I examined the spread of booty on the lawn and said with a straight face, ‘Sub-inspector sahib, I don’t think any of these items belonged to this house. The little I know of this woman is that she is clean and honest and does her work well. I have no complaints against her.’
‘Clean and honest she certainly is not,’ snapped one of the policewomen. ‘We have several complaints that she was also doing dhanda in this locality—we found a lot of cash in her trunk.’
‘Dhanda? What is dhanda?’ I asked feigning ignorance.
‘Business,’ explained the woman constable. ‘She’s a prostitute as well as a thief.’
‘I have absolutely no knowledge about that,’ I replied. ‘As I have told you, she took nothing from this house and has been a diligent worker. If you like, I can give her a certificate of good character. I suggest you drop the charges of stealing things from this house.’
Dhanno broke down, clutched my feet and wailed, ‘Sahib, save me from the police. If they put me in jail my children will starve to death. There is no one to look after them.’
‘You should have thought of that when you went around stealing other people’s things and whoring,’ growled the sub-inspector.
I put my hand on Dhanno’s head and assured her, ‘Your children will be fed by my servants—don’t worry about them. If you want a lawyer to defend you, tell your husband to see me. I will arrange for one. If the magistrate wants anyone to testify to your good character, you can name me.’
The police put Dhanno in their van and took her away. That was the last I saw of the woman. For a few days her children came to the kitchen for their food. Then they disappeared. Their father could not take the taunts about his wife being a thief and cheating on him for money. He moved to another locality.
No one approached me to engage a lawyer on Dhanno’s behalf. She had no one to defend her against the charge of thieving. The police dropped the charge of prostitution. She was sentenced to one year’s imprisonment. She never came to see me. I missed my gold pen, which I was sure the sub-inspector had kept for himself. Sonu’s things were no doubt taken by the women constables. I had to buy another pen for Rs 15,000.
Once again I was on my own. My cook found an old jamadarni, a one-eyed widow, to do the sweeping and cleaning now. I had to look for another pro tem companion. I brought out the bundle of letters and photographs of the women who had shown willingness to accept my offer of temporary concubinage.
I went over the pictures and the letters again and again. What exactly was I looking for? The top priority was of course sex. I never seemed to have my fill of it. Once a day was not good enough for me now. Without doubt all the women who had answered my ad would be more than willing to engage with me. I wanted it to be lustful give and take—and in the open: in sunlight, moonlight, starlight. What more? The person had to be of a cheerful disposition; no sulking, no nagging, I’d had more than my share of that. Also, the lady should not try to establish proprietary rights over me. It was important, too, that she be interested in the good things of life: good food, vintage wines, music and the arts. Since I did not read much I did not set much store by literature.
After scanning all the photographs, I settled for one Molly Gomes of Goa. It was her second letter following receipt of my photograph that helped me make up my mind. It read:
Hi, handsome! this is Molly Gomes again. You wanted to know more about me. Here it is! I’m a trained nurse specializing in physiotherapy. I use massage to treat people who have suffered partial paralysis or have limb ailments. During the tourist season I’m much in demand in five star hotels. I was married once to a foreigner. He was no good at anything; all he wanted was a massage every day. So I chucked him up after a few days. Life is too short to be wasted on a fellow who is good at nothing. Don’t you agree? I can speak Konkani, English & Portuguese. My Hindi is not so good. Although a Catholic I have no hangups about religion. I go to church only to please my parents and relations. I tell them that all religions teach you to be good and honest, so what’s the big deal about being Christian, Hindu, Muslim or Parsee! I’m also a good cook—I can make spicy Goan curries, prawns, crabs, lobsters & fish. I love music & dancing. I have a cheerful disposition. You’ll find me good company. Any more you want to know about me, don’t hesitate to ask.’
Yours lovingly,
Molly.
From her photograph I could make out that she was short, stocky and dark. She had a broad smile showing a row of pearly white teeth. A bright scarlet hibiscus flower was stuck in her black curly hair.
