Summer with my Grandmother

An Introduction to the Grandmother:

Before I begin, you need to understand who she was.

She was married at the age of eleven. A child herself, she was thrust into adulthood before she had even finished growing, going on to raise five children, including my father and my aunt. When the events of this story took place, she was only in her mid-forties. She was far too young to be a grandmother, her life still carrying the echoes of the girl she never got to be.

She had black, curly hair and a warm, brown complexion. Her body was a map of her sacrifices, a soft, hourglass-and-pear shape, with wide hips and a belly that held the evidence of motherhood. It was a soft, chubby, sagging belly covered in deep stretch marks. It was the kind of belly that oozed gently between a child’s fingers, carrying the faint, sticky moisture of a South Indian summer sweat. At its center was a deep, wide, T-shaped navel, a private, secret place that felt as vast and intimate as a hidden world.

But her physical presence was only half the story. We had a bond that was built on mutual yearning and a shared, witty humor. In another world, she would have been my mother. We could tease each other relentlessly, laugh until our stomachs hurt, and then settle into the most profound, loving silences. We didn’t get to see each other as often as we wanted. We both yearned for these visits, little pockets of time where the rest of the world didn’t matter, and I was simply her favorite grandson.

This is the story of one of those afternoons.

March in Andhra Pradesh is a furnace. The heat doesn’t just sit on you; it presses down, thick and sticky, making the air shimmer above the asphalt. It was the peak of the summer holidays, a time when the days stretched out endlessly, and the only relief was the lazy whirring of a ceiling fan.

I was in the seventh grade. For me, the holidays meant escaping the suffocating boredom of my own house and walking the two streets to my aunt’s place. But the real draw, the secret reason my heart felt a little lighter as I walked, was that my grandmother was visiting.

In another world, she would have been my mother. We had a bond built on mutual yearning and a shared, witty sense of humor. We teased each other relentlessly, laughed until our stomachs hurt, and settled into the most profound, loving silences. I yearned to see her, and I knew she yearned to see me.

I knocked, and my four-year-old cousin opened the door. I patted his head and stepped into the living room. It was a typical South Indian setting: a small wooden cot, a teapoy table, a small television, and a window looking out onto the veranda. I inhaled deeply. The house smelled of my aunt’s soap and chalk dust, but cutting through that familiar scent was something else, the sudden, nostalgic smell of my grandmother.

I walked toward the bedroom and gently pushed the door open. There she was, standing with her back to me, folding her sarees. She was draped in a faded maroon cotton saree, low-waisted and careless, the way a woman wears it only in the absolute privacy of her home. She had a beautiful hourglass-and-pear shape, her body blessed with wider hips and the soft, sagging belly of a woman who had carried and birthed five children.

I was short then; the top of my head barely reached the zip of her blouse. I tip-toed forward, my bare feet silent on the floor, and wrapped my arms around her from behind. I pressed my face into her lower back, my cheek resting against the smooth fabric of her saree, inhaling the warmth of her skin and the faint scent of talcum powder in the folds of her waist.

She didn’t startle. She just paused her folding, a soft smile evident in the way her body relaxed.

My hands, resting on her stomach, began to move. I subtly traced the soft, textured lines of her stretch marks through the thin cotton. She let out a low chuckle. “Your little hands are ticklish,” she teased.

That was all the invitation I needed. I started to tickle her, my fingers digging playfully into her sides. She laughed, a deep, genuine sound that vibrated through her back into my chest. But as I tickled her, I wasn’t just playing. I was taking advantage. I had always been fascinated by her belly, the way it oozed, the deep T-shape of her navel, but there was an invisible barrier. A rule I didn’t dare cross when she was awake.

My innocent tickling became targeted. I began to knead her front belly, squeezing the soft flesh between my fingers. She laughed harder, swatting at my hands. “Enough, enough!”

My ultimate goal was her navel. My fingers inched toward the center of her stomach. But as I reached the rim of her belly button, she tried to break free, lunging forward to escape my tickling hands. Instinctively, my arms tightened around her, hooking her back.

In that split second, as she pulled back, my index finger slipped. It brushed the rim of her navel and dipped deep inside, touching the warm, velvety walls.

Her laugh died out into a sharp, involuntary whimper. “Ishhh… chodo badmash,” she breathed out, that specific, annoyed-but-ticklish sound a woman makes.

I froze. Fear spiked in my chest. I thought I had crossed the invisible wall. I thought she knew exactly what I was doing. I pulled my hands away instantly, stepping back, my heart hammering against my ribs.

But she just turned around, her face flushed from laughing, and playfully smacked the back of my head. “Go sit outside,” she smiled, completely unaware of the storm in my chest.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. She didn’t know. But I knew. And now, I was hooked.

Later, we ate a simple lunch of fried rice and settled onto the small cot in the living room for a nap. My aunt, who was a kindergarten teacher, was still at school for a Parent-Teacher Meeting, so it was just the three of us in the quiet house. Because my cousin and I would usually end up poking each other, my grandmother decided to sleep in the middle. My cousin lay on her left, and I lay on her right.

She hummed a soft, unrecognizable tune, patting my cousin’s chest until he was dead asleep. Then, she shifted onto her back. Her right hand came up to rest on her forehead, her left hand on my cousin. She fell into a deep, heavy sleep, her chest rising and falling in a slow, hypnotic rhythm.

I was wide awake. My eyes were heavy, but my mind was buzzing.

The room was silent, save for the whirring of the ceiling fan. The breeze caught the edge of her pallu, gently blowing the fabric aside. Her entire belly was exposed to the warm air, the deep, T-shaped depression of her navel staring right at me.

