by Shivaji Sengupta
(6/13/01)

Anishua Tayabji lives like a shadow. Newly the matriarch of the ancient and archconservative Tayabji family, her only gain is to no longer be at the beck and call of the women of the household. But she is still a maid to her husband, the patriarch, Vikramji Sher Singh Tayabji, a man of God at forty-five. Anishua is his wife, nurse, and servant.

For twenty-five years she lived in silence, handmaid to the ex-matriarch, her mother-in-law, who is a scrawny old woman -- more scrawny than old. Bad tempered and crotchety, she treats her only daughter-in-law with the viciousness of a jealous rival, bemoaning each minute she spends with her husband, yet despising her for being childless.

Of course it was all Anishua's fault.

"Gulavi told me," the old woman would scream at the top of her lungs. "Your vaginal passage is blocked, you witch!" Gulavi is the woman who washes and cleans the Tayabji's latrines. How that woman, blind in one eye, discovered this defect in Anishua, is anybody's guess, but the old matriarch, the mataji, cursed her bahu for being so ungrateful for her husband's attention.

"Vikram is a nice boy!" she ranted, "He won’t marry again. I tell him it's okay: bahu should consider herself lucky we aren't turning her out. We owe her nothing. She is banja! Banja! Can't bear children!" Mataji would go on shouting for any one who would hear. "And what does he say, that noble son of mine?" Here mataji paused, let out a long arc of spit, red with betel juice, and resumed. "What does he say? He says, 'Let it be, Ma, marriage is made only once, in heaven!' But this bahu does not deserve such a patidev."

She spat out another red arc.

The truth is that Vikramji Sher Singh Tayabji, the grand patriarch, was impotent -- from the first day of his marriage. In those days, the seventeen-year-old Anishua was a gorgeous girl, dark as the monsoon, with pouting, delicate lips, firm breasts, and dreamy eyes. Vikramji used to undress his young wife in a great hurry, sweat drenching his face, his tongue lolling. He would tear her chemise and then gaze at her genitals, hypnotized. Anishua never uttered a word, never made a sound through this daily ritual, though she knew how it would end. She stole a glance at his crotch; she could barely glimpse his penis, a shrunken, miserable lump, lost in his manly hair. Anishua felt sorry for him, but what could she do?

A teenager, utterly innocent, she didn't know the first thing about sex. Her only acquaintance with that part of her anatomy was during her period. Women were cursed for being women; it was God's way of telling them that they were miserable creatures and deserved such monthly punishment. It was true that, after many ineffectual attacks by her husband on her femininity, Anishua did feel a tingling down there, the sort which made her want to caress herself, but, aieee! The smell! What could she do about the smell? All the scents of Arabia will not take away the smell if a woman touches herself there. It announces to the whole world that she has been disgusting. Or so her mother told her.

That was twenty-five years ago. Now at forty-two, Ani is still a lovely woman, still delicate, though two decades of hard labor has taken its toll. She is rounder at the waist and plumper behind, reminiscent of those ancient Hindu erotic sculptures. What hasn't changed are her eyes. Kind, exuding tenderness, they have retained the seventeen-year-old's dreaminess. But nowadays, if you look deeply into them, there is a hint of unselfconscious lewdness. She is mellower, sexier, less afraid to indulge her curiosity about her body. The ghost of her admonishing mother is gone. Her mother-in-law has been silenced by the din of her own noise.

Not that Anishua Tayabji was planning any sexual escapade. That would be too irresponsible for the new matriarch of a family that embodied conservatism. Still, when the lights were off on hot, humid nights, when she lay in her single bed on the terrace, sweating with the heat and a strange excitement, when her husband, master and lord, was miles away, groveling at the feet of some guru, begging for nirvana, Anishua would stare into the night sky, her finger secretly exploring the moist cravings of her insides. The stars would go out of focus, the buzz of a thousand cicadas would fill her head, and her nipples would tingle.

Then Thakur came.

His name meant God in Hindi, but he looked more like a Chinese Buddha. Always happy, forever laughing, this rotund little man in his early thirties was a distant and poor relative. Thakur supervised the gardeners, but his real love was herbal and mystical medicine. He would cure all sorts of ailments with the juices of plants, rich black earth, and God knows what else. Strangely, the beneficiaries were never the Tayabji family, but outsiders. His own people did not believe in him. They laughed at this uneducated man, his roundness accentuating what they saw as his stupidity.

