There were four in our household: my father’s mother, my father’s brother, my father’s brother’s wife, and myself, due to the location of my college, one of the top-ranked in the city.

In a Hindi-speaking household, of course I would fondly call my father’s mother as “Dad,” but as the sound is much like “Daddy” in American English, our family being English-knowing, she was “Grandmother.”

When Auntie called me to her room, I thought it might to be to check my tie before I left for school. Although your aunt is not your mother, she can be thinking she is.

“Please be so kind to hook me,” she surprised me, her bra yet unhooked beneath her choli.

“Of course, Auntie,” so happy to be asked.

It is not uncommon, a woman to ask a child to help in such a situation, but it is less common to ask a lad my age because of the feelings it can arouse. Perhaps because Uncle was leaving for his office earlier and Grandmother was engaged, Auntie had no other choice but me.

Having so many times in the past assisted my mother in such a way, I stood behind her and under her attire was quick to do the hooking.

The same happened the morning following, and the morning after that, my duty becoming a morning routine, one of which I came to anticipate with some degree of fondness.

Depending upon what upper garment she wore, sometimes I could do the hooking by reaching up the back, but on other times it was necessary to raise the fabric. The first way led to more feeling of her skin, so soft and smooth. The second way led to seeing the makings of her strap. Both ways brought pleasant feelings.

It was a time when she had chosen a bra of red that as I hooked it, she sought my thought regarding her selection.

“Perhaps should I prefer that one?” one of black colour on her dressing table, one which I had hooked onto her before, it being with a wider strap.

I was delighted in that it was so intimate to discuss something so personal with my aunt. “You seem to prefer red today, Auntie, but I also hear good things about black,” not making known that the total of my hearing was from my mates.

“Perhaps black will indeed be best,” she agreed. “Please unhook me and turn and I shall say when I am ready,” making it known that I was again to do the hooking.

That I did, turning away as requested while she exchanged, my trousers fortunately keeping secret my change of condition that on occasion happens to a boy of my age and older when he imagines certain things.

“How right you are, Nephew. The red was much too colourful for my attire, but the black provokes an allure, do you think?” touching her hand to her collar.

“It does so, Auntie. Colour is such a part and parcel of ladies fashion,” realizing as I said it that perhaps some visible consequence of my thought was now within her direction of sight.

Not many days after, as I was about to leave for school. Auntie asked me to her room for what was by now a routine being of assistance, but at this time she was without a blouse of any sort, holding her bra — a violet one, — before her breasts.

“I thought perhaps this one, as it is said that a muted colour adds spice,”

“I find that so,” trying not to be appearing closely looking.

Once I was behind her, however, where my eyes could venture without her awareness, I was pleased to be momentarily seeing where the sides of her bra parted from her before I strapped them together.

As she did not dismiss me, but rather asked about my examinations, I lingered while she selected her blouse, turning before many times in the decision, and at last selecting one to which the violet undergarment indeed added spice.

As she was smelling of perfume which she most usually only wore when she and Uncle went visiting, perhaps she was feeling special.

In the kitchen, Grandmother peeled for me a pear.

“It is most succulent,” Grandmother promised, her English not being so up to date. “I myself must thank you for your attendance to your auntie’s dressing, my fingers being now not nimble.”

“I am most happy to help,” I assured my grandmother.

“But as your uncle is too busy with working,” she made note, “we must not distract him with domestic chitchat.”

“Of course not, Grandmother.”

It surprised me that Grandmother knew to use “chitchat,” but perhaps she came upon it in a crossword game.

After that time, when Auntie called me into her room, she would more and more be not yet in her blouse, but simply be holding her bra as a drape. If she was careless, sometimes an arc of colour — not so much, but enough to be made evident — might rise above the fabric for some moments. I tried to act as blind as the bat.

“You must not be late for college,” she would scold and I did my best to strike the vision from my mind like a hot potato.

