Preetha's eyes went heavy as she was leafing through the pages of the newly arrived magazine. It is happening to her often these days, a side effect of having too many valiums for sleep. She can't sleep at night, and throughout the day, a spell of gloom and drowsiness hangs heavy over her like a shroud. Her cell phone was buzzing with vibration on the table beside the bed, it must have been Sayani from her office. She has been calling so many times, don't they realize she won't be going back to work?
Preetha was thinking about sending the resignation letter to the H.R, but such ennui afflicted her that she didn't even feel like sitting in front of the computer and typing it out. It has been weeks since she last checked her Facebook and Twitter accounts, something which she couldn't live without before. No WhatsApp, no messages, no Gmail, no calls, she is living in the massive 3 BHK apartment in Golf Green (a posh residential locality in the metropolis of Kolkata in India) like a marooned sailor. Her only connection with the outside world was the maid who comes every other day to clean up and cook for her. She doesn't even feel like making food for herself. If the maid doesn't come, she orders lunch or dinner from the nearby restaurants who deliver at home.
A sudden gust of cool wind brushed on her bare feet, entered the lower part of her saree like a mischievous lover and blew the pallu (part of the saree cloth which covers the breasts) baring her blouse-covered chest. She climbed out of the bed and arranging her saree, headed outside towards the balcony. A storm was billowing. The lines of trees across the road were shaking their shaggy heads like they were epilepsy inflicted. It was Kalbaishakhi, a storm accompanied by thunder squall that occurs a few times every year during or slightly before the Bengali month of Baishakh (early April) in Bangladesh and West Bengal, following the hot and humid Choitra month, erasing an old year and symbolizing the washing away of the grime of the past. The owner of the tea stall across the road was struggling with the shutter of his shop to close it against the violent gusts. People were running helter-skelter to find cover from the impending storm and torrential rains.
The darkness in Preetha's heart was reflected, as it were, across the sky as dark clouds had covered it from horizon to horizon. Slivers of lightning were streaking through the inky blackness that blotted out the blazing sun of the afternoon. Another gust of violent wind blew away Preetha's pallu as she caught it instinctively. The wind was like an invisible naughty lover trying to violate her modesty. As she covered her chest drawing back the slick strip of silk, she could notice two circular damp stains on her blouse. She could also feel a slight throbbing pain as well. The doctor had prescribed some pills to stop spontaneous effusion, Preetha had stopped taking them for quite some time. The pain was nothing compared to the pain of bereavement that numbed her heart and soul. This pain was a constant reminder of what she had been robbed off, what those monsters had done to her. The physical pain provided some balance to the agony of her heart.
She could smell herself, the scent of her womanhood, the scent of her robbed motherhood, the scent of pent up milk in her breasts, now spilling out. She had been effusing for quite some time, she didn't even realize. This is the reason Preetha doesn't wear western clothes like T-Shirts, tops or salwar-kameez these days. These spontaneous effusions have become an issue of embarrassment for her. If she wears a saree, the pallu covers her blouse, the wet stains are hidden beneath the cloth. Sometimes, when she goes downstairs, she could see the neighborhood kids playing in the park and looking at them, Preetha could neither control her tears or her breast milk which threatened to ooze out of her eyes and breasts.
Preetha could not take that smell anymore. The first drops of rain had spotted the road on the ground like leopard print, and the musty smell of the wet earth and her leaking motherhood were strangely identical. The sky will quench the thirst of the earth, Preetha's breasts were equally full to the brim, but she had no one thirsting for her. Her lap was empty as a desert.
She returned to the bedroom; she was hurting. Today it was worse; her breasts felt like they were going to explode. She pulled them out one by one from the captivity of her blouse and bra and saw a thick white stream rolling down her nipples. They weighed heavy in her hands, becoming heavier with the coagulating milk. Her eyes brimmed with tears looking at the elixir of life spilling out pointlessly, no little hungry mouth to clamp on them and swallow the sweetness filling a little belly, quenching the thirst. She will never have that eternal peace and satisfaction. She stripped off her half-wet blouse and bra and bared herself in front of her dressing table. Before coming back from San Francisco, she had brought numerous expensive cosmetics and make-up kits in a hurry. Living in the U.S had made her snobbish against Indian products. After she returned, she rejoined her old office, a famous and influential news broadcasting company in Calcutta, and in media, the unsaid rule is that you have to look good. Though looking good was not dependent on cosmetics for Preetha. As she looked at herself in the mirror bare bodied, Preetha was startled! Who is this she is looking at?
There were dark circles under her large beautiful eyes, her face was drawn in and dry, a Rubenesque heaviness had settled on her once slim and athletic figure. It was the heaviness of motherhood, and in some other time, it would have made her look more full and beautiful on her statuesque, tall 5'10" stature; but she was not a mother, she could not be a mother, she was not allowed to be a mother! In her pre-pubescent years, kids of her age made fun of her due to her unnatural height, calling her pine tree, beanpole, white bamboo, etc. Like many other Bengali middle class parents, her folks were worried if she will ever gain a womanly figure and get married. When she was thirteen, even her dad had to look up to her while standing. Both her parents were of medium height, the genes of her gigantic grandfather skipped a generation and blessed her with it. While marching in sports day, she was always the last girl walking at the back of the line. However, she was quite athletic and sports were her life; she was the captain of the basketball team and continued playing till in college when she had to stop to avoid the greedy prying eyes of the boys.
