My home is on the seventh floor of a high rise block of flats in Purasawalkam, a crowded ancient part of Chennai. My father owns a shop selling electrical goods. My mother is a teacher in a middle school within walking distance of my home. The fourth member of our household is the top servant woman. She comes in the morning at seven and after washing the dishes, sweeping the house, laundering, and helping my mother with cooking leaves at ten for a fast food restaurant where she is the specialist samosa folder. Though only 32 she is a widow having lost her husband to the popular brew called arrack. She and her two children aged 18 and 21 live in a tiny house at the end of our street.

By the time the top servant woman finishes her chores at ten we three would have left for our duties. I leave at eight, my father shortly before nine and my mother shortly after nine. As all four have a house key each that is no problem. One morning I had forgotten to take the exam application form. It was the last day for submission so I rushed home. It was a few minutes past ten. I used my key to get in. I collected the form and was filling it when I heard the door click open. I heard something heavy and soft thud on the divan. It was the maid bringing in the laundry that she had hung to dry on the terrace. She could not have known that I was in the house. As she was folding the clothes she was humming a tune. I have never heard her warbling before. She sang well. I could hear her open the clothes almirah to replace the folded clothes. The singing now emanated from the kitchen. Her work for the day was over but she was in no great hurry to leave. I thought she was taking some rest before leaving for the fast food joint. It was not so. She was waiting for something more sensational. I heard the door open once again. I wondered who it could be. A male voice spoke.

“Taruni,” it said. I froze. It was my father’s. That was the maid’s name. I have never heard my father talking to the maid least of all calling her by name, and here he was calling her most lovingly. I silently moved to the next room and climbed to the loft in that room. At one end of the loft there is a gap in the wall blocked with wooden trellis. It overlooks the kitchen. I crouched comfortably in the darkness and had a ring-side seat to watch the thrilling event that was now to take place. I admit that my action was unworthy of a gentleman.

My father and the maid were in a tight embrace. Soon he was peeling off her clothes. The sari was the first to go and then the blouse and bra and finally the skirt. The woman was naked. Lean and comely she had a shapely pair of breasts that sagged just enough to enhance their beauty; her buttocks were firm and her pubic mound nicely convex. She was not clean shaven but had trimmed the pubic hair short. I could criticize my father’s morals but not his taste. His wife, my mother who is just 38 is prettier, but of course wife’s good looks never stood in the way of a husband seeking mistresses. The maid now went about preparing soup from a can that she opened. My father sat and watched the naked girl at work. He must have enjoyed the sight. He must also have passed on his taste for seeing naked girls do homely chores to his son for I found that sight most erotic.

My father was now moving stools and chairs about as if he was a ring master in a big cat show in a circus. He placed a large stool against the wall and a chair against it. It was a well practised move. It was of course apparent that this affair has been going on for months. I wondered what this odd arrangement of chair and stool was for. I got the answer soon enough. Taruni sat on the stool with back against the wall. My father sat on the chair facing her. Taruni lifted her feet and placed it on either side of father’s thighs. She had her thighs widely apart and her vulva was in grand display. Father who had by now discarded his clothes was holding the soup bowl in one hand and as he sipped his other hand was either kneading her breasts or rubbing her clitoris. From time to time as if to vary the taste he took a sip from one or other nipple. Soon the soup bowl was empty. Incidentally even though my father offered her soup she declined. The maid knew were to draw the line in a master servant relationship!

The time was now ripe for the finale. They had a well practised routine. My father who is strong and well built lifted Taruni in the folded state she was in and planted her on the table used for kitchen work. From my hide I could she her spread thighs and her vulva with lips parted. My father then took his erect and good sized penis towards the vaginal opening and she helpfully took hold of it and inserted it in. Both were in a pumped up state owing to the strange foreplay. Judging from the movements and the moaning they must have had their climaxes in unison. They held on to each other for quite a while and then they parted. Taruni climbed up the sink and washed her vulva. Even in that tense moment I wondered what my mother, a stickler for cleanliness, would say if she knew the unusual use her maid was putting her sink to. They dressed quickly. A brief hug and my father left and after resetting the furniture she left. I did not. I had an urgent task to perform. I went to the bathroom and masturbated. As so often happens in our world it is the innocents who sneak out. I left like a thief, looking this way and that.