"Arrey Thakurbhai!" Vikramji made fun of him good naturedly, "What have you concocted today with women's piss and cow dung? Whom have you cured?"

"Not you, lord of my house. What can I cure with excrement that you can't banish with mere wishing!" This, it must be said, was Thakur's way of reminding the lord of the manor of his childlessness, but Vikramji, who never ever caught any hint of his intent, gave out a belly laugh.

Thakur's eyes were small but very sharp. Amidst the general laughter -- when the patriarch laughed all the males near about were obliged to laugh -- Thakur observed the sad face of Anishua. Dressed in a comely orange sari, her shining black hair flowed like the dark waves of a river. Alone among the Tayabjis she did not laugh. She looked at Thakur in a commiserating way, or so he thought, two souls with an arrogant master. Their eyes met, and Anishua moved away. The men were still laughing.

That very night was Ram Navami, the ninth day of God Rama's fast, when that avatar had lost his wife, Sita, to the demon Ravan. The evening was filled with the story of Ram. Naturally, Vikramji, being a holy -- and rich -- man, was invited to these shows. Just as naturally, Anishua was not, not because she was a woman, but because she was banja, barren. The August night was hot. Just about everyone in the house, even the mother-in-law, had gone to watch the gaudy gods and goddesses. Anishua was alone, loving the solitude. It was then she could explore her erotic feelings.

It was time to show herself to the God of the Sky, to let him explore the mysteries of her body. Shutting the door to the bedroom but leaving the windows open, Anishua greeted the dark night with a smile that only the stars could see. She was partly ashamed that she opened her loins to the dark Sky-God, and partly thrilled by her own nakedness.

She was naked, Anishua. The matriarch was naked. She closed her eyes, licked her parched lips, and took a deep breath as the Sky-God parted her thighs. The dark and debonair Sky-God laughed and crept toward her. He placed his blue hand, soft yet manly, on her stomach, just above her pubic hair. Anishua could see in the darkness the God's dark eyes. She thrust up her pelvis, pushed her fingers into herself, feeling her corrugated part hot and wet. Anishua lifted off the bed, her thumb rubbing her nub, electrifying her body. She was sighing, mewling, moaning.

There was a soft knock on the door. Anishua sat up. She held the sari to her breasts.

"Who is it?" she whispered.

There was no sound except for the shuffle of footsteps. Then Anishua saw Thakur at the window, naked, at least from the waist up. She shivered.

"What is it?" She asked again.

"Forgive me, mataji," Thakur began in a whisper, his voice respectful. "I knew you were home, so I came to ask you to see a cure I’ve made."

"What?" Anishua exclaimed. "A cure for what?"

Silence. Then in a still gentle voice, he said, "You miss the Sky-God, mataji. My cure will bring him to you. Every night. Whenever you want."

She was stunned. She fantasized about this God only when she was utterly alone, in body and in soul. How did Thakur know?

"Where is...this cure?" she asked after a prolonged silence.

"In my hut," came Thakur's quiet voice.

Anishua had never been to the poor relatives' lodgings. They all lived on the outskirts of the courtyard, at the back, hidden under huge banyan and neem trees. "Go," she told him, "I will come."

Half an hour later, Anishua arrived at Thakur's hut. It was pitch dark, the trees standing like sentinels. The sky above them was filled with stars. From afar, the songs of Ram and Sita wafted through the still air. Thakur's window framed a lantern. She pushed open his door and stepped in.

For a single man’s home, the little hut was incredibly neat. The mud floor was carefully swept. His clothes hung on the walls. The tiny bed was folded down. He sat near a low table in the middle of the room, bare-bodied, a saffron cloth wrapped around his waist. He sat in yoga position, his feet tucked together, his pale body round with baby fat. His round head was shaved.

"Sit down, mataji," Thakur said in a strange voice. He seemed as if he was in prayer. Anishua sat.

The room was filled with incense, sweet and intoxicating. Thick smoke gushed from two stubby candles. Anishua was certain she shouldn't have come, but knew she had no intention of leaving. The sexual feeling had returned to her body, creeping deep between her legs. Her mind told her to leave. The tips of her breasts said no.

