After Sonu left with the children, I felt lonely and disoriented, till I decided to advertise for paid lady companions. It was an extraordinary decision. But I am glad I made it because it brought me many moments of joy. My friend, the writer, has already written about my first lady companion, Sarojini Bharadwaj. There is nothing more I can add to that; he has faithfully reported what I told him.
After Sarojini, only Dhanno remained. She served me well whenever I wanted her. But she was no company. We hardly exchanged more than two words. When the coast was clear, I would say chalo—come. She would follow me like a lamb to the bedroom, slip off her salwar-kameez and lie down on the bed. I would do my job to my satisfaction and dismount. ‘Bus, sahib—you’ve had enough,’ she would say at the end, wash herself, collect her money and slip out of the rear door. I could not take on another woman till Dhanno was around, and I had no reason to sack her. She opted out of my life in a most unexpected way.
One evening when I returned from office I saw a couple of policewomen and a male sub-inspector sitting in my garden. They had ordered chairs to be laid out for them. A woman was sitting on the ground with her head tucked between her knees. The sub-inspector and the policewomen stood up as soon as I entered. The bearer brought a chair for me. ‘What is all this about?’ I asked. ‘Sir, a complaint was lodged in the police station about thefts in two houses where this woman was employed. We raided her quarters and recovered a lot of stolen property. Stand up and show your face to the sahib,’ ordered the sub-inspector.
The woman stood up and uncovered her face.
It was Dhanno.
‘Sir, this woman also swept floors in your house. Do you know her?’
‘Yes, she is the jamadarni. She comes here twice a day to do the bathrooms and floors. Her name is Dhanno.’
‘Have any things been missing from your house? Ishwari, open the bag and show him the items that have not yet been identified by other complainants.’
The woman constable laid out bottles of French perfume and nail polish, a pair of gold earrings, two pairs of ladies’ shoes, a couple of saris, two pairs of silk salwar-kameez and a Cartier gold pen. I recognized the pen which I had misplaced somewhere; all the other items were Sonu’s. She had accummulated so much that she did not know when something went missing.
I examined the spread of booty on the lawn and said with a straight face, ‘Sub-inspector sahib, I don’t think any of these items belonged to this house. The little I know of this woman is that she is clean and honest and does her work well. I have no complaints against her.’
‘Clean and honest she certainly is not,’ snapped one of the policewomen. ‘We have several complaints that she was also doing dhanda in this locality—we found a lot of cash in her trunk.’
‘Dhanda? What is dhanda?’ I asked feigning ignorance.
‘Business,’ explained the woman constable. ‘She’s a prostitute as well as a thief.’
‘I have absolutely no knowledge about that,’ I replied. ‘As I have told you, she took nothing from this house and has been a diligent worker. If you like, I can give her a certificate of good character. I suggest you drop the charges of stealing things from this house.’
Dhanno broke down, clutched my feet and wailed, ‘Sahib, save me from the police. If they put me in jail my children will starve to death. There is no one to look after them.’
‘You should have thought of that when you went around stealing other people’s things and whoring,’ growled the sub-inspector.
I put my hand on Dhanno’s head and assured her, ‘Your children will be fed by my servants—don’t worry about them. If you want a lawyer to defend you, tell your husband to see me. I will arrange for one. If the magistrate wants anyone to testify to your good character, you can name me.’
The police put Dhanno in their van and took her away. That was the last I saw of the woman. For a few days her children came to the kitchen for their food. Then they disappeared. Their father could not take the taunts about his wife being a thief and cheating on him for money. He moved to another locality.
No one approached me to engage a lawyer on Dhanno’s behalf. She had no one to defend her against the charge of thieving. The police dropped the charge of prostitution. She was sentenced to one year’s imprisonment. She never came to see me. I missed my gold pen, which I was sure the sub-inspector had kept for himself. Sonu’s things were no doubt taken by the women constables. I had to buy another pen for Rs 15,000.
Once again I was on my own. My cook found an old jamadarni, a one-eyed widow, to do the sweeping and cleaning now. I had to look for another pro tem companion. I brought out the bundle of letters and photographs of the women who had shown willingness to accept my offer of temporary concubinage.
I went over the pictures and the letters again and again. What exactly was I looking for? The top priority was of course sex. I never seemed to have my fill of it. Once a day was not good enough for me now. Without doubt all the women who had answered my ad would be more than willing to engage with me. I wanted it to be lustful give and take—and in the open: in sunlight, moonlight, starlight. What more? The person had to be of a cheerful disposition; no sulking, no nagging, I’d had more than my share of that. Also, the lady should not try to establish proprietary rights over me. It was important, too, that she be interested in the good things of life: good food, vintage wines, music and the arts. Since I did not read much I did not set much store by literature.
After scanning all the photographs, I settled for one Molly Gomes of Goa. It was her second letter following receipt of my photograph that helped me make up my mind. It read:
Hi, handsome! this is Molly Gomes again. You wanted to know more about me. Here it is! I’m a trained nurse specializing in physiotherapy. I use massage to treat people who have suffered partial paralysis or have limb ailments. During the tourist season I’m much in demand in five star hotels. I was married once to a foreigner. He was no good at anything; all he wanted was a massage every day. So I chucked him up after a few days. Life is too short to be wasted on a fellow who is good at nothing. Don’t you agree? I can speak Konkani, English & Portuguese. My Hindi is not so good. Although a Catholic I have no hangups about religion. I go to church only to please my parents and relations. I tell them that all religions teach you to be good and honest, so what’s the big deal about being Christian, Hindu, Muslim or Parsee! I’m also a good cook—I can make spicy Goan curries, prawns, crabs, lobsters & fish. I love music & dancing. I have a cheerful disposition. You’ll find me good company. Any more you want to know about me, don’t hesitate to ask.’
Yours lovingly,
Molly.
From her photograph I could make out that she was short, stocky and dark. She had a broad smile showing a row of pearly white teeth. A bright scarlet hibiscus flower was stuck in her black curly hair.
Why not? I asked myself and wrote back inviting Molly Gomes over. I enclosed an open air ticket—Goa-Delhi-Goa—and suggested that as soon as the peak-tourist season was over, she could avail of my invitation. By the end of January, the tourist traffic from Europe, America and Australia to Goa begins to taper off. Goa becomes oppressively warm for white skins. It was coming to the end of January. Winter was giving way to spring and Delhi was at its colourful best. It was pleasantly cool; every park, every garden and roundabout was a riot of flowers. The perfect time to start an easy, uncomplicated relationship.
Molly did not waste any time. Three days after I had mailed my letter came her reply by telegram: ‘Arriving 1 st Feb I.A. flight 804. Meet at airport. Love. Molly.’