Why not? I asked myself and wrote back inviting Molly Gomes over. I enclosed an open air ticket—Goa-Delhi-Goa—and suggested that as soon as the peak-tourist season was over, she could avail of my invitation. By the end of January, the tourist traffic from Europe, America and Australia to Goa begins to taper off. Goa becomes oppressively warm for white skins. It was coming to the end of January. Winter was giving way to spring and Delhi was at its colourful best. It was pleasantly cool; every park, every garden and roundabout was a riot of flowers. The perfect time to start an easy, uncomplicated relationship.
Molly did not waste any time. Three days after I had mailed my letter came her reply by telegram: ‘Arriving 1 st Feb I.A. flight 804. Meet at airport. Love. Molly.’
I talked to my servants. A lady doctor from Goa was coming to stay with me for a few weeks, I told them. She spoke no Hindustani. They were to look after her needs when I was away in office. And not gossip about her with other servants. By now they took a more compassionate view of their master’s youthful compulsions and regretted having talked carelessly about Sarojini. I had the guest room done up, put a buff envelope containing Rs 10,000 in cash under the pillow and locked the room. Satisfied with the arrangements, I went to fetch my guest from the airport.
The flight from Goa was on time. I saw the passengers stream in from the entrance gate, pick up hand trolleys and take their positions around the luggage conveyor belt. I had no difficulty in recognizing Molly Gomes. She was as her photograph showed her: short, stocky, muscular, skin the colour of cinnamon. She was wearing a red T-shirt and blue denims and had a large sling bag on her. She looked at the crowd waiting to receive arriving passengers. She could not spot me. I did not wave to her lest I be mistaken.
The conveyor belt began to move—one suitcase after another, holdalls and wooden crates bobbed along to be grabbed by their owners. I saw Molly pick up two suitcases and load them on her trolley. As she handed over her baggage tickets to the airport official I stepped forward to take the trolley from her. ‘Hi, there!’ she greeted me loudly. ‘I was scared you wouldn’t be here to receive me. Where would I go?’
‘Not to worry. You are in safe hands,’ I replied shaking her hand. ‘Mohan Kumar at your service.’ She had a strong grip, as one would expect in a professional masseuse.
‘Who else could it be? You look exactly like your picture, only taller and handsomer.’
‘Thanks.’
I pushed the trolley through phalanxes of cab drivers holding placards with the names of people they were to meet. We got to my car in the parking lot, I put her suitcases in the boot, opened the front door for her and lowered the window. I got into the driver’s seat.
‘Aren’t you going to kiss me?’ she asked.
‘Sure!’ I leant over and kissed her on her lips. ‘Plenty of time for that,’ I assured her patting her on her cheek.
‘By Jove its cold,’ she said rolling up the glass. ‘After Goa this is like the Arctic.’
I turned up my window pane as well. She kept looking at the scenery. ‘Much greener than Goa,’ she remarked. ‘There we have only brown rock, huge wild cashew, palm and coconut trees. Hardly any grass. You have more trees here than I expected, and lots of bushes.’ On an impulse I took a detour through West End. She gasped at the spread of flowers on either side of the road. ‘This is beautiful!’ she said. ‘I know I’m going to like this city. You have flowers in your garden?’
&nbs
p; ‘Not many,’ I replied. ‘A lawn in front with a hedge around it. A couple of pine trees. I don’t get much time to look after my garden. A fellow comes once a week to mow the grass and water the lawn.’
We hit the Delhi-Mathura road. Three cars running alongside on each side of the dual highway, scores of phut phuts, three wheelers weaving in and out of the lanes of cars, long halts at traffic signals, petrol fumes making the air thick and grey. ‘This is mad! How can you live in this noise and foul air?’ she asked. Suddenly she did not like the city, and who could blame her.
‘We’ve got used to it. Some areas of Delhi are worse than this.’ At the Ashram crossing I turned into Maharani Bagh. There was less noise, fewer cars, larger bungalows with gardens. I turned towards my house. ‘Remember, to the servants you are Doctor Gomes. And no kissing and cuddling in front of them.’
‘Right, boss,’ she said saluting me. ‘From now on I’m a respectable lady doctor from Goa. You must be the world’s greatest humbug.’
