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From: "Sharmila Sanyal"@www.boxfrog.com
X-ASSTR-Original-Date: Sun, 12 Jan 2003 14:17:07 -0600
Subject: {ASSM} {RP} My Story (part 10) by Sharmila Sanyal
Date: Sun, 12 Jan 2003 23:10:04 -0500
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Sharmila Sanyal
please reply to anu_g42@hotmail.com
<1st attachment, "MS10.TXT" begin>
I rely on my readers to find the mistakes and email me at their
convenience. I sincerely appreciate any feed-back.
NOTE: Please visit my 'ftp' site at asstr-mirror.org's Authors section
to read the previous parts.
WARNING: Do not proceed beyond this "warning" if you are not a
mature person and/or are offended by explicit written
descriptions of sexual encounters!
******************************************
My Story (Part 10) Sharmila Sanyal.
My first cousin (from my mother's side) was getting
married. So, during the relentless monsoon in early June the
following year, I found myself in a small town a couple of
hundred kilometers north of Calcutta. Dipu had written to me
that he could not make it that summer and was going to try
Christmas. I was a little disappointed, but I had not broken
down or anything. My studies kept me intellectually busy; and
Debi kept me satisfied physically. She and Ajit had decided to
get married sometime that year. He knew all about us and, from
what I gathered, derived much pleasure from the descriptions
Debi recounted of our regular sessions. I could tell, by the
way Ajit looked at me and Debi when we three would go out
together, that he would very much like to be a part of our
intimacy. I can't say that such a possibility never crossed my
mind either -- I found Ajit, as I have alluded to earlier --
very attractive. But, not having received any indication from
Debi, I had decided not to ever bring that subject up while
sober. I loved Debi too much to risk upsetting her. I let the
chemistry remain just that.
Anjana, about five years older than me, was all aglow
from the anticipation and could hardly hide her excitement. I
have always failed to understand how one can look forward thus
to being hitched up with a guy that is virtually a total
stranger.
Chhordi was an attractive girl -- always had been -- yet
she waited for her parents to find a "perfect match" through
newspaper advertisements! Not that their family was any more
conservative than ours; but, I guess the girls are either too
shy or they lack the confidence in themselves. After all,
sharing your life with someone for the rest of your life is no
small thing. Hence, they avoid deciding for themselves. I
believe it is a form of escapism that has been built into the
social fiber. However, arranged marriages had already become
relatively rare in Bengal, and Chhordi's marriage just happened
to be one such. It turned out to be a very good union too.
They now have two beautiful children. I like her husband.
Subhash-da is a handsome, smart and witty college professor.
Chhordi, though a Chemistry graduate, never sought to pursue
any career of her own, being happy taking care of her little
family. But that is another story. Something else happened
during that happy fortnight that warrants a mention in this
narrative.
My aunts family used to be an extended one -- not unlike
our family -- and their house is huge. It is a two storied
house with about twenty big-sized rooms. The house itself
probably occupies about three quarters of an acre and sits
about a hundred yards back from the main street on a five-acre
land, complete with a heavy fifteen-foot-wide iron gate and a
gravelled driveway that runs from the gate to the front portico
of this palatial house. At the back of the U-shaped house is a
pond covering an acre. The pond used to be rather well cared
for. Needless to say that my aunt's family is quite well off.
Indeed, from what I have been told, they used to own most of
the land where the town stands; and the area they now live in
is named after their family-name.
So, I was not surprised to find about fifty to sixty
relatives, including us, showing up for the hoopla leading up
to the wedding. Such prolonged festivities were rare even
then, and one would be considered crazy to even contemplate
such extravaganza these days. From what I have heard from my
elders, there used to be a time when the entire neighborhood
would not have to light their stoves for a whole month should a
wealthy family happen to have a wedding. While not in such a
grand scale, that house was the focus of the neighborhood when
we arrived. It being the first wedding of a girl in that house
-- and the first in almost 16 years -- Chhordi's family had
decided to make it a memorable one.
Among my relatives were a number of my cousins -- close
and distant -- that I had not met in a few years. Chhordi's
younger brother, Sanjay, had grown into an attractive young
'man' of fifteen. The last I had seen him a couple of years
earlier at our house, his voice had started to change and he
had sounded funny. I remembered teasing him about it. The
handsome boy was now an inch taller than me. Then there was
Parimal-da, another of our cousins who was a painter. With a
face full of beard and shoulder-length hair, he definitely
looked like an artist. His wife, also Sharmila and about three
years older than me, looked more beautiful than I remembered
from their wedding a year back. She had put on some healthy
weight and looked very attractive in the light blue sari
loosely draping her rounded curves. She wouldn't be considered
a ravishing beauty, but she was no doubt pretty and had about
her an unmistakable allure. I realised that Sanjay was not a
kid anymore when I found him glancing at her furtively with
admiration in his adolescent eyes.