She was always embarrassed due to her height. During Saraswati Puja (Festival of Goddess Saraswati, the ethnic Deity of Wisdom, which is celebrated in all Indian schools and considered as a regional Valentine's day among students because all girls wear saree on that occasion, making them look beautiful and lady like, and boys also dress up in ethnic dress of kurta/pajama or dhoti), all other girls roamed around in their respective boyfriend's arms while she was considered freakishly tall and gawky for male taste.
But, as she crossed fifteen, suddenly the chrysalis turned into a full-fledged butterfly. The geometric angles of her body were transformed into fleshy roundness of femininity. Suddenly her inners were not fitting her anymore and soft, dense crops of hair sprouted in nooks and crannies of her body. Like a tide breaking a dam, feminine hormones flooded her body turning her girlhood into robust womanhood.
The boys who mocked her were now running after her like dogs in heat, savouring her uncontrollable fullness. Preetha never paid any attention towards them; from school to college, she guarded the immeasurable wealth her body was gifted with. She was saving it up for the man of her dreams.
She finished her college in journalism and joined a major media house as an intern. Due to the exposure, she was getting many acting and modeling offers. She did a few ramp shows and print ads. A famous fashion designer was even planning to launch her in a Delhi Fashion Week to be the ramp partner of the showstopper, and it was none other than Abhishek Bachhan, son of Amitabh Bachhan himself. She was picked because of her startling height and soft Indian beauty. It was a massive opportunity and Preetha was very happy that day, bubbling with energy and eager to share the news with her parents, but that evening something happened which changed her life forever.
When she returned home, her mother asked her to quickly get ready and wear a saree. A family was coming to see her for her arranged marriage with their son. Preetha exploded with anger. Now to explain the arranged marriage custom in India : the marriage process usually begins with a realization in the family that a child is old enough to marry. For a girl, it is during her graduation or early twenties and for a boy, it is after he is 'settled' with a decent job and consistent earnings. The initiation can occur when a parent or a relative (such as an aunt or an elder sister or sister-in-law) initiates a conversation on the topic, or the son/daughter approaches the parent/relative and expresses the desire to be married. This person effectively acts as a sponsor, taking responsibility to get the boy/girl married to a good partner. If the families are enthusiastic about a potential match, it is customary for the prospective groom's family to visit the prospective bride's family. In this event, it is traditional for the boy's family to arrive (with the boy) and be seated with the entire girl's family except the girl herself who then makes a dramatic entrance dressed in fine clothes, often bringing tea and refreshments with herself. This practice is sometimes called "seeing the girl". This custom has been attacked by feminists as a classic instance of gender bias and the objectification of modern-day girls which, to great degree, is true. During this visit, the boy and girl are often encouraged to meet and talk by themselves in a separate room. The families usually part after this initial meeting without any commitment made by either side, with the expectation that they will confer separately and send word through the matchmaker should they be interested in pursuing the matter further. These meetings are understood to be non-exclusive, that is, both the boy and girl are expected to similarly meet with multiple other potential partners at this stage.
Preetha, being an educated modern young woman, felt insulted by this custom and she realized her parents were matchmaking her secretly, and now suddenly out of the blue the groom's family has arrived. She refused to meet them initially, but her mother beseeched and emotionally blackmailed her. She kept on saying they're from the rich and reputed Mullick family in Calcutta and the boy is working in the US which is like a holy grail to every middle class Indian parent. Preetha found such mentality typically crass and undignified, but decided not to drag this further. She would meet them and would take the cell number of the potential groom and call him personally afterwards to tell him she was just not interested.
The Groom's family arrived soon. From their expensive and traditional clothes, looks and etiquette, it was evident they were from a rich family with plenty of money. The parents took their seat as they apologized for the delay in arrival of their son; they said he was right outside in his car, attending a skype call from her company in US. Preetha quickly glanced from the window; in front of their narrow alley a large black Mercedes was parked. Someone was inside the car, but she couldn't see clearly. She immediately thought of them as big show-offs.
After half an hour, Ayan Mullick, the groom entered. A tall, well built young man in his early thirties, he was exceptionally handsome, to the point of being beautiful, with glowing fair skin and long curly hair. He was soft and amicable and spoke respectfully. Preetha's agitation was soothing away the more she saw the man. The initial meeting was brief and jovial, and they bid goodbye after evening snacks and tea. Before he left, Ayan exchanged numbers with Preetha.
Later in the night, somewhat out of her stubbornness, Preetha called Ayan to call off the engagement, but when Ayan in his American accent replied 'Hi Preetha, how are you doing?'
she felt a weakness in her knees. Finally, when she said she had something to talk to him, Ayan invited her for a lunch next day. After Preetha spent three hours with Ayan at Flotel, an expensive floating restaurant on the river, she completely changed her opinion about him. He was such a gentleman, so modest and well spoken, with a plethora of knowledge and experience. When she came back home, she responded to her mother's anxious glances with a faint smile and a nod. The whole household started celebrating.
