I really liked his mouth-work on me. We split up in Delhi. Earlier, he had enticed me with the bait of a good job and called me to Delhi. He arrived one dawn, staggering. His daughter was with him. He smelt of whiskey. After a bitter quarrel, I returned to Calcutta. Perhaps women want to enjoy their sexuality while men only want to brag about it.
Want a gigolo? If a woman wants a gigolo, she can get one in today's marketplace for as little as a bottle of booze, a bite to eat and a few rupees. Women who set out to hunt prey can easily spot the gigolos. In a secret survey, it was found that in Bombay, at present, more married women engage in extramarital relations than their spouses do. The woman he was with told him that some of the gigolos might be quite ugly to look at but once you've downed two pegs of whiskey, all men are the same – life becomes colourful.
I caress her back first, I press her earlobes gently, and sometimes I kiss her straightaway. In this way, through hints and signs, I convey my feelings, purely through the language of the body, through glances, without talking at all, not a word even by mistake. Later, if I get the chance, I say: It would be nice to go somewhere and have a cup of coffee. Or: I feel like going back home, I don't like it here. Eight out of ten times, I don't have to make the effort to say these things, the woman comes up with the proposal on her own. To the extent that if she has come to the party with her husband or a male friend, she evades him most artfully. Initially there is some shyness and hesitation, and then they get excited and readily agree to novel means, and what's more, generously offer their body for enjoyment. Most of them like my first performance, and I push their face to my groin, some love to use their tongue or lips. Some turn artists and become unceasing inventors in bed. But if the girl is in a bad mood, she has to be handled carefully. Most importantly, one has to remain constantly alert to the minutiae of the girl's preferences. And of course, one must help her remove or put on her clothes, take her to the bathroom and bathe her, rubbing soap all over her body, wake up early and bring a cup of coffee to her face. Women are charmed by these little things. One needs to know what they want and when they want it – for instance, if you sense that the woman wants you to use force over her, do just that. You must always say, Don't call me, I'll call you, I'll phone you. At your place or somewhere else, it'll be difficult at my place. But never in your own house, for you could get into trouble at any time if you did that. For the rendezvous, it's best to make an arrangement in a known hotel or restaurant.
A handkerchief wound up lengthwise is held in the hand, with two or three knots on the upper end. It looks a lot like that. It indicates the size to the woman. Rich, lonely women love such gigolos.
Love rating in the estimation of husbands and wives
[In the blank cells of the table below, note down your estimated percentages. The figures provided by you will help to complete the story. Your active participation in the writing is vital.]
If you want a gigolo, go down to the coffee shop of a fancy hotel between midnight and three in the morning. Alone. After ordering a coffee, look around carefully to see whether there are any men sitting alone. One or two of them are bound to be gigolos. After a while, the man himself will come up to you. If nobody comes, you will have to advance on your own. If even this doesn't work, be aware that in every elite hotel there is a list of gigolos, just as there is for a list of call girls. But in such matters, always bear in mind that nothing happens overtly. There's code language in all trades. You need to learn that, or at least a few terms. And learning these things is not at all difficult. Someone taught me – it was under him that I was an apprentice – that the first thing you need to know is how to get out of any situation you are caught in, especially at the very moment when you feel you ought to get out. Godard? Of course it's Godard. The one who imposes Van Gogh's yellow on hard-core.
His protest is against sex-violence and he wants to protest through sex-violence.
Perhaps in this story Stefania Sandrelli could have acted in an important role, in the role of the mother, the one who openly offers her daughter to her own husband. Amanda Sandrelli could have played the role of the daughter. Amanda is Stefania's daughter in real life. Mario Soldati's Liewould have begun in this way. But Aparna, our Aparna, snatches away everything of the character. Whether chastity ought to be preserved or not, that becomes the issue. Through quarrels, fights and all kinds of action sequences, the rich man's daughter falls in love with the tonga-wallah hero. Mardenters Lie, wholly. While being screened, the film's reels somehow got mixed up, they kept getting mixed up, on and on. Such incidents occur in a few more spheres. Sex symbols emerge. But rather than sexual intercourse with the one who ought to be slept with, it is sexual intercourse with the one who ought not to be slept with that is more manifest. The camera keeps altering the reality. After a reel and a quarter, love blossoms, and as soon as the second reel begins, their song-and-dance routine starts. Aparna keeps saying coyly: Please put the hook on the blouse. The one she says it to is her son's friend. The hero and heroine stand in front of each other, he will sit down and shake his knees, and she, who is now sitting, will stand up. Then the two of them hug each other, a real-life kiss is a thousand times better than the kissing pose they adopt. Instead of that, as Subimal says, why doesn't he shove it in? Love, love and love – have a baby.
