by Cecilia Tan
Benton ducked his head under the lintel and stepped into the room. It was bare, except for the bed: an old twin-sized iron frame and a mattress covered with rust stains. The windows were simple square holes in the north and south walls; the door was an empty rectangle facing the east. The smooth stone floor was strewn with tiny dry leaves and the red dust of the plain.
He set down his suitcase in the corner and turned to the mechanic’s wife. “It is good,” he said in Marathi, trying to be polite. “Thank you.”
She was a thick-waisted matron in her fifties, her hair wound into a sloppy knot the color of iron; her brows were thick and black, joined into a single line over the eyes. The mother of six children, her youngest son was still young enough to cling. He wore nothing but a dhoti in the heat; his sorrowful eyes and thin brown limbs gave him the look of a baby monkey.
Seeing that her guest gave the accommodations his approval, she nodded; she did not return his smile, but seemed to relax. “I will send a cloth for your bed, and water. Trusha will come for you when it is time for the meal.”
“I regret to say that I cannot come to the house to eat,” he said, switching back to Hindi—his Marathi wasn’t good enough to communicate a sophisticated thought. “I must stay with my cameras tonight. If a thief were to take these things, I would be unable to work.”
She frowned, the thunderous uni-brow descending. “We have had no trouble with thieves here.”
“A stranger can sometimes find trouble where a native of the village cannot.” He smiled sadly. “I have learned this over the years.”
She looked up to meet his eyes, and found a smile that did not falter. Despite herself, the corner of her mouth twitched upward, as if she would smile back. “Jeevan will bring your food to you,” she said firmly. As she named the boy, her hand touched his hair; he turned up his chin to look at her, eyes radiant with love, wrapping his arm tighter about the pillar of her thigh.
“Thank you. I am happy to give him a few rupees for his trouble.” Benton gave a small bow. He watched her go, her son capering along beside her as her tunic blew in the wind. Then he went to the corner and disentangled his camera bags from his neck, setting them down in the dust beside his battered suitcase.
Alone, he bent his arms and stretched his aching back. He went to the bed and quickly heaved the mattress up, hoping to startle any six- or eight-legged occupants into a panicked scuttle; there was no movement. When the mechanic’s daughter came, she found him sitting on the bare mattress, bent over with his elbows on his knees, smoking a cigarette. He looked up at the shuffle of her slippers in the dust and saw her black silhouette in the doorway. She was balancing an aluminum ewer of water on her head and a bundle of blankets on her hip.
He stood as she entered the room. She was a younger version of her mother, perhaps sixteen, with dark brows already knitted over her nose; nonetheless she smiled, as she handed him the jug, and her teeth were lovely and white. When she bent to spread a thin cotton sheet over his mattress, her brilliant persimmon-orange sari pulled tight over the round hillocks of rump and thigh; for a moment he found himself tempted to abuse his host’s hospitality.
She seemed to sense his hungry gaze on her body, and spent a few extra moments tucking the blanket. When she straightened and turned to meet his eyes, Benton forced himself to look away—whipping the beast within back into its cage. Not now. “Thank you.”
She did not speak, but turned and left him alone with the heat. Benton went to lie down on the freshly-made bed, breathing in the house smells which had saturated the smooth, polished strands of cotton. Cooking oil, cumin, sandalwood incense... He closed his eyes, listening to the thirsty wind blow through the dry leaves above. In time, the relentless sound and the hypnotic smell of perfumed smoke lulled him into fitful, sweating sleep.
He woke when the wind turned; a cool gust rolled in the door, plucking at his shirtsleeve. Benton sat up abruptly and threw his legs over the side of the bed. There had been a dream, but it was shattered into unintelligible fragments the moment he opened his eyes; now it vanished in a swirl of inner turmoil, leaving his chest and belly aching with a painful emotion for which he had no name.
His mouth had opened in his sleep, and his tongue was coated with gummy resin. He picked up his jug and drank, swallowing three great gulps of the earth-tasting water; he held the fourth until the tissues of his mouth swelled with the liquid. When his tongue was slippery again, he swallowed what remained, licked his chapped lips and set the jug down.