I talked to my servants. A lady doctor from Goa was coming to stay with me for a few weeks, I told them. She spoke no Hindustani. They were to look after her needs when I was away in office. And not gossip about her with other servants. By now they took a more compassionate view of their master’s youthful compulsions and regretted having talked carelessly about Sarojini. I had the guest room done up, put a buff envelope containing Rs 10,000 in cash under the pillow and locked the room. Satisfied with the arrangements, I went to fetch my guest from the airport.
The flight from Goa was on time. I saw the passengers stream in from the entrance gate, pick up hand trolleys and take their positions around the luggage conveyor belt. I had no difficulty in recognizing Molly Gomes. She was as her photograph showed her: short, stocky, muscular, skin the colour of cinnamon. She was wearing a red T-shirt and blue denims and had a large sling bag on her. She looked at the crowd waiting to receive arriving passengers. She could not spot me. I did not wave to her lest I be mistaken.
The conveyor belt began to move—one suitcase after another, holdalls and wooden crates bobbed along to be grabbed by their owners. I saw Molly pick up two suitcases and load them on her trolley. As she handed over her baggage tickets to the airport official I stepped forward to take the trolley from her. ‘Hi, there!’ she greeted me loudly. ‘I was scared you wouldn’t be here to receive me. Where would I go?’
‘Not to worry. You are in safe hands,’ I replied shaking her hand. ‘Mohan Kumar at your service.’ She had a strong grip, as one would expect in a professional masseuse.
‘Who else could it be? You look exactly like your picture, only taller and handsomer.’
‘Thanks.’
I pushed the trolley through phalanxes of cab drivers holding placards with the names of people they were to meet. We got to my car in the parking lot, I put her suitcases in the boot, opened the front door for her and lowered the window. I got into the driver’s seat.
‘Aren’t you going to kiss me?’ she asked.
‘Sure!’ I leant over and kissed her on her lips. ‘Plenty of time for that,’ I assured her patting her on her cheek.
‘By Jove its cold,’ she said rolling up the glass. ‘After Goa this is like the Arctic.’
I turned up my window pane as well. She kept looking at the scenery. ‘Much greener than Goa,’ she remarked. ‘There we have only brown rock, huge wild cashew, palm and coconut trees. Hardly any grass. You have more trees here than I expected, and lots of bushes.’ On an impulse I took a detour through West End. She gasped at the spread of flowers on either side of the road. ‘This is beautiful!’ she said. ‘I know I’m going to like this city. You have flowers in your garden?’
‘Not many,’ I replied. ‘A lawn in front with a hedge around it. A couple of pine trees. I don’t get much time to look after my garden. A fellow comes once a week to mow the grass and water the lawn.’
We hit the Delhi-Mathura road. Three cars running alongside on each side of the dual highway, scores of phut phuts, three wheelers weaving in and out of the lanes of cars, long halts at traffic signals, petrol fumes making the air thick and grey. ‘This is mad! How can you live in this noise and foul air?’ she asked. Suddenly she did not like the city, and who could blame her.
‘We’ve got used to it. Some areas of Delhi are worse than this.’ At the Ashram crossing I turned into Maharani Bagh. There was less noise, fewer cars, larger bungalows with gardens. I turned towards my house. ‘Remember, to the servants you are Doctor Gomes. And no kissing and cuddling in front of them.’
‘Right, boss,’ she said saluting me. ‘From now on I’m a respectable lady doctor from Goa. You must be the world’s greatest humbug.’
‘That I am,’ I replied. I knew I was going to like this natty little chatterbox.
The servants were waiting for us. They opened the iron gates of Ranjit Villa to let in the car. I introduced Molly to my cook and bearer. She shook hands with both and in a nasal Yankee accent said, ‘I’m happy to make your acquaintance.’ They took her cases to the guest room. Molly followed me upstairs. I showed her round the upper floor and took her to her room. An electric heater glowed red. The room was warm. Extra blankets had been put on her bed.
‘You unpack and rest for a while. If you want to have a bath there’s running hot water in the taps. I’ll catch up with my office work. The bar opens at six-thirty.’
I went down to my study and rang up Vimla Sharma for a report of what had gone on in the afternoon. I told her not to send me any letters that evening. I would deal with them the next day.
I had a fire lit in the sitting room. Thick logs with rock-coal heaped on them. Drinks were laid out. I put on the stereo. Strauss’ waltzes. I could not think of anything more romantic.
I went to check on Molly. The door to her room was shut. As I went down the stairs and back to the sitting room, I could hear her singing. Of all things, a popular Hindi film song:
Jab Jab bahaar aayie
Aur phool muskaraaye
Mujhe tum yaad aaye
(Whenever came spring
And flowers began to smile
I thought of you awhile)
It was a beautiful song, though she sang it very badly. But she was clearly enjoying herself, and that made me feel warm and contented. Exactly at 6.30 p.m. she joined me in the sitting room. She was dressed in a golden yellow blouse and a long grey skirt. She wore a pearl necklace, pearl studs in her ears and a thin gold chain round her right ankle. She was carrying two bottles and a large packet of cashew nuts. ‘These are for you,’ she said handing the bottles to me. ‘The finest feni from Goa, distilled at home by my father. One cashew, one coconut. You like feni?’
‘I’ve never tasted it. I’m told it is like firewater.’
‘Try some. It’s pure, no additives. And these cashew nuts will have to be roasted. This is all that Goa produces; so I got some for you.’
‘Thanks. What about a drink? Scotch, beer, gin, sherry or wine?’
‘You keep all that in stock? I can see you’re a rich, rich man. And what’s that money doing under my pillow?’
‘Not rich, rich but well-off. The money is advance payment for my part of the deal.’
‘Don’t make it so commercial. I’ve come to you for the romance I’ve missed in my life, not for money.’
‘You can have both,’ I said as I gave her a peck on her cheek. ‘So what’s your poison?’
‘I’ll have what you have.’
I poured out two large whiskys with soda and ice and handed one to her. She took the armchair by the fireplace.
‘Now tell me what you do for a living,’ I asked.
‘I told you in my letter, I am a masseuse. During the tourist season I do at least a dozen massages a day. Apart from the hundred and fifty rupees I charge, I get lots of tips. I help to keep the home fires burning.’
‘Is it only women you massage or men as well?’
‘Mostly women. Sometimes old men as well. I avoid massaging young men; they get ideas in their heads and want to take liberties with me. I tick them off roundly—“Mister, this is not Bangkok or Tokyo where you can have a woman for a massage and a fuck.” I don’t mind old men. Occasionally one will grab my hand and put it on his sorry-looking ancient dick. “Mister,” I ask him, “you want me to massage this as well? It has no life left in it,” and I shake the limp little thing to show the oldie what I mean.’ She laughed and added, ‘Many plead with me! “Shake it a little more and it will come alive.” I tell them, “I can shake it till kingdom come and nothing will happen to it,” and they look at me as if I’ve kicked them in the teeth. Can you believe it, the same old fogeys ask me to massage them again and again, go through the same drill and give me large tips!’
‘You won’t have that problem with me.’
