No Medical College for this Boy!
‘Do you really want me to study further, mummy? If you are happier that I stay home and help with your work, it’s no problem for me,’ she offered generously, while filling up the college forms. She had been told Indian girls were viewed with suspicion if they were better educated than the groom. Finding matches became difficult and potential mothers in law were wary of molding thinking, self-willed girls into the pliant homemaker models that they wanted. She did not wish to create any more worries for mummy.
Mummy looked up patiently from her beadwork. She smiled indulgently. ‘You know why Indians lay so much of stress on education?’
‘Because every parent wants the next generation to do better than themselves. And the only way to ensure it is education. With education your children get a better head start. We don’t have the money to start a new business for you. We don’t even have an established business that you can inherit. Education is the only field, which ensures fair play and a chance for the deserving to come into their own. So study you will, my lovely baby, till you stand on your own feet and are financially independent. So that no one can treat you unfairly, ever.’
Without any further adventures Paro passed on to college.
Paro never accepted refreshments from strangers again, nor did she ever venture into dark basements in shady alleyways. Mummy anxiously watched out for Paro’s next menses and was grateful and relieved when they appeared dot on time. Not that she ought to have worried, for neither was Lalaji capable of siring any further offspring, nor was his dwindling seed cast in the birth cannon. It had been rejected outright along with the waste of the body. No one got a wind of what had happened, and Lalaji seemed to have locked himself in his shop, never to be seen again. Perhaps his demons were larger and blacker than mummy’s, and he battled them within the four walls of his house.
Lalaji’s bastard urchin- Ramsarup- he had a name now too, too entered college, on scholarship. His Masterji had talked Lalaji into signing on the scholarship forms as his local guardian, and that sealed whatever uneasy relationship the two shared. Ramsarup had showed great scholarly promise; his sharp mind easily excelling at the MCD School Lalaji had grudgingly put him in- for no other reason than to have the rascal off his hands for most of the day.
Lalaji’s boutique business had shut down, since loyal customers now brought their work at mummy’s door. Most of his workers now worked for mummy, for she treated them with great respect and affection. She now ran her commerce from the two rooms she added on the roof where she also brought in modern machines and equipment for a better harvest. The Kapoors, who believed in her absolutely, plied her with loans on easy terms.
Things began to look up.
Vasu took science and dreamt of becoming a doctor one day. He hoped tennis would get him a scholarship in medical college. He still remained the accident-prone simpleton that he’d always been, nearly drowning on the school fishing and angling trip to Corbett. A boy had slipped on a boulder, and the strong currents of the icy-cold Ramganga River had carried him hurtling down dangerously close towards the dam. Throwing all caution to the winds, and forgetting that he was a poor swimmer himself, Vasu had dived in after the bobbing, screaming head. Luckily, a few fishermen out on their small boat downstream heard the cries and took both the kids out of the river before the dam sucked them in. The other boy unfortunately could not be saved. He was Lalaji’s youngest.
‘Are you mad!’ mummy screamed at her boy, cuddling him in a blanket and giving him hot milk spiced with turmeric. ‘And you went in to save Lalaji’s boy! Was there no one else to rescue?’
‘No mummy,’ the boy shook his head, puzzled. ‘He was all that fell’. He did not know the cause of mummy’s chagrin with Lalaji, or of his sister’s sullying at his filthy hands.
‘Foolish boy! I want you to have nothing to do with Lalaji’s brood, understand? Even if the entire family was drowning in its own spit!’
The poor boy nodded. So much anger from the usually gentle-as-a-lamb mother was odd indeed.
He put the small matter behind him quickly enough though, and began to train hard for the upcoming state-level tournaments. They were his ticket to Nationals, and minor stardom. Enough to buy him space from the marauding school bullies that pulled pranks on him mercilessly, and tittering bevies of libidinous girls bursting at the seams with hormones; they pinched and tweaked his pink buttocks at every opportunity, bursting out into raunchy laughter at his blushing.