He stood unsteadily and reached for his cigarettes, wiping away the hot mask of sweat from his face with his shirtsleeve. The room was full of shadows, and the sky outside had gone the bruised color of a blue plum. He went to the doorway; several of his shirt buttons had opened as he slept, and now another gust of wind touched his bare neck and chest, cooling the sweat like a lover’s breath. There was a smell of rain in the air.
The monsoon was coming—this time it would not tease and then retreat. He picked up his camera in the last light of day to photograph the clouds that natives called “the army of Indra”—a towering range of rolling thunderheads, black with promise, which swept across the entire eastern horizon. Lightning glinted in the depths of the oncoming storm; Benton let the frames snap through the end of his roll, hoping multiple exposures would give him at least one perfect frame of that scintillating mass.
Thunder thrummed across the plain, still many miles distant. The tamarind tree trembled in anticipation. Benton heard the rattle of a door, and then the quick pit-pat of bare feet across the pebbles; here was Jeevan, carrying two big bowls. Benton brushed the cherry from his cigarette on the doorframe and pocketed the unlit remainder, smiling as the shy boy sidled up to his hut. He reached into his pocket, taking out two coins, and traded them for a bowl of saffron rice—pretending not to notice the distinctly child-sized bite missing from the edge of the scoop on top. Jeevan handed him a second bowl, filled with fragrant curry; three warm loaves of bhakari bread served as a lid. Then the little monkey skipped away back to his mother’s house. He held his coins in two cupped hands, like a captured cricket, and shook them next to his ear to hear them jingle.
Benton sat down cross-legged in the doorway, removing an old stainless steel spoon from his suitcase. The woman had gone out of her way to earn the ten rupees he was paying for this meal. Her curry was rich, a pool of spicy oil and chunks of tender goat’s meat—so good that he saved the last oily cake of flat bread for the end, to mop every last speck from the bowl. The rice was sweet and sticky, heavily laden with golden raisins, minced mango and crumbled almonds. He decided to save most of it for the morning, laying a pair of heavy hard-bound notebooks across the top of the bowl to keep the bugs out.
After a quick visit to the family outhouse in the garden, Benton returned to the empty little shack. Darkness had come. He sat down and took off his shoes, balling up a sock to stuff into each one before he put them down beside the bed. He relaxed, stretched out to luxuriate in a full belly and a cool breeze, smoked the remainder of his cigarette in the dark and then crushed out the stub against the wall. The ambient temperature of the room had dropped several degrees, and for the first time in days he rolled himself up in a thin blanket to sleep. He drifted off painlessly, listening to the lullaby of distant thunder and the croon of an east wind.
He woke in the pitch black, wind whipping over him in cool velvety billows. Benton sat bolt upright in bed, blinking against the darkness. His heart was beating fast and hard; the air was heavy with the weight of another human presence, and he strained to pinpoint its location.
All he could hear was the thin whisper of rain, hissing across the gravel outside, sifting through the canopy of the tall tree, trickling and dripping from the roof, the windowsills, the leaves. Lightning flared somewhere in the night, casting a split second of harsh illumination—in that light he saw her standing in the doorway, muffled and hooded in her sari.
“Who is there?” he demanded in Hindi. Brain st
ill fuzzy from sleep, he fumbled for a name from the mechanic’s household. “Trusha?”
Her low, musical laugh trickled across the space between them. “Not Trusha.”
Thunder suddenly split the night with its roar; as if in answer, a fierce new sheet of rain swept across the village. Benton reached hastily into his shirt pocket and removed his lighter. He held it aloft and flicked it alight.
“What do you want?”
It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. She was still standing in the doorway. Her body was wound in a royal blue sari, embroidered with glistening silver thread; the fabric had soaked up so much rain that it now appeared almost black. Her face was wrapped in a twist of the silk which served as both headscarf and veil. As he watched, she reached up with bare arms and unwound it, letting the sodden tail of fabric fall behind her shoulder.