Within a couple of months, Preetha got married to Ayan and set off to the U.S.A. The first five years of their marriage was the best years in Preetha's life. Ayan had provided the best for her, both with his commitment and wealth. Though they stayed in San Francisco and there is no dearth of beautiful women around, Ayan never made Preetha feel neglected. It was evident that though westerners and Latinas are beautiful, they cannot hold a candle in front of a truly beautiful and modern Indian woman. Preetha, on her side, never gave Ayan any chance to complain about; she covered themselves in a cocoon of love and physical pleasure. She had shed off the typical Indian shyness and came across as a bold independent woman very sure of her sexuality. For 25 long years, Preetha had saved herself for her dream man and she had finally found him and the tide of her sexuality flooded both their lives. Sex became a paramount and integral part of their being. If they were not eating, going out or watching TV, they were mostly engrossed in sexual adventures exploring every inch of their bodies.
Sometimes Ayan used to express before of her, 'Preetha, your needs are so intense, your sexuality is so profound, will you ever be satisfied by just me?' She used to chuckle and say 'So what, if you alone are not enough, I will make clones of you, genetic science is advancing towards that day'.
Finally when she was 30, Preetha asked of Ayan for a child, and being a strong, robust and fertile woman, it didn't take long for her to get pregnant. It was a period of immense joy and excitement for her. Around 2 months hence, Ayan took Preetha to the doctor for her check up. The physician was a hefty jolly woman named Dr. Margaret Jones who took them to the ultrasonography room. When she saw the abstract shape on the monitor, Dr. Jones smiled sweetly and declared 'Congratulations Mr and Mrs Malikh, you are going to be the parents of a beautiful baby girl.'
Preetha could not contain her happiness at that moment and jumped on Ayan that instant, hugging him and kissing him deeply. With a choked voice she said, 'Thank you Baby...'
Ayan, being a little embarrassed wiped his mouth off the fresh warm wetness she left behind and smiled, but did his smile look a bit dry and fake at that moment? Preetha didn't realize; she was already in the seventh heaven with the happiness of her upcoming motherhood.
After the doctor's assessment, Ayan suddenly started making arrangements for her to travel back to India. His plan was correct and logical; in the U.S, she won't get proper care and pampering which is required for the upcoming birth, and he wanted his parents and hers as well to see their grandchild as she would be born. Ayan was in a busy schedule in his office and couldn't give proper time to his wife and hence he decided to drop her off in India and return to the USA. It was planned that on a closer date to the child birth, he would take a sabbatical for a few months and travel back to India to spend some time with everybody and bring back Preetha and the child to the USA.
Within a couple of weeks, Ayan and Preetha returned to Calcutta and they put up in Ayan's ancestral home in Bagbazar, at the middle of the city. It was a massive old house, mostly empty as most of the members were either out of Calcutta or out of the country. Preetha's in-laws gave them a warm welcome and the next few days were spent in celebrations. A week later, Ayan returned to the US and after a couple of days of being upset and crying, Preetha started her normal life again. She decided to join her old office once again, as it was so close to her place, and she was getting bored in the house. Though her in-laws were against it, Preetha was stubborn about this decision and she was fortunate enough as some of her old colleagues had achieved high ranks in the organization by then and they were happy to welcome her back as a part-time employee until her delivery date was near.
Meanwhile, Preetha's mother-in-law took her to a famous gynecologist of Calcutta Dr. Kunal Burman who was a close friend of Ayan in school. At the first glance, he seemed a mild mannered soft spoken gentleman who checked all of Preetha's reports and asked her to do a few tests. When the results came in, he inspected them thoroughly and told her there was some problem in her fallopian tube, but it was not major and can be taken care of with a mild medication, but he might need to perform an endoscopy to clear out the tube for a healthy child birth. Preetha was around 4 months pregnant that time, her belly had a slight beautiful swell and her skin was glowing. She could feel the little life within her calling to her. When the doctor told her about endoscopy, she felt a bit concerned but Dr. Burman assured her that it was routine checkup; she just need to be in his personal nursing home for half a day. Preetha agreed reluctantly while being assured by her in-laws and Ayan via phone.
Meanwhile, Preetha's parents visited them in Bagbazar; they were concerned about their daughter. Her father had been transferred to Durgapur; so it was quite a long way back to Calcutta. When Preetha's father came to know about Dr. Burman and his advice for an endoscopy, he suggested Preetha for a second opinion, but their discussion was interrupted by Preetha's father-in-law. He spoke to her father and insisted to take her parents out that evening to Calcutta Club, a posh family club in Calcutta, for drinks and dinner. The very next day, her parents left for Durgapur. As they were leaving, her father blessed her and wished her to be well, but there was an unexplained hidden sadness in his smile which didn't go unnoticed. Her mother didn't even see her eye to eye.
Next week, Preetha was admitted to the hospital. She couldn't remember anything after the anesthesia mask was put on her face; only Dr. Burman's calm and assuring smile.
When she woke up, she could feel herself on the bed - an IV line attached to her wrist, a splitting headache and a numbness all over her body. She suddenly felt there was something wrong, she was not feeling complete. When she looked down craning her stiff neck painfully, she saw that the sweet bulge in her belly was gone! She tried to get up, but a sharp pang of pain in her stomach made her collapse back on the bed. The nurse rushed at her, 'Ma'am, there was a crisis, the fetus in your stomach had turned upside down and it could have threatened your life.'