"So, you like Sharmila-boudi?" I asked him in jest. His face
went red.
"I . . . I . . . yes, she is nice." Sanjay said.
"You don't have be coy about it," I smiled and said, "She is
indeed very attractive, isn't she?"
"That she is." He was visibly embarrassed at my directness; and
he tried to make light of it by adding, "So are you, Shona-di."
It was my turn to be flustered.
"I'll beat you up, you elf." I said in an attempt to hide my
reaction. I guess I actually gave it away, for he responded
with a wink. 'Boy! He IS an elf' -- I mused. I have not been
flattered like that by a fifteen-year-old and it felt funny.
The day we arrived, the sky opened up above us from the
afternoon, and we spent the remainder of the day talking and
playing cards in the huge drawing room. There was a constant
supply of 'Jhhaal-muri' and tea. We talked and we sang and we
munched on the fritters till it was time for supper, which, of
course, most of us young folks had to forego. By the time we
went to sleep it was about midnight. I fell asleep peacefully
listening to the rain.
Next morning, after finishing our 'community breakfast',
I was sitting on the steps of the back porch, enjoying the
beautiful green in front of me and admiring the geese paddling
busily in the pond, when Sanjay appeared behind me and asked.
"Hey, Shona-di, I'll have to go to the market to get banana
leaves, want to come?" I welcomed the idea, having really
nothing else to feel useful about. I looked up at the sky and
saw very few clouds. The local market was about half a mile
away and I suggested that we walked. Lunch would not be ready
any time soon, and the banana leaves should not be a priority
anyway. Sanjay grabbed one of the several umbrellas from the
house and we were on our way.
Having been born and raised in Calcutta, I always enjoyed
the countryside. This was a fairly big town with the ambience
of a village about it. We talked about his school and my life
in Calcutta and before we knew it we were at the bustling
market. It was crowded and the ground beneath us was wet and
muddy from the downpour of the night before. I cursed myself
for wearing a pair of sandals that splattered mud all over my
back with every step I took. Sanjay was wearing rubber shoes
and made fun of my mud splattered form. I tried to take it in
a good spirit but for a city girl like myself, it was hard to
ignore the mud on my skin. I used the aanchal of my white sari
to try and wipe it off, cursing myself some more for ruining
one of my favorite saris.
There was a hand-pumped tube-well beside the stall that
was selling the banana leaves. Sanjay went up to it and pumped
some water to wet his hands and, walking back to me said, "Here
. . . let me," and, without much ado, he was wiping the
splatters of mud off my back, from the back of my neck and from
the area between my blouse and my sari. I didn't know what to
say. The lady who was managing the stall knew Sanjay. She
smiled at me and asked him who I was. Sanjay said, "This is
Shona-di, my aunt's daughter."
"Your brother is terribly nice, Didimoni," she said with a grin
exposing her stained teeth, "See how he cares for you!"
Now, readers unfamiliar with Indian dialectics would
probably find some innuendo in her comment; but let me assure
them that there was absolutely none. It is easy to translate
words; but, not so when it comes to expressing the meanings or
feelings behind them. Anyway, I was actually caught off-guard
by Sanjay's good intentions; and, till this day I have not been
able to figure out why his wet hands on my bare skin had sent a
shiver through my body that morning. Well, they did, and
abruptly -- albeit involuntarily -- I moved out of his reach
with something like, "Never mind, Sanju, I will clean up when
we get back . . . " or something equally lame.
My reaction at my 'brother's' effort to wipe the mud off
me must have appeared funny to the lady at the stall, for she
stared at me just long enough to make me uncomfortable.
However, I tried not to think much of it; and I was certain
Sanjay was not mature enough to detect my uneasiness. We
picked up a few other things from the market and headed back.
The sky got dark above us as we walked side by side, and
about halfway between the market and the house, it started to
rain again. By the time I took the big bundle of banana leaves
and the small bag of knick knacks from Sanjay's hands to allow
him to open the umbrella, we were both drenched. There is
little one can do to avoid getting drenched in monsoon, unless
already wearing a rain- coat.
We started walking a little faster -- as fast as I could
make it with my blasted sandals -- huddled close together,
under the only umbrella. Pretty soon, I started experiencing
the same sensation I had had moments ago when, at the market,
my cousin wanted to wipe the mud off my back. I realised that
my blouse and my sari were sticking to my skin, making it
impossible to hide much of anything. The blouse was sticking
to my breasts like a second skin and the elbow of his arm, that
held the umbrella, was directly pressed against the side of one
of my breasts.