‘I hope not. Or I’ll take the next plane back home.’
She reminded me of Jessica Browne; no hang-ups about anything.
In honour of ‘Dr’ Gomes my Mug cook had prepared Goan prawn curry and rice. I opened a bottle of Grover’s white wine. We had our dinner by the fireside. Molly complimented the cook. ‘Better Goan food than I have at home,’ she said. The Mug had indeed excelled himself. After caramel custard, we had coffee and cognac. The bearer cleared the plates. I saw the servants out and latched the back door. I went out into the lawn and performed my ritual of urinating against the hedges. It was chilly. I started to shiver. I quickly went indoors to be near the fireplace. I put another couple of logs in the fire and stood before it, warming my hands.
‘What do you do after dinner?’ she asked.
‘I usually smoke a cigar before going to bed, but I’m not in the mood tonight.’
‘It’s so much nicer here than in the bedroom. More comfy, more cheerful. Let’s stay here till the fire burns out.’
‘As you like. It will keep going for quite some time.’
We ran out of conversation. Molly got up from her armchair and came over to me. Without another word she slipped her blouse over her head and undid her bra. Two beautiful rounded breasts with black nipples emerged. She rested her arms on my shoulders and put up her mouth. I glued my lips to hers and fondled her breasts with my warm hands. She unbuckled her skirt and let it drop to the ground, then undid my belt, pulled down my trousers and felt my penis. Like the other women her first reaction was of awe and wonder. ‘Man, I’ve never seen anything of this size before. And believe me I’ve seen quite a few.’
This woman gave me a lot of confidence. I was in no hurry to get on with the act. We lay down on the carpet and fondled each other. She certainly was a skilled masseuse. She nibbled the lobes of my ears, pressed her thumbs into the back of my shoulders, ran her fingers over my belly, middle, thighs and shins, down to my feet. She rubbed my toes and my insteps. Not a part of my body did she leave untouched. It was relaxing, soothing. ‘If you go on like this, I’ll fall asleep,’ I murmured.’ She came up over me, kissed me passionately and said, ‘Darling, you go to sleep, I’ll do all the love-making.’
Indeed! She effortlessly slipped my organ into her vagina. ‘Now we can go to sleep as we are.’ She pretended to doze off. Only the twitching and milking of my organ assured me she was wide awake. It was blissful; it was prolonged. We took turns being on top of each other. We went on for an hour before I rolled over, bringing her under me and asked, ‘Are you ready?’
She nodded and replied, ‘I’ve been ready for a long time.’
I began to pump into her. She crossed her legs behind my back and heaved up each time I plunged down. ‘Harder!’ she cried. ‘For God’s sake, don’t stop!’ she screamed. I put all I had into her. She slapped the carpet with both her hands and cried loudly, ‘Oh God, this is heaven heaven heaven—’
We climaxed together. Her legs loosened their grip on me. She lay back utterly exhausted. Nothing in life gives a greater sense of fulfilment than the satisfying coupling of male and female.
We lay side by side for a long time before she said, ‘Don’t move. I’ll be back in a jiffy.’
She went to her bedroom, stark naked as she was. She came back with a towel soaked in hot water. She towelled my penis and thighs with loving care and wiped away drops of semen and vaginal fluid. With another end of the same towel she rubbed my anus and the cleft between my buttocks. She threw the towel aside and lay down beside me.
‘That was nice, wasn’t it?’
‘The best I’ve ever had,’ I acknowledged truthfully. ‘You are an artist. You deserve a summa cum laude for specialization in sex.’
‘What’s summa cum, whatever it is? Doesn’t sound very right to me!’
I told her.
‘And you? How many summa cums did you get in America?’
‘Only one, in computer sciences. Only pluses from the women.’
‘Did you have lots of them?’
‘Quite a few. And you? Lots of men?’
‘Not lots but some. I live in a strict Catholic society. It was while working in five star hotels that I occasionally agreed to have sex with some foreigners. I didn’t enjoy it very much. I felt dirty at first when they pressed dollar bills into my hands after they had finished, but after a while it seemed quite normal; I didn’t feel like a whore. Nothing like being made love to by you, though. Don’t you use condoms?’
‘I do, but I forgot to use one tonight, I’m sorry.’
‘What if I get pregnant? I wouldn’t mind having your baby, but what will people back home say? They’ll call me a slut. Even the priest of our church will not forgive me. And you won’t marry me.’
‘Why don’t you douche yourself?’
‘Don’t worry, sweetheart!’ she said patting my cheek. ‘I’m on the pill and I will be as long as I’m with you. It’s not much fun with a condom.’
I kept feeding the fire. We spent the night on the carpet. We made love three times.
Molly shook me awake. It was broad daylight. ‘Somebody’s banging on the back door,’ she said as she picked up her clothes.
‘It must be the servants. By God, I’ve overslept.’ As she ran to her bedroom I got into my dressing gown and hurried downstairs to let the servants in. ‘I went to bed very late,’ I said by way of explanation. ‘I’ll have my morning tea in bed, give memsahib hers in her room.’
I ran up and unmade my bed to make it look as if it had been slept in. I knocked on Molly’s door and shouted, ‘Morning tea. You want it in bed or will you join me?’
‘I’ll be out in a second.’ When she came out, she had washed her face and was full of pep, singing, ‘O what a lovely morning, O what a lovely day.’ She greeted the bearer and the cook. She beamed a mischievous smile at me and asked, ‘And how are we this morning? Slept well?’
‘Sleep of the just. Only fucked out.’
‘Mustn’t use bad language,’ she admonished, raising her index finger like a school marm. ‘Say thank you ma’am for a very pleasant evening. And what’s the drill for the day?’
‘I’ll be off to my office in an hour. The driver will bring the car back for you. His name is Jivan Ram. He’ll take you round the city or any place you want to visit; shopping centres, monuments, museums, picture galleries. He should pick me up from the office around six.’
‘You know what? I’d like to go with your cook to get things for dinner. This evening I’ll cook for you.’
I spent the day in the office. My mind was not on my work. I kept going over the night’s love-making with Molly Gomes. I kept yawning and wasn’t paying attention to what my staff had to say. At lunch break I ordered soup and a sandwich. I told Vimla Sharma not to put through any calls or let anyone in till I asked her to do so. I stretched out on the sofa and fell fast asleep. I had three hours of deep slumber. I washed my face and rang for tea. I was much refreshed and went through the correspondence, signed letters I had dictated. By six o’clock I had cleared my desk and was ready to go home.
Molly was upstairs. As I went up, I heard loud music being played on my stereo with Molly’s contralto in full flow. It was some kind of opera. It was not one of my cassettes, I had’nt got to the stage of appreciating operatic music. Molly heard my footsteps, toned down the music and greeted me from the top of the stairs. She bowed low and exclaimed, ‘Welcome home, Mr Kumar! I trust you had a good day at the office?’ She courtesied again and asked, ‘How do you like my new get up? I bought it this morning.’