The doctor took the quick decision and aborted it; now you are safe!'
She quickly pushed an injection in her saline tube and her eyes became heavy with sleep again. She groaned like a dying animal, 'Life threatening? What is the point of her living anymore?'
The gist of the rest of the incidents is very short. It didn't take long for Preetha to understand what had happened. A developing country like India is plagued with the scourge of female foeticide, the act of killing a female foetus outside the legal channels of abortion. It occurs in India for assumed cultural reasons that span centuries. For thousands of years, owing to a strange mindset, parents in this sub-continent have often exterminated baby girls by poisoning, strangling, or burying them alive. The life of a woman in India, particularly in rural areas, has been often marked by such disrespect that some feel it is better for the family, and even for the baby girl, that she not be born! Perhaps the greatest malicious factor contributing to this unfortunate practice is the heinous system of dowries. Moreover, often male child is considered a direct heir of the family blood and a status symbol which had been the case with the wealthy Mullicks - the first born must always be a boy child. In India, especially in metropolitan cities, there are strict laws against sex determination before birth; but in US, that is not the case and when Preetha was detected with a girl child, it was a shock for Ayan and his family, and they secretly planned to remove it clandestinely. Perhaps they even threatened Preetha's parents not to expose their motive when they visited her!
They had set it up so craftily that Preetha could not even suspect that such a vile conspiracy was going behind her back to kill her unborn child. She could never imagine that such cultured, educated and family could stoop down to such low levels for assuring a male heir for the family.
After coming back from the hospital, Preetha kept her calm; she didn't speak much, but called both her in-laws and asked for the keys of their 3BHK apartment in Golf Green. She made it very clear to them that she didn't want to stay with them neither she wanted to go back to US; for her, this marriage was practically over. She wanted the flat for herself and prohibited them to set foot in the premises. She coldly threatened them that she had once worked in one of the most reputed media houses in the city and if she wanted, she could easily expose them. Foeticide is punishable by the strictest laws in Indian penal code and this scandal would destroy the reputation of the Mullicks forever, even if they try to save their faces with their wealth and social connections. She didn't want any trouble, just the keys to the apartment in Golf Green. With a shaky hand, Preetha's father-in-law handed her the keys.
She could have shifted to Durgapur where her parents lived, but their cowardice made her despise them from the core of her heart; they could have saved her child from these monsters, but they were too afraid of the influential Mullicks. Preetha's mother begged of her to allow her to come over to Golf Green to the new flat and stay with her, but she never responded; she stopped taking her parent's calls as well.
However, as soon as Preetha shifted to the Golf Green apartment, she saw around five lakh rupees (around 7500 USD) suddenly transferred to her account from Ayan's overseas account. And in the consecutive month, there was another transfer of 2 lakhs as well which means a lot of money in India. Preetha thought that perhaps her husband was afraid of blackmail, or trying to bribe her or just trying to bury his crime under money. In the beginning, Preetha thought she would never touch the money. Then she reasoned, why would she torture herself for the evils of her husband and in-laws? She started lavishly spending the money on herself, buying everything she wanted - except peace and happiness.
In the beginning, she kept herself drugged with Valium and Alzolum sleeping pills, but how much could she sleep! In her disturbed and fervid subconscious mind, she could see the fake evil smiles of her husband and in-laws. She was not a regular smoker, used to smoke occasionally, and had quit after she conceived; but now, she started smoking regularly. Nothing less than one and a half pack a day; besides that, she also bought a few bottles of Smirnoff. Alcohol still didn't suit her much; after a couple of drinks, she started losing her good senses. However, Preetha was indignant that she would self-destroy herself in that large, vacant and luxurious flat owned by her in-laws. Somehow, by slowly killing herself, she was actually making them win, but her heart was too dark with depression to realize that! She was in a constant state of ennui.
Today, she picked up the half-empty pack of India Kings Blue from the dressing table and lit one. Dragging in the sweet smelling expensive tobacco, she felt her head going a bit dizzy. With the slow trail of smoke blowing out from her mouth and nostrils, she looked at her nude body in the mirror as she sat before her dressing table. She had given this all to Ayan - she could not believe it! After her adolescence, Preetha always took special pride in her beauty, sometimes to the point of being vain, and why not? The way she stood apart from the crowd always made her feel special.
Her powerful swan neck stood proudly over her wide robust shoulders, topped by a beautiful perfect oval shaped face adorned with a pair of large dark doe eyes, a sharp flute-like nose bridging the gap between them. Below her haughty nose, a pair of rose petal-like juicy lips swelled, and at the right corner of her lower lip, a tiny yet prominent black mole accentuated the beauty and sensuousness of her curvaceous mouth. Like the dark clouds of the sky outside, a massive deluge of thick black hair cascaded down her smooth broad back. A couple of smooth, thick, shapely, robust arms came down from her expansive shoulders which, though feminine in look, held the promise of exceptional strength due to her athletic background. Subconsciously, Preetha piled up her thick flowing tresses atop her head with her hands and realized how negligent she had been about herself recently. She was so conscious about herself that she waxed and bleached her armpits every weekend in expensive salons, keeping them buttery smooth, but now, like unkempt weed in a garden, a lush dense shock of hair covered her oxters.