Little social skills were required at the tennis court though; where Vasu placed the ball at will in the opponent’s side, sending him hither and thither in an unending sweaty chase. When the enemy was at the nets Vasu lobbed the ball to the baseline, and when the opponent reached there, Vasu was ready with an explosive volley, smashing the ball out of sight. He stood like a rock in the center of his court, directing the hapless enemy to opposing corners, swirling him in dizzying figure-eight turns with the flair of a choir conductor. He had the speed, the agility, the endurance, the physics and the math skills required to dispatch the adversary back to the clubhouse in two easy sets, rarely losing a game, or shedding beyond a small trickle of sweat. The vilest of bullies surrendered meekly before his mastery in the court where Vasu was very much at home.
He had a bright future, they all said, only if he could be a little more belligerent, if he had a little more killing instinct, for when the opponent was strong and experienced and equally skilled, Vasu failed to convert the advantages into points, submitting confoundedly before the other’s ruthless maneuvers.
The juniors were housed in the Tennis Club at Jamnagar, Gujarat, by the sea. It was warm and dry in the day, but became cool when the sun dipped; first below the sullen dark clouds, then the thumping waves, finally going down in a deep orange burst behind the black sea. Then the night fell, and the incoming tides brought in the moist breeze with the smells of fish, flooded soils of the salt marshes, seaweed sex, and dead plankton from the Arabian Sea.
The girls were put up on the ground floor, by the sea facing pool, while the boys got the first floor. Vasu heaved a sigh of relief at not getting anyone to share his little apartment. Sweet, vegetarian Gujarati thalis were served in the vast British-era dining hall with vaulted spaces and exposed wood trusses. Vasu often ate by himself, shyly casting glances at the carefree nubile beauties from various states, laughing and gamboling about him. A couple of tall, long-legged, supple Gujarati lasses took interest in him, often taking his table and trying to strike up conversation with him, but beyond mumbling the timid hellos and byes he had little else to say, all the while blushing a deep crimson. That he didn’t speak Gujarati or they Hindi didn’t help much, and they got by with a little broken English. Gujarati girls are as demanding in bed as off it, rarely yielding, and insist on getting value for their money, as their trader Patel husbands do in the marketplace, haggling over zeros and decimals, never wavering from the MRP! It’s impossible to bargain with them, and they savor each penny saved in a verbal duel as sweet mother of victory. Their battlefield is the shop, the overflowing cashbox its glory, and a full, jingling pocket on the way home the bugle of a battle won. With little else to boast about, really little, they fall short, really short, of the languorous designs drawn up by the thirsty, insatiable, waiting wenches. They shrink from the wound and disappoint the blow. The full-bodied women then, do look about, with unspoken liberty and lien, before life is brought to pass in the angst of unconsummated passion.
A couple of wide-shouldered, strongly built Jat boys from Haryana in turn became enamored of the raven-haired beauties that were always dressed alluringly in their on-court shorts, unselfconsciously, achingly, and daringly.
‘Hello madam’, one of them said, in a deep rustic accent, as they took up seats next to the girls one afternoon.
The girls had perceived the continuous, unwelcome attention of the boys. ‘Hello madam,’ one of them mimicked.
‘Hello madam,’ the other girl repeated, and they broke into laughter. They continued eating, ignoring the two boys.
The boys, taking it as ice broken, edged a little closer on the wooden bench, grinning widely, winking at each other. The girls got up abruptly and walked away, laughing to themselves.
The routine was repeated during dinner, the girls trying to engage Vasu, the Haryanvis pestering the girls. “Hello madams” of the girls didn’t seem to quite dissuade them from their relentless wooing. The girl’s laughter seemed to tease and beckon rather than repel them. But they couldn’t help noticing their interest in Vasu who seemed lost to his surroundings. It was a misplaced affection, and they were going to set it right.
