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Child Brides of India
By C. Stanton Leman
Chapter 8: The Wedding (slow, rom, Mg)
After a whirlwind day, beginning with me asking Adib
for Priya's hand, my proposal to Priya and her
acceptance of the Maher (dower, or gift to the bride),
signing a formal notice of marriage with the Indian
registrar's office, and culminating with the purchase
of our rings (Dad's eyes had popped when he saw the
ring), both families met at our home for dinner.
The atmosphere was one of joy and anticipation. As
soon as we were seated for dinner (Priya seated across
the table from me), I recapped the day's events to Dad
and explained what I had offered, both as a prenuptial
agreement and a dower, I asked him if he could get his
lawyer here to draw up the legal documents and he
agreed. I also explained my wedding offer to the
Haaseem women, and he was proud that I had offered.
We learned that in India, the cost of the wedding, and
receptions (one for both families to meet, and the
formal wedding reception) is borne by the groom.
Salima went through the various steps of an Indian
Muslim wedding, and it sounded surprisingly very
similar to a western wedding.
My father asked how soon Adib could furnish him with a
guest list for both events, and Adib replied, "About a
week."
Adib injected a temporary jolt of reality when he
said, "We can set a date, but it will be contingent on
the fact that no one responds to the notice and
objects to the wedding." After a moment of silence he
added, "Don't worry, like most all governmental
notices, both here and in the US, people are usually
oblivious to such things." Everyone warily agreed and
were soon again in high spirits.
It was now the first week of July, so we set the
tentative date for the 26th of August, a Saturday, for
the big event. This would have us married right before
Priya returned to school.
Dad said reserving a place for both functions wouldn't
be a problem; he'd just use the facilities the company
used for last minute functions. Mom said she'd contact
a wedding planner and caterer for planning the menus.
She also said that the tailor who had made her sari
told her that they also made custom traditional
clothing for any occasion, so the women would start
there for the clothing. Adib said he'd get the guest
list together and let Dad know as soon as he could.
The whole time, I'm wondering what's the groom
supposed to do? When I asked, Mom (the perpetual
stinker) said, "Get your credit cards ready, 'cause
the girls are going shopping! Oh, and worry! Worry
about what you'll do when your pretty little wife puts
a ring through your nose and starts training you!
Remember," wagging her finger, "I know all your weak
points!"
This brought a chocolate blush, and hilarious laughter
all around.
So, I assumed (with my great intellect), that trying
to argue with three women was wasted energy, my job
would end up being, the 'go-fer.'
Having a little under six weeks to put everything
together, Mom, the consummate hostess, said that she
didn't see any real problems, excluding the gowns.
I was surprised to learn that the bride never wears
white. White is a no-no for the bridal party, family
or guests. In India, white is the color of mourning.
Instead, the bride wears a bright color: usually red,
pink or blue. It's a sign of prosperity and good luck.
Salima said Priya would wear a wedding lehenga (a
waist to floor, flared and pleated heavy skirt, with
intricately embroidered designs, beads, and
rhinestones), a long choli, and a dupatta (or scarf-
like veil) and sandals. She would also need a dress
for her 'henna party,' and one to change into before
coming home.
She went on to explain that the other women could wear
the same or choose saris, but could not be dressed as
elegantly as the bride.
I, the lowly groom, would wear a Sherwani (a jacket-
type outer garment going to just below the knee) with
matching pants and shoes, and a kufi (a flat type
hat). I could wear a business suit to both receptions
if I chose.
We learned that both of Adib's parents were dead, and
so was Salima's father, so I told Salima to include
her mother in the shopping (naughtiness sometimes has
its rewards). Adib has one brother and sister, while
Salima has two sisters and their children and some
cousins.
My side had both sets of my grandparents, some aunts
and uncles and their children, Abby and her husband,
some of my mother and father's very close friends and
a few of mine. We estimated the wedding reception to
be about 50-80 people.