The stirring event that I witnessed was not a shock to me. My father was a womaniser. That was no secret. He has been the star of several scandals. My mother must have had it out with him in her earlier years but now she was reconciled to it. She rarely spoke to him and they slept in different rooms. What was disturbing was that the affair should be happening under our roof and involving our maid with a thriving family. It did not look good. I felt deeply for my mother, a gentle and kindly teacher much loved by her pupils. If she comes to know of it even her resilience would not be enough. I thought about it in the days that followed. I decided that my mother needs me.

For the next few days I watched the maid as she went about her duties. There was nothing, absolutely nothing to show that she was carrying on a spectacular affair with the master of the house. My father gave nothing away either. They of course never spoke to each other and my father hardly ever looked in her direction. They were communicating with each other of that there was no doubt. That afternoon the maid was waiting for him with soup bowl and can with opener ready. When and how he sent his messages I know not.

A fortnight later on my return from college I noticed my mother’s eyes red and swollen. I asked her if she was weeping. She said that she had missed her weekly oil bath and that was the reason her eyes were red. I was not convinced. Eyes can get congested if one does not take oil bath on the day it is due but they do not swell.

“Ma,” I said holding her with both hands on her shoulders and looking into her eyes, “tell me what’s your sorrow.”

“Nothing, like I said I missed oil bath,” she said. We were in eye contact. She tried to look away but some force impelled her to keep her eyes from turning. I could see tears collecting and then pour down the cheeks. She fell into my open arms and sobbed.

“Mother darling, tell your son your troubles. I will see what can be done.” We held tightly to each other. It is not in our culture for grown up sons to hug mothers this way. With daughters it would have been natural. But she was in such distress and so much in need of support from her only friend that spontaneously we hugged. After a while her sobbing subsided. Then she spoke.

“Your father,” she said between sobs, “is carrying on with Taruni.”

“Your maid?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know?”

“I saw with my own eyes.”

“How?”

“I came home early this afternoon because the school closed. I opened the door. I saw your father’s shoes in the rack and also Taruni’s slippers. I got suspicious. There has never been anything in their behaviour for me to suspect anything but one can never say with a man like your father. Silently I went to his bedroom. There was nothing there. I went to the kitchen and peeped in. And there I saw them united in sex.” She broke down once again.

“You know what I did Visu?” she said amidst sobbing, “Like a thief escaping from a house I silently sneaked back to school. Your father has reduced me to that state.” I held her and spoke endearing words into her ear as she wept. It was a while before she calmed down.

“What are you going to do?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Yes, nothing.” Suddenly her eyes went dry and glinted with determination. “I have thought about it and I have decided what my course of action should be. I will pretend that I know nothing. I cannot mend your father. That’s for sure, and I can’t lose the best servant maid I have ever had. I will accept the situation and move on.” Psychologists have so far not written about the Indian mistress and her top servant woman. When they do, as they doubtless would, they may find it possible to explain the surprising response of my mother to the satisfaction of the unbelieving readers of this chronicle.

My mother quite spontaneously has found a way out of the impasse. She would need my support to move on.

“Don’t worry Ma. I will take father’s place. I’ll protect you, care for you and see to it that you are happy. She nestled closer to me. We were on the sofa. I was on my back and she to one side of me. We were cheek against cheek and I was kissing on all parts of her face and she was passively but willingly accepting my kisses. She was on the edge of the sofa continually slipping and I had to be pulling her up. I thought it was better to sit up. Still holding her I sat up and then pulled her to me. My hand happened on one of her breasts as I was pulling her up. Even before I could remove the hand she placed her hand on my hand. To me it appeared that she wanted to assure me that she knew it was unintentional. Once again tried to release my hand but mother put pressure on it and would not allow my hand to go. My first assumption was wrong. She was telling me as plainly as if she had spoken that she liked my hand on her breast. I gave her reason to believe that I liked it too. This is what happened. The cuddling and the contact with the breast brought on an erection. My penis was hard and it was pressing the cleft of her buttocks. No way could she not have felt it over her thin sari. It was at that moment that son’s love for his mother and mother’s love for her son took on an added dimension.