She was dressed in a salwar-kameez with a bright red dupatta thrown about her shoulders and a red bindi on her forehead. ‘I thought instead of looking like a kaala Catholic memsahib from Goa, I should look like a Punjabi Hindu shrimati when I’m in the company of Shri Mohan Kumar.’
‘It looks very nice on you,’ I replied. ‘I expect anything you wear looks nice on you. You have the right kind of figure.’
‘O thank you, sir,’ she replied and again courtesied to me. ‘Your cook took me to some place called INA Market. Just about everything in the world was available. We examined lots of fish; rohu, salmon, pomfret, hilsa. Also lobsters, shrimps, prawns. I settled for crab. And I have cooked it with my own dainty hands—Goan style, with a little wine. Hope you’ll like it.’
I took off my coat, tie and shoes, slipped on a woollen dressing gown and slippers. I asked the bearer to light a fire in the sitting room and put out the drinks.
‘What else did you do besides shopping and cooking?’
‘Slept—three hours, may be four. You knocked the hell out of me last night.’
I was pleased to hear that. ‘Me too,’ I replied. ‘I slept on the office couch all afternoon.’
‘Learn a lesson from that, dear sir. Like anything else, fucking should also be done in moderation,’ she said. ‘In any case I have the curse on me. I’m relieved you did not make me pregnant. So no messing with me for the next four days—unless you want a messy job.’
I was relieved. I did not want her to think I could keep up the pace of the first night every day. ‘Okay,’ I replied. ‘A four-day enforced holiday from sex. You get over your period, I’ll replenish my stock of semen. Then we’ll regulate our love-making. Not too much, not too little.’
Molly had cooked a wonderful meal: the mulligatawny soup was as peppery and hot as it should be, crab as succulent as I had ever tasted it, caramel custard (which we Indians are stuck on because it was the dessert of the Raj days) tastier than that made in the States or in England. I complimented her. ‘You seem to be good at everything.’
‘What exactly do you mean by everything? We are only talking about food here,’ she said with a laugh.
‘By everything I mean everything—including you know what.’
‘I’m not dense. I also stitch my own clothes and I can mend a fuse. Living all by myself on a limited budget I have to do everything myself.’
We sat by the fire for a long time. She chatted away merrily about her life in Goa, her parents and brothers, nephews and nieces—all with Portuguese names: De Souza, De Mello, De Sa, Miranda, Almeida and so on. You would have thought Goa is entirely Portuguese Catholic. ‘As a matter of fact, Hindus outnumber us,’ she informed me. ‘Also much richer than us Catholics; millionaires like Salgaokar, Chowgule, Dempos and a dozen others are Hindus. Rich, rich, rich. Big, big houses but no style, no class, no fun. We enjoy life: drink, dance, sing, and eat well. They just make money, worship the tulsi plant and visit the Mangesh temple on holidays. Though they outnumber us we have many more cathedrals than they have temples. Christians attend mass more regularly than Hindus do puja in their temples. We look down on Hindus and don’t intermarry with them.’
‘So you look down on me and will never marry me because I’m a Hindu.’
‘Don’t be silly! I didn’t mean you! You are different.’ She leant across and kissed me on my nose.
Since Molly was out of action and we had to do more talking, I asked her casually, ‘Your name sounds more English than Goan or Portuguese. How’s that?
‘It’s a short name they gave me when I joined the nursery class of a convent run by Irish nuns. At birth I was christened with a name a yard long—Maria Manuela Francesca Jose de Piedade Philomena Gomes. Try saying that in one go and you’ll be out of breath. Molly is short and jolly. I like the name. Will also go nicely with yours if you decide to make an honest woman of me. Senora Molly Mohan Kumar. What do you think?’
I did not want to pursue that line of thought. Much as I was infatuated with Molly, our only bonding was based on lust, and lust loses its frenetic pace as soon as the partners slip wedding rings on each other’s fingers. Molly sensed my unease and said with a light laugh, ‘Not to worry, love, I have no desire to change my name from Gomes to Kumar.’
After a pause and a sip of Scotch I dared to ask her the question which had been uppermost in my mind: ‘How old were you, Molly, when you lost your virginity?’
She was, as usual, sitting on the carpet at my feet. She looked up, transfixed me with her large eyes and snapped, ‘Why do you want to know? If you tell me how and when you lost yours, I might tell you when I was deflowered and by whom.’
‘Okay,’ I said. I had no problems talking about my sex life, and if it made her less angry about having to talk about her own, so much the better.
It turned out to be a pleasant evening, as we recounted our past. I told her about Jessica Browne.
‘What did she look like?’ interrupted Molly.
‘Complexion much like yours, coffee and cream. A lot taller, athletic. She was a tennis champion. Full of beans …’
Molly interrupted me again. ‘Did she make the first move or you?’
‘She did. We’d been going out for some days, holding hands and kissing. One evening she asked me to have a drink in her digs. We’d had a drink each when I complimented her on her figure. “Want to see what I really look like?” she asked, and before I could say yes, took off all her clothes and stood stark naked before me. She slowly turned around to show me her behind as well. I had never seen a naked woman before. I tried to grab her in my arms but she pushed me back and said I couldn’t till she’d seen what I had hidden behind my clothes. I took off my clothes, and she gasped at the sight of my tool—she didn’t notice my flat stomach or my broad chest. Nothing, just this!’ I made a face and slapped my crotch. Molly giggled and patted my member lovingly. It was fully roused and straining against the fabric of my trousers.
‘Did you make love?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
‘How many times?’
‘All through the night. Four times, I think, with short intervals. I was twenty, she was a year older. But enough! Now you tell me about your first time.’
‘Oh, all right,’ she relented. ‘I was fourteen, still at school. Of course, I knew the difference between boys and girls. I had many male cousins and even as children we used to show each other what we had between our thighs. The boys were great show offs. They’d show us how far they could pee. Once in a while they’d show us their erections and boast how they could “puncture” our pussies with them ramrods. I could not wait for that to happen—a dirty little girl I was, you see. But it wasn’t one of those boys who finally did it to me. It was my own uncle, my mother’s younger brother, a good twenty years older than me. Beast! Took advantage of poor, innocent me.’ She laughed as she said this, but it was a mirthless laugh. ‘Anyway, it happened one afternoon when he came to call on my parents and they were not at home. I was still in my school uniform—short frock which ended above my knees, barely covering my thighs. He kissed me, as he always did, but this time on my lips. He sat down on the sofa, pulled me onto his lap and started kissing the back of my neck and my ears. I could feel his prick getting stiff and large against my bum. He began to fondle my breasts, then squeeze them roughly. He was all out of breath. I knew he was up to no good and should have stopped him. But I was pretty worked up too by now and let him go on. He put me on the sofa, pushed my frock up and pulled my panties down roughly.