‘That I am,’ I replied. I knew I was going to like this natty little chatterbox.
The servants were waiting for us. They opened the iron gates of Ranjit Villa to let in the car. I introduced Molly to my cook and bearer. She shook hands with both and in a nasal Yankee accent said, ‘I’m happy to make your acquaintance.’ They took her cases to the guest room. Molly followed me upstairs. I showed her round the upper floor and took her to her room. An electric heater glowed red. The room was warm. Extra blankets had been put on her bed.
‘You unpack and rest for a while. If you want to have a bath there’s running hot water in the taps. I’ll catch up with my office work. The bar opens at six-thirty.’
I went down to my study and rang up Vimla Sharma for a report of what had gone on in the afternoon. I told her not to send me any letters that evening. I would deal with them the next day.
I had a fire lit in the sitting room. Thick logs with rock-coal heaped on them. Drinks were laid out. I put on the stereo. Strauss’ waltzes. I could not think of anything more romantic.
I went to check on Molly. The door to her room was shut. As I went down the stairs and back to the sitting room, I could hear her singing. Of all things, a popular Hindi film song:
Jab Jab bahaar aayie
Aur phool muskaraaye
Mujhe tum yaad aaye
(Whenever came spring
And flowers began to smile
I thought of you awhile)
It was a beautiful song, though she sang it very badly. But she was clearly enjoying herself, and that made me feel warm and contented. Exactly at 6.30 p.m. she joined me in the sitting room. She was dressed in a golden yellow blouse and a long grey skirt. She wore a pearl necklace, pearl studs in her ears and a thin gold chain round her right ankle. She was carrying two bottles and a large packet of cashew nuts. ‘These are for you,’ she said handing the bottles to me. ‘The finest feni from Goa, distilled at home by my father. One cashew, one coconut. You like feni?’
‘I’ve never tasted it. I’m told it is like firewater.’
‘Try some. It’s pure, no additives. And these cashew nuts will have to be roasted. This is all that Goa produces; so I got some for you.’
‘Thanks. What about a drink? Scotch, beer, gin, sherry or wine?’
‘You keep all that in stock? I can see you’re a rich, rich man. And what’s that money doing under my pillow?’
‘Not rich, rich but well-off. The money is advance payment for my part of the deal.’
‘Don’t make it so commercial. I’ve come to you for the romance I’ve missed in my life, not for money.’
‘You can have both,’ I said as I gave her a peck on her cheek. ‘So what’s your poison?’
‘I’ll have what you have.’
I poured out two large whiskys with soda and ice and handed one to her. She took the armchair by the fireplace.
‘Now tell me what you do for a living,’ I asked.
‘I told you in my letter, I am a masseuse. During the tourist season I do at least a dozen massages a day. Apart from the hundred and fifty rupees I charge, I get lots of tips. I help to keep the home fires burning.’
‘Is it only women you massage or men as well?’
‘Mostly women. Sometimes old men as well. I avoid massaging young men; they get ideas in their heads and want to take liberties with me. I tick them off roundly—“Mister, this is not Bangkok or Tokyo where you can have a woman for a massage and a fuck.” I don’t mind old men. Occasionally one will grab my hand and put it on his sorry-looking ancient dick. “Mister,” I ask him, “you want me to massage this as well? It has no life left in it,” and I shake the limp little thing to show the oldie what I mean.’ She laughed and added, ‘Many plead with me! “Shake it a little more and it will come alive.” I tell them, “I can shake it till kingdom come and nothing will happen to it,” and they look at me as if I’ve kicked them in the teeth. Can you believe it, the same old fogeys ask me to massage them again and again, go through the same drill and give me large tips!’
‘You won’t have that problem with me.’
‘I hope not. Or I’ll take the next plane back home.’
She reminded me of Jessica Browne; no hang-ups about anything.
