Cold Punjabi nights press down harder each year. Forty-one winters old, twice orphaned by loss, I wrap cloth over shoulder - a blank slate stitched into folds. White threads speak louder than words: remain still, do not reach, never ask. Around my neck rests what once blessed me, now just metal pulling at skin, impossible to lift without eyes turning sharp in lanes behind mud walls. At dusk comes the small fire cupped in clay, hands pressed together, roots of jasmine tucked where oil runs thick through hair. Rituals sink deeper while their meaning slips further away. Light dances on painted deities staring blank - just as it does upon his face frozen inside glass. Every step near the shrine pulls his quiet gaze along with me. Softly, I say ‘maaf karna,’ even when hands are clean. Words leave the mouth before reason catches up. Guilt sits without an invitation. The silence after holds more than sound ever could.

Home for break comes Arjun, my second child, the one boy I have. At twenty he stands taller than before, shoulders wider, jaw sharper than it once was. Cold grips the nights tight, familiar chill that brings back reflexes - I lift part of the razai just like always. Silent, he slips beneath, saying nothing. Stillness settles as I lean forward, fingers reaching for the lamp wick. His eyes stay fixed, tracing the line where hip meets back, though I act unaware. Maybe it’s nothing, I whisper inside. A trick of shadow and heat. Motherhood means ignoring certain weights in the air. Yet the thought coats my tongue like ash.

First Night

Facing the wall now, my body curled tight, eyelids pressed together, breath drawn out long just to fool him into believing I’m under. That heavy quilt weighs down, yet heat from his skin finds me fast - sharper than any old recollection, nearly too much to hold.

Closer he moves. Not rushed. Measured steps in stillness. Over my waist goes his arm - hand finding rest on my hip, atop the saree. Thin cotton offers little cover. Ridges of his palm press through. Heat arrives in layers.

Thump thump goes my chest, tight under bone. Nothing at all, I tell myself again and again. He feels icy. Just a child needing heat, just like years ago. Stillness holds me. Not one word comes out. Some better woman might slide aside. That kind of parent would whisper, “son, enough now.” Yet here I stay, stiff with fear - motion could turn dream into fact.

Time slows down like it forgot where it was going. A quiet movement starts - his thumb grazing my hip, slow rolls back then forward, so faint you might miss it. Easy to pretend nothing is happening. But every pass lights something under my skin, hot and guilty at once. Warmth pools deep in the pit of me, somewhere long gone numb waking up again. Moisture spreads before shame crashes down. My skin betrays me, even though he’s the boy I gave birth to. The one I fed at my breast. Bitter guilt surges up my throat. Needles of tears press against my shut eyes. A metallic tang floods my mouth as teeth sink into flesh, trying to kill what stirs. His breath finally slows, pretending sleep. Then - only then - I let air leave my lungs, shaking. The trace of his touch lingers like fire, even when his hand lies flat. Awake, I watch shadows shrink as the oil lamp flickers down. One dread claws inside me: what surged through my skin. Another grips harder: my silence fed it. To the photo of my husband, face half-swallowed by blackness, small words form without sound. Hours inch forward, thick and slow.

Second Night

Now I fear the moment night comes. My muscles stay tight, stuck on what happened before. Still, I pull up the blanket anyway. Routine takes over. Maybe it’s surrender. Then he slips under too, pressing close behind me. Just once, I sense how strong his desire is - impossible to ignore - and guilt hits like a wave, sharp enough that I almost cry out.

Stiff as stone, I stay still. Waiting takes over.

Minutes stretch, heavier than before, as guilt tugs against fear deep in my chest. Should I say something now, act like I’ve just opened my eyes, everything stops. Still, no sound comes out, and that quiet sits like agreement. He stays there, waiting, under the weight of what isn’t said. When breath finally drags slow, his hand comes back - flat against my side, fingers wide. There it rests, just pressing into skin, counting each pull of air. A voice inside yells: This must end. Remember who you are. Yet limbs lock in place, drawn to heat like something long frozen. Air slips over my stomach, sudden and sharp. His hand moves like smoke beneath the edge of cloth. Skin remembers touch before mind allows it. A pulse jumps in my ribs. Words pile up behind teeth - none make sound. Shame arrives quiet, then shouts. One part wants to push. Another waits. Nothing changes shape.