The men gravitated to the study while the women in the
living room shivered with anticipation, dollar signs
in their eyes.
I figured that I was 'on standby' until I got further
orders (maybe I shouldn't have got her that cell
phone!), so I asked Dad if I could finally go to the
office with him and begin to earning my paycheck; if
Mom is involved, I'll start married life out in
serious debt! He thought that was a great idea and
agreed. I would also arrange a meeting with the Imam
to request he perform the ceremony and ask his advice
about Muslim marriage procedures.
Anyone who's gotten married can imagine what the next
three and a half weeks were like: controlled (mostly)
chaos. Priya and I were sweating bullets (as was
everyone else) as the 30-day deadline for objections
to be filed approached, and there was an unspoken
tension about it. The day of reckoning came, and the
morning after was like suddenly knowing a great weight
had been lifted away.
The Saturday of the week before the wedding, my Dad
had all of our invited relatives, plus Abby and her
husband flown in and put up at the Crowne Plaza hotel
in New Delhi. That Monday, both of our immediate
families met at a restaurant my dad had made
arrangements with for the family pre-wedding
reception.
Priya wore a shimmering aqua colored mermaid cut
evening gown and matching headscarf and was drop dead
breathtaking! Mom wore a blue custom sari, as did
Salima in red and Sarah in emerald green. The men wore
suits.
During the course of meeting everyone (even some of my
own relatives), I introduced Priya to my first cousin
Elizabeth. She's my mom's eldest sister's daughter.
She was accompanied by her seven-year-old daughter,
Emma, whom I'd never met.
Liz introduced us to Emma, a lovely little girl, not
quite four feet tall with shoulder length blonde hair
worn in ringlets. She wasn't overweight or plump, just
kinda fleshy. Her face was slightly round with a cute
button nose and a sprinkling of light freckles across
her high cheekbones and nose, all laid upon alabaster
skin that framed her sweet, pink-lipped smile.
She was dressed, surprisingly, in a little dress sari
in Pastel pink. Her sandaled tiny pinkish white toes
poked out of the bottom of her sari. She looked at up
at Priya with silver dollar eyes and said, "You're
sooo bee-uuu-tee-ful! Can I stay with you? Momma, can
I git married too?"
We all laughed at her childish innocence, and Liz
said, "Someday baby, someday."
Priya bent over a little to her eye level and said,
"Sure you can stay with me! I'm a little scared
meeting all these people, would you hold my hand and
be my best friend tonight? Would you like to meet my
momma?"
Emma jumped up and down, clapping her hands saying
"Oh
yes! Let's go! I'll be the bestest friend ever!"
With that, Priya and Emma giggled off hand in hand
towards Salima and my mother.
My Dad came over about the time Liz had finished
introducing Emma to us, and said, "How's things going
Liz? How do you feel?"
"I'm fine, John, thanks for asking. I have my good
days and bad ones too."
Dad explained, and I was sad to learn that Elizabeth
was trying to raise Emma by herself after Jack, her
husband, died six months ago and was also fighting
breast cancer at the same time. He said that Mom had
Emma's sari made to brighten her up and make this trip
a memorable experience.
Despite a few cultural faux pas, it was a warm and
friendly evening and really nice to meet Priya's
relatives. Even though our side was already informed
of Priya's age, there were a few initial gasps at her
size and color. These quickly faded away with Priya's
ever charming way of dealing with these issues: she'd
been doing it all her short life. She took it in
stride, moving effortlessly around the room with Emma
glued to her side, holding her hand.
As I lovingly watched Priya with Emma by her side, I
not only reveled in Priya's beauty, I also couldn't
help but notice that she was just a little taller and
not much bigger than Emma. They were both beautiful
girls, but totally opposite in their beauty. The
contrast was striking; Priya's milk chocolate brown-
skinned hand holding Emma's alabaster white, Priya's
long blue-black hair against Emma's shorter, soft
cream-colored blonde.
