Free The City Son by Samrat Upadhyay Page A

that fateful day when she took Tarun with her to Kupondole. The kitchen has been remodeled, so there is a shiny new counter and an island in the middle, a place “where I can chop carrots and cauliflower with ease,” Apsara’s mother informs her daughter. Apsara takes everything in. Nothing about her childhood home evokes anything anymore. There are old photographs on the wall of the living room. She with her brother taken at a portrait studio, shein cowboy attire, and her brother dressed as an American Indian. A photo of her during her college days. She is alone in that photograph, her eager face thrust at the camera. Her mother catches her observing her photo and weeps. “ Chhori, chhori , what happened? Look at you in that photo! And look at you now.” She runs her hand through her daughter’s stringy hair; she fingers her daughter’s worn-out dhoti. But in the end, nothing comes out of this visit. Apsara doesn’t return to her maternal home, and her mother doesn’t make overtures to bring her daughter and her grandson back into her life.
    Didi allows him to pet her breasts now. She opens her blouse and her bra, and he rubs and fondles her nipples. Her nipples are dark, resembling the black spots on her face. He also clumsily sucks on them, but they give off an odor, like the smell of damp clothes. Yet he thinks they are beautiful. She strokes the back of his head and encourages him as he sucks on them. She doesn’t appear aroused, merely pleased, and sometimes overwhelmed with emotion. When he looks up from her breasts, she says, “You have to promise you won’t ever leave me.”
    He, too, is affected by her emotions, and he can barely get his words out. “I’ll never leave you, Didi.”
    “Do you promise?”
    “I promise.” And he moves up to her face and kisses her deeply and passionately on the mouth. He feels like a man kissing a woman. “I’ll take care of you, don’t worry,” hesays. Even his voice becomes rougher, like Amit’s, and he kisses her a bit forcefully. She’s pleasantly surprised, for she says, “How strong you’re becoming.” He feels powerful and kisses her more. It occurs to him that no boy his age, not even Amit, has access to a full-grown woman like this. The other boys are only talk and no action, and here he is, sucking on a real woman’s breasts.
    He is hard, and Didi’s fingers are inside his underwear, stroking. “My son has become really big now.” At her words he spurts all over her hand.
    “It’s so nice, just you and me,” Didi says. “No one in this world has a clue about the deep love you and I have for each other. Your father, well, I’m sure he’s dying of jealousy.” She laughs softly. “This jealous world will try to tear us apart, Tarun, do you understand? You won’t let it happen, will you, Son? Will you let anyone come between us?”
    “I won’t let anyone come between us.”
    “I knew it,” she says, and kisses him with much feeling.
    It’s true: he can’t imagine not being with Didi. What would he do? Where would he go? He’d be so alone in this world.
    He hasn’t told Didi about his struggle with pretty girls. Not too long after Amit used the fornicating gesture at the girl, Tarun passed by her house and saw her at her window. His heart hammering, he lifted his arms and performed the obscene gesture. She stared, then—her face contorted—spat at him. Her spit missed him, but he got some sprinkles. Herresponse devastated him, depleted him. It was a confirmation that pretty girls—this one isn’t even that pretty, more “sexy,” as Amit informed the boys—sense that something is wrong with him, that he is weak and vulgar. Maybe this girl knows about him and Didi? But how is that possible? How can this girl who lives fifteen houses away have the knowledge of what goes on behind the white curtains in the Bangemudha house?
    But whenever he tells Didi about his thoughts on girls, she says, “All these girls are not worth your time.