Our hands remained frozen for some time and then mother squeezed my hand which in turn squeezed her breast. Whatever doubt remained was now gone. Shamed by the enormity of her action she got up and without a backward look hurried to the kitchen. I sat still dizzy from what had happened. My mother was demanding a more intimate relationship with her son. She had the need. She had none with her husband and a woman of 38 who was still menstruating is bound to have sexual desires. It was my responsibility to do what my mother wanted. To the world it might appear to be the most heinous of deeds but to me it was a mother’s request in her desperation and it thus had the force of a command. I had to obey.

Mother soon came out with a tumbler of coffee. She handed it over but was looking away. She could not bring herself to look at her son after she had expressed sexual love for him. I was amused to see her behave like a teenager. It was tender. I drank the coffee and then went to the kitchen as if to place the used cup in the sink. Mother was busy peeling potatoes. I stood behind her.

“Mother, turn round and look at me.” She bent her head and giggled like a school girl. I held her by the shoulder and turned her. She would not lift up her head. I bent down to look up at her. She turned her head the other way.

“Hold my hand,” I said. I offered a hand and she held it.

“Now once again do what you did a few minutes ago.” She would not. I reached for her cheek and kissed her. “Mother darling you must,” I pleaded. I kissed her on the forehead, eyes, cheeks, neck, nape of neck every where except the lips. “Mother darling please.” And then slowly and deliberately she lifted up my hand that she was holding all the while. She took my hand behind the pallav of her sari and placed it on her bare breast. I gasped. At what point she had bared her breast I know not. It was so soft and yielding. I could feel the firmness of the nipple. She pressed my hand as if to squeeze. I needed no second invitation. I squeezed on my own and then with two fingers I plucked the nipple. We hugged and kissed passionately on the lips.

“Now like a good boy you get on with your other duties,” she said. Other duties, indeed! I left.It was late in the evening. Nothing more was possible till late afternoon of the morrow.

I had a busy time in college the next day. My professor, two of my classmates and I were intensely at work preparing for a presentation. I came home a bit late and immediately after had an accident. I slipped in the bathroom. I managed not to fall but in the process sprained the small of my back. I hobbled back to my room. Mother made me lie face down on the bed and rubbed ointment to my back. She said that very hot bath after the ointment had seeped in was a certain cure for back ache. The geyser was not to be trusted to deliver really hot water. She heated up water to near boiling in the oven and carried it to the bathroom. I moved with gingerly steps to the bathroom not savouring the prospect of scalding.

Mother was getting the buckets ready for mixing the water. I had to undress. For a moment I hesitated and then I removed my shirt and then my lungi. Once again I was naked in front of my mother but for the first time after attaining adulthood. I was far from being shy. It was thrilling. I watched for mother’s reaction. There was none. For all the effect it produced in her I could have been a three year old.

She tested the water with her fingers before pouring it down my neck. She gave me a bath as I sat on a stool. It a delightful to feel her soft hands applying soap to my face neck and body. It was at this moment that I got an erection. There was no way I could hide it. Even if I could I would not have. I was proud of it and wanted my mother to see her son in all his manly glory. Mother once again took no notice of the change. She did my body and then the thighs and legs. When she was doing my legs my penis often touched her. She did not seem to notice it. Finally she came to the scrotum. She washed it with such delicacy that when she rubbed my testicles I felt no discomfort. The penis meanwhile was erect pointing upwards as it always does. Mother then collected some soap from the pubic hair and rubbed the penis.

“You are tense Visu for quite some time now,” said mother, “it is not good to leave you like this. Can I jerk you off?” It was a stunning statement for a young man to hear from his mother. I was speechless. “Why no answer. If you feel shy you can do it after I leave.”

“You do it mother,” I said. Mother pulled a slightly lower stool and sat on it. Then she collected more soap from the pubic hair and expertly worked her hand up and down my penis. She looked up.

“Am I doing it well,” she asked.

“Wonderfully mother,” I said. I was working up to ejaculation using my mother as the fantasy object.

“Faster Mom, I am coming.” Mother speeded up.

“Closer to the tip mother,” I said. I was losing grip altogether. I inserted my hands under her blouse. The press buttons gave way and the blouse opened out. I cupped both bare breasts. Mother was working with speed.

“Your hands would get soiled mother,” I said.