A few days hence, Auntie announced, “I have for you a surprise,” looking toward her dresser, on which lay a bra of black lace, not from the market, but from the shopping mall.

But that was not the surprise. “I am a bit shy to show you, but can you guess what more?” pulling the gem of her trousers downward just enough down to expose the top of matched nickers.

“They are A-OK,” I volunteered.

Auntie pinched my cheek. “I worry I am distracting you from your studies.”

When I returned that afternoon, Auntie patted upon her hip and made a wink of her eye.

The hooking of her better bras could be made in different degrees of tightness. Were the fitting too tight, I would unfasten the hooks and she would fill her lungs, at which point I would redo the hooking. Were the fitting too loose, she would empty her lungs and looking over her shoulder I could see further within it before I increased the tension.

Sometimes later on a day of high temperature, Auntie would have me unhook her bra and turn away while she removed it from her blouse.

“Being free is so very much cooler,” she explained.

It was so easy to recognize after she had abandoned her undergarment by her petulance and the alertness of her nipples. I tried to absorb every part of my good fortune.

While our kitchen was very much up to date, its dimension was narrow, and because of that, it was common for its occupants to on occasion press one against another. When Auntie did so against me, or me against her, after she had dispensed of her bra, the sensation was very pleasing.

The situation for me was made more intimate when Grandmother would call the two of us to help her in some preparation — I am particularly skilled in chopping in uniform sizes — and to give her the free space according to her years, Auntie and I myself would at times be pressing together without stop. I could only hope that Grandmother’s eyes were seeing no evidence of my excitement at the contacting of Auntie’s breast, and that Auntie’s hip was sensing none of the same.

Always, however, before Uncle’s homecoming, I would be lickety-split in the hooking and I’d never spill the beans.

While serving a lassi that same evening, Grandmother again positively commented regarding my service to Auntie.

“Again, it is most kind the way you make yourself available each morning. When your father was of your age, he, too, was of such a disposition. As your uncle was rather a braggart, though, I’d first bid him off to school and dismiss even the gardener, and your father and I would linger on the homefront. Very like you, she was so apt, your father. Even at times, we’d be forgetting I was between clothings, as the others were away.”

“Your father had much else to learn regarding feminine interests, to be certain, but he furthered himself by leaps and bounds.”

“By leaps and bounds?” an idiom perhaps I should add to my English.

“By jumping over boundaries, Grandson.”

Soon thereafter Auntie began to seek more of my thoughts regarding fit.

“Am I in this one perhaps a bit low?” touching her breast. “You have such a keen eye for such things.”

I hoped that she had not been catching my attention, but gave my opinion. “Perhaps, but only a small bit, Auntie,” while I tensioned the straps.

“Is this now better? turning herself in a circle.

“Much so,” to appear accustomed with determinations of this nature.

“Not perhaps somewhat higher?” placing my hands on her undersides.

“I think you are very fine,” lifting her to a small degree, but not so much to appear overly familiar.

“I am not too far apart?” using my hands to push her inward in demonstration.

“Not to my eyes,” eliminating the gap entirely without great effort, but then allowing recovery.

“You are so correct, Nephew. For a female to be to where she can carry her notes is unnecessary.”

“Unnecessary,” I agreed.

“But yet also eye-fetching, no?” again using my hands to return her to the note-stashing capacity.

“Most certainly,” most difficult for me to deny.

“The ones they make for sporting, though, would be more reducing,”

“Perhaps so, Auntie. Are you hoping to take up a sport?”

“Possibly for fitness, I am thinking. Perhaps if you stand behind and press me somewhat back, I can feel the effect.”

“It is worth finding out, to be for sure.”

Until the current point in time, I had been increasingly seeing more and more of Auntie’s upper nudity, but rarely for more than a short instant.

Soon, however, Auntie was without any sort of covering at all, before it came time to put on her bra. For her part, it was as if nothing else had changed, us chatting beforehand. For my part, it was like heaven on earth. Her breasts were like two ripe peaches. Her nipples were like two grapes of the garden.