by Young
Within the boutique appeared three young maidens, who presented each of us with a garland of scented marigolds. We imitated Mrs. Thapar’s gratuitous gesture to the presenters before filing into the salon.
Seated like the Queen of Sheba waiting for our arrival was Miram, dressed in an emerald coloured embroidered sari. She greeted us with welcome embraces instead of the traditional Hindu salutations. This pretentious gesture was reserved solely for guests and clients whom she considered capable of facilitating her career advancements. Mrs. Thapar and the Count were the ones she buttered up in case she needed a favour.
Her shop, filled with faux French ne plus ultra accoutrement was a gaudy version of an Indian haute couture salon. Framed photographs of Nesrine in her aunt’s latest designs lined the walls of her spacious boutique. Ranks of exquisitely crafted saris filled every inch of the racks. Unlike the French or Italian couture houses, where chic simplicity reigned supreme, this maison was a bohemian hodgepodge of fashion novelties. Beaded purses and feathered hats, down to intricately crafted costume jewellery, lay disparagingly next to one another.
The three gay men, Mario, Andy and I, looked at each other in tacit cognizance of the reproachable sin that had befallen these items. But when the Queen of Sheba flaunted sari after sari of almost identical design for our inspection, we gave smiles to her and each other. The saving grace to this seemingly endless array of garment (or rather, fabric) display was the decorative craftsmanship.
When the boutique tour finally concluded and the three maidens had served us tea, our hostess inquired of the Count, “A little birdie told me of a forthcoming film collaboration between our cultural minister and your illustrious self?”
Mario, the shrewd impresario, parried, “Oh, these hear-sayers always have something to tittle-tattle about. It is far from the truth.”
Obviously, the Count was evading the Queen’s prod. “The subject was broached, but nothing firm,” he finalized.
Mrs. Thapar chimed light-heartedly, “Miram, you’ll be the first to know if this collaboration does happen.”
Changing the topic, Nesrine chirped, “You guys should make a trip to Bombay, to Miram’s sample room and workshop. She has a group of artisans under her charge, and her factory also produces other designer labels.”
“I’ve never been to a clothing factory before. What’s it like?” I remarked.
“I’ll be happy to show you my factory. You guys should come to Bombay,” our host answered swiftly.
Andy vociferated before I could answer, “This inquisitive young man is always inviting himself to places…”
“I’m open to an exploratory trip to Bombaim,” the Count offered, using the old Portuguese to mean ‘good little bay,’ “and a visit to your factory.” The sybarite gave me a wicked wink before he ruffled my hair. This was Mario’s flirtatious private language with me for ‘good little boy.’ I remained silent, since I did not understand the Count’s wisecrack at the time.
Andy, who caught the quip, gave me an affectionate squeeze. The ladies looked on with befuddlement, not comprehending the lovey-dovey child’s play any more than I did. But what I relished was my chaperone’s playful chivalry and his quirky way of making me feel loved.
And so it was decided our next adventure was to Bombaim. After Delhi, to the ‘good little bay’ we ventured.
My Teacher Told Me
Monsieur Dubois waited for me at his suite to commence our private tutorial. Since his other students Albert and Narnia had their lessons in the morning, they were at The Imperial’s swimming pool frolicking with their respective chaperones, leaving me alone with my professor. The moment I walked in, he said, “Young, you did well at last evening’s TransZendental session.”
“I thought I had been summoned by the prince but he wasn’t there,” I commented.
“He was! Didn’t you see him?” Alain remarked sarcastically.
“He was?” This piece of information piqued my interest. I continued, “By the way, who was the man I was paired with?”
“Don’t you recognize him?” my teacher teased.
“No, who?”
“Couldn’t you identify his touch and smell?”
I remarked fondly, “All I could smell was sandalwood and the man’s loving touch. I couldn’t help melting into his gallantry. Who was he?”
Just then my Valet came into the room.
“Talking about the devil, here he is.”
“Andy! It was Andy!” I exclaimed.
“Your burka harnesses had worked wonders to revivify the fervent connections you felt for each other. That’s the reason I chose the two of you, to demonstrate to the prince and the sheik how they, too, could open themselves up to one another,” my teacher declared.
Surprised by Dubois’ exposition, I questioned, “You mean they are together? I mean, they’re an item?”
Alain gave a gratifying laugh before answering, “That’s correct. They are now unofficially a couple.”
“But…” I was puzzled.
“But how did it come about?” my teacher finished my question.
Dubois gave me a solemn glance. “It shouldn’t come as a surprise to you; you know that they’ve liked each other since they were in school. Their religious and cultural upbringing made it difficult for them to yield to their saudade.”
“What’s ‘saudade’?” I questioned.
Andy jumped at the opportunity to explicate before Alain could. “‘Saudade’ is a Portuguese word. It describes a profound emotional state of nostalgia, or a deep melancholic longing for something or someone who one loves intensely but cannot possess. It often carries a repressed knowledge that the object of longing might never materialize.
“A stronger form of saudade might be felt towards people and things whose whereabouts are unknown, such as a lover whom one can never have, or a family member who is missing, separated, or passed away.”