‘Then he fumbled with his trouser buttons, managed to get his fat dick out and shoved it in me, all in one go. He was an impatient man. It hurt and I screamed in agony. He pulled out after a few violent thrusts and spilt all his gooey stuff on my thighs. He made me promise I wouldn’t tell my parents, or they’d kill us both. Of course I didn’t tell them. Dirty little girl, as I told you. I didn’t even tell the padre at confession. I told nobody. You’re the first person.’
‘Couldn’t have been much fun,’ I said. ‘When did you first have sex that you enjoyed?’
‘Enough for one evening,’ she replied. ‘When you tell me about your other women, I’ll tell you of the men in my life.’
The fire died down. I went downstairs to urinate in the garden (I noticed I could still ‘pee’ quite far) and bolt the doors. I came up. Molly had her arms outstretched above her head and was yawning with her mouth wide open. I tickled her armpits and hoisted her off the ground. She squirmed with unconcealed delight and kicked her legs in the air. I took her to her room and dropped her on the bed. I kissed her on the lips and said, ‘Good night, and sleep well. Keep the door open, just in case I change my mind. I’ll keep mine open in case you get frightened being alone in the dark and want to cuddle up with me.’
That night we slept in our respective beds. I was up at my usual hour to let the servants in. I had my morning tea alone as Molly was not in the habit of taking bed tea, then read the papers. I was reading my office files when she came out. She sensed I did not want to be disturbed and quietly went back to her room.
It was odd that though I had no pressing desire to have sex, I wanted Molly to be around. I knew sooner or later people would begin to gossip about us. Molly was far from her home, so it would not affect her. Delhi was the capital city of gossipmongers and my new lady friend would provide plenty of fodder for my nosey friends. I decided to ignore them and take Molly out with me wherever I went. Whose life was it anyhow?
On some excuse or the other I started leaving the office an hour earlier than my usual time. I would send Jiwan Ram off and come home to take Molly out for a drive. The first evening she asked, ‘Aren’t you earlier then usual?’
‘I thought I’d show you some of our parks. They are at their best this time of the year—full of flowers. They’ll be gone in a few days.’
She got into her grey skirt and walking shoes. I took the route from India Gate through Rajpath upto Rashtrapati Bhavan, then the side road to the Ridge and on to Buddha Jayanti Park. There were lots of cars and scooters in the car park. As we entered the garden we were welcomed by masses of bright red salvias on either side of the pathway. Then there were beds of violets and cosmos. I did not know much about flowers, nor do I now, but I liked going to Buddha Jayanti because it was a large spread of undulating lawns and clusters of the same kind of flowers in every bed. It also had trees planted by visiting dignitaries with plaques bearing their names and dates of planting. We walked hand in hand down the leaf strewn paths that run from one end of the Ridge to the other through a forest of flame trees: the flame tree in flower is a sight for the gods.
Molly knew a lot more about the flowers and trees than I did and loved showing off her knowledge. After an hour of strolling around she turned to me and said, ‘I’m tired. I shouldn’t be doing so much walking when I have the curse on me. I feel damp and dirty inside. I need to change my pad.’ We went to the restaurant in the park. She went to the bathroom to clean herself and change her sanitary pad. By the time she came out the waiter had laid tea on the table. I had ordered plates of samosas and patties. I knew she had a healthy appetite.
I nibbled at a samosa; Molly polished off the rest. The sun went over the ridge and a deep shadow spread over the lawns and flower beds. People began to leave as it had also became chilly. ‘Time to go home,’ I told Molly as I paid the bill.
We got back to our car. ‘Are the other Delhi parks like this one?’ she asked as I took the homeward route.
‘Not as large but equally beautiful. Tomorrow I’ll show you the Lodhi Gardens. There are several beautiful monuments there.’
The next evening I again left office an hour earlier and took Molly to the Lodhi Gardens. I parked the car near the side entrance of the India International Centre and we entered the park through the turnpike facing the ancient mosque with a dome shaped exactly like a young woman’s bosom with a nipple on top. Bauhinias were in flower; choryzias were shedding their petals. This time I told her gently, ‘Molly, no holding hands here. There are likely to be people who recognize me and they’ll be curious to know who my lady friend is!’
‘Right, boss, no holding hands. Respectable distance will be maintained.’
We went across the park to the tomb of Mohammed Shah Tughlak, to the green house and then back, round Sikandar Lodhi’s fortified mausoleum and on to the India International Centre for tea. We stopped for a while by the lily pond. Six blue water lilies bloomed amidst a lot of flat brown leaves. Every one who came to the Centre first paid homage to the lilies. One chap who had the audacity to piss in the pond in broad daylight was promptly expelled and his membership cancelled.
I ordered tea and cakes and found a table for two. The place filled up. A few people raised their hands in greeting. A fellow I knew came up to our table. ‘Long time no see,’ he said eyeing Molly. I knew the bugger was more curious to know who she was than why I had not been around for so long. I introduced her. ‘This is Dr Gomes. She’s on a short visit to Delhi.’
‘Nice to meet you,’ said Molly taking his hand.
‘The pleasure is entirely mine,’ said the nosey bastard. ‘And where have you come from?’
Before she could answer, I interjected, ‘Doctor Gomes is from Bombay. She’s staying with friends in Delhi.’ The fellow wouldn’t move, so I decided to be rude and shake him off. ‘See you sometime,’ I said and turned to Molly.
He took the hint and returned to his table.
Back in the car, Molly said to me: ‘You’re as straight faced a liar as I’ve ever met. Dr Gomes from Bombay staying with friends in Delhi! Indeed! Only I happen to be Molly, the masseuse from Goa, staying with Mohan Kumar who wants a new woman to fuck every two days.’
‘Not days but months,’ I said leaning across and kissing her on the ear. ‘And you perhaps for many years. You are just the kind of woman I’ve been looking for.’
‘Thanks a million.’
She switched on the car stereo. I had cassettes of both Eastern and Western music. She put on Beethoven’s Emperor concerto at full blast. For a change she did not want to talk but listen in silence and perhaps ponder over what she had let herself in for. I left her to her thoughts. Perhaps I had hurt her feelings by lying about her. What else could I have done? I would try to explain it to her later.
When we reached home she ran up the stairs ahead of me and went straight to the kitchen to see how the dinner was coming. With the Mug cook’s broken Bengali-English and her more than broken Hindi, they managed to say a lot to each other. She even managed a dialogue with the bearer in the style of the Ango-Indian memsahibs of Hindi films. In two days she had won the hearts of my servants. And mine.
She joined me at the fireside. I poured out drinks. ‘How did you like Lodhi Gardens?’ I asked to get her talking again.