“You don’t mind me. I want it soiled,” she said in an emotion tinged voice. I could feel the semen coming. At that moment one hand of mine almost without my knowledge slid between the sari and abdomen and reached the clitoris. Her vulva was wet all over. She was tense too and as much in need of release as I was. As I rubbed the delicate firm knob that was the clitoris I ejaculated and she climaxed. Mother and son were on each other in one writhing mass.

Semen was all over her. Soon she was in the nude too as we gave each other a bath. I soaped every part of her giving extra attention to her breasts and vulva. Then we wiped each other and then we lay on the bed in a tight skin to skin embrace.

When I woke up mother was not by my side and I found a lungi round my waist, apparently my mother’s handiwork. I checked the time. I had been asleep for a little less than an hour. I freshened myself and went in search of my mother. She was in the drawing room.

“Ma, what’s the matter? Why are you sad? Still thinking of father?”

“She turned towards me and shook her head.

“Then what?”

“My behaviour towards you was totally unworthy of a mother.”

“Ma, I don’t agree. Your husband has disowned you and has taken your maid as his mistress and is having sex with her in your own kitchen. You are young enough with normal, legitimate urges. To whom can you turn but your son? He has to take over all the duties that your husband has to perform but does not. No, Ma you are right in seeking your son’s help and your son will only be performing his duty.”

I was not lusting for sex. When my mother squeezed my hand over her breast I could sense how desperate her need must have been for her to make such a gesture. I was duty bound to follow up. I held her hand and drew her towards me. I put my arm round her shoulder and kissed her on the cheek. She placed her arm round my neck and rested her head on my chest. We sat for a long time holding each other. Mother nestled into my arms and I kept kissing her repeatedly on the cheeks.

“Darling Ma, come we will move to the bedroom,” I said. She turned and looked at me as if to say ‘are you sure we will be doing no wrong?’

“Absolutely,” I said answering her thoughts.

She was wearing a light blue skirt and white loose top. I removed the top and pulled the knot on the skirt tape. The skirt dropped with no opposition from her. I removed my lungi and we lay down pressing against each other. Gradually mother relaxed and was getting sexually excited. Bare bodies rolling about in total contact is a pleasure that has to be experienced. It was pleasant to feel her breasts against my body and my thighs against her vulva. She must have loved it too for she often pressed her breasts on me and as often put her leg over me and came closer to let her vulva rub my thighs. At times she would leave a little bit of vulval moisture on my skin. One cannot imagine anything more exquisite than that wetness. This went on for quite a while. She then sat up and pulled my head to her lap. She offered a nipple that I first sucked and then bit with lips covered teeth. She held my cheek and mumbled tender baby talk. It was a pure mother-child moment. She now lay back and spread her thighs. I took this as a hint for me to lick.

“Why are you looking at it like that,” she said for my eyes were riveted on her vulva.

“I was wondering how so big an object as myself could have come out of that small opening,” I said.

“I often wonder too,” she said.

“You are very wet,” I said. She indeed was for the secretions from her vulva had spread to her inner thighs,”

“It has never happened before,” she said. “You must be the reason.” The prolonged foreplay had aroused her to a high pitch of excitement. She climaxed almost immediately to my stimulation. I then got on top. We made eye contact as she held my penis and inserted it in. She smiled uncertainly. The feeling that she must be doing wrong still lingered. She was so wet that it slipped in as if sucked. It was not an emotional moment for me. It was as if I was performing something that I have to do.
We had a massive orgasm. Exhausted we snoozed in each other’s arms.

This was to become the routine but never more frequently than once every three or four weeks. The rest of the days we were like any mother and son. I suppressed my urges and took no initiative at all. I was doing it for her. That much was clear. She had a curious way of indicating that she wanted me. She would wear the blue skirt and the white top, and of course her body language was very expressive.

Our home is now working to the changed rhythm. My mother and I never return home at odd hours lest we disturb father and Taruni. My father and the maid have a free run of the house in the early afternoon hours.

One unexpected fall out was the disappearance of the background resentment against the husband that was poisoning her mind. That and the wonderful new relationship with son has made her a very happy woman.

As I put down my experiences on paper it slowly dawned on me that I have not done anything that I should be ashamed of. I may not be a hero but I certainly deserve credit for doing my filial duty.