My teacher interjected, “An alternative German word is ‘sehnsucht.’ Loosely translated, it means longing, yearning or craving. In a wider perspective, it’s a type of intensified missing.”
“You mean infatuation?” I twittered.
Amused by my juvenile assessment, Dubois resumed, “Not quite. ‘Sehnsucht’ represents thoughts and feelings on all facets of life that are unfinished or imperfect. It pairs with a yearning for ideal alternative experiences. Oftentimes, it has also been referred to as ‘life’s longing,’ or an individual’s search for happiness while coping with the reality of unattainable wishes.
“‘Sehnsucht’ is usually profound, and tends to be accompanied by other feelings, both positive and negative. This has often been described as an ambiguous emotional occurrence.”
Andy couldn’t wait to speak.
“This inner dis-ease can also be described as ‘the love that remains’ after someone is gone. It is the recollection of feelings, experiences, places or events that once brought excitement, pleasure, well-being, which now triggers the senses and makes one alive again.
“It’s also an emptiness, like someone (e.g., one’s children, parents, sibling, grandparents, friends, or pets) or something (places, things one used to do in childhood, or other activities performed in the past) that should be there in a particular moment is missing, and the individual feels this absence. It brings sadness and happiness simultaneously - sadness from missing and happiness from having experienced that feeling of joy.”
I quipped, “The times I spent alone with Sheik Fahrib, I could feel his depression. That’s when he drowned his sorrows with wine and tristful music on his violin. Most times, I managed to chase his melancholy away, if only temporarily.”
Andy ruffled my hair affectionately. “That’s my Young. Always playing the role of a spritely Puck.”
“It is of little wonder the doctor is smitten by your bubbly charm and made you his confidant,” Alain added.
The inquisitive moi craved to know when the sheik and the prince had consummated their love. I sallied, “When di
d they make out?”
“Shortly after we left for India, P went to Amsterdam to spend time with his pal, to catch up on their business dealings. For the most part, they were alone together. One thing led to another, and it happened,” my professor expressed.
When Dubois resumed, an emotional surge had overtaken his person. Although his eyes welled up, he kept his composure. “The majority of people who experience ‘sehnsucht’ are not even conscious of what or who the longed for object is; the longing is of such intense profundity that the subject may only be aware of the emotion itself and not cognizant that there is a something or a person longed for.
“When P and the doctor came to me in private asking my assistance, I mentioned the new TransZendental Introspection technique I’m developing with the Maharishi. I told them that by practising this meditation, loving joyfulness can be achieved, of the kind I had witnessed between the two of you. They wanted to observe and experiment first-hand, with the pair of you as their guide. So, the two of you were summoned last evening to demonstrate my TransZendental Introspection technique.
“Your harnesses blinded you from seeing them, but your amatory devotions paved the way for them to experience the same. Being the docent, I documented and photographed my congeries, which I will use for my doctoral dissertation.”
We gazed at the Zentologist, wide-eyed. He continued, “The experience is one of such significance that ordinary reality pales in comparison. As in Walt Whitman’s closing lines to ‘Song of the Universal’:
“Is it a dream?
Nay but the lack of it the dream,
And failing it life’s lore and wealth a dream
And all the world a dream.”
2012
My Response to Andy’s Message
Thank you, Andy, for your candidness. I’m sure you will not fail to attract the right man into your life again when the time is ripe, or are you still waiting for my hand? LOL!
On a more serious note, would you like to give your impression of our time in India? I’m sure readers of A Harem Boy’s Saga would love to see your side of the story. I, too, would like to know in greater detail what transpired in your life during our years of absence. As the saying goes, it takes two to tango. I will reciprocate if you take me up on this. ☺
Your adoring ex-lover and ex-charge,
Young
Chapter Thirty-Six
The Accident & The Incident
“You do not know me, but I come in peace; if you think that is strange, then you are the stranger.”
Justin K. McFarlane Beau
1968
Calamity
Narnia stared at me adoringly that morning while waiting for Professor Dubois to appear in a chamber within the historic Taj Mahal Palace Hotel, Bombay. Our entourage had arrived in ‘good little bay’ to the fanfare of a torrential downpour. Three top-of-the-line Bentleys, compliments of the hotel, sat waiting for the Ship (Sheik Fahrib’s private jet) to touch down on the private airstrip.
Under massive logoed umbrellas, the chauffeurs and their respective attendants guided us to our sedans. An accompanying vehicle followed with our luggage as our motorcade meandered away from the airfield under sheets of pelting rain.
As we snaked along the crowded dirt roads at a snail’s pace, street vendors, hawkers and peddlers scrambled for shelter. Some did their best to salvage their merchandise from the unforgiving thunderstorm. The scene resembled a flock of cackling, riotous chickens clamoring aimlessly as if bound for the slaughterhouse.
An overwhelming uneasiness overtook me as I sat watching through the comfort of my luxury sedan. My heart reached out to these impecunious souls, yet I knew there was little I could do to assist.
Andy’s hand crept up next to mine and held it to his for consolation as I ruminated on the massive poverty of this Asian sub-continent. Soothed by my lover’s healing energy, I recalled the words of my Bahriji teacher, Andrew Henderson: “Envy not those you deem more fortuitous, but be grateful for what you have. For there are many that are less serendipitous.”