Then, I wondered… why was I even thinking of such a
thing: comparing a normal, 7 year-old little girl,
totally innocent of adult things to an intellectually
and emotionally precocious 11 year-old lolita? But
then, would it be that much of a stretch to make love
to a child such as Emma? Would I, or more importantly,
could I desire such a thing? Am I trying to
rationalize or justify some deep, dark, unknown
perverted desire? This whole train of thought was very
distracting and unsettling, so I banished it from my
consciousness and continued the evening.
With the family party behind us, Priya was excited and
looking forward to her Mahendi, or henna party. A few
days before the wedding, the men meet at the groom's
home for an evening for conversation and fun, while at
the bride's home, her female family members and
cousins meet to apply turmeric paste to the bride to
bring out the glow in her complexion. A family member
or an artist paints intricate and detailed designs on
the bride's hands and feet in henna while the bride
and woman folk sing and dance to traditional songs,
and have an evening of frivolity. The bride and groom
can no longer communicate until the wedding, and the
bride cannot leave the house until her wedding day.
One of the bride's cousins applies a dot of henna to
the groom's palm. This would take place on Thursday,
two days before the big day.
All of the relatives that Dad put up in the hotel
enjoyed a few days of sightseeing before the wedding.
Thursday evening, about seven, I drove Mom over to
Priya's for the henna party. Mom was excitedly
welcomed into the house, but a little pixie pipsqueak
about five or six abruptly stopped me. She stood at
the door with Sarah behind her. I tried to get a peek
at Priya, but Sarah and said pipsqueak stepped outside
and closed the door. Sarah said, "I'm the translator,
and this is my cousin Aleeya."
I looked down (almost straight down) at a tiny little
Indian girl with long black hair tied back in a
ponytail. She was looking straight up at me with a
smile and her hand behind her back, so I smiled back
and said "Hi!" She said something in Tamil (I think),
and Sarah said, "She says you're not allowed to see
her, so stick out your hand."
Poking a little fun at the bossy little imp, I said,
"Why, what's in your hand?" Sarah translated.
She lowered her head a little and looked up at me
through her lashes with a devilish grin, and spoke
again. I looked at Sarah, who laughingly said, "She
says she's not gonna tell you, but if you don't do as
she says, she'll stick a big, fat cobra in your hand!"
Laughing, I said, "Well, we don't want any cobras
do
we?" I extended my right hand to her.
She took it, turned it palm up and pulled my fingers
open. With the tip of her tongue sticking out of the
corner of her mouth, she concentrated in painting a
nice dime-sized dot in the middle of my palm. When
finished, she looked up at me and grinned, spoke and
turned to run into the house. Sarah said, "She says
bye cousin, see you later." With that, Sarah curtly
spun and disappeared inside leaving me standing
outside, with my hand extended and an open palm of wet
henna. I marched myself, open palm and all to the car
and went home to my evening of frivolity.
The evening's festivities ended around midnight, and
Mom got home around one. Dad and I were sitting in the
study talking. Mom came in all giggly and happy, when
Dad said, "Well, did you girls paint her up good?"
Mom said, "You bet! Yep, she's a painted Indian
alright!" We all laughed at her pun.
Dad said, "Well, what else did you all do?"
Mom still bubbly said, "Oh, we sang songs, danced
and
had a wonderful time picking on the bride, especially
by her grandmother. I really like that woman! She may
be up in age, but she's as naughty as schoolgirl!"
"What do you mean?" I asked.
Mom went on, "Well, when the little ones went to
bed,
we were teasing Priya about her wedding night. You
should have seen her, Sean: she was a continual blush!
Anyway, all the girls were asking her questions like
'have you held hands?' and 'what's he kiss like?' but
Priya would just blush and wouldn't say anything.
We all let her alone about it for a few minutes, then,
out of the blue her grandmother said, 'Just looking at
him, I bet he's got soft lips!' She must of caught
Priya right when she was thinking of Sean and she
swooned out 'Yes, very soft lips!' Well, with that,
Priya was embarrassed and blushed into oblivion that
she'd revealed kissing you, and we all cracked up.
