It was a custom in the Joshi clan that the bridegroom spent the first night in the bride’s home, all by himself. It was only after he had taken his bride to his own home that he was allowed to consummate his marriage. Since the Joshis had no home of their own or even relatives in Delhi, they prepared a room in the baraat ghar for their son-in-law. Madan slept fitfully. The small room had bare white walls and only a couple of chairs, and the bed was an uncomfortable string charpai with pillows as hard as wood. Despite the spartan routine of yoga asanas and the Sangathan drill, Madan Mohan found this trying since he was used to sleeping on a soft bed with feathered pillows. Then there were thoughts about entering the second stage of his life. He was no longer a brahmachari but a man with a wife to look after, whose needs he had to cater to and whom he had to take out with him wherever he went. He would have to make a lot of adjustments in his daily routine. But there would be compensations, of course—a woman to make love to whenever he wanted, a woman to look after his needs as his mother had done, and bear his children. Most of all he looked forward to the next three days, during which he would prepare Mohini to yield herself to him. The Kamasutra advised grooms to be patient and gentle with their virgin wives. If she was put off by her first experience of sex, it would take the poor girl months or years to come to terms with it. It was well past midnight by the time Madan Mohan finally fell asleep. He was still groggy the next morning when, to the sad notes of the shehnai, Mohini bid a tearful farewell to her family and was driven away in the Pandeys’ car to her new home.
There was a stream of visitors all morning till late into the evening at the Pandey residence; relays of bearers serving tea, coffee, cold drinks and snacks. By the time the last visitor left, and blessings sufficient for several lifetimes had been bestowed on the newly-wed couple, it was time for dinner. No one had appetite for more food and everyone was exhausted—most of all Mohini. The family sat around the table sipping tomato soup, which was all they could take. Parvati escorted the bridal couple to their bedroom, blessed them and retired. Madan Mohan bolted his bedroom door from the inside and sat down on the sofa.
‘You must be very tired,’ he said to Mohini. ‘Come and sit beside me so I can have a good look at you. And you tell me all about yourself.’ To his surprise, Mohini, who had looked ready to collapse with exhaustion only a few minutes before, sprang back to life, pulled the pallu from her head, grabbed his hand and said boldly, ‘Take a good look. Do you like what you see?’
This was not at all according to the holy book on sex. Perhaps she had not read it. ‘Yes, you are a very good-looking young lady,’ Madan Mohan replied, ‘a classic example of a mrigini.’
‘A what?’
‘Mrigini—a doe. According to the Kamasutra there are three types of women: a deer-woman, a mare-woman and an elephant-woman, depending on the sizes of their private parts. You are small and well-formed; you have to be a mrigini. Didn’t you read the Kamasutra? I’d asked you to read the sacred Hindu texts on marriage.’
‘Harey Ram! What kind of a family do you think I come from! My parents never allowed dirty books in the house.’
‘It is not a dirty book,’ said Madan Mohan sternly. ‘It is the oldest classic in the world on marriage and the art of love.’
‘I don’t know about such things. But I would have you know that when I was in college, they had a beauty contest. I was unanimously voted beauty queen of the year.’
‘You entered a beauty contest?’ he asked rather alarmed. ‘Chheeh! Chheeh! They are Western practices, very unbecoming for Hindu women. How did your parents allow you to do something so vulgar?’
Mohini was crushed. ‘I did not tell my Ma and Pitaji about it till after I was crowned. They did not like my exposing myself and allowing my breasts, waist and buttocks to be measured, but they were quite pleased with the outcome. I have a good figure. My friends in college told me I have the same measurments as that Swedish girl who became Miss Universe last year. Only, I am short, just five feet two inches.’
‘That is an appropriate height. I am five feet seven; a woman should be suitably shorter than her husband,’ Madan Mohan said stiffly and then fell silent.
‘You are not gussa with me, are you?’ Mohini pouted.
‘No, I am not angry. What is past is past. But no more beauty contests. They are very un-Hindu,’ he replied firmly.
