Chapter 4: Maa Ki Mamta
The memory of the beads scattering across the wet floor echoed in his head for days. Usman had gathered every last one, his fingers clumsy and cold, stuffing them into a drawer. He avoided meals. He prayed in his room. The house, once a familiar constellation of sounds and routines, had become a minefield.
Tonight, the heat was a physical weight. The ceiling fan in his bedroom churned the thick air, doing little more than moving the oppression around. He sat on the edge of his bed, a leather-bound Quran heavy in his lap. The words blurred. The sacred text felt like a prop, a shield he was failing to hold up.
A soft knock, then the door opened. It was Zarine. “Abbu, Omar’s on a late call with the hospital. Can I sit in here? The AC in our room is dripping, it’s driving me crazy.”
Before he could form a refusal, she glided in. She was wearing a simple, loose kameez, but below it… his breath hitched. They were shorts. Tiny, denim, frayed at the hem. Suhu’s shorts. They clung to her hips, the pale blue fabric a stark, foreign contrast against the dark furniture of his room.
“Suhu left these in the laundry,” she said casually, following his gaze as she walked over to the armchair in the corner. She smoothed the cotton of her kameez down. “Mine were all sweaty. Hope you don’t mind.”
He looked down at the Quran, his thumb tracing the embossed leather. His throat was tight. “It’s your house.”
She settled into the armchair, curling her legs underneath her. The position hiked the shorts even higher on her thighs. She picked up a magazine from the side table, idly flipping pages. The silence stretched, filled only by the whirring fan and the distant, intermittent plink of the AC drip from down the hall.
After a few minutes, she sighed. “This light is terrible for reading.” She nodded towards the floor lamp beside her chair. “The bulb’s gone dim.”
Without waiting, she rose. She walked to the lamp, which was positioned just to the side of his bed. As she bent over to examine the switch, the shorts tightened across her rear. They were mere feet from his face. He could see the soft stretch of the denim, the curve. He stared, frozen, at the open Quran in his lap.
She fiddled with the lamp, clicking the switch on and off. It made no difference. “Must be the wiring,” she murmured, straightening up. She turned and walked back to the chair, her movements unhurried.
Usman forced his eyes back to the page. A’ūdhu billāhi mina sh-shaytānir-rajīm. The words were silent screams in his mind.
A minute later, a decorative pillow from the armchair tumbled to the floor. “Oh, clumsy me,” Zarine whispered. She got up again.
She stood beside his bed, near his knees, and bent from the waist to pick it up. The hem of her kameez rode up, exposing the full length of the shorts, the bare backs of her thighs. She took her time, grasping the pillow, shaking it gently as if to fluff it. The scent of her perfume—something floral and close—mixed with the smell of the old leather in his hands.
She returned to the chair. Usman’s knuckles were white on the book’s cover. He tried to recite a verse internally, but the only rhythm was the frantic beat of his own heart.
Another pillow slipped. This one fell closer to him, right by his foot.
He didn’t look up. He heard her get up again. He felt her presence beside him, bending over. Her hip was level with his shoulder. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the delicate skin of her inner thigh, the strained seam of the shorts.
She picked up the pillow. Instead of leaving, she remained bent, placing it carefully on the bed next to him. Her breath was warm on his ear. She stayed there, suspended.
“Kya aapko thand lag rahi hai, Abbu?” she whispered, her voice low and intimate.
The question was absurd. The room was an oven. Sweat beaded on his temple.
He finally turned his head. Her face was inches from his. Her eyes were dark, unreadable pools. Her gaze dropped from his eyes to the death-grip he had on the Quran, then back up. A slow, deliberate hand went to the waistband of the shorts. She hooked a thumb into the elastic, and pulled it out an inch, letting it snap back against her skin with a soft, sharp sound. The fabric retreated, showing a sliver more of her thigh.
“You’re shivering,” she said, her voice barely audible.
He was. A violent, full-body tremor he could no longer control. It wasn’t from cold. It was the dam breaking. Rage, shame, desire, a lifetime of discipline collapsing into dust—all of it vibrated through him.
He saw it in her eyes then: not desire, but a cold, calculating recognition of power. She had seen the broken beads. She knew. This was a test, and he was failing.
With a sound that was half a grunt, half a choked sob, he slammed the Quran shut. The crack was like a gunshot in the quiet room. He stood up so suddenly the book tumbled from his lap and thudded to the floor. He couldn’t be in that space, with that scent, with that knowing look, for one more second.
He brushed past her, his shoulder clipping hers, and strode out of the room without a word, leaving the sacred text lying at her feet.
Zarine did not move. She slowly straightened up, looking at the empty doorway, then down at the fallen Quran. A small, satisfied sigh escaped her lips. She bent down once more, this time alone, and picked it up. She smoothed the cover, placed it reverently on his bedside table.
Then she switched off the dim lamp, plunging the room into the deep blue of midnight, and walked out, the faint swish of denim against skin the only sound in her wake.