Free The City Son by Samrat Upadhyay

preened and smiled and left the window. Tarun thought about that girl for many days. It was manly, that gesture. The girl had liked it. Girls liked such displays of manliness. He practiced the gesture infront of the mirror: the left index finger and thumb forming a tight hole, and the right index finger pumping it like a piston. But when Tarun did it, it looked like a timid boy playing with his fingers, like girls play with dolls.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

    S ILENTLY THEY MOVE toward each other and embrace. He is as tall as she is, yet in that moment he is the child who used to follow her around the house, cling to her dhoti, and eat her food.
    She smothers his lips with hers. She has lipstick on. “My beautiful son,” she says. She cries, “I haven’t feasted my eyes on you for days.” She plants kisses all over his face, his neck. Her hand gently rubs his crotch. From the corner of his eyes, he notices that the curtains on the window facing the street aren’t closed, and with one hand he reaches over to close them, but she clasps him tightly and says, “Let them be. It doesn’t matter.” Still, his fingers strain and pull them shut. In the back of his mind, he thinks Amit canwalk in on them—these days Amit makes sudden, brief appearances to eat, then leaves—and Tarun stretches his neck to look at the door, which is latched shut.
    She runs her hand over his body hungrily, overzealously, as though she’ll not get another opportunity like this. They shuffle toward the bed, where, as soon as they lie down, she reaches inside his pants and touches him. He ejaculates instantly in her hand. Her wet hand still inside his pants, she smiles, like she smiles when he gulps down her food and lets out a burp. They lie together like this for a few minutes. She says she’ll clean him up before others come, and he says he’ll do it himself. Let me do it, Son, she says. He blushes, shakes his head. You love your Didi, don’t you? she asks. He nods. You love me more than you love your mother? she asks slyly. He’s silent, then he says, I love you more than my mother. She closes her eyes and takes a long breath, gratified. I’m your real mother, am I not, even though I’m ugly? Please say yes, chora . He’s quiet again, then he says, Yes, you are my real mother. Her eyes are still closed; her lips are quivering.
    Later, as he’s cleaning himself in the bathroom, he hears Sumit and his father enter. “The doctor said that it’s mild bronchitis, but that it could become severe,” Sumit explains. The Masterji coughs violently. When Tarun emerges from the bathroom, he has his shirt out, covering the wet patch on his crotch. Didi hasn’t yet wiped off her lipstick. As Sumit leads his father to the bed, the Masterji repeatedly glances at Didi’s face, then he studies Tarun, and somethingshifts in his eyes. His nose gives an involuntary twitch: the smell in the room has hit his nostrils. The Masterji crawls into bed. Didi stands over him next to the bed and says, “Poor soul. I’ll make some soup for you. You’ll feel better.”
    One day Apsara happens to be in Naxal, on the street where she grew up. It’s hard to tell whether she’s cognizant of her old neighborhood, for her face is devoid of any expression. Her mother, Tarun’s grandmother, spots her from the window. With uncharacteristic compassion, her mother rushes down and goes to her. Caressing her daughter’s cheek in the middle of the street—neighbors are watching; they know who Apsara is, her history—Tarun’s grandmother says, “Look what has become of you.” But one gets the feeling that it’s mostly for show, for she’s aware that some could criticize her for being a heartless mother. “Won’t you come inside?” she says. “Won’t you stay for a while with your old mother? Look how my heart has been torn to pieces seeing you like this.” Tarun’s uncle has already married and moved to a new place. Apsara hasn’t set foot inside this house since