‘Beautiful! We don’t have anything like it in Goa. No parks, only old Portuguese forts and cathedrals,’ she said screwing up her face. ‘But we have beautiful beaches—dozens of them, and a clean, warm sea. You can lie on the sand soaking in the sun. That’s what most foreigners come to Goa for. Our spoilsport police don’t allow them to expose themselves in public, so they lie stark naked on the hotel lawns, on their backs and then on their stomachs, roasting themselves like we roast chapatties. Their white skins can’t take too much sun, so they smear all kinds of lotions to turn brown without getting sunburnt. You can tell who has exposed himself or herself completely and who hasn’t. Those who have, turn brown all over; those who covered their boobs and pubes have bands of pale flesh on their breasts and bums. They look funny, like zebras,’ she laughed. ‘You don’t get much sun in your house, only in the garden. You should do some sun-bathing. It’s very good for your health.’
‘I have a terraced roof with low walls all round. At times I go up to do surya namaskar. On winter days I occasionally take up a canvas chair and sit in it for an hour or two.’
‘Not good enough,’ she said firmly. ‘Get a thick mattress with a pillow. And put a door with a bolt on the outside so you can strip yourself and let every part of your body be kissed by the sun’s rays.’
It was an attractive idea she had put in my head. I decided to get a carpenter to put a latch on the outer side of the door which opened out to the roof. And instead of one I would get the servants to put two rexine mattresses there. My imagination began to run riot about what Molly and I could do on the roof. The prospect cheered me up.
‘What are you smiling about?’ Molly asked.
‘What—nothing,’ I replied.
‘You were thinking dirty thoughts. I can tell by the look on your face, naughty boy!’
‘Never mind,’ I laughed and changed the subject: ‘What did you think of the India International Centre? It’s the most sought after club in Delhi. Good library, good restaurants, reasonable accommodation at reasonable rates. Something is always going on there in the evening: dance and music recitals, lectures, foreign films. I know many retired people who spend their entire day in the Centre.’
‘It’s no fun being at places where everyone knows everyone else. They want to know who a member has brought with him,’ she said. ‘Like that nosey friend of yours.’
‘That’s true of all clubs. A newcomer rouses curiosity. Next time I’ll take you to the pub. It’s a small, cosy place. Tipplers are too involved with tippling to bother about others.’
Molly was mollified. She slipped a disc of dance music into the stereo system. It was a tango. ‘Shall we dance?’ she asked extending her arms towards me. ‘This is my favourite tango—”Jealousy”.’
‘I haven’t danced much and I’m clumsy on my feet. You teach me.’
I got up and put my left arm around her shoulder. She had to guide me. I stepped on her toes a couple of times. She pushed me back on my chair and went through the steps all by herself, turning and twisting, long steps, short steps, till the music was over.
‘I thought you were good at everything,’ she said collapsing into her chair. ‘You can’t dance for nuts. I’ll teach you a few steps: waltz, fox trot, quick step and that sort of old stuff, then some rock-n-roll, twist and modern stuff. Didn’t any of your American women teach you how to dance?’
‘There’s not much of that on American campuses. Those interested go to dancing joints.’
‘We Goans have it in our blood; everyone knows how to sing and dance. You should come over during Christmas or carnival time. The taverns are full, feni flows like the Zuari river, couples spend nights on the beaches making love … There’s no place on earth like Goa.’
Her cheerfulness had returned. She chatted away during dinner. After dinner we sat in front of the fire; I on the armchair, she on the carpet, resting her head between my legs. We told each other with absolute candour about the affairs we had had. Hers were almost entirely with the whites she met in the health club or gave massages to in their rooms.
‘I can’t afford to sleep around with Goans. It would soon get around and I’d be branded a slut. With foreigners there’s no such danger. And although they paid me, I did not feel I was whoring because there was no talk of money beforehand, no bargaining. Everyone gave me a tip after a massage. If I gave them more than a massage, the tips were not a few hundred rupees but a few thousand—you can’t let that kind of easy money go. But my motto is: Have fun with the whites, marry only a Goan. Did you ever pay for sex?’
‘Never,’ I replied. ‘On the contrary many women gave me expensive presents after I had bedded them.’
‘I say, you’re special! You should have been a gigolo, then. I expect with a thing that size you’d have women willing to pay you a fortune to put it inside them,’ she laughed. ‘And I get it for free—get paid for it in fact, imagine! Oh, but of course it isn’t sex that you’re paying me for. You never pay for sex, do you?’
She was pulling my leg, but I enjoyed it. I enjoyed everything about that evening. Far from resenting what the other had done, we had become closer after our confessions. We looked forward to getting even closer.
I played with her hair till the fire died out. ‘I know it’s not the right time for you to be made love to,’ I said standing up, ‘but can’t we be in the same bed to keep each other warm? The nights are frosty and cold.’
‘I was thinking about the same,’ she replied. ‘But no jiggery-pokery. Yours or mine?’
‘I prefer mine. I get up early to let in the servants. I can lift you bodily and put you in your bed. You can sleep late.’
She nodded her head.
I went down to do my usual business in the garden and lock the doors. When I came up Molly was already lying in my bed. I brushed my teeth, changed into my night clothes and slipped in beside her. I took her in my arms and cupped her breasts in my hands. She pushed herself closer in my embrace and mumbled, ‘Thus far, no further.’
We spent the night in each other’s arms, enveloped in the warmth of our bodies. When two bodies have settled their equation, they can derive as much pleasure from simple physical contact with each other as they can from sexual intercourse. When I got up in the morning, she was still fast asleep. I went into the kitchen and put the kettle on the gas fire. I got out two rubber hot water bottles from my almirah and filled them up with boiling water, went up and put them in her bed to take the chill out of it. A few minutes later I picked her up, plonked her in her warm bed and covered her with an eiderdown. She murmured, briefly disturbed, then turned round and was back in her dreamland. I went down to unlock the doors and was back in my bed before the servants arrived.
I had my morning tea, read the papers, bathed, dressed for work. I had my breakfast alone. I was smoking my cigar when Molly emerged from her bedroom rubbing her eyes, stretching her arms above her head and yawning. ‘Good Lord! What time is it?’
I glanced at my watch and told her, ‘Eight-thirty. I’ll be leaving in a short while. It’s Saturday, half day at work, so I’ll be back home for lunch. I can take you out shopping in the afternoon. You should buy a few more pairs of salwar-kameez if you mean to wear them when we go out, or perhaps a few saris.’
‘Will you believe me when I say I’ve never worn a sari? I don’t know how to. Anyhow, it’s a clumsy dress. A working woman who has to jump in and out of crowded buses, ride scooters or cycles and work in massage parlours can’t afford to have all that drapery round her person. Salwar-kameez is more practical, better than a skirt, more elegant than jeans.’
‘Okay, I’ll take you to ready-made salwar-kameez shops.’
Before leaving the office that afternoon I cashed a self cheque as I did not want to use my credit card to pay for women’s clothing. I was back home in time for lunch. Again it was Molly’s cooking. A very sensible menu, light and tasty. Clam chowder followed by pomfret with mayonnaise sauce. No dessert.