His heart tumbled out of rhythm. Her face was a round soft circle the color of honey, framed with a coil of jet-black hair. Black brows arched like wings over huge, luminous eyes; no caste mark was painted between them. Her nose was straight, nostrils sweeping to the side in delicate curls. Her mouth was broad, sensuous, lips lush and full and dark. To reveal such a face was like drawing a sword. Benton had never felt quite so defenseless, sitting alone in a bed.
She smiled slowly, and in her eyes he read the wicked intent of every woman since Eve. “What do you want?” she said, touching her dark lip with a rosy tongue. She had simply repeated his words, but her softly teasing tone made him shiver. She turned her head to the side, one hand slipping to her nape, and suddenly her hair was free, spooling down her slim neck. She closed her eyes, thick black lashes stark against her pale cheek, and teased the rope with her fingers; the strands separated into fat, looping serpents.
The beast inside him answered with a roar. He sat stock still, breathing deeply, as her delicate hand went to the brooch just below her left shoulder. If she released that pin, the sari would fall; she cocked her head at him coquettishly, her eyes asking the question— “Should I?” For a moment he let his eyes drop from her lascivious face to the soft abundance of breast and belly below. The wet folds of her dress muffled her curves, but even at this distance he could see her nipples standing hard beneath the silk.
He raised the lighter’s flame higher and made a beckoning gesture with his free hand.
She came to him slowly, sinuous hips shifting as she moved with the rhythm of the whipping rain. He looked down at her little feet, and the heavy, sodden hem leaving a dark trail across the floor; it was odd that she wore no rings on her toes or fingers. Looking up, he found her standing beside the bed; he inhaled sharply as she bent to kiss him, her eyes half-closed. Her lips were cool and soft. The smell of rain was powerful. Her hand touched his, and he suddenly realized that the burning hot metal of the lighter was scorching his thumb; the flame winked out as it fell from his hand, clattering to the floor.
Her mouth parted over his, the tip of her tongue touching him softly; her wet hand found his hot neck and trailed down the open shirt-front to the matted hair of his chest. Hungrily he reached down, finding his own buttons easily in the dark. With both hands she pressed the shirt back over his shoulders; she broke her kiss as she pushed it down his arms and then tossed it away. He gasped with pleasure as her lips found his shoulder and neck; already her mouth was growing warmer.
With her palms she forced him back onto his elbows; there was something ferocious about the way she pulled the blanket away from his legs, twisting her way down his belly with open-mouthed kisses. He found himself hissing each breath between clenched teeth, lips drawn back into a half-snarl. He put his hand to the back of her head, holding her for a moment as her tongue trailed along the border of his waistband and her fingers worked busily at the zipper of his pants. Already he was rampant and aching for her, thinking of the moment when those sweet lips would engulf him; he could feel himself drip in anticipation of that pleasure.
“Wait.” He tried to stop her, seized by sudden doubt. A whirlwind of fears went through him, not least the length of time that had passed since he had a proper shower.
“I cannot. I must taste you, ishta.” Despite himself he shook at the sound of her husky voice; he could hear the need in it, as stark and urgent as his own. Her lips found him, even through the barrier of thin cotton, and hungrily kissed the length of him. His hand clenched involuntarily in her hair, and he lifted his hips for her as she skinned off his jeans.
She cooed gently, and her cheek rubbed against his erection in a slow, sensual circle. She kissed his thigh, worried his skin softly with her little teeth; he made a sound low in his chest as she traced the shape of his member through his briefs with her fingertips, cupped his testicles in the curve of her palm.
“Come here.” He drew her up, wrapped his arms around her waist as she knelt astride his body. The brooch of her sari made a musical sound as it skittered across the floor, and suddenly the cold wet silk was slithering down, falling away from her skin; she unbound the tie at her hip and drew the whole rasping cocoon of fabric away, freeing herself.
Benton pressed his face into her belly, hoping to nuzzle deep into a soft mound, but he found the curve beneath his lips as hard as a drum. Marveling at it, his fingertips passed over the taut bowl, sweeping downward to the sensuous tickle of the hair on her mons, up again to the heavy fruit of her breasts and the tightly wrinkled pebbles of nipple.