Thakur finished his prayers. He looked at her, incandescent, and gravely told her to look deep into his eyes. Anishua obeyed.

Thakur removed the cloth covering a stainless steel plate and revealed a fruit of a sort she had never seen before. It was round and long, covered with soft brown fur, with a deep crease running its length. Thakur caressed the fur, looking strange and wild. Anishua stared.

Thakur split the fruit along its crease to expose its bright pink pulp. Its juice oozed and dripped. Anishua's mouth opened.

The incense had made her dreamy and sweaty, and now the sight of the fruit went straight to the center of her body. She looked at Thakur helplessly. Thakur raised the fruit and bit into it, sucking noisily.

Anishua's body jolted up, and then convulsed around her genitals with such intensity that, forgetting modesty, she clutched her vulva, groaning. She watched with wild eyes, convulsing each time Thakur sucked at the fruit. She collapsed on the floor, writhing. He watched her, eyes glowing. She pulled apart her sari, reaching to touch herself, all the while imploring him to stop, to please stop. Thakur went on sucking.

Thakur sucked the last juice from the fruit. As he stopped, Anishua fell quiet. She looked at him, tears brimming in her eyes. Thakur came toward her, and whispered, "Mataji, the Sky-God will come to you!"

Thakur would make love to her now, she thought. This was an elaborate seduction. And she wanted to fuck him, feel his lingam. Yet what would happen if Thakur told everyone? She couldn't think straight. Stupidly, she nodded.

Thakur gently opened her blouse. He felt her heavy breasts, the nipples distended and aroused. He squeezed them, and she groaned. Then he brought one of the candles. Anishua stared, open-mouthed. She saw the candle glow orange and pulsate, but no wax dripped from it.

Thakur held the candle and urged Anishua in a tender voice. "Lift your sari more. Show the Sky-God your yoni. This is His lingam, warm and throbbing with desire. He wishes to come home."

He drew her sari aside, baring her nakedness. His mouth fell open as he stroked her mound.

Thakur spread her legs and fingered the moist heat inside her. Slowly, bending his round body, Thakur began to rub the blunt head of the thick candle over her plump, hairlined lips. Anishua felt it spread its heat inside her, calling forth her juices.

For a long time, Thakur teased her sex with the candle, heating it, spreading her thick lips with it. Anishua abandoned her body to him. Closing her eyes, she took in the sensations. For the first time in her life, something in her had reached a point of no return. She forgot everything: husband, family, everything.

Without warning, Thakur thrust the candle in. A long drawn-out wail came from her. He thrust in and out, steady and strong. She was consumed with pleasure. Thakur ministered the candle with singular devotion, his eyes bright, sweat breaking on his forehead.

Anishua writhed, her breath rasping. She reached out for Thakur's penis underneath the saffron cloth. It was hard -- and hot. She tugged at it. How tight his balls felt in her hands, how smooth and pulsing his lingam was. She pulled at it so hard that Thakur moved toward her.

The candle had melted to half its size, covering Anishua's lips with a warm foamy lather, making her clitoris tingle crazily. Suddenly, Thakur pressed the candle-cock of the Sky-God on her clitoris with all his strength and in the next instant slammed it deep into her vagina.

She shattered the darkness with her cry. Her fist spasmed on Thakur's cock, and his semen spurted over her belly. Anishua came. A pale liquid arced out of her, pulse after pulse. When she came back to awareness, she became filled with a tangle of feelings: wonder, and ecstasy, and shame.

Thakur stared at her ejaculation, and bowed to the floor. He began to chant, calling the Sky-God to take her away. "She is yours, Lord, yours. You have made her orgasm like a man. Only you can do that, Lord!"

In the night, Anishua wrapped herself in her sari, veiling her face, and stealthily returned to her room. No one had returned yet from the performances, but soon they would. The night was silent, murky. A slight breeze stirred and the neem trees outside her window began to sway, filling Anishua with an unnameable satisfaction. Her eyes closed. She slept.

In sleep, she greeted the Sky-God's face, his dark smiling eyes and sensual lips. The night guarded her.

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