Girls and boys often lolled about the Olympic-size pool during the day after practice. Our Guajarati girls, with their Hottie Halters and Itsy Bottoms, turned up the heat not a couple of notches in the already torrid waters, while others, less audacious girls, shrunk self-consciously in the corners in the shallow end, content with splashing water about on their girlfriends with cupped palms, and pitching stealthy peeps at the boys.
The Jat boys, convinced females done up in such meager attire were surely the earnest seekers of macho attention, one morning waded up behind the Gujarati lassies, and surprised them with brash, usual, awesome, Hello Madams. They gaped deeply and unabashedly into their glistening cleavages and tried to rub against their naked thighs, sending them squealing out of reach. The girls desperately looked about, and seeing Vasu pedaling by himself like a lazy watermill in a far corner, swum out to his sides. Vasu, unexpectedly woken out of his mindless revelry by the presence of so much beauty, struggled to find sane expression for the strong eddies of sudden emotions that began to swirl about in his manly breast. He had never perceived a sparkly smooth naked bosom, or a porcelain fluty long neck up so close, and his whole virginal person knotted up, shivered, and violently overturned. He tried to wrench the words that stuck in his throat and spill them out before the girls regarded him as dumb and slipped their shiny bodies forever out of his reach.
‘Hi,’ he managed. ‘Kem Cho?’
‘Su tame Gujarati bolo cho?’
‘Ha, thoda ghani.’
‘Taru naam sun che?’
‘Tamne maline anand thaiyo avjo.’
‘Anand!’ the girls tittered and exchanged mischievous glances. They spoke rapidly in Gujarati after that, leaving the bewildered Vasu, who had exhausted his vocabulary by then, gaping and grinning impishly.
The spurned Haryanvi boys glowered at them from their corner in the pool. The girls purposely pointed them out to Vasu and laughed animatedly, increasing their mortification further. The Jats resolved to mash the gentle, unassuming competition before moving on to the juicy, mocking prize.
That night they accosted Vasu in the hall as he was unlocking the door to his room. While one pinned his head against the wall with his forearm, the other clamped his jaw till it brought tears to his eyes. Looking menacingly into his eyes the boy said, ‘do you want to walk out of here on your two feet? Then better not be seen near the girls! Do you know what we do to chikna boys like you?’ Grabbing Vasu’s hand he pressed it against his crotch. The other boy sneered, and also began to grind against Vasu. They kicked in his door and began to drag him into his room.
Vasu desperately looked around for help. The corridor was empty. Though the boys were brutes, Vasu was no walkover himself. No man had ever indecently touched him thus far. The feeling was revolting and his gentleness was stretched to the limit. He was about to lose his virginity, in a way he’d never quite expected. The wedding night, so welcome, was about to turn into something of a torment. Yet he could not bring himself to turn violent. He thought of mummy but drew a blank. He appealed to Lord Vishnu for help but nothing happened. Suddenly in a flash he remembered the coach’s words, “Be bold, go for the kill!” A shudder ran down Vasu’s body as he pulled himself together with a mighty heave, dragging both the boys together. Freeing himself of their grip, Vasu raised himself and brought his head bang into the face of nearest boy, squashing his nose and bursting open a lip. Pushing him away, a shamed Vasu went like a madman at the other, pelting him with blows till he fell to the ground, clutching his sides in agony. The unfamiliar spasm of violence soon gone, Vasu calmed down and locked himself in his room and turned in for the night, after praying for forgiveness. He had half a mind to take the boys to the doctor, but he felt too sleepy, and had had enough of them.
The shaken Jats left him and the surprised girls alone enough after that, but they decided to make mischief another way. One evening they slipped a note under the girl’s room. It said:
“ You are beautiful, sexy! I love you! I want you! I will come tonight to your room after dinner. Vasu.”