Suddenly, a deafening babble plagued my ears. I was thrown forward atop Zac, Albert, Coraline, Andy and Narnia, already lying in a heap on the car floor. A sudden, thunderous rumpus had sent us into shock. Before we could catch our breath, a piercing crush sent us tumbling the opposite direction. Blood gushed out of my big brother’s arm as he gripped the car seat for equilibrium. Narnia and Albert had blood splattered all over their knees, ankles and thighs while Andy twisted in pain under the pile of bodies atop him. The two people who were cushioned by this confusion were Coraline and me, although we all suffered minor concussions. Nausea overtook me when I tried to gain composure to see out the window. The commotion outside was impossible to assess, as sheets of rain assailed the window rampantly. My vision fogged, and before I knew it, flashing lights surrounded our vehicles.
It was chaos, but through the windshield, I recognized the faint silhouette of Doctor Fahrib helping a figure onto a stretcher to a stationary ambulance.
It was made clear to us that our baggage van had hit a large waterlogged pothole, splattering sludge all over a disconcerted pedestrian running for shelter. The van then slammed against the temporarily blinded woman, throwing her in the air before she landed on top of our car’s hood. She fell unconscious onto the muddy road, severely injured. Doctor Fahrib got out of his vehicle posthaste to aid the unconscious female before the ambulance arrived to deliver her to the nearest hospital.
The doctor had insisted on accompanying the victim to the hospital, and P had joined him to assist.
No major damage had been done to our vehicles, except for some minor dents. We were back on the road to the Taj Mahal Palace hotel in no time. As soon as we arrived, Monsieur Dubois advised his students and chaperones to retire early.
At Tutorial
When I arrived at the appointed tutorial venue the following morning, Narnia was already present, but Albert was nowhere in sight. She gawked at me smugly. I decided to come clean with my friend before our professor arrived.
“I hope you are not hurt, Young,” she said before I could begin.
Caught off guard by her query, I reciprocated, “I’m sure we’ll both heal in no time.”
“Aww, you’re so sweet.”
She reached to pinch my cheeks playfully.
“Narnia, I need to tell you something…” I uttered, avoiding her touch.
She twittered before I could continue: “You want to tell me you’re gay!”
Dumbfounded by her comment, I stared at her.
“I knew you were gay when we first met,” she edified me. “You are too winsome and decorous to be straight.”
“Aren’t you making false assumptions that attractive and well-mannered boys can’t be heterosexual?” I retaliated, wondering how or why she could have formed such notions.
“Young, we are E.R.O.S. recruits; we have ways of knowing what is. A sixth sense.”
“Why, then, did you kiss me?” I asked.
She grinned wickedly.
“Can’t I kiss a cute and adorable boy if I want to? Do I have to get my big sister’s permission to kiss a boy?”
It was obvious that she was challenging me to defy the E.R.O.S. status quo of requesting permission from a chaperone before performing a task of our own accord.
Narnia resumed conceitedly, “Be a man and act on your impulse instead of running to your big brothers and teachers for everything.”
“But…” I muttered.
“But what?” she exclaimed. “Let’s do something daring!”
I gazed at her, stupefied. Seizing the opportunity, she pulled me to her and French-kissed my gaping mouth while unbuttoning my shirt. I didn’t know how to react.
At that very moment, in walked our professor. He gave a commanding cough that caused me to jump. Narnia pretended as if she didn’t hear Alain’s gesticulation. She continued exerting herself on me.
“Narnia!” Dubois vociferated sternly. “We will tal
k after class.”
She pushed away reluctantly and gave me a sly wink. I stuttered, not comprehending such an out-of-character situation.
“I, err… am sorry, sir…”
“It’s not your fault Young,” he asserted before changing the topic as if everything were back to normal.
“Where is Albert?” he asked. “The two of you look rested from last evening’s accident.” We nodded.
“I’ll see how the boy is when we are done here,” Dubois added.
“What happened to the injured woman?” I blurted.
Dubois said, concerned, “I’m afraid she is not doing well, boy. She is in a coma. Doctor Fahrib is doing his best to stabilize her condition. He was in the hospital with her the entire night. I just left him and the prince now.
“The prince is assisting the woman’s family. They are distraught over finding the money to pay for her intensive care treatment.
“The hotel should be footing the bill, since it’s their employee’s fault, yet they are being difficult. It’s a classic case of corporate injustice, since they know the woman’s family doesn’t have the financial resources to sue them.
“The victim is lucky to have found a champion in His Highness. He is pressuring the hotel for full compensation to the woman. On behalf of the victim, P threatened to take legal action if they don’t comply.”
I opined, “His Highness is a benevolent man. His father should make him the heir to the Bahraini throne, rather than his younger sadomasochistic brother, Hamad.”
“I couldn’t agree with you more. Family dynamics are chafed when the patriarch displays favoritism toward a particular child. Sibling rivalry often happens on the road to a dynastic meltdown, bound to occur if the situation is not handled justly by the patriarch,” Dubois lamented.