Priya's grandmother wouldn't cut her any slack. Salima
and I saw that twinkle in her eye, because after the
laughter died down, she said, 'Ya know…' then she
looked up like she was going to give some wise
grandmotherly advice and said 'Ya know what they say
about a man with soft lips, don't cha?' Playing along,
we all slowly nodded with Priya looking wide-eyed all
around waiting to find out what everyone else
pretended to know. Her grandmother said, 'Salima! You
didn't tell her, I'm ashamed of you! Well Priya, I
guess I have to break the bad news.' She shook her
head a couple of times going tsk, tsk, tsk and then
said, "Well… they say a man with soft lips has a
tender heart,'" and my mom held up her hand with two
fingers about an inch apart imitating Priya's me ma
and said, "and a teeny, weeny pee-pee!" Well, with
that, I almost pissed myself!"
Dad nearly fell off the chair laughing, while I just
shook my head and smiled. I then had to laugh knowing
it was a harmless joke about my manhood; and it was
funny!
After my parents had dried their eyes, and reseated
themselves, Mom said, "Seriously though, you should
see the artistry and intricate detail of the designs:
it's absolutely phenomenal!
Sean, you're in for a big surprise on your wedding
night! They painted both of your names in her hands,
and you don't get to sample the goods until you find
'em both! Good luck pal, you may not be getting any!"
After some more ribbing, Dad exchanged some of the
men's ribbing to mom. He said, "Yeah, they did some of
the same to Sean."
Mom, like a giddy schoolgirl said, "Oooh, do
tell!"
Dad said, "Adib didn't think it was as funny as
everyone else, but he took it in stride."
Mom said, "John, out with it, will ya?"
"Well," Dad started, "Adib's brother
Mahmoud, was
teasing Sean about Priya's skin color. At first, Sean
started to get upset, then Mahmoud said, 'Be
lighthearted Sean, we all love Priya, and wouldn't
insult her, just joke a little.' with that, Sean
seemed to lighten up.
He put his arm around Sean's shoulder and said, 'You
know, there's a reason we've all married light skinned
women; do you know why?' Sean says "I don't know, but
I guess you're gonna tell me.' And Mahmoud says,
'Well, it's like this…' he then took a drink of tea
and continued, 'A long time ago there was this feared
Indian prince. He was well renown for his sexual
energy, and had 100 concubines. One night, one of his
wives displeased him so he divorced her. The next day,
he ordered a search throughout all of India for the
most beautiful woman in the land. After months of
inspecting young virgins and rejecting them, they
finally brought him a beautiful young, dark skinned
girl: just like Priya! The prince said 'She is truly
lovely, but why is her skin so dark?' His servant
cunningly whispered, 'Because she's a goddess of
desire; her desire burns so hotly within her, it has
darkened her skin!' The prince was amazed! He said,
'If this be true, I may have no need of 100
concubines, true?' 'Yes,' the servant replied. So the
prince married her immediately and took her to bed.
Once naked and in bed, she delighted him into a
trance. Her soft, tender touch masked her ability to
tie him hand and foot to the bed. For 30 days and 30
nights all throughout the palace could be heard her
moans of ecstasy and the prince's pleas for sexual
release. She rode him like a Bedouin slicing the
desert wind on his noble Arabian steed.
When they finally emerged from the bedchamber, he
crawled out on all fours with her astride, as if
riding a horse. She rode him to the throne room where
she sat upon his throne with him at her feet, sucking
her toes.'
Mahmoud finished his tale, 'And THAT my new nephew, is
why we don't marry dark skin girls. Do you
understand?'"
By now, Dad wad beginning to laugh, almost unable to
continue. He calmed himself enough to continue and
went on, "Well, Sean just looked at him and said,
'What? I don't get it.' Mahmoud, clasped Sean's face
at the ears with his hands, and looking directly into
his eyes, said, 'My nephew, you are wealthy and have a
company empire to run, do you want your eleven year
old, dark skinned goddess turning you into a toe
sucking pussy and taking over your fortune?'"