Two hours later we set out on our shopping expedition. First South Extension market, then Janpath, and finally the state emporia with dresses and handicrafts, supposedly genuine, from the different states of India. Besides four pairs of salwar-kameez Molly bought a lot of other things like blouse pieces and cosmetics. I picked up two boxes of Havana cigars from M R Stores. I blew up a lot of cash. We went to Gaylords to have tea. In between munching sandwiches and hot pakoras she put her hand on mine and asked, ‘Are you as generous with all your women?’
‘If they are generous with me, I’m generous with them. So far you’ve been the queen of generosity so I grudge you nothing.’
She pondered over what I had said, then resumed attacking the sandwiches and pakoras till none were left on the plates. ‘I’d like a smoke,’ she said. ‘Do you have a cigarette on you?’
‘I switched to cigars some years ago—much nicer. I’ll get you a packet. What kind?’
‘Any—Goldflake, Charminar. I can’t tell the difference. When I’m tired, I like a smoke.’
I gave the waiter a twenty-rupee note to get me a packet from the vendors outside. She lit her cigarette, inhaled and sent the smoke streaming out of her nostrils. ‘When I have the curse on me, I tire quickly,’ she said, fanning the thick curls of smoke away from my face. ‘For two days I bleed like a pig being slaughtered. On the third day it’s much less. By tomorrow I should be right as rain. And at your service.’
She winked at me just to make sure I had understood.
By the time we came out of the restaurant Connaught Circus was bathed in grey twilight. Drowning the roar of traffic was the screeching of thousands of parakeets and mynahs settling down in trees for the night. As usual there was heavy traffic on the road leading to Maharani Bagh. It took us almost forty minutes of bumper to bumper driving to reach home.
There was a log fire in the sitting room. Drinks had been laid out. After the hours of shopping even I felt tired. I took a hot shower, got into my night clothes, woollen dressing gown and slippers. Molly did the same. When she emerged from her room, she looked fresh and cheerful. She brought parcels of her shopping with her and spread out the pairs of salwar-kameez she on the carpet. ‘Which do you like best?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know; they all look nice to me.’
She picked up the kameezes in turn and held them against her chest, turned sideways to examine herself over and over again. She folded each item carefully and took them back to her room. I poured her a drink. She put on the stereo when she returned, this time a Tchaikovsky waltz. ‘Too tired to dance,’ she announced, ‘but music goes nicely with booze.’
We drank, listened to music and chatted. We had our dinner by the fire.
‘Can we sleep together again?’ she asked. ‘I’m still not quite clean, by tomorrow morning it should be over. Messy business! Will you tell me why God put this curse on women and not men? Seems so unfair.’
‘I haven’t a clue. I’m told though men don’t menstruate they have a menopause when they turn fifty. Some begin to behave very oddly. They have a final bout of womanizing, pawing young girls, using bawdy language or exposing themselves. Others turn religious and waste hours in pilgrimages and prayer.’
‘Yes, that’s true!’ agreed Molly. ‘Women at least know that after they’ve had their menopause, they can’t have children. Even their appetite for sex wanes. But men seem to get randier. Even if they can’t get their peckers upright and hard they try to poke them into women. Have you seen a fifty-plus man squirming with lust? It’s the saddest sight. So disgusting! They make such fools of themselves. I feel sorry for old men. They never learn to leave their limp old dicks in peace.’ She laughed uproariously. ‘Now to bed. Yours, I expect? And nothing doing this night as well. Just cuddle and go to sleep.’
It was the same as the night before. We snuggled into each other, kicked the hot water bottles out of the bed and slept with the warmth of our bodies.
It was Sunday. No office. I slept longer than usual. I picked up Molly, carried her to her room and tucked her into her own bed. ‘Sleep as late as you like. It’s Sunday. It will be a late breakfast—early brunch. Take your own time.’
She mumbled something I couldn’t make out and turned over and went back to sleep.
I opened the doors, picked up the Sunday papers lying in a heap by the gate and went back to my room. I switched on the electric radiator and got back into bed to read the papers. The bearer brought me tea. In half an hour I had run through the six papers and their colour supplements. There was nothing much to read. I went up to the roof to check the arrangements. The two rexine mattresses were lying next to each other, drenched in dew. I walked round the roof. It was higher than the roofs of the other houses. I could see my neighbours, they could not see me. The rooftops were a forest of TV and dish antennae as far as the eyes could see. While strolling around in the chill morning, it occurred to me that I had missed out on my surya namaskar for many days. I stood facing the rising sun and went through all the motions. I felt the better for it.
I bathed, changed into a sports shirt and slacks and put on a thick sweater against the cold. Molly emerged from her room after ten, freshly bathed and in one of the salwar-kameez sets she had bought the day before. ‘How do I look?’ she asked looking down at her long shirt.
‘Very nice! I suggest you wrap a shawl around you. This weather can be very treacherous.’
She went back and came out with a hand-knitted woollen scarf, which barely covered her front. We sat down in front of the electric radiator. I lit my cigar, she lit her cigarette.
‘It promises to be a bright, sunny day. The mattresses are on the roof and I’ve got a bottle of herbal oil to put on my skin. We can sunbathe all afternoon till the sun goes down.’
‘That will be lovely,’ she replied.
We had a light brunch: hot Chinese sweet-and-sour soup and ham sandwiches. The servants cleared the table and left for their quarters.
‘Come and take a look at the bandobast,’ I said and led her by the hand up the stairs to the roof. The sun was bright and warm. It had dried the dew on the mattresses. A bottle of herbal oil was warming itself in the sun. Molly walked round the roof to make sure that no one could see us.
‘You get into a light dressing gown,’ she ordered, suddenly very professional and in command, ‘I’ll get into my working clothes’.
We waited to let the sun get warmer. When we went up again, it was exactly overhead. And no breeze. ‘Perfect for sun bathing,’ pronounced Molly. ‘Take off your dressing gown and lie down on your stomach.’
I did as I was ordered. She took off her cotton nightie and tossed it on the ground. Not a stitch of anything on her except the gold chain round her ankle. She came over and sat on my back—astride, as if riding a horse. I could feel her pubic hair tickle the base of my spine. With both her hands she kneaded my spine from bottom to top, over and over again. She pressed her thumbs hard into my shoulder blades, then twisted them, rinsing out all the tension. She filled her palms with warm herbal oil, smeared it on my back, and repeated the process: up the spinal cord, behind the neck to the base of the skull, round the ears, down to the shoulders and back to the base of the spine. She got up, stepped over me twice and again sat down on my back, this time facing my feet. She put more oil in her palms and went over my buttocks and between them, circling my anus lightly, then to my thighs, legs, ankles, down to every toe. This went on for almost half an hour. It was very soothing and sensuous. Every inch of my body was aching to be ministered to by her loving fingers. She stood above me and ordered, ‘Turn around.’