Ayan had always found body hair on a woman yucky and that's why she always took special care to clean herself regularly; but Ayan was not there anymore nor there was any other man to judge her - she was in her full natural self. Her armpits were giving off a faint pungent smell of her body - it was her natural pheromone; she had not used deodorants or perfumes for quite some time as she didn't feel the need to go outside these days. Just Below her armpits, it looked like her upper body was inflated up by the massiveness of her breasts. In her pre-pubescent years, Preetha always suffered from the inferiority complex of her having flat breasts; but after 13, when she started growing up, it seemed she would never stop growing there. It was because of the uncontrollable growth of her breasts that she gave up basketball; it was becoming too embarrassing. Now in the full ripe age of 31, Preetha's breasts had bulged beyond belief, with the ripeness of her full matured youth and the milk that was trapped in them. At this point, she was a full 38F; her nipples were bloated and moist with seeping milk. The doctor had given her a breast pump but she never used it; she knew there is a chance of breast cancer if milk is not pumped out regularly, but Preetha didn't care! This pain reminded her of her loss every day; this was the only connection left with her unborn child. Preetha was not liking the way she looked in the mirror; once she took pride in her nakedness, but she was not in that mental state anymore. She fished inside her wardrobe and picked out another blouse which matched her saree. She dropped her moist blouse and bra in the washing machine and wore the new blouse skipping the bra. She got this blouse tailored after her marriage, but never wore it. It had a dangerously drooping neckline, and when she wore it in US for the first time, Ayan had frowned. 'Why are you wearing such a low-cut blouse? You are so heavy up there already, do you see the amount of cleavage it is showing?'
Ayan had spurted. Preetha protested, 'Why, you go on ogling the white girls on the beach wearing two-piece bikinis and you have a problem with my low-neck blouse? I am wearing it with a saree and my chest will be covered up by the pallu.'
'That's even more dangerous, you never know when the pallu would drop, and men's hungry eyes will feast upon your breasts.' Preetha chuckled and dismissed this as his possessiveness, never realizing the typical patriarchal mentality behind this. However, she didn't care anymore. She wore the blouse but had to struggle, she had grown bigger after it was made; the blouse's thin material barely contained her massive mammaries, she didn't have to wear a bra as they were so tightly fitted. Half of her breasts were bulging out of the neckline like boiling milk heaving out of a pan, about to be spilled. At this moment, any man would have gone mad with lust looking at her, but she couldn't think of any man - she was starting to hate all men! The very idea of men nauseated her.
She pulled out the bottle of vodka from the freezer and poured a large drink for herself, diluting it with lemonade. By that time, it had started raining heavily outside. A quick gulp and the liquid burned down her throat. The second sip was easier and it started soothing her nerves a little, giving warmth in her belly. She was feeling hungry - the vodka had its effect. Preetha called up the local restaurant on her mobile. They said that delivery would be delayed, as it was raining heavily. The rain outside pitter-pattering on the widows, the heat of vodka in her veins, Preetha was yearning for something; her heart was heavy, but her body yearned with hunger and it was not just the hunger in her belly. She could remember Ayan's thick seven inch penis, strange she was almost forgetting Ayan's face, but she could remember every detail of his penis, the circumcised swollen head, thick veins crisscrossing the entire shaft and the dense spurt of semen. Her hatred for Ayan remained the same, though her body was pleading for his male genital.
Preetha could have easily invited any man from her social and work circle, there were so many of them slavering for her, but the very idea of sharing the bed with another man who would eventually cheat or hurt her was completely unacceptable. She had never masturbated in her life, but standing by the balcony, sipping on the vodka with cold fine sprays of rain wetting her face and arms, was sapping her off her self-control. She instinctually pulled up her saree and caressed her panty covered vagina, shocked to realize that her panties were sopping wet; the clear semi-sticky juices had made the expensive lace slimy and slick. Like the road which was now glistening under the rain water, her vagina was already coated with her body fluids. She tried to pull her mind away from such arousal and decided to have a bath.
As she finished the drink with another gulp and poured herself one more, something snapped inside her. She sat on the bed with her mobile, scrolling through the numbers of her male acquaintances. Should she call Suman Bhaduri, her immediate boss, who always looked at her with thirsty eyes? Or Yasin Hossain, the new young reporter with whom she had sprouted a friendship, he always stealing glances at her body, mesmerized by her physical wealth, but too shy to say anything, or Shankar, her old college friend with whom she used to play basketball; he kept touch with her on facebook, time and again sending double meaning messages. She was feeling really desperate, her body was on fire and she needed someone. But was it right? Should she give in to her desires and get involved with a man again? Confusion and yearning clouded her heart as her finger scrolled down the list of numbers. Preetha hung up and threw the phone on the bed and crashed herself.
Her body was on fire, she felt restless. Her hands travelled all over her body, her face, her neck and then squeezing her breasts. Preetha couldn't take it anymore and moaned loudly. Her huge milk loaded breasts felt like they would burst. 'Oh God...why are you doing this to me? Why can't I control my body anymore?' She groaned. She lifted up her saree, rubbing her thighs, her stench filled the closed air conditioned room immediately. 'Ahhh...I am so disgusting...' Preetha cried out, but she was out of control now, her fingers trailed up her things and just as she was about to touch her sopping wet panties, she herad a scream. Preetha was startled, she got up and heard a noise of commotion downstairs. There was more screaming.