With THAT, Mom fell off the chair laughing and
clasping her crotch with both hands exclaimed, "Oh God
no! I'm pissing myself!"
When we had stopped laughing enough to coherently
talk, Mom said embarrassingly, "Well, I think I should
take me and my wet panties upstairs and get ready for
bed." She was still shaking her head and laughing.
Dad rose from the sofa, took hold of Mom's hands,
helping her up said, "Boy Joan, you really made a
mess! Just look at the carpet, there a big wet spot!"
She replied playfully, "If you promise not to
punish
me Daddy, I won't turn you into a toe sucking pussy.
By the way, I already have your fortune!"
That started the laughing fits all over again. We all
silently agreed that they had milked as much frivolity
out of the evening's festivities as they could, so we
all went off to bed, with Mom walking up the stairs,
wet from waist to toe.
The day of the wedding, as with all weddings the world
over, was hectic. The ceremony and reception were both
being held at a reception hall that Dad had arranged
for through the company. The ceremony itself was to
begin at four pm.
I had to be at the hall about two to go over the final
details of the Nikah (formal wedding ceremony) with
the Imam, so I paced and fidgeted around the house
until about noon, then decided to shower and get
ready.
Mom had dressed in a beautiful silk lehenga/choli of
lime green with a matching dupatta and looked radiant.
She had left with my father to go to the hall earlier
to ensure all was right with the arrangements.
I met with the Imaam, and we went over the ceremony
ritual. He told me to be certain that in the
declaration and acceptance, they must both be made in
perfect tense, or the contract would be invalid.
Around three, people were starting to arrive, so the
waiters were holding all of the groom's guests outside
the hall. I gathered Mom and Dad, and we went outside
to greet them.
Priya arrived with her family and quickly went inside
so fast that I only caught a glimpse of her. Salima
and Sarah were dressed as Mom was, but Salima was in
red, and Sarah in dark blue.
A small band of musicians appeared, and began to play,
at which point the groom's Baarat (or family
entourage) are welcomed to the wedding hall. For the
formal Muslim ceremony, the women and men were
separated. As is the custom, the sister of the bride,
Sarah, was welcoming my family by going around
tickling, teasing and poking the guests with a
flowered baton. Usually, the bride's brother and the
groom share a glass of sherbet, but Mahmoud, Priya's
uncle stood in.
Priya stepped forward, and I saw her for the first
time: she looked like a princess of a lost Indian
dynastic age. She was wearing a shocking pink lehenga
and long choli with intricate embroidery work
encrusted with silver sequins and stones that
shimmered like diamonds. Her head was covered with a
pink, translucent crepe dupatta with a border matching
the same color and craftsmanship of her lengha. On her
henna painted feet, she wore sandals that also looked
jewel encrusted.
Through the dupatta, I could see her pink tinted
smiling face and a headpiece with what looked like a
single string of diamonds ending with a ruby hanging
from the center of her head and dangling in the center
of her forehead. She had dangle earrings that looked
like a bangle of diamonds with a center ruby on each
ear. She was also wearing a necklace that had large
diamond hoops, with diamond stringers hanging in front
at varying lengths to form a "V" in the center of her
chest with a ruby at each stringer's end. Her wrists
were adorned with bangle bracelets of silver and
jewels.
I started to cry she was so beautiful, and all in our
family's party were gasping at the vision before us.
Little Emma tried to run to her, but was caught by my
Mom and returned to Liz's side. A veil of flowers was
then placed on each of our heads, and then we were led
to the area where the ceremony would take place.
The Imaam waited until the room was quiet, and then
began. Priya and I were positioned about two feet
apart with Priya to my left, and Adib standing next to
her on her left.