They watched the girls closely that evening during dinner, but if they’d expected the girls to publicly confront Vasu with the note or complain against him, nothing of the sort happened. The girls came chirpy as usual, casting wicked sideways glances at Vasu, whose table happened to be rather full then, and went away chatting animatedly. Vasu was his usual calm and detached self, and he too retreated early without exchanging a word with the others.
It was well past midnight when the girls knocked at Vasu’s door and softly called out to him to open up. Rubbing his disbelieving eyes, as he made to flick open the light switch, the two beauties pushed him away in the dark and entered.
‘We kept waiting but you never came. Since we didn’t know which one of us you wanted, we both came!’ they locked his door and pushed him on the bed.
Having lived mostly in the center of two doting women who ferociously sheltered him from the big bad world, Vasu had become mild and gentle of deportment, and deeply reverential of the feminine kind.
It did not behoove him to push them away rudely, so he yielded meekly to their ways, crafty ways that brought the Goosebumps out on his skin and filled him with a strange, wicked sense of thrill that he’d only known when bashfully watching the porn pictures his friends showed him sometimes at school.
They expertly undid his pajamas and one swallowed his manhood and stroked his marbles while the other filled his gaping mouth with a large sweet breast. Realizing he was a tame newcomer in the field of unsheathed coitus, they laughed, licked, snipped, and bit him down his broad torso creating rippling sensations in his rigid frame till he began to relax and take initiative, and make faltering, opening moves like a little chick testing the empty air with its weeny toes. On each side, the girls grabbed a nipple each with their sharp teeth, and put his hands between their thighs, letting him upturn his fingers and explore and reach far into their moist coves. They raised his thighs and poured perfumed gel between his buttocks and shoved ridiculously long-nailed fingers into his anus, letting him explore all the sweet spots and sharp sting that lay in that hallowed region of his body that made life so worth living. They showed him where to rub on their soft fleshy nubs, and how to swirl his tongue on their heaving bosoms, circling the now hard as marble nipples with sharp strokes. Jinni, the elder girl, sensing him ready and firm, mounted over him; gripping his incredibly long slippery mast and sliding it between her moist thighs, she felt it reach all the way to her delicate, quivering cervix. She shuddered briefly and then began to grind her willowy hips over him, firmly putting the hand of Asha over his pellets, causing Vasu to go hard as a tree. Vasu, who had never known orgasm, carried on obediently, till one girl after the other collapsed on his broad chest, perspiring and trembling in release.
They took turns riding him all night, and when exhausted, pulled him over them. Finally they slept, a happy, satisfied threesome, till the slanting rays of the sun broke over the sea and filled their room with a cutting orange glow.
The girls left, still greedy for him, and promised to be back that night.
The night left Vasu with a strange confidence. He strutted out to the courts, humming softly under his breath. For once he looked people in the eye, and nodded at the girls that puckered up their lips at him. The final match was with the Jat boy, who twisted his racket in his hands and simply glowered at him.
The coach laughed.’ You have picked some enemy. Any way, a man is known by his enemies, not his enemas! So thrash him today, and let’s get home’.
Vasu did as told. He flicked the ball at all impossible corners in the court, way out of reach of the huffing opponent. He leaped like a cat, and smashed the ball with a vengeance, grunting like a caveman smashing the skull of a sheep. The Jat soon realized Vasu was not aiming for a spot on the clay earth; he was aiming for his head! He panicked and at every shot began to embarrassingly cower and cover his face with his arm, till the onlookers began to jeer and laugh. No amount of talking by his coach would clutch the terror stricken boy out of his despair. He yielded points just be over with it and escape to the safety and seclusion of the dressing room to nurse his shame and hurt in private.
Another two nights before Vasu returned home, and he was already an expert at giving pleasure to women in bed. The girls rarely went back to their room, and engaged in day and night long lovemaking with the untiring, eager athlete. With tears in their eyes, and their labias, they bade him goodbye, with a perpetual invite to visit Vibrant Gujarat again.