Preetha quickly went to the balcony and leaned over trying to see what was going on downstairs and what she saw startled her. Just in front of the gate, the watchman was brutally beating up a street urchin with a cane. The boy was screaming and begging for mercy, but the roguish watchman was relentless.
'Hey, what are you doing? Why are you thrashing the kid?' Preetha shouted from the balcony, but the watchman did not pay any heed to her; he went on caning the boy ruthlessly. Perhaps he could not hear her from a distance. Suddenly something snapped in Preetha and she rushed out of her apartment, she pushed the button of the elevator and was panting heavily with rage and anxiety,
'... that bastard will kill the boy!'
As soon as the lift doors opened in the parking lot, she rushed out. The kid was now writhing on the wet floor and the watchman was caning him on his bare legs. Preetha screamed 'Stop, stop it at once I say...what the hell is going on?'
The watchman stopped and turned, the boy crawled out of his reach and huddled himself in a corner, shivering from pain and shock. 'This little bastard sneaked into our premises to steal Ma'am', the watchman hoarsely said.
'Yesterday someone stole the tail light of Mr. Sen's car. You cannot teach these little fuckers a lesson without a beating', he spurted out in an obscene way.
'No Ma'am, believe me...' the shaken boy squealed from the corner in panic. 'I was just standing under the shade of the parking lot to avoid the rain and suddenly this guy rushed on me and started thrashing; I didn't do anything, please believe me...'
'Shut up, you little piece of snot', the watchman snapped back and spat at him 'Bloody thieves...they...'
The watchman could not finish his sentence as a powerful slap suddenly smacked on his face... Preetha had slapped him so hard that he lost his footing and fell on the ground, stunned by the sheer force of her slap. The watchman was a short, scrawny guy from Bihar - one slap from Preetha's powerful hand had shown him the stars. Preetha was trembling with rage as the watchman looked up at her with abject fear in his eyes; with her large beautiful stature towering above him, she looked like goddess Durga (a female warrior deity venerated and worshipped in the Indian sub-continent, especially by Bengalis), ready to slay the Asura demon. Her huge kohl-lined eyes were raining fire; her beautiful mouth was set in a straight line of anger.
'Ma'am, believe me...' the watchman muttered meekly; he was cut off midway by Preetha
'Shut up... or I shall pummel you with my slippers', she roared.
The kid, on the other hand, was also trembling looking at her wrathful stature. Preetha rushed at him and pulled him up by his arm, dragging him towards the elevator. The boy was constantly pleading, 'Please let me go Ma'am, I promise I haven't done anything; I swear on my mother's soul.' Preetha paid no heed and almost threw the boy inside the elevator, then stepping inside herself. The boy was huddled in a corner, fully drenched. Preetha was breathing heavily from her sudden outburst, her mind clouded by blind rage. She, too, was soaking wet. Finally, she looked at the boy who was looking up at her with frightened eyes. She brushed away the lock of hair which fell across her forehead as she told him softly 'Don't worry; I am not going to hurt you.'
The boy didn't look much assured having witnessed her outrage and her intimidating height and size.
As the elevator reached the fifth floor, Preetha got out, dragging the boy behind her. As she was unlocking her apartment door, she could see from the corner of her eyes that a few inquisitive heads have emerged from the adjoining apartments, noticing her. She ignored them, went in and called the boy inside. The boy entered her apartment on timid footsteps. As she closed the door, Preetha returned a glaring gaze at the people who were peeping from other apartments; the heads vanished in a flurry!
As she entered the apartment, Preetha slumped down heavily on the large sofa; her head was spinning, her ears felt like belching fire, her chest heaving with agitation. She had lost track of time. When, after a while, she became calm and came back to her senses and lit a fresh cigarette, she saw the boy was still sitting on the floor huddled near the door with his hands folded on the chest, stealing nervous glances at her. Preetha stared at the boy for a long time and then said in a calm voice 'Why are you sitting over there? Come, sit here', pointing to the single couch beside her sofa. The boy got up, walked up to the couch with timid steps and sat down hesitantly. Preetha observed the boy for a long time. The boy appeared to be in his late teens, short, frail, clearly suffering from lack of nutrition, and his hair in disarray. He was wearing an old torn T-shirt and even older dirty shorts. The boxer shorts must have been gathered from a garbage bin, rejected by someone, and did not carry any button or zip at the front. One can make out the faint outline of Che Guevara's face on the front of his torn, faded T-shirt. His feet were naked. A typical street urchin one can come across at any busy intersection in Indian metropolis.
But, if someone observes him carefully, he can spot a difference. It is rare to find such a beautiful, poignant face in a street urchin. The boy must have been very fair at one point of time; but, now it looked bronzed, burnt by the scorching sun. Sun-bleached dense brown hair covered his head. However, what attracted the most were his long fine eyebrows and two large doe-like eyes. Preetha was deeply struck by the pain and despair they contained - the anguished eyes of a helpless doe about to be slain by a ruthless hunter. Below those eyes were a small pert nose and a pair of thin curvaceous lips. The boy had an angular face, his skin smooth and hairless body.
