Rudra had been waiting with his cycle for over a three hours at the Calcutta end of the broken Vivekananda Bridge and the sun was about to set. The Hooghly river had long ago stopped being navigable and was now nothing more than a vast expanse of tidal swamp infested by wolves, jackals, crocodiles and, it was rumoured, even an old tiger or two that would have walked up from the Sunderbans. Both bridges over the river had collapsed, actually demolished in the fierce civil war that had torn apart the eastern edge of India, but people could still walk across if they had the right papers from the right people to let them through the check posts that had been set up by rival militias that ruled the area. Rudra was expecting his mother Deepa to arrive from the Howrah side and once she had cleared her way through the checkposts, he planned to "double carry" her on his cycle back to their tiny residence in Kalighat.
Deepa was dog tired after a long day on the rickety Coalfield "Express" that had crawled along in fits and jerks from Barakar and had deposited her six hours late at Howrah. Travelling through the dystopian countryside was actually a terror for anyone but she had not been able to turn down the "request" that her boss, Pandey-ji had made. The payout could be very high but now she shivered at the thought of crossing the checkpost at the bridge. Wearily, she changed the sack of fruits and vegetables from one shoulder to another and bravely walked up to the bridge.
From the shadows of the broken girders where he had concealed himself, Rudra spied the hunched up figure of his mother, her head and face wrapped in scarf, walking hesitantly up to the checkpost. A sudden guttural shout, the lights came on and a group of thugs surrounded his mother.
Deepa was prepared for the worst but still the shout and the light sent a shiver up her spine.
"Who are you? Where are you coming from?"
"I am Deepa. I was visiting my sister in Ghatsila." No point in ever revealing the truth unless it was actually necessary.
"What is there in your bag?"
"Nothing but fruits and vegetables? From her kitchen garden."
"Let us see that," and one of the louts opened the bag spilled the contents on the floor. The two big onions were the most valuable items and these were swiftly taken away.
"And what else are you carrying on your body?"
"Nothing, but I have a letter from Pandey-ji."
"Oh you are well connected." The leading lout whispered pensively. "We have to let you go .."
"But boss, perhaps a bit of cavity check?" One of his henchmen smirked. "Perhaps she is smuggling something more valuable than vegetables."
Deepa's heart shrank but well, what could she do?
From his perch in the shadows of the girders on the bridge, Rudra too bit his lips as he saw his mother in the middle of the deserted road being forced to take off her clothes as the four guards leered at her.
Deepa was wearing a salwar-kameez pajama suit and after a few minutes of futile requests, she pulled off her kameez and dropped her salwar pajamas to her ankles. Standing in her bra and panties, Deepa was the epitome of a helpless female surrounded by a pack of lecherous louts.
"Had it not been for your Pandey-ji, this prick of mine would have been in your cunt now." The head lout leered, stroking his erection through his pants, "but I think Kalu's finger would be good enough for you today." He gestured towards one of his sidekicks. "Let us have a good show." He smirked.
Kalu needed no further encouragement. With one hand he pushed Deepa forward till she bent and touched the ground with her hands and with the other pulled down her panties so that the lips of her cunt were clearly visible to everyone who was standing behind.
Rudra knew what was coming. It was not the first time that he had seen his mother naked ... but much as he tried to think otherwise, he felt the inevitable hardening of his own cock. Just as it had been the case three years ago ...
............................................
Rudra's father been one of the early casualties of the violence that had disintegrated this part of India and it had been a big struggle for Deepa to bring up her son as a single mother amidst the chaos and anarchy that had engulfed the country. She had been a bright, young chartered accountant looking forward to a good career even in those uncertain times but when the country fractured in the civil war, she was stuck on the wrong side of the Hooghly river. She had watched in horror as public and private institutions collapsed around her and her infant son, but had somehow managed to hang on to a precarious existence.
The fact that she was tall and well-built, which was rather unusual for Bengali women, and that she carried herself with grace and elegance had got her a desk job with a trading company where her accounting skills were put to some use. But the kind of traders, or where they actually robbers and smugglers? – she sometimes wondered – that she had to deal with, made her rather nervous, especially when she had to stay back late to deal with clients who did not wish to be seen by day! Nevertheless it allowed her the luxury of a tiny hut in a slum colony in the eastern fringe of the city where she lived with her son Rudra.
It would have been easy for Deepa to get into a relationship but the shock of losing her husband under tragic circumstances and the protectiveness with which she had hung on to Rudra had created an impenetrable barrier between her private and public worlds. To the outside world they were an ordinary single-mother-and-son duo but behind the closed doors of their little hut they had learnt to cling tightly to each other in a world where there was no one else for them to look up to for help and succor.
Their attachment to each other was not just metaphorical but physical as well since their hut was too small for anything but a single cot. Initially mother and son had clung to each other during the bitterly cold winters but then with the passage of time there had been a change in the chemistry between them. Age and time had laced Rudra's body with a flood of hormones that would very often give him an uncontrollable erection and Deepa too, with an ache in her heart and an emptiness in her cunt, would relish the hard feel of her son's body, her son's hard-on, as he hugged her and pressed his crotch into her butt. Of late, Rudra had taken to body-building and in the absence of a proper gym he would practice with the mugur, the club-like dumbell that is very popular at akhraas, or traditional Indian gyms, in their hut itself and his mother would watch, and lovingly touch, the rippling muscles of his sweaty body until her own pussy would go all soggy with the excitement on seeing her nearly naked son.
As a child he had of course suckled her tits but even after being weaned he had continued to play with her nipples, albeit innocently, for quite some time. Somehow mother and son had continued with their touchy feely naughtiness well past his puberty but even though on a couple of occasions they had come close to an actual fuck, Deepa's middle class morality had managed to ward off the inevitable. Until that fateful sequence of events that unfolded just after his eighteenth birthday when they were left with no other choice ...