‘Thank God!’ Mohini sighed dramatically in relief, with one hand on her chest. With her other hand, she still clutched his. He was the husband, he was meant to take the lead, but it was she who was calling the shots. This confused Madan Mohan. There were a few moments of awkward silence before he remembered the next step he had to take. He fished out a betel leaf from his silver paan daan and said, ‘Here, I have a special paan for you.’ He held it to her lips. ‘You must take half of it from me,’ she said and took half the paan in her mouth, the other half sticking out of her teeth. She put a hand on his thigh and leant towards him. Madan Mohan was amazed by her brassiness. As he bit into the half sticking out of her mouth, she flung her arms around his neck and gave him a full-blooded kiss on his lips.
This was outrageous! She was flouting all the sacred rules. Despite her petiteness she was perhaps not a mrigini after all!
‘Are you by any chance a hasthini, young lady?’ he asked weakly.
‘A what? Do I look like an elephant to you?’ she demanded angrily.
‘No, no, it has nothing to do with the size of your body,’ he explained apologetically, ‘but . . . but—’
‘What but-but? First a mrigini, then a hasthini—I am an innocent little girl, I don’t understand all this.’
‘That is because you have never read the Kamasutra.’
‘I told you Pitaji would not allow such books in our home.’
‘Pity! It would have taught you something about the art of making love.’
‘Professor sahib, you don’t have to read books to learn how to make love. We are married. I make love to you, you make love to me. Isn’t that simple?’
‘No, it is not so simple,’ he replied. ‘Do you know there are sixty-four ways of making love?’
‘Sixty-four!’ she exclaimed with wide-eyed wonder. ‘I thought there was only one. You teach me all sixty-four. I promise to be a good disciple.’ She gave him another kiss on his lips. ‘But we can’t spend our first night of marriage as if we are in a classroom. That is not the meaning of suhaag raat.’
‘No, it is not,’ he said pulling her away from him. ‘The first night should be spent in getting to know each other. You tell me about yourself and I will tell you about myself. On the second night we do the same but go a little further in disclosing more intimate details. Hindu authorities on the subject advise that love-making should start after the third night.’
‘Uffo!’ she exploded. ‘What a strange man you are! If we are to do nothing on our suhaag raat, we may as well go to sleep. What is this nonsense about talking! I am very tired.’ She got up from the couch and walked briskly to the bathroom. She rinsed her mouth, washed her face and went straight to the bed prepared for them. She brushed away the rose petals strewn on the sheets and lay down in her wedding sari with her face turned towards the wall. Madan Mohan sensed she was sulking; she was evidently a bad-tempered girl and would have to be handled very carefully. He would be patient.
He went to the bathroom, brushed his teeth and took a shower, carefully soaping his armpits and groin. He changed into a fresh pair of kurta-pyjamas and sat on the nuptial bed. After a while he put his hand on Mohini’s shoulder and asked, ‘Are you gussa with me?’
She shrugged her shoulder and growled, ‘Don’t touch me till you get permission from your holy dictionary. I don’t want to talk to you.’
Madan Mohan resigned himself to a sleepless night. For a long while he lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. Then he switched off the bed light and shut his eyes. Mohini lay facing the other way, stiff as a log. The Kamasutra had nothing to say about sulking brides. Slowly sleep over
came him.
Mohini was up before him. She squeezed toothpaste onto her forefinger and rubbed her gums vigorously. She did not know how to operate the shower, so she filled the steel bucket from the tap and since there was no lota, used the enamel mug placed on the cistern of the WC to wash herself. She changed into a new silk sari and without saying a word to her husband went down to join his parents. Hari Mohan Pandey was reading the morning papers; his mother was in the puja room. Mohini touched her father-in-law’s feet, received his blessings and joined her mother-in-law.
They heard Madan Mohan come down and join his father for tea. Parvati quickly finished her part of the ritual and told her daughter-in-law, ‘Bahu, I will send my son to join you. My puja is short and basic, but he is very particular about the rituals he follows. You must pray together and learn from him. I will help the servants prepare breakfast.’ She went out and informed her son, ‘Mohini is waiting for you to perform puja. She does not know the rituals we follow. I will have the breakfast laid out.’