I lay there, my heart in my throat. Something inside me, something new and changing, pushed me. I wanted to take a closer look. I slowly lifted my head, hovering it just above her belly. I scanned the details, the soft, wrinkled texture of her stretch marks, the way her skin folded, the slight, greyish lint accumulated in the deep folds of her navel.

It made my body shiver. Something felt different and weird, but incredibly intoxicating.

I’ve read many stories online, the navel world stories, the deep navel news page stories, all of them had similar effects on the protagonist, in this very same situation.

I lay back down. The invisible barrier was screaming at me to stop, but the memory of that accidental dip earlier was too strong. I was changing. I was growing up. And I wanted to explore.

Slowly, so slowly, I moved my right hand. I hovered it over her stomach, my fingers trembling. I let it rest. Her belly sank in under my palm. I pushed the pallu to the side and I gently tucked my thumb into her saree pleats and pulled them down. I kept going until my thumb just brushed against something thick. It felt curly and wet, which just gave me goosebumps and I quickly plucked my thumb out. Then I slowly, inch by inch roamed her lower belly and made my way up. As my hand inched toward her navel, I felt the skin transition from the soft, yielding chub of her lower belly to the firmer, textured skin around her navel.

Her breathing became heavy. The heat radiated off her skin. Terrified she might wake up, but driven by an undeniable curiosity, I inserted my index finger into her belly button. It went deep. It was so deep that, as a seventh-grader, the entire first half of my index finger could disappear inside it, a private, secret place that felt as vast and intimate as a hidden world. The walls were velvety, warm, sticky, and slightly damp from the summer heat. Sweat and lint accumulated into her navel as if it were a small water well. I added my middle finger, gently fingering the deep cavity.

As I did, time seemed to slow down. The world outside the cot, the whirring fan, the fading afternoon, completely vanished. My brain was becoming numb, lost in a fog of fear and fascination. After just a few minutes, the movement of my fingers was no longer a conscious choice; it was completely involuntary. It had become pure muscle memory, an instinctive, rhythmic exploration of that deep, velvety space, as if my hand had a mind of its own, alternating between one finger and two.  I felt the muscle react, the intimate depth of the space. It felt so incredibly good, but I was so terrified.

Then, the involuntary fingering deepened. I wasn’t just touching anymore; I was digging. I pressed my fingers deeper and deeper into the T-shaped hollow, slowing my pace. The rhythm became agonizingly slow, deliberate. I fingered her belly button slower and slower, pressing inch by inch toward her very core, feeling the deep, yielding resistance of her muscles, terrified that at any moment, the depth would wake her.

Suddenly, she shifted.

I froze. Instinct took over. I closed my eyes, forcing my body to go limp, pretending to be in a deep sleep. My hand remained on her belly, my fingers deep inside her navel.

I felt her wake up. She sat up slowly. As her body folded upward, her upper and lower belly sandwiched my hand, and my index finger was swallowed even deeper into the warm, velvety walls of her navel. The pressure was immense, a sudden, shocking squeeze that made my toes curl.

She reached down, gently took hold of my wrist, and plucked my hand away. I kept my eyes shut as she stood up. I peeked through my lashes, watching as she tied up her black curly hair, pulled her saree pleats up on her waist, and set her pallu. The fabric immediately slid back down, but she didn’t seem to mind. She gently scratched her belly where my hand had been, and walked into the bathroom.

Terrified that she might come back and confront me, my body finally gave out. The adrenaline crash was brutal. I squeezed my eyes shut, and the stress pulled me into a deep, heavy sleep.

When I woke up, the room was bathed in the orange light of the setting sun. The cot felt empty. My cousin was gone, and the spot where my grandmother had slept was cold. From the living room, I could hear the muffled sounds of my aunt’s voice—she was finally home from the Parent-Teacher Meeting.

I sat up, rubbing my eyes, my heart still heavy with the secret. I walked out, mumbled a sleepy hello to my aunt, and made some small talk about the weather. But my mind was in a fog. I stayed for a little while longer, but the house felt different.

I walked the two streets back home as the evening shadows stretched long across the road. The heat of the day had finally broken, but there was a new, strange heat simmering inside me. I kept looking at my right hand. My index finger. I could still feel the phantom sensation of her navel, the deep, moist, velvety walls. The sweat from her navel dried onto my fingers, I could feel it, I could feel it.

When I got home, my mom was in the kitchen. “Go wash your hands,” she said, noticing me staring blankly at my fingers. “You’ve been out all day.”

I walked into the bathroom and stood in front of the sink. I reached for the bar of soap, but my hands were trembling so much that it slipped right out of my grip, clattering onto the floor. I cursed under my breath and bent down to pick it up with my left hand.

As I brought the soap up, the sharp, clean scent of the soap hit my nose.

And then my brain clocked something.

My heart skipped a beat. Slowly, I looked down at my right hand. The navel hand. My breath hitched in my throat. I raised my fingers to my nose, hesitating for just a second, before sniffing.

It smelled like the soap. But underneath that, beneath the clean floral scent, was the faint, lingering smell of her, the sweat, the warmth, the velvety, sticky scent of her belly button.

A strange, overwhelming shiver ran through my body. It felt weird. It felt good. I didn’t understand what the hell was going on with me, but I knew I wanted to smell it again. And again. It was like an addicting drug that was slowly corrupting my brain, pulling me into a new, secret world.

“Are you done in there?” my mom called out from the hallway.

“Coming!” I yelled back, my voice cracking slightly.

I took one last, deep breath of my fingers, looked at myself in the mirror, and walked out of the bathroom.

The End