In honour of ‘Dr’ Gomes my Mug cook had prepared Goan prawn curry and rice. I opened a bottle of Grover’s white wine. We had our dinner by the fireside. Molly complimented the cook. ‘Better Goan food than I have at home,’ she said. The Mug had indeed excelled himself. After caramel custard, we had coffee and cognac. The bearer cleared the plates. I saw the servants out and latched the back door. I went out into the lawn and performed my ritual of urinating against the hedges. It was chilly. I started to shiver. I quickly went indoors to be near the fireplace. I put another couple of logs in the fire and stood before it, warming my hands.
‘What do you do after dinner?’ she asked.
‘I usually smoke a cigar before going to bed, but I’m not in the mood tonight.’
‘It’s so much nicer here than in the bedroom. More comfy, more cheerful. Let’s stay here till the fire burns out.’
‘As you like. It will keep going for quite some time.’
We ran out of conversation. Molly got up from her armchair and came over to me. Without another word she slipped her blouse over her head and undid her bra. Two beautiful rounded breasts with black nipples emerged. She rested her arms on my shoulders and put up her mouth. I glued my lips to hers and fondled her breasts with my warm hands. She unbuckled her skirt and let it drop to the ground, then undid my belt, pulled down my trousers and felt my penis. Like the other women her first reaction was of awe and wonder. ‘Man, I’ve never seen anything of this size before. And believe me I’ve seen quite a few.’
This woman gave me a lot of confidence. I was in no hurry to get on with the act. We lay down on the carpet and fondled each other. She certainly was a skilled masseuse. She nibbled the lobes of my ears, pressed her thumbs into the back of my shoulders, ran her fingers over my belly, middle, thighs and shins, down to my feet. She rubbed my toes and my insteps. Not a part of my body did she leave untouched. It was relaxing, soothing. ‘If you go on like this, I’ll fall asleep,’ I murmured.’ She came up over me, kissed me passionately and said, ‘Darling, you go to sleep, I’ll do all the love-making.’
Indeed! She effortlessly slipped my organ into her vagina. ‘Now we can go to sleep as we are.’ She pretended to doze off. Only the twitching and milking of my organ assured me she was wide awake. It was blissful; it was prolonged. We took turns being on top of each other. We went on for an hour before I rolled over, bringing her under me and asked, ‘Are you ready?’
She nodded and replied, ‘I’ve been ready for a long time.’
I began to pump into her. She crossed her legs behind my back and heaved up each time I plunged down. ‘Harder!’ she cried. ‘For God’s sake, don’t stop!’ she screamed. I put all I had into her. She slapped the carpet with both her hands and cried loudly,
‘Oh God, this is heaven heaven heaven—’
We climaxed together. Her legs loosened their grip on me. She lay back utterly exhausted. Nothing in life gives a greater sense of fulfilment than the satisfying coupling of male and female.
We lay side by side for a long time before she said, ‘Don’t move. I’ll be back in a jiffy.’
She went to her bedroom, stark naked as she was. She came back with a towel soaked in hot water. She towelled my penis and thighs with loving care and wiped away drops of semen and vaginal fluid. With another end of the same towel she rubbed my anus and the cleft between my buttocks. She threw the towel aside and lay down beside me.
‘That was nice, wasn’t it?’
‘The best I’ve ever had,’ I acknowledged truthfully. ‘You are an artist. You deserve a summa cum laude for specialization in sex.’
‘What’s summa cum, whatever it is? Doesn’t sound very right to me!’
I told her.
‘And you? How many summa cums did you get in America?’
‘Only one, in computer sciences. Only pluses from the women.’
‘Did you have lots of them?’
‘Quite a few. And you? Lots of men?’
‘Not lots but some. I live in a strict Catholic society. It was while working in five star hotels that I occasionally agreed to have sex with some foreigners. I didn’t enjoy it very much. I felt dirty at first when they pressed dollar bills into my hands after they had finished, but after a while it seemed quite normal; I didn’t feel like a whore. Nothing like being made love to by you, though. Don’t you use condoms?’
‘I do, but I forgot to use one tonight, I’m sorry.’
‘What if I get pregnant? I wouldn’t mind having your baby, but what will people back home say? They’ll call me a slut. Even the priest of our church will not forgive me. And you won’t marry me.’
Company of Women Page 18