In the middle of all this, in the midst of so much trouble, it is difficult to identify the PC muscle accurately because it is often confused with the sphincter muscle. But there is a way to find out. Sit on a stool and spread your legs apart as wide as you can. Now, don't be reluctant, start urinating. As soon as you start to pee, you have to hold back the flow of piss. The muscle you use to stop the flow is the PC muscle. Start pissing again, and then stop the pee the very next moment. In this way, for a few days in succession, if you hold your piss every time you urinate, you'll figure out how to tighten the PC muscle. In the first week, you should do this at least seven times, and then do it ten times before you go to bed, after removing your clothes. Do it about fifty times whenever you want, at any time of the day. The following week, increase the duration of the exercise until you are able to loosen and tighten it a few hundred times. Each time, you must hold tight for at least two seconds.
Parallel to this, as an epilogue to all the physical techniques and exercises, is the film Sacrifice. At the height of the threat of nuclear war, a perturbed Alexander makes a sacrifice by destroying his beautiful house. On the other hand, his infant son, Little Man, protects the environment by watering the plant that father and son had nurtured. They had watered it at the time of planting. Sacrificewas Tarkovski's final film, he dedicated it to his son.
Sex for the sake of the son, or a son for the sake of sex?
Yes, so it was that until the end not an extra kiss was planted on his cheek.
After a point the camera, which deceives the writer on and on, begins to deceive reality too.
Word gets around that there is a strong dose of sex in Love Me Physically. What a boy actually does with a girl is shown openly. The tickets were to be sold from nine in the morning, but there was a queue from noon the previous day. Fuck, what hot stuff, must see it! Great turmoil on the day of the show. Stones rained down on the hall. The police were unable to control the situation. Paramilitary forces were called in. The assembled masses demanded: We must be permitted to see this film. Such a hot film had never before come to this city. A cigar in his mouth, Godard of First Name: Carmensmiles wryly with lips askew. He wants to protest against sex-violence and he wants to do that with sex-violence itself. Unseen, unsaid. The real becomes unreal, reality embraces the unreal. Someone secretly smears butter-acid on the screen. When the projection begins, the screen erupts in flames. The screen keeps burning, and Godard lets it burn. What sex would the masses like to see – they sit agape as the naked niece swaggers, spanning the entire screen. The sex-starved masses of the third world are left astounded by such a presentation of the naked female body, in such Van Goghian yellow. The screen keeps
burning, not because of butter-acid, but with Godard's sex. He flings sex at our faces, at the open-mouthed faces of eunuchs. Sex comes down like a whip – sex, whoosh, whoosh. It fiercely scorches the skin of those of us who secretly, furtively, watch hard-core.
And then, together with the camera's realism, you keep testing yourself to observe whether or not you have been able to correctly learn how to tighten the PC muscle by yourself. Unknown to you, the hand goes … yes, it goes there, in a most suspect way. If there's any doubt, shove it in, inside your – thing, insert a finger and then tighten your PC muscle and see if you can feel the force of the contraction. Every day, before going to bed, do it for a few minutes. The biggest benefit of doing this is that once you are used to it, you can do it whenever and wherever you want. Even if you initially feel somewhat ashamed, eventually you won't have any reservations. Father and son will gleefully go hand-in-hand to watch hard-core, and it will be called progress.
A cigar in his mouth, Godard smiles wryly, his lips askew. He is the one who wants to question the notion of progress in today's civilization, the biggest lie of all.
If only you can slip your finger in there, it's done. Whether you're lying in bed or reading the Anandabazar Patrikaor watching television, or for that matter even when you're sitting on the pot, you can shove your finger into that part of progress, at your ease.