The Imaam, addressing the crowd, said, "Since
Muslims
are aware of the steps and precepts of a Muslim
wedding, there's no need for explanations, but for the
benefit and understanding of our non-Muslim guests, I
will offer an outline.
The official Muslim marriage is legalized in two
steps: the declaration and the acceptance. Since the
bride is a virgin and underage, she cannot make a
declaration; it has to be made for her by her
guardian, but she must give her acceptance of her
dower and consent to be married. Once this is
completed, and the bride and her guardian, groom and
witnesses sign the dower agreement. Once this is done,
then the groom, guardian, followed by the two
witnesses and the bride will sign the Nikaahnama,
which is the document that registers their marriage.
After this is completed, then the rest of the ceremony
is very much like western weddings. Alright then,
let's begin."
After a litany of prayers and readings from the Koran,
Imaam looked at Adib, he said, "Today we will witness
a solemn pledge between Sean Michaels and Priya
Haaseem. I ask you now in the presence of God and this
congregation to declare your intent."
Adib began, "I have given my youngest virgin
daughter,
Priya Haaseem to Sean Michaels in marriage."
Imaam to Priya, "Do you accept Sean Michaels as
your
husband with the dower that you have agreed upon?"
Priya replied, "I have accepted and espoused myself
to
him."
Imaam to me, "Do you accept Priya Haaseem as your
wife?"
I replied, "I have accepted."
Priya then stepped forward with her father, and Adib,
followed by Priya, signed her dower/prenuptial
agreement, then I signed, the witnesses signed and I
returning it folded and in the envelope to her.
Then, I signed the Nikaahnama, then Adib, followed by
our witnesses, my Dad and Mahmoud, and finally by
Priya.
Imam said some more readings and the blessing of the
rings. He nodded to me, and I took the ring from my
dad, and repeated after him:
"Priya, I give you this ring as a symbol of our
vows,
and with all that I am, and all that I have, I honor
you. In the name of God, The Most Gracious, The Most
Merciful. With this ring, I thee wed."
Priya then took my ring from her father and said
"Sean, I give you this ring as a symbol of our vows,
and with all that I am, and all that I have, I honor
you. In the name of God, The Most Gracious, The Most
Merciful. With this ring, I thee wed."
After some more readings, the Imaam finished with,
"In
as much as you have each pledged to the other your
lifelong commitment, love and devotion, I now
pronounce you husband and wife, In the name of God,
The Most Gracious, The Most Merciful.
Those whom God has joined together let no one put
asunder.
God bless you and the congregation."
With that, everyone clapped and cheered. All the
guests were separately seated for dinner by sexes, and
the women of Priya's family immediately fetched us
both.
We ate the lavish meal my Mom had so beautifully and
expertly planned. Then, Priya and I were snatched up
by Priya's women folk and seated on pillows about
three feet apart with the Koran placed between us.
Priya's grandmother said "Don't look directly at her,"
she then handed me a mirror and said, "Use only the
mirror to view her," then moved away.
Under the direction of Imaam, all the women prayed for
me and offered their salaams and I returned their
salaams.
We then stood, and Adib took Priya's hand and placed
it in mine, and said, "Son, she is my baby, take good
care of her."
I replied, "I promise Adib, I promise."
It is ceremony, according to the Koran, for the groom
to take his bride away after dark. The bride's mother-
in-law is supposed to open the door to her new home,
and hold the Koran over her head as she passes through
the door to begin a new life. The sun had set outside.
It wasn't black out, but considered fit. My mother got
into the car in front of our limo, and left for home
to be waiting.
All the wedding guests followed us out to the car,
cheering us on as we started a new life. I opened the
curbside limo door and let Priya climb in and spread
her lavish skirt out then went around to the other
side and climbed in. She lifted her veil, and I saw my
new bride's face for the first time uncovered. We
looked at each other and smiled, but something seemed
out of place: she was too subdued.
