(a story in three parts)
"Get up Sanjay ... wake up Tisha ... your tea is ready ..."
I wake up from the dream with a start. Tisha, beside me, is still asleep. A smiling face. A crumpled cover. Nightshirt rolled up to expose her deep navel. A white skirt. Wheat coloured polished skin of her thighs. But it is really the navel which lies between the skirt and the nightshirt that attracts admiration. It is fresh .... like a pool just formed by the rains in a grassland ... with sloping boundaries... with fresh grasses.
Early morning sunlight filters through the leaves of the banyan tree adjacent to the first floor window, painting vibrant designs on the floor and the white bedcover.
Tisha moves again.
"Come on ... your tea will get cold" there was another knock on the bedroom door from my step-mother.
Tisha rises ... rubs her eyes. "Open the door" she commands.
Tisha and I had got married in Delhi about a year back. This is Tisha's first visit to our place in the country. Everyone had warned her before the marriage. "Your husband is aged. It's true that you will not have to stay with your in laws, but life will be difficult with a mother in law looming somewhere in the background." But Tisha still took the chance.
We had arrived to our place in the East the night before - very late and completely exhausted. Flight. Train. Bus. More than 8 hours of arduous journey. Sweat, grime and stink. Dirt and dust. Cigarette smoke from fellow passengers. We were greeted by my step-mother and Amit, my young brother. My father had died two years back.
We washed and immediately after a quick dinner, flopped on to the bed for a merciful sleep.
At this moment, in the verdant country side, everything seems surreal.
Tisha is 25 years old and a journalist. I am 52. More than double her age. Trisha started her career with page 3 staff but soon her skills received due attention and she was handling politics. She moved from page 3 to page 1. Tisha is pretty in a non-conventional way. Muscular with a flat belly. An upturned nose. A cynical smile. Husky voice and piercing eyes – usually highlighted with kohl. She is somewhat wayward. I knew that. Two successive disastrous love affairs almost destroyed her. The first one was with a business person who had suppressed the fact that he had a family already and the second one was with an immigrant who finally settled for an American lady and flew off after a pleasurable afternoon.
I am a lecturer in a college. Tisha was in my class. I am a timid person with no significant attribute – physical or otherwise - the most unlikely candidate as Tisha's husband. Tisha was in my class and usually depressed. But I never paid any heed to that. Like I do to everyone I used to egg her on for better performance. I took my work seriously and expected my students to follow suit. Tisha was arrogant and one day I turned her out of the class. I said that I would still mark her as present even if she did not attend. But I did not want a disobedient student in my class. For some strange reason, she started obeying me. And after she graduated, she sought my help for editing her copies.
Our marriage was a timid affair. We soon found that we were not physically compatible. Tisha had energy to rock the night. I had little left at my age. But we love each other. And I think that I became more of a father (whom Tisha had lost) more than a husband.
Moreover, Tisha had gelled into my family. She is friendly with my step mother and my brother. All three of them regularly communicate over facebook. I knew that she was particularly friendly with my brother, who was an engineer, 23 and had just received a job offer.
It is summer. I am sleeping in the nude. In order to open the door for my step mother, I have to at least put on my shorts. But they are nowhere in sight. The only other way is to wrap the bed sheet around my waist. But before I can do that, Tisha opens the door, oblivious of the fact that I am on the bed stark naked – groping for my spectacles and the bed sheet.
My step-mom is 50. She used to teach yoga (she still does) and got married to my father when I was 20. Amit is my step-mom's son. Her name is Rani and I call her Ranima.
Mom is dark. A typical yoga instructor. Not skinny and neither plump. 5 feet 3 inches. Dark. Hair coming up to her waist. Has an infectious smile. She is wearing a white cotton sari and a cotton blouse of the same colour. A sari is a convenient cloth in summer. And can be extremely attractive if one knows how to wear it right. In her case, it exposes her midriff. She carries two cups of tea in her hands and there are biscuits on the saucers. Ranima smells of jasmine. There is a brown mole on her left abdomen. Her belly is curved. The waist is narrow at her navel and then it broadens again. My dick does not listen to my command. It rises ... involuntary movement ...
My step mom's attention is drawn immediately to the rising stuff. She keeps the cups on the table and puts her hand on her mouth. Her eyes widen. She is staring at me. Not at me really. I have nothing to hide myself with. I cover myself with my palms but I know that it is useless.
Ranima controls herself. "I see ... you don't wear clothes at night ..." she leaves the sentence it unfinished. I have never been in such a situation. It rises and falls. Appreciation increases excitement. I hate myself for such uncontrolled behaviour. "Oh ... sorry ... " Tisha says "I didn't notice ...". Ranima smiles. "Nothing wrong. It's really hot here". She says.
"Do you also sleep like that?" Tisha asks. How can she ask such a question? "You will find out" Mom replies. She leaves the question hanging and leaves. I am extremely embarrassed and irritated. "You should check before you open the door" I say. Tisha is laughing. She comes closer and hugs me. "You are embarrassed, but your dirty mind is excited." She says.
"What rubbish!" I say.
"Look, it's come to life."Tisha says. I know it is rare. At my age and with my kind of work, it is uncommon. Happens once a week and needs coaxing. This time, it is spontaneous.
I say that this is not my idea of fun at all.
I get dressed. We have to join others for breakfast. I wait for Tisha to dress ... but she does not. She washes, brushes, gurgles, applies cream on her face, moisturiser on skin but does not change the shirt and the skirt. "Won't you change?" I ask. "What's wrong with it?" she asks. "It's short", I tell her "and transparent". It is a short plain white cotton skirt made of thin cotton that comes barely down to the middle of her thighs. She straightens the shirt and stands up. "We are family. Aren't we?" I cannot confront such simplicity. I give up and open the door.
There is no reason for me to be prude. Delhi morality is unheard of in this part of the country. There is no one in the dining room. But we can hear chatter. Where are they? I look around. Rooms are deserted. The staircase is dark. Trisha shouts "where are all of you?" Amit, my brother, shouts back. "Here, in the backyard".
It is autumn ... the best time at our place. The crop is cut. The monsoon dries out. The sky is clear blue with plumes of cotton-white clouds drifting without purpose. The sun shines bright and there are festivities all around. We have a large backyard strewn with trees ... no one has ever bothered to attend to it ... except for a small patch of lawn around a well just in front of the door at the back. It is like a retreat. Amit has put up a thatched shelter lined with potted plants. There is a table with some chairs and a bench.
My half brother, Amit, sits on the bench scooping what looks like crumbs of bread soaked in milk from a bowl. He is everything that I am not. About 6 ft tall. Dark, lean but muscular and a pleasant smile. Lookwise - he takes after my step mom. Amit is wearing a brief pair of shorts.
Tisha settles beside Amit. I sit on chair opposite to them. I follow Amit's eyes. He cannot help looking down. Sideways. I know where the white skirt ends. Tisha puts her hand on Amit's shoulder. I know that they are friendly. They exchange glances and smile. They share jokes. They feed each other. Ranima notices me. She winks. We are a happy family but I have a feeling that that some of us are happier than others.