_________________
Lots of excerpts have been taken from popular women's magazines. I acknowledge my debt for informational assistance from two books: My Secret Garden: Women's Sexual Fantasiesby Nancy Friday and Human Sexual Responseby Dr William H. Masters and Dr Virginia Johnson.
Sotityo Ki Rakhbe, Aparna?, 1987
Here's How We Wring a
Quarter of Lime
[For Kamalkumar Majumdar]
As a new traveller, what his role in society was, what he ought to have started at that age, he wasn't permitted to follow. Consequently, in many matters he becomes a renegade, and being outside the mainstream, he remains a singular being, and doesn't even possess the magic wand to return…
The bed rolled up rapidly and tried to wrap us up. Strange and mysterious sounds emanated from within the room. The doors and windows banged shut and blew open, as though caught in a gust of wind. Chhoto Mama and I lay in bed. Unable to fathom what was happening, we tried to break free of the bed and sit up. With all our strength we tried to push and throw off the rolled-up mattress. The next moment it rose again and enveloped us. At the same time the two pillows began to jump up and down noisily. As if someone were juggling a pair of balls in his hands. Our studies were going well. Chhoto Mama was five months younger than me. We were in the same class in school. He was stellar in academics, the best student in the school. The teachers said he was sure to get a scholarship for higher studies. It was obvious that he would secure high marks in math, English and life science. They said he might even secure a rank in the district. He was the pride of the school. Chhoto Mama always had his face stuck in a book. As they say, humming at one and reading at two… I had to study all by myself at home. When I visited my mother's paternal home, I began discussing the school subjects with Chhoto Mama. At first, Chhoto Mama used to do all my homework. To tell you the truth, I was never into studying. I preferred cinema and secretly, furtively, I went through the pages of film magazines. My friends called me a Hindi cinema addict. Mithun was my hot favourite. I kept track of all his latest films. There was always a colour picture postcard of Mithun hidden inside my book. From time to time I kissed him on his lips. I had a group of friends, and we would slip out of school during the lunch break and go to the newly opened video parlour a short distance away. If my father ever heard about it, he would scold me mildly. Instead of studying you're going around doing all this! That's all. But after he took a second wife, he never bothered to do even that. Where did he have the time to bother? But once I was in my mama's house, there was no one to oversee me. I saw as many videos as I liked. If Chhoto Mama scolded me, I ignored him. One day he said something awful and I lost my temper. Why don't you go and tell my father, I don't give a damn! I was possessed by something. I decided that one day, if I ever got the chance, I would expose just how 'virtuous' he really was. Come what may, I would destroy his pride. After all, how long could boys restrain themselves? I laughed inwardly. I had become quite precocious by then, influenced by all the movies that I had watched. Anyway, Chhoto Mama didn't say more. Meanwhile, the selection examinations got over. The list of those who would sit the school final exam was put up. Chhoto Mama came first with over 87 per cent marks. My name wasn't there. But I was not worried. Thanks to my father's clout, I was included in the second list as a special case. Immediately after, special classes commenced in school, with the teachers coaching the exam students. The classes were sometimes held in the morning and sometimes in the evening. It was compulsory for everyone to attend the coaching classes. Chhoto Mama and I used to set out for the evening class as soon as it was dusk, taking a lantern with us. The two of us returned together after the class got over, at about nine at night. There was nothing to be scared of on the road between mama's house and the school. A wide embankment meandered its way into the village. On one side lay the dry river bed and on the other side was a hyacinth jungle. Every now and then, here and there, a couple of small thatched huts. The river had run dry long ago, not much water flowed during the rainy season either. Skirting the dry river bed was the embankment, and across the embankment was mama's house. We used to walk across the river bed. Although it was desolate, there was really nothing to be worried about. Yes, my dear, the other day, the chairman of the school had come. The saga of Vidyasundar is to be performed on the puja mandap.The house was empty. It was getting dark. Then it became completely dark. Father was a panchayat pradhan. He had to do everything from distributing land to preparing the sharecroppers' list. As a personal indulgence, he taught at a local primary school. His other duties took up much more of his time than school teaching did. Of course, he didn't take his salary, he donated it among the poor and destitute in the village. He was also the president of our secondary school. Despite the abolition of