As I looked in her eyes, they welled up and a single
tear rolled down her cheek. She then, without saying a
word, looked down. I gently put my hand under her chin
and lifted her face to look at me. I leaned down and
kissed her small quivering lips. It was a loving and
chaste, lingering closed mouth kiss. I said, "What's
wrong my little princess bride?"
She was looking and toying with her rings, twirling
them with her henna painted fingers and said, I'm
married… I'm really married and your wife."
"Yes sweetheart, we're really married. Are you OK?" I
asked her softly.
"Father was right: things ARE forever changed."
I suddenly remembered her telling my dad that she'd
call him father, and that he'd told her that marriage
was forever. I said to her, "Yes, everything has
changed. There are verses in the Bible that say,
'There's a time and a season for everything: a time to
cry, a time to laugh, a time to love, and a time to
marry.' It's our time now to begin a new life…
together."
She said, almost whispering, "I will never go home
again and sleep in my bed, or feel the comfort of my
own pillow, or say goodnight to Sarah, or to Momma and
Papa."
"Do you want me to get your mother? Do you feel you've
made a mistake; are you afraid that it's not yet your
time?"
"No, I haven't made a mistake. I made a covenant with
God and pledged my love, my life, my body and all that
I am to you! I love you my husband, and would die for
you, and I will die loving you. It's just that I
realize that in order to begin my new life with you as
your wife, I must close a door and leave my childhood
and family behind. Please don't be angry with me, or
think of me as a foolish child."
Trying to ease her distress, I softly laughed and
said, "But my dear, for all your precociousness you
are still a child in more ways than one. I'm not
angry, nor am I disappointed in you. I only want you
to be happy and look forward to your new life with joy
and hope, knowing that we look to each other for the
things we sought from our parents.
There are things in our hearts we've kept from our
parents, but we're soul mates, we're now one person;
when one of us hurts or is sad, the other feels it,
when one of us is happy and joyful, the other shares
that also. There will always be doors in our lives
that we, and only we, with Allah's help, can choose to
open or close. You and I reached one of those points
today. I closed the door you're facing now the moment
I first looked into your eyes, and I did it with joy.
Look into your heart Priya, at the love that Allah has
blessed us with and moved you to make the vows you
proclaimed to God, to me, and our families. If that
love burns true, Allah will still your heart with His
peace, and if you look deep again in your heart, He
will have already closed the door for you."
Priya then crawled up in my lap, put her arms around
me and pressed her tiny mouth to mine. She then
relaxed, and her lips parted, and I felt her little
tongue pressing my lips. When I parted my lips, her
tiny mouth opened and I tasted the nectar I'd so
desperately desired. She tasted like the sweet, sweet
taste of purity and innocence… and yes, the sweetness
of pubescent passion.
I became erect with desire and pulled her to me
gently. When I swept my tongue under hers, she gave a
soft moan and shuddered. She broke the kiss lightly,
and pressed forward again swiping her little tongue
across my teeth then pulled away. Her face was hot and
her cheeks had slightly darkened, She laid her head on
my shoulder and said softly, "I love you Sean, I am
yours, but please be patient, let's wait a little bit
longer. I've closed a door, but we must wait. The next
door, we shall enter together will be opened by your
mother. Please, just hold me"
I held her, stroking her hair and cheek for the
remaining minutes of the ride home. I pondered our
conversation, her childish fear clinging on to remain
a child, if, but for a few moments more.
With the license to have my child bride and indulge
myself with her innocence, I knew that I loved her
beyond words, but there was more. A need. A deep, dark
need. It poked its gnawing head from the closet of my
unconscious mind as I remembered watching her and Emma
together. Is there a demon lurking within; watching,
waiting, searching for a way to consume and destroy
me? As I again pushed my gnawing unsettled feeling
back into the closet of my unconsciousness, I asked
myself. "Is there a Jekyll and Hyde part of me that
I'm trying to deny exists?"
All I can think about right now is that I want her. I
so desperately need her, and soon, I shall have her.
Continued in Chapter 9…
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