As Preetha kept staring into the sad eyes of the boy, the fire in her heart gradually subsided and gave rise to a surge of compassion in her. There was a bruise on the forehead of the boy; blue welts were surfacing all over his body. She was stunned that someone can beat such a frail looking child so ruthlessly! Is the world so mercilessly cruel these days?! Indeed, she has experienced cruelty in her life herself; yet, looking at this boy, she was suddenly overcome with empathy.
'What is your name?' she spoke softly.
'S... Salim' the boy uttered mildly through hesitation.
'Where do you live?'
The boy replied 'I have no place to live. I work in a tea stall in Lake Gardens area... They allow me to sleep over there'.
'Your parents?'
'Th...they are no more Ma'am'
'Where did you come from originally? Don't you have any relatives?'
'We belonged to a village called Nandigram. When I was too young, both my parents died in violence. We would have died too. Khurshid Uncle put me and my sister in a train bound for Kolkata. We landed here'.
Preetha felt a pang of shock inside her. She was aware of the terrible political violence that engulfed the area. 'God... So many children must have been lost everything!'
'After arriving in the city, Raju Bhai took care of us.' Said Salim. 'He took us to a slum in the eastern part of the city. Me and my elder sister worked for him for some time. We used to beg near the highway traffic signal of Science City area. A couple of years went by. Then, one day I saw a few thugs whisked away my sister in a cab. Raju Bhai seemed ecstatic that night - offered me biriyani (a muslim dish). I could not eat though - I felt like throwing up'.
'Then?' Preetha asked in a trembling voice.
'It seems Raju Bhai did not dislike me... he didn't thrash me too often. But, on some nights, after he was drunk, he forced me to sit on his lap and kissed me forcefully. It was disgusting, His breath was foul.' Salim shivered at the memory.
'Then, one day, Raju Bhai took me to Kalighat (a locality in Kolkata famous for prostitution) to offer prayers at the Kaali temple (The Kalighat temple is one of the most famous in Calcutta, it is strange how a temple and a red light area happen to co-exist). On our way back, there were girls lined up on the streets. I was not sure, but, for a fleeting second, it seemed I saw my sister standing amongst them. I was about to run to her, but Raju Bhai grabbed my hand and pulled me away. I called out to the girl, but she quickly turned away and walked off'.
Preetha felt nauseated as she listened.
'On that day, Raju Bhai beat me up black and blue and locked me in a room. Then, when night came, he returned awfully drunk and...'
Preetha did not want to hear further. She interrupted by touching the boy's hand.
'It's okay, you need not tell anymore.' Said Preetha. 'Did you see your sister ever after that?' She asked with concern.
For a few moments, the boy looked at her with a blank expression. 'Yeah...Nearly three months after that incident, my sister came back to the slum with two ruffians in toe. They sought out Raju Bhai and battered him mercilessly. I guess he died then and there. My sister took me away from the slum'.
Preetha sighed as she felt slightly relieved.
'Why didn't you stay with your sister then, instead of living in tea stall?'
The boy trembled faintly as he replied.
'Sister took me by to a dingy place called Shovabazar (a locality in Kolkata) by the subway train. I enjoyed the ride very much with my sister.' A glint of faded happiness appeared for a moment in Salim's eyes. 'Those two thugs also came with us. Sister told me that we could live peacefully from that day onwards. There is a place called Sonagachhi near Shovabazar with rows of houses lining the streets. Many girls live in there - my sister also lived in one of the houses. I was not allowed to sleep with her. I used to sleep in a garage at night and ran errands for my sister and other girls during day time'.
Preetha was feeling uneasy again as she listened to what he had to say.
'Then...?' she asked, stubbing the cigarette butt into the ashtray after a last long puff.
'To tell you the truth, I never liked it over there. Nasty people kept coming. Every evening, my sister used to stand in the passage, all dolled up; men arrived one after another and went up the staircase. My sister looked so beautiful in her make-up and dress. She used to giggle constantly, but I knew for certain that her smiles and laughs were fake, she was sad within. There was a dirty bastard of a man. He tried to force my sister to do disgusting things. One night, my sister tried to run away from him and as he tried to forcibly pull her inside, she slapped him. I was standing close; there was a flower vase lying nearby. I picked it up and smashed it on his head. He became furious and attacked me. He would have killed me that night had the landlady not intervened. The very next day, I was turned out by the landlady. My sister pleaded a lot on my behalf, but to no avail. She secretly gave me a 500 rupee bill (about 7 USD) before we parted. For days, I roamed from place to place and finally reached the tea stall across the road where I am now. You know, I have been saving my earnings so that I can visit my sister again'.
As Preetha listened to his tale, her heart ached from anguish; droplets of tear pooled in her eyes and rolled down her smooth cheeks. Her heart heaved from a turmoil inside just like the nature outside was lashed by gushes of wind and torrential rain.
Salim kept mum for a few minutes and then continued in an agonized voice 'To speak the truth, maa'm, I did not enter here just for taking shelter from the rains. The shop I work for was closed for the last two days as the owner did not turn up. I didn't have any food since last night. I was very hungry. Nemai, the homeless street looney, told me that there was a celebration in this apartment complex today. There would be a lot of waste food in the garbage bin. I snuck into the building in hope of scavenging some food, but the watchman spotted me before I could reach the backyard'.