I felt a familiar stir in my body. I looked at Sanjay's
face; he was staring straight ahead as we briskly walked
towards the house. I could not read any emotion there. I
should have felt at ease, but something inside kept chiding me
for even feeling the way I did. I kept reminding myself that
the boy next to me was my cousin -- and three years younger
than me. My attempt at disciplining my mind was actually
backfiring every time I thought about his age. I felt faint
from the primal urge. I walked closer to him, trying to feel
the side of his folded arm against my breast through the wet
blouse. I felt my nipples swell up underneath my bra and I
looked down at them to assure myself that they were not obvious
through the drenched clothes. I thanked myself for wearing a
sari, for even the pleated length of the aanchal barely
concealed the telltale sign.
I sensed Sanjay's tension momentarily as he flexed his
arm. He could have easily shifted the umbrella to his other
hand if he wanted to; but he didn't. He seemed to be enjoying
the feel of my breasts against his arm! He had been breathing
heavily and so was I. But that could very well have been from
walking so fast!
By the time we were back at the house in our drenched
state, there was little doubt in my mind that I was a miserable
sex maniac that lusted after her fifteen-year old 'brother'. I
was also wet between my legs. Once at the house, Sanjay
grabbed the leaves and the plastic bag and quickly disappeared
towards the kitchen, leaving me feeling guilty for putting him
in an awkward state. After all, his adolescence would make him
extremely vulnerable. Adolescent! I should not have thought
about that . . . !
"Oh God, Sharmila! Look at you . . . you'll get pneumonia!"
Sharmila-boudi was sitting inside the doorway that led into the
drawing room. She jumped up and dragged me upstairs to the
room that their family was assigned to. She made me take
everything off in spite of my protests. "You don't need to get
bashful like that in front of me," she said, "I am older and I
am a woman, after all."
"Yeah . . . you are almost fifty, ain't you?" I said
jokingly. I was trying to hide my tension from everybody, for
I was too aware myself of the sinful arousal. I wasn't sure
either whether I would be able to hide the wetness between my
legs if I stood naked in front of her.
"You OK, Sharmi?" She asked. She was probably wondering about
my momentary hesitation in getting out of my clothes, but, to
me it sounded rather penetrating. "You will catch cold if you
don't hurry!" She repeated. Her back was turned towards me as
she looked for some clothes for me in her own suitcase. I
quickly pulled the sari out of my petticoat and unhooked my
blouse -- all the time hoping that the brassiere would not be
wet enough to warrant getting out of. But, they were. My
petticoat was sticking to my thighs too. So I hoped my panties
would be wet all through to hide my arousal.
"Here, I had brought some pairs of saalwaar-kaameez," Boudi had
picked one up for me as she turned around and found me standing
in the middle of the room in my wet bra and petticoat. "Oh .
. . Sharmi . . . I had not figured you as that shy!" She
said with a smile. "Here, wear these for now; I'm leaving.
You don't need to wear bra for a while . . . or are you the
kind that can't do without one?" Sharmila-boudi added with a
naughty chuckle and a wink. That's when I realised that I she
rarely wore one. I was quite impressed, for she hardly needed
one.
"That's OK, Boudi, you don't have to go out . . ." I finally
became bold enough. "It's just that I have not undressed in
front of anybody since I was twelve or thirteen." I added a lie
as a justification. I took my bra off and heard a compliment
from Sharmila-boudi. I picked up the Salwaar so I could slip
it on over the petticoat without having to reveal the rest of
me.
"Won't it get wet if you did not take the petticoat off?"
Sharmila-boudi had to say something like that, didn't she!
I thought I had it all figured out, but she was right.
Feeling rather helpless, I put the shirt back on the bed and
untied the knot. The petticoat essentially stuck to my thighs
and I had to pull it down. As I was doing that, I looked down
at my panties and, the next moment, thanked the Person upstairs
for having poured buckets on, allowing even my panties to soak
through completely.
Sharmila-boudi was sitting right in front of me on the
bed. I looked up at her and found her looking at me. Her
gaze, quite naturally brushed over the area where my panties
barely hid my womanhood. It was probably the first time I felt
somewhat vulnerable in my nakedness.
"Oh how I wish I had a figure like you!" She said as if talking
to herself. At around twenty-one, she certainly need not have
felt self-conscious of her figure; and I told her so, and she
looked at my eyes and blushed. Her stomach wasn't as flat as
mine, but the slight plumpness she had developed over the past
year made her look healthy. Indeed, I thought she looked very
sexy.