zamindari, he had a huge amount of property in his own name, and benami property as well. With his farm and livestock and so on, he had a large establishment. He had got a tractor recently. It was the age of science, after all, it wouldn't do to remain stuck in old-fashioned ways of thinking. The country had to be lifted up to the twenty-first century. Those were my father's words. Two Jersey cows yielded about three buckets of milk, morning and evening. And he had four pairs of English white mice. Keeping these English mice was my father's only hobby. He fed them tender blades of fresh green grass twice a day, with his own hands. This opulence was not viewed favourably by all. But my father had tremendous clout in the area, hence people feared saying anything to his face. I had gathered that when a panchayat in a particular region was ruled by a particular political party, the party's dominance in the region was established. Thereafter, nothing could go against the wishes and reservations of the panchayat head. I was my father's younger daughter. My sister had married a long time ago. Father always had a soft spot for me. Because I loved to eat cake, every month cakes were bought for me from Kathleen in Calcutta. The latest styles of salwar-kameez came from New Market. Father's only sorrow was that he had no son. If there wasn't a son, who would perform his last rites? Who would look after his affairs and all the property? After he became panchayat pradhan, Father always wore a silk punjabi and a very fine dhuti from Finlay Mills. Haru's Ma, our maidservant, folded and pleated it beautifully. He wore a thin gold chain around his neck. And then, all of a sudden, I found him obsessed with applying attar, morning and evening. The house was always redolent with the fragrance. After a few days I heard that our new mother was going to arrive. The days sped by. After the wedding, Father had no time for us. But to be honest, he did not leave any wish of his daughter unfulfilled. And that's why, ever since I was a child, I never bothered about studies. Before I knew it
I was in class ten. I felt a strange trembling in my body, and my mind was always restless. Once or twice a week, I went to the cinema hall near our house to watch movies. Although it was only a tent-hall, Shri Krishna Talkies showed the latest Hindi films every week. Father was busy with our new mother, besides, there were thousands of tasks in the panchayat. My own mother stayed at home all day, grieving, covered in jewellery, praying before a picture of Anukul Thakur. The road from our house to the school was not so safe for girls. The distance was about two miles. The road wound through paddy fields and there were dense thickets here and there. My new mother didn't think it was proper for me, at my age, to walk down this road every day. Eventually we found a way out. My mama's house was near the school. Mama's family circumstances were not too good. Chhoto Mama lived in the house with my grandfather and grandmother, who were both old and feeble. But the school was just a fifteen-minute walk from mama's house and there would be no problem if I stayed there. It was an old zamindar house but it was in a poor state for not having been maintained for so long. I studied till the eighth standard at the junior high school near my house. I managed to get through the ninth standard somehow, putting up with the difficulty of walking the two miles to the senior school. The pressure of studies mounted as soon as I came up to the tenth. Three or four months went by, with me staying sometimes at mama's house and sometimes at my own house and making the long journey. After that I remained at mama's house. I didn't like studying at all. Thanks to my father's reputation, somehow or the other, with much prodding, I had reached class ten. But now I knew I'd fail if I didn't study properly. And then it was discovered that every night one horse from the king's stable was devoured by an ogress. Only some scattered bones remained. One night the king lay in bed, pretending to be asleep, intent on watching over the stable late into the night. Suddenly he realized that the queen had got out of bed and furtively left the dark chamber. Curious, the king followed her. From his hiding place, he saw, to his surprise and astonishment, that the ogress in his beloved stable was none other than the queen herself. Holding up a whole horse, she was biting into the flesh, chewing and devouring it. Within minutes, she had polished off a white horse. Then, wiping her mouth on her anchal, she went back to bed like a good little girl and lay down. Right then, the mattress began to roll up and wind around the body. The two pillows began jumping up and down noisily. A stormy wind descended from somewhere and began to race through the room. The doors and windows banged open and shut. And so it went on. We walked to the coaching classes for a few days. Until now we were still mama and niece. After that whatever had to happen happened. I remember the first day's incident well. After the coaching class was over, Chhoto Mama and I were returning home, like we did every day. The road was desolate. Most of the villagers in