
This is a work of pure fiction.
All characters, events, situations, and relationships in this story are completely imaginary and created for adult entertainment purposes only.
Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or to actual events is purely coincidental.
This story is intended strictly for readers aged 18 and above.
It has been six months since my mom disappeared.
No phone call. No message. No letter. Nothing. One day she was simply gone, as if the earth had opened and swallowed her whole. The police filed a missing-person report that went nowhere. Relatives whispered, then stopped whispering. Life, in its cruel way, continued. But I never stopped knowing.
Two years earlier she had left our small town for Delhi. My cousin Kaalya had taken admission in an engineering college. Classes filled his mornings, coaching his evenings. He returned to the rented flat only to eat whatever was left on the stove and collapse onto the thin mattress. That left my mom alone for long, stretching hours in a cramped two-room apartment that smelled of damp walls and leftover dal. Kaalya still tells everyone he has no idea how everything unravelled. He looks people in the eye and says the words with perfect sincerity. I know better.
Then the explosion came.
One ordinary afternoon the family group chat erupted. My mom, Pratibha, had left my father. She had married a tall, broad-shouldered man named Musa. The photographs that followed were clear: her sindoor gone, her mangalsutra replaced by a simple chain, her smile different softer, almost dazed. Both sides of the family reacted like a single organism. Doors closed. Phones were blocked. The words that flew were older and sharper than ordinary anger: randi, gaddar, family ki kalank. No one asked where she lived now or whether she was safe. She had crossed a line that, in their eyes, could never be uncrossed.
No one knew the truth.
Except me.
I know every step, every calculated touch, every moment she still believed she was choosing something. I watched it happen from a distance I could not close, and the knowledge has lived under my skin ever since.
My mom was beautiful in the quiet, devastating way that some women are at thirty-five. She looked closer to twenty-five. Her skin was the colour of warm milk, smooth and unlined. Thick black hair fell past her waist in a heavy rope she oiled every Sunday. Her breasts were full and heavy; even the modest cotton blouses she favoured could not hide their weight. Her hips curved generously, and when she walked the thin fabric of her saree clung to the roundness of her ass in a way that made men look twice and then look away in shame. Every morning she performed the same small rituals: a perfect round bindi between her brows, fresh red sindoor pressed carefully into the parting of her hair, and the gold mangalsutra settled between her breasts like a silent declaration. I am married. I am pure. I am still his.