I turned around and lay on my back. I got a worm’s eye view of her thighs and what they concealed. She sat down on my stomach. She ran her fingers round my nipples. I had not realized a man’s nipples could be as sensitive as a woman’s. She poured oil on my chest and with open palms rubbed it into my torso many times. Once again she changed positions; now her buttocks were towards my face. As she stretched forward and back, her pubic hair grazed the line of hair running down from my navel to my groin. She slapped a liberal palmful of oil beneath my testicles and rubbed it into my inner thighs, down to the ankles and the feet. She had to lean forward to massage my feet and I had a splendid view of her anus and pubic fluff. I began to react. My penis sprang to full life and slapped against her thigh as it did so. She slapped it down and away. ‘Patience!’ she admonished.
The massage went on for an hour. I can’t recall ever having experienced anything more pleasurable and sensual—even more than sexual intercourse. She wiped her oily hands against her sides and lay down on her mattress, face down. This time I went over and sat astride her, my balls caressing the small of her back as I moved. Though I had not massaged anyone before, I imitated her. I massaged her body from her neck to her toes, first the rear then the front. I glued my lips to her nipples in turn and slowly entered her. It was heavenly. I stayed inside her a long time, both of us motionless. Then I pulled out and asked her to turn around. She lay on her stomach with her legs wide apart. I positioned myself between her thighs and began to massage her buttocks. Come to think of it, a woman’s buttocks excite a man more than any other part of her body—more than her lips or breasts or her pussy.
And Molly’s were beautifully rounded and firm. I found them irresitible and slowly entered her cunt from the rear. She gave a long sigh of pleasure and let me go further and further into her. We did our best to prolong our bliss. Every time I felt I was coming I pulled out and sat still till the crisis had passed. Then we resumed our search for the ultimate truth of bodily existence: at times she pressed into me from above with my hands squeezing and pressing her buttocks to urge her on; then I on top with her nails stuck into my posterior. When neither of us could hold out any longer, we went at each other like wild animals, tearing and clawing each other’s flesh. The climax was the most prolonged that either of us had experienced in our lives.
No words were spoken. Words were superfluous. We lay on our mattresses and let the sun dry up the oil on our bodies. We had been at it for almost three hours.
After worshipping the sun with our bodies in our own unique way, we went downstairs to cleanse ourselves of the oil on them. I fetched two loofahs and gave her one to run over her limbs after she had soaped herself. There is nothing better than a loofah to scrape oil or dirt off one’s body. I felt cleaner than ever before. I got into my woollen dressing gown, switched on the electric radiator and lit a cigar. Molly joined me a few minutes later and lit a cigarette.
‘That was heavenly,’ I said. ‘Don’t you think so?’
‘Never known anything better in my life,’ she replied with a smile. ‘But let’s not try to repeat it?’
‘Why on earth not?’
‘This kind of love-making in which every part of your body makes love to every part of your partner’s is a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Dwell on it in your mind, never try to relive it in action. It will be a great disappointment.’
Molly was by no means good-looking by north Indian standards: too dark, too short. Behind my back my friends’ wives would ask, ‘What on earth does he see in her? With his money and looks he could have got a much better looking and well-educated girl for the asking.’ And their husbands would smirk and reply: ‘She’s probably very good in bed. You don’t have to have a fair skin and a BA degree to be a good lay.’ And the wives would snort, ‘As if that is all that matters in marriage. Any wife can be a good lay if her husband knows how to lay her.’ And more of such claptrap.
I wasn’t sure what Molly would think of a long-term commitment to me. The way she talked gave me the impression that she missed Goa very much. I could not very well ask her how long she meant to stay, as she might construe it as my wanting to get rid of her—which was far from the truth. I had enjoyed her being with me better than the company of all the other women I had known. But for how long? I knew she wrote to her mother every week: the letter was meant for the entire family. She received no post as, very sensibly, she had left no mailing address. One evening I asked her, ‘What did you tell your parents back home when you left for Delhi?’
‘I said I was going to treat an old woman suffering from partial paralysis. I told them I didn’t know how long I would be away because I had no idea how long this lady would need my services. Perhaps you can tell me. I know you won’t marry me, and I don’t want to marry you either. It would never work. So I’ll stay as long as you want me around. Don’t make it too long as it will create problems for both of us. Also don’t make it too short as that will hurt my feelings.’
How much truer and matter-of-fact could anyone be! I was overcome by her candour and gave her a kiss of gratitude. ‘Molly, you are the nicest girl I have ever met,’ I told her truthfully. ‘I think I’m falling in love with you.’
‘Cut out the crap about love,’ she snapped, surprising me with her sudden fierceness. ‘You just enjoy being fucked by me. You’ll soon tire of it. I have an insatiable appetite for sex, mister. You won’t be able to cope with me for too long. Yes or no?’
She laughed uproariously.
‘Yes or no?’ she repeated, waiting for an answer.
‘No,’ I replied. ‘You may be a lot younger, Molly Gomes, but I’ll match you fuck for fuck till kingdom come.’
‘Amen!’
Molly stayed with me for three months. It was becoming a little awkward for both of us. I was asked by more than one of my friends whether there was any truth in the rumour that I was planning to marry a Goan lady doctor. I denied it vehemently and replied: ‘She’s treating a paralytic who needs daily therapy.’ They would go on to ask, ‘How did you get to know her?’ I did not like that kind of interrogation. Molly also felt that her family and friends in Goa would be wondering why she had been away so long. She might also be losing her business contacts with five star hotels. ‘If my regular clients don’t find me they’ll find others. How will I earn my bread and butter?’ she asked.
I left the decision to her. It was she who finally asked me to book her on a flight to Goa.
‘Molly, must you go? And so soon?’ I protested.
‘I think I must,’ she replied, ‘and it’s not as soon as you think. It’s been a full three months and a little more. All good things must come to an end one day, Mr Kumar. As does life.’
Although the foreign tourist season was ending, many Indians were availing themselves of cheaper rates offered by hotels. My travel agent was able to get a seat for her, executive class, on a flight a week later. It left Delhi at a reasonable hour, 11.30 a.m. When I handed her the ticket, she clung to me. We made love. We made love every day of the week left to us. ‘I must give you your money’s worth,’ she said one day after a prolonged session in bed. ‘You are worth a lakh of rupees every time,’ I told her.
‘Oh yeah? Then you owe me at least eighty lakhs. I’ve kept a count in my private diary but I won’t charge you a single paise more than we bargained for as I’ve got more out of you than I got from any other man in my life. My womb’s got a tankful of your seed. All wasted. Not one bambino.’
We made love the morning she was to leave. I drove her to the airport. As her flight was called, I embraced her and gave her a passionate farewell kiss. ‘Molly, promise you’ll write. We must keep in touch for as long as we can.’
She did not make any promise. Just waved to me and was lost in the crowd queuing up to go through the security check.
Molly did not write to me. The letters I wrote to her remained unanswered.