these parts were farm labourers. They did backbreaking labour all day and by eight or nine at night they finished eating and went to bed. Like every day, that day too the two of us were talking as we walked along. Suddenly I sensed something pass by in front of us. For a long time I had been looking for a cue. Oh my god, what's that!I hugged Chhoto Mama firmly. Raising the lantern in his hand, Chhoto Mama looked around carefully. A jackal. Chhoto Mama's muscular body. He was a bit startled at being hugged so suddenly. Even after I knew that the fleeing animal was a jackal, I continued to clasp Chhoto Mama. To tell you the truth, it wasn't as if I had never experienced the male touch before, but that day it was as though a secret desire had wiped away all ties of blood. I deliberately held mama's well-built, masculine body firmly for a long time. I was in a state of intoxication. I laughed inwardly as I recalled something. About three minutes in all, that day. After that, as each day went by, the intoxication of the feel of that firm, capable, powerful, masculine body seized me even more. I observed that the trivial incident that day had not left any impact on mama's mind. That made me all the more obstinate. Chhoto Mama may have been a very good boy, with his face buried in books all day long, but to disregard a beautiful, modern girl like me? I, who was supposed to drive people crazy! My friends often told me that. They said I looked like Mandakini. The village boys certainly, and even the young history teacher in school gaped at me covertly. I had seen Ram Teri Ganga Mailithirty-one times. With a lot of difficulty I had obtained Mithun Chakraborty's address in Bombay and written him a letter, asking him to help me get into films. For this I was even willing to be his maidservant. Perhaps the reply would come soon. So, to disregard me! For quite some time we had occupied two adjacent rooms on the desolate terrace of my mama's house. It was true I was precocious, but because he was my own mother's brother, I did not want to deliberately nurture any bad thoughts in my mind. Besides, Chhoto Mama was truly a good boy. But I just had to smash his conceit about being a good boy. It was all I ever thought about. After that day, I began to look for excuses to touch mama. On holidays, after meals, when mama lay down to rest, I used to go and sit on his bed. In the course of conversation, I would touch him on various pretexts. Sometimes it was a piece of straw in his hair. Sometimes I discovered a mole on his bare body or relieved his prickly heat. The more I touched him, the more my lust grew. I would do all this whenever I got the time and opportunity. I was a precocious girl and it was not possible for any man of flesh and blood to stay away from such an attraction in a desolate room. I had understood this long ago. And eventually, I won. Suddenly there was loud banging on the house's worn-out, ancient twin doors. The courtyard was covered in weeds, clumps of bushes and a jungle of wild flowers. The old mansion's rat burrows were a den of poisonous snakes. At first the unearthly sound came from the direction of the doors. Thereafter it flew around the house, spinning around like a stormy wind. Suddenly the wind hit the window. At once the twin casements blew open with a bang. The wind rushed down upon the study table. The forbidden books concealed among the pile of books crashed to the floor. The stormy wind sped out and entered the adjacent bathroom. The bathroom door was latched from outside, but it sounded as though someone was kicking the door from inside. As though someone had put an enraged bull in the bathroom and shut the pair of doors. Chhoto Mama ran up and unfastened the chain latch. There was nobody inside. The bathroom was completely empty. Then we saw the bed. The whole mattress rolled up and bound us within it. I tried to free myself with all my strength, but once again it rolled up and wrapped us up. On that bed, in the dead of night, the two of us began to perspire. Sin never remains concealed. At first the boys and girls in our class saw this simply as an expression of affection between uncle and niece, but by and by they got suspicious. By now the relationship of blood was immaterial to us. The yearning for flesh had surpassed everything. Meanwhile, my friends had somehow found out. Perhaps I myself had given some indication of it in order to dispel mama's good boy image. The final examinations had come to an end now. Mama did badly in all the subjects. On the day of the mathematics paper, he gave in his answer sheet an hour early and left. Apparently his mind had gone blank. Juicy stories about us began to spread, and we were spoken about in whispers. The youths of the neighbourhood began to pass lewd comments openly. Respected elders were thinking about getting people together and taking appropriate steps. Mama didn't associate with anyone. He had no friends to speak of and had no idea what he should do. One day he pleadingly mentioned the subject of a registry marriage. I remained silent. Finally he proposed: Let's run away and go somewhere far away and live together. I just smiled wryly. This was exactly the sort of thing I had wanted to hear this good boy utter. I knew my father. He would rescue me, come what may. After all, he had the strength of money. Anything was possible if one had money. He would let nothing destroy his family's honour. Besides, I didn't have the slightest interest in running away with mama. There was a dead man lying inside the dry well, clear signs of injury near the back of his head. He lay in the sediment at the bottom of the well. A synthetic red had been injected inside which would drain the blood from his body. And yet he wouldn't be alive. On all four sides, white borders had been drawn. And there were knott