As soon as Madan had gone into the puja room, his mother walked up to the bridal chamber. She saw the rose and jasmine petals she had strewn on the bed the evening before scattered on the floor. That was a good sign: the couple had slept together. She examined the bed sheet: there were no tell-tale stains of blood or seminal discharge. They had probably not consummated their union. Her son was a sensible boy; he had not shown impatience with his virgin bride who understandably knew little or nothing about sex. He would teach her in good time. Parvati joined her small family for breakfast satisfied with what she had seen.
At the breakfast table, things hadn’t really changed over the years. Hari Mohan Pandey still preferred a heavy English breakfast: glass of orange juice, cornflakes with milk, bacon and eggs, toast with butter and marmalade, and coffee. All this was accompanied by a flash and tinkle of forks and knives, spoons and china. He ended his morning meals by lighting his briar pipe. Madan Mohan, on the other hand, still insisted on North Indian vegetarian food: pooris and aalo-sabzi made in ghee, or paranthas with pickle and dahi; and always milk instead of tea or coffee. At the end of his meals one of the servants brought him a finger bowl, since he ate with his fingers. Only Parvati Pandey’s eating habits had changed, and reflected her slightly confused state, caught as she was between husband and son. Since Madan Mohan’s early teens, she too had begun to share his Indian breakfast, best eaten with the fingers. Hari Mohan had shouted at her the first few times, but gradually reconciled himself to having lost his authority to the younger male. Now Parvati went back to Western food and cutlery only occasionally, when she felt sorry for her husband or wanted him to know that she still loved him, or when she wanted something from him.
Mohini was faced with a tricky situation at the breakfast table. Should she defer to her father-in-law or her husband? Should she first try and prove that she could handle forks and knives (which she could not with ease, but had got her friend Alice Carvalho from college to teach her) and then switch permanently to Indian food and use her fingers? The issue was decided for her when her mother-in-law instructed the servants to serve Bade Sahib the usual and everyone else poori-aaloo. They all ate in silence.
The day went by receiving another stream of visitors who came to congratulate the Pandeys bearing wedding gifts. So it went on till late in the evening. Mohini avoided eye contact with her husband and clung to her mother-in-law like a dutiful bahu. It was only after dinner that the couple were left alone for the night in their bedroom.
Mohini was still sulking. She took a bath, changed into a fresh cotton sari and lay down on the bed, facing the wall. Madan also took a bath, changed into kurta-pyjamas and lay down on his side of the bed. After a while he stretched out his hand and put it on Mohini’s shoulder. ‘This is no way to behave towards your husband,’ he said gently. She shrugged his hand off and replied, ‘You don’t want to have anything to do with me for three days. So I will talk to you when your silly period of abstinence is over.’
‘But we must talk. You must tell me about yourself; you can ask me whatever you want to know about me. We are strangers to each other. We can become better acquainted, become friends, then lovers. This is laid down in the shastras; we must obey them.’
Mohini turned around to face him. There were tears in her eyes. ‘What do you want to hear about me? I am a poor teacher’s daughter. I’ve been to school and college. You did not like my winning a beauty contest. You don’t want to see what I look like till three days are over. I don’t understand you.’ She covered her face with her hands and started sobbing.
Madan Mohan slid over to her side of the bed, gently took her hands off her face and wiped her tears. He kissed her on the forehead. ‘You are a very pretty girl,’ he said in a soothing voice. ‘I don’t have to see you naked to see how beautiful you are. The gods have made you what you are. I am lucky to have you as my wife.’ Mohini clung to him. Gradually her sobs came to an end. She fell asleep in her husband’s arms. Her body touched his many times during the night but made no demands on him.
Mohini regained her cheerfulness. She helped her motherin-law and the servants in the kitchen, laying the table, receiving visitors, getting flowers from the garden and putting them in vases. The short crisis in her relationship with her husband was over. One more night and the period of sex taboo would also end. At long last she would get what she had been looking forward to since her engagement.