"Don't say that, Sharmila-boudi," I said, stepping away from
the small puddle that had formed where I was standing, "you
look quite 'sexy' the way you are. What does your hubby have
to say?"
I am not sure if I sounded impudent saying things like
that to my 'sister-in-law', but the words came naturally . . .
kind of; perhaps because I was myself buck naked -- save the
panties -- in the middle of the room. She did not seem to mind
either. In our family, there are very thin yet palpable
boundaries between people of different ages. One did not say,
to somebody 'older', things that might sound brassy. And,
Sharmila-boudi, though just three years my senior, could easily
have fallen in the 'older' bunch -- especially since Parimal-da
was almost ten years 'older' than me. Ordinarily, the
relationship between two 'sisters-in-law' would be either
adversarial or friendly; even sweet. If closer in age, often
the latter happens. With Sharmila-boudi, due to rather
infrequent encounters, I had not developed any relationship.
In fact, that was probably just the second time we met since I
attended her wedding. So, her very casual reaction to my
obvious allusion to their conjugal intimacy put both of us at
ease momentarily.
"You know your Dada . . . he can be quite oblivious to such
things," she said. Then, after a moment of apparent
hesitation, she added, "but we do have regular . . . you
know; just that he never shows if he likes the way I look."
Amazing, isn't it? They courted each other for about two years
before they got married.
"Well, don't worry about what Parimal-da says or doesn't say,"
I ventured to express my opinion, "I'm sure he thinks you are
sexy." Something in her openness was reassuring enough that I
could get out of the remaining wet piece without feeling shy
anymore. I got into the clothes she had so generously offered.
She said I looked wonderful in that light mauve colored
saalwaar. And then she said something that startled me.
"Are you sure you are OK, Sharmi?" Sharmila-boudi said again.
We were about to leave the room, and I stopped.
"Why?" Is all I could manage.
"You seemed to be rather flustered when you came back from the
market . . . with Sanju . . ." she let that last bit of
redundant statement hang in there as if she had something more
to add. I looked at her eyes trying to gauge that 'something'.
"Was I?" I asked back still trying to decide what she was
fishing for; and I tried to explain it away, "Oh . . . I
don't know, I might have been breathless or something . . .
we were almost running back, you know." "Perhaps," she said,
"I wasn't sure . . . knowing Sanju. . ." she added that
almost under her breath. I wasn't sure if it was meant for my
ears and I deliberately chose not to hear that. We joined the
crowd downstairs.
The wedding was truly something that I will remember.
There were at least a thousand guests and the food was
fabulous. Some of the men that made up the groom's party tried
to flirt with me and other girls. Not finding anybody
interesting enough to oblige, I pretty much kept to myself.
Subhash-da, the groom, was dressed quite modestly in the usual
dhoti and panjabi. I was glad to see that he refused to wear
the traditional cork toque which, in my opinion, makes anybody
look extremely funny. I struck up a conversation with him
easily and decided that I liked him. He definitely had his
wits about him and, by the time everybody was retiring after
the grueling day, he had made quite an impression among his new
sisters-in-law. Herself being a very outgoing and jovial
person, Chhordi definitely felt comfortable in the knowledge
that she was not getting hitched to a social washout.
The girls that stayed up at night, lurking around the
room assigned to the bride and the groom -- for pure
voyeuristic delights -- were totally disappointed. The next
day, Chhordi left for her new home. The usual sadness and
tears notwithstanding, I knew she was happy. Although we used
to see each other once in a blue moon, watching her leave made
me sad too. My mother did not want to leave her sister right
after the following day's reception at the groom's place; so we
were to stay back for another week. I look back upon that week
with some mixed feelings.
+++++++++ End Part 10
(To be Continued)
******************* Notes:
"Sharmila-boudi" : Older Sister-in-laws are addressed as
"boudi", a compound word formed from "bou" (pronounced 'bo-u'),
meaning 'the bride', and 'di' (abbreviated address for 'didi' -
- elder sister).
"banana leaf" : Traditionally food is served on banana leaves
in such festivities. It is more common in Eastern and Southern
part of the country than anywhere else, I believe.
"Jhhaal-Muri" : A very Bengali delicacy. Puffed rice with
chopped onion, coconut, germinating chick pea (Bengal gram),
peanuts, green pepper, coriander leaves, etc. mixed with a
dash of a special spice mix and raw mustard oil. I have not
known anybody not to savor this one. Almost a must during such
evening get-togethers; especially if it happens to be monsoon.
"Brother": In India, there is no equivalent word for cousin.
In our languages, they are simply "sisters" or "brothers".
"Didimoni": A generic address for a younger girl. Often used
as generic address for ladies.
******************
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