ed cloth barriers to prevent his unholy soul from exiting his body and entering another person's body. The dead person was not yet an adult. The way the body lay, one would think he wasn't dead, merely sleeping. In the next century, this renegade solitary being would be discovered among a heap of skeletons. The next incident was of an extremely summary nature. Some members of the action squad of Father's party whisked Chhoto Mama away to some unknown person's house, in a faraway village. There he was thrashed and subjected to physical and mental torture. Father had for long nursed an animosity against his in-laws, add to that this dirty affair. Mama was beaten again and again with plastic bottles filled with water. They were poor, besides, they did not have any party affiliations. There was no one to intervene on their behalf, by scheming. That he could scheme and seek refuge and obtain shelter from some party – Mama couldn't even think along these lines. He never mingled with anyone in the village. And the police and so on were entirely under Father's control. I believe one of his eyes was gouged out. The thumb on his right hand was cut off with a sharp cleaver. And other things were done to him by the people in Father's party. I did not want to hear everything. I had got up and walked away when I heard about it. On the other hand, it wouldn't be wrong to say that I received no punishment at all –a mild scolding, on account of my father's mighty rage. He said that I was getting worse by the day, that I had destroyed the family honour. Everyone thought Chhoto Mama was principally to blame. Having found himself in a desolate house, he had used force and brought me to this pass. But I knew myself. I knew the provocation and vengefulness I was capable of. Mama had kept himself in check for a long time. Perhaps the oppression on him went too far. But what could I do about that? I believe he was laid up in bed for six months. I don't know what happened after that. The pace of my life became frantic after that. My new mother did not bear any children. And so my father went around in despair, wearing talismans and charms. Without a son, who would look after all his worldly property, who would conduct his funeral rites? Father had a strong hold over the party, he did not let word of the scandal spread. He sent me to Calcutta and arranged for the termination of my three-month pregnancy. His henchmen took care of everything secretly. After that Father got me married. In this country, if one had money there was no shortage of good suitors, and my father was enormously wealthy. He paid a dowry of fifty thousand rupees and gave 300 grams of gold. A refrigerator, a colour TV set and a shining red Hero Honda motor-cycle for his son-in-law. He even bought me an imported videocassette player from Fancy Market in Khidirpur, since I was fond of watching films. In the name of his daughter and new son-in-law, he paid for first refusal on a plot of land of about six kathas in the district headquarters where his son-in-law worked. The wedding was a grand affair. He invited and fed people from four villages. Word of my doings had got around, but no one said a word openly. They feasted until their bellies were full of fried rice, fried fish, mutton, rossogolla and sandesh served by the famous Bijoli Grill caterer from Calcutta, and returned home burping. I moved to another district town as a well-paid engineer's wife. Everything was forgotten within ten days or so. I set up home blissfully. I had children. Suddenly one day, in the dead of night, we heard doors banging, as if they were about to fall apart. A gust of wind blew into the room. And then I saw our mattress rolling up towards us. It moved swiftly and tried to wrap my husband and me within its folds. My husband was paralysed with astonishment at what he saw. I tried for the life of me to straighten out the mattress. I kept trying to straighten out our beloved mattress with all the strength in my body. But it kept rolling itself up with me and my husband. It folded up and wrapped us in its folds. I was panting. It was as if my arms and legs would collapse into my stomach. As if I would suffocate. The two pillows began to jump up and down like footballs. There was a terrible banging from inside the adjacent bathroom, as though an enraged bull had been let loose inside. The doors and windows banged open and shut loudly. I remembered a night just like this one, about a year-and-a-half ago. And for the first time in my life, I was frightened.
Wild Animals Prohibited Page 17