*
Came the night of all nights. After her mother-in-law left the couple in their bedroom, Mohini had a bath, liberally sprinkled her body with fragrant talcum powder, rubbed her gums with toothpaste vigorously, and came out looking as radiant as a bride should look for the event. Madan Mohan was pleased with what he saw and asked her to wait a few minutes till he too had had a bath. He scrubbed himself, brushed his teeth, and as a final touch, dabbed some French perfume on his neck and in his armpits—this last was a compromise he was constrained to make since ittar, the local perfume, was an invention of the Mughals, who were more abhorrent to him than the Whites. He joined Mohini on the sofa. He took two betel leaves wrapped in silver paper, put one in his mouth and the other in hers.
‘So,’ he said, and fell silent.
‘So,’ she replied, smiling through her betel-stained teeth. They held hands. ‘So, Professor sahib, Panditji, my Pati Parmeshwar, I am happy to be your wife. You command, I obey.’
‘I will begin with a kiss.’ He meant to startle her with his repertoire of the many varieties of kisses described in the Kamasutra. But Mohini overpowered him.
‘You can have as many as you want,’ she replied and glued her lips to his.
They stayed in a tight embrace for a long time. Then Madan Mohan tried to regain control. He kissed her all over her face. His hands strayed to her bosom. He was not sure if she would like him taking that liberty with her. She undid the buttons of her blouse and the clasp of her bra. ‘Kiss me here,’ she whispered in his ear. Madan Mohan felt his control over the proceedings slipping; he had to assert himself, but the sight of her breasts made him go weak in the knees. He had only seen women’s breasts in pictures and on marble statues, never in the flesh. He slobbered over them, not knowing which one of the two demanded more attention. ‘They are beautiful,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I am not surprised you were chosen the beauty queen.’
‘So you approve of the Western practice after all,’ she laughed. ‘Let me tell you, it is not only the bosom that matters in beauty contests. They measure the waist, buttocks, legs, everything. I came tops in every department.’
‘Show me,’ Madan Mohan said and then wondered who had spoken those words.
Mohini stood up, unwrapped her sari, freed herself of her blouse and bra and after a coy pause, undid the cord of her petticoat and let it slip down to the floor. She covered her sex with both her hands and turned around to let him see her smooth, well-rounded buttocks. Then she faced him and spread out her arms. ‘Let’s lie down.’
Madan Mohan recoiled
in horror. What was that tuft of ugly black hair doing between her legs! He had not seen any such growth in the illustrated copies of the Kamasutra nor on any marble statues. He had hair above his genitals, yes, but wasn’t that a masculine phenomenon? Why should a comely woman, a mrigini, have pubic hair? He was confused; also worked up. This was not going as he had planned. Mohini took his hand and led him to the nuptial bed. ‘Take your clothes off. I want to see as much of you as you see of me,’ she ordered. Meekly he obeyed her command. And revealed that he too had ugly black hair in his middle. For some reason nature had put it there. He was too worked up to ponder over the inscrutable phenomenon. They clasped each other in a tight embrace, and tumbled onto the bed. There followed a storm of kisses. It was time for the real act to begin. Madan Mohan explored his young bride’s thighs with his hands and whispered in her ear: ‘My little doe, this will hurt you, but only the first time. Then you will get used to it and enjoy it. Trust me.’ While he was still fumbling, not knowing where to enter her, Mohini grasped his member and directed it to the right course. Madan Mohan recalled Vatsyayana’s warning to be very gentle with a virgin. ‘Go on, push it in,’ Mohini said impatiently. Madan Mohan’s head was now on fire; he had barely touched the opening of her vagina when he came in violent spurts all over her thighs.
For him it was a beautiful experience. Not for her. She could not hold back her frustration. She grabbed him by his hair and swore, ‘Gadha! Donkey! I haven’t even begun and you’ve finished!’ She extricated herself from under him and ran into the bathroom to clean herself and cool off. When she came out, she was confronted by an astonishing sight. Madan Mohan was standing on his head, with his limp penis hanging down like a stubby arrow pointing to his face.
Paradise and Other Stories Page 6