Preetha could not bear any more. She got up from the sofa and called up the restaurant to place more orders. She was told that delivery would take time as it was still raining outside. Preetha felt annoyed this time and told them to send in the food at once; she would bear the extra charge, she said. The man replied with professional courtesy that they would try their level best. Preetha dropped the receiver and cursed the man under her breath. She started thinking what to offer the boy in the meantime. Her apartment was in disarray, nothing worthwhile in the fridge too.
'You stay here... I'm coming in a second', said she. She cursed the maid for not keeping any ready snacks in the kitchen. The fact is she never told the maid to keep some food in the kitchen - she was not bothered for such things anymore!
She spotted a jar on a rack with some cookies in it. Picking it up, she hurriedly returned to the living room. Handing the jar to Salim, she told 'Help yourself...I have ordered for food; it would take some time'. The boy froze and pleaded 'No maa'm...I am okay. I shall leave as soon as the rain stops. But, please see that I am not handed over to the police...'
Preetha said 'I dare whoever wants to do so... take a few... please...' as she took out a few cookies from the jar herself.
Salim was still not agreeing. Preetha placed the palm of her hand on his head and pleaded softly 'Won't you listen to me? See... I am just like your mother, isn't it?'
A shiver went through Salim as soon as he heard this. He took the biscuits with a trembling hand. Preetha was observing the boy...in spite of being famished; he started eating the biscuits slowly. He is really well mannered, Preetha thought.
She sat on the sofa, observing the boy as he was eating. She was feeling a deep compassion in her heart. The vodka was having its effect...there was a strange drowsiness inside. She felt drawn towards the boy; it was not plain compassion... It was something else. She was under a spell, a web of myriad feelings.
Salim ate all the biscuits one by one and then asked 'Maa'm, can I have some water please?' Preetha broke out in a sob!
The boy looked at Preetha, dumbfounded. 'Did I say anything wrong, maa'm? No, please... don't cry maa'm... I...I'am going away.' said he.
'No!' cried out Preetha. 'Come...come here' Preetha called out to the boy with open arms. As Salim took one or two hesitant steps forward, Preetha grabbed his wrists and forcefully pulled him into her bosom. She started crying uncontrollably. She didn't cry like this even when she lost her unborn child. The boy went stiff for some time; but then, he too was swayed by emotion and softly hugged Preetha's body. He put his head on her chest and started shedding tears silently.
Gradually, Preetha's sobs subsided and came to a stop. She was feeling a strange tranquility inside. It felt so good to hug the thin, frail body of the boy. She put a finger below his chin and gently lifted up his face. His eyes were half closed from the warmth of her comfort; his lips were trembling gently from overflowing emotion. Preetha kept looking at that sweet innocent face for a long time and then, as if unknown to herself, leaned and placed her soft, plump lips on his thin trembling ones for a warm, soft kiss. She hugged him tighter and started raining kisses on his checks, below his eyes, on his forehead. And then finally their lips locked with a hungry yearning. Preetha's lips, and tongue invaded the boy's small maw, tasting his mouth, drinking from it and in return filling him up with her warm saliva. Something had gotten into her. Her passion had become uncontrollable; otherwise this is certainly not the way she was going to kiss him, a little boy, young and small enough to be her son. As their mouths parted, there were strings of spit hanging between their lips. Preetha slurped in the gooey strands.
Salim, too, was overcome with unbridled emotions. His breathing became rapid. At long last, Preetha asked softly 'I have put you on my lap and kissed you. I have been drinking and smoking. My breath is not fresh...did you feel bad about it?'
Salim swallowed hard, looking at her with his big hazel eye; in a faint voice, he uttered 'No...Y...your breath is fine.'
Preetha let out a deep sigh, lifted the boy from her lap and put him beside her on the sofa. 'My! How light he felt, as if he had no weight at all like a kitten!'
Myriad emotions were flooding Preetha's mind. She felt a sudden pang of guilt for what she had just done. That kiss was not motherly at all, it was of a woman yearning of sexual gratification. She felt a sudden unease. Preetha dropped the pallu of her saree from her chest; a surprised half-cry escaped her lips as her eyes fell on her breasts. Milk was seeping out of her stiff nipples and drenched her blouse! This was on the other hand the primal yearning of a mother.
Preetha held Salim's hand and spoke with a tear choked voice. 'Salim, I am sorry,' she said, 'I acted inappropriately. It was not right of me to kiss you like that'. Salim looked at her with large confused eyes and said 'It was possibly the first time I felt so good in years Ma'am. I felt safe and loved; your arms were so warm and soft around me as if nothing could hurt me anymore. I am not feeling anymore pain, as if the watchman had never beaten me at all. You healed me in that instant.' He said. His words sounded so mature and full of earnestness, Preetha could not control herself anymore and held his head on his bosom as it heaved with her sobs. Preetha was crying again, and Salim was also shedding tears of sadness combined with happiness silently. They both kept crying for an unknown period of time, as if the world around them melted and flooded by their emotions. Nothing seemed to matter anymore, just a woman who has been scorned, cheated and robbed of her most precious belonging and a boy who had lost everything even before he started his life.