She sighed, her nails trailing over his back. Finding softness, he buried his face between her breasts, kissing and mouthing the cool, yielding flesh. He took them in his hands, growling at the weight, and brushed one tender aureola with the bristles of his unshaven cheek. She hissed, nails running up the nape of his neck with a deeper bite, and he grinned in the dark.
When he took her nipple into his mouth, he could taste the new flavor—a creamy sweetness on the tongue. She gripped him tighter with a cry, is if to press him further into her flesh, and obligingly he increased the pressure of the suction—then made a sharp, muffled exclamation of surprise in the back of his throat, as his mouth filled with hot liquid.
She moaned with pleasure. Despite himself, he drew back. He held the mouthful for a moment, rolling it over his tongue—a thin warm syrup, like oil and honey mixed together. She made another pleading sound, a high-pitched sigh, and the tide of his blood rose high enough to howl in his ears; he had never made love to a pregnant woman before, but the thought was surprisingly arousing. He took as much of her breast into his mouth as he could, sucking hard and swallowing greedily—as if he were the child that she would bear.
She pressed him down onto his back and squatted above him to mount, her heels digging deeply into the mattress. He caressed her round belly with his hands as she reached behind to grasp his member, teasing herself with its heavy head, greasing him with slippery dew. Here at last her skin was warm, even feverishly hot; he could feel the fierce heat of the swollen folds as he passed back and forth between them, and finally slid home into the depths of her body.
The storm was directly overhead now, and the lightning was nearly continuous, lashing back and forth through the violent sky. By the flickering light Benton reached up to her pale breasts, round as two moons above him. As she slowly began to ride, he kneaded them, harder as he felt the answering flood that rushed down his length inside her, hard enough to make her lips part with a sharp cry of pleasure that could be heard above the cannon’s roar of thunder.
Her breasts ran with excitement as he squeezed them, sending a slow flow of oil down over the backs of his hands, his wrists, his forearms. By the time she had finished, there were twin pools in the hollow of each collarbone, on his chest... and when she collapsed into his waiting arms, she laughed and lapped them up.
The rain and the love-making did not stop for the remainder of the night. Despite her condition, the woman was an avid, agile lover, and her playful hands and tongue resurrected him more times than he would have thought possible on such short acquaintance.
At la
st the storm seemed to mellow, the lightning and thunder giving way to a steady downpour. Benton cradled her in his arms, caressing her silky body in the dark, letting the endless glossy length of her hair glide between his fingers. She sighed, nestling beneath his arm in the narrow bed, her pregnant belly pressed into his hip, her soft lips open against his skin.
“What is your name?” He spoke softly. For hours he had been afraid to speak.
“You may call me Neha.” He felt her smile in the dark.
He gave her nipple one last playful tweak. “Why did you come to me, Neha?”
She yawned. “Because you were thirsty, ishta.”
“Where do you come from? Do you live in this town?
She let her nails glide over his chest and belly gently. “Ask Charanjit in the morning,” she suggested playfully.
He smiled; his driver knew him too well. Surprising that he would have chosen a pregnant prostitute, of course—but perhaps she was the only one in the village.
“You are beautiful, Neha.”
“You please me, Joseph,” she replied. “Now sleep.”
When he woke, the dawn light had suffused the clouds with silver-gray. He sat up in bed just in time to see her hesitate in the doorway, the folds of her sari gathered carelessly about her; she had not bothered to tie it, but simply held it to her breasts like a bed sheet.
For a moment he just looked at her: the sensuous raven’s-wing tumble of hair, the cello curve of her bare back, the sweet dimples where her broad hips flared from a slim waist. She looked back over her shoulder, half-turning to smile.
“Let me take your picture.” He jumped naked out of bed at the impulse, went to his camera bag, pulled out the Nikon—he knew it was loaded. “I want to remember you.”
Her eyes sparkled with humor. “You will, ishta.” She made a careless, exquisite gesture with her hand, twirling it like a dancer. “But you may take your picture nonetheless.”
He opened the lens cap, adjusted the focus, squatted on his heels to put her into the frame—letting his years of experience guide him as he adjusted the aperture for the light. He clicked the shutter again and again. With each moment, she seemed more perfectly beautiful.
