Victor had his afternoon tea in the balcony, looking out at the mountains till his mind was cleansed of every thought. He continued to sit there as the sun went over the hill on which the house stood. A three-day-old moon came up in the dark blue sky close to the evening star. A cool breeze began to blow, carrying on it the undulating notes of a bansuri from some village downriver. The flute melody grew faint and then died down. The scene gradually faded from view. Victor decided to turn in.
Oil lamps had been lit. The caretaker came in to clear the tea tray. ‘Sir, there is a power cut. The lights will come on in another hour; I have put a torch on the table by your bedside and a hurricane lantern in your bathroom. I will be sleeping on the ground floor. Just shout for me and I will be at your service.’
Victor’s personal bearer laid out a bottle of Scotch and soda and ice for him. The long drive through the country, the fresh mountain air and the music of the bansuri had lifted his spirits. The glow of oil lamps with moths fluttering about and the muffled sound of the rushing river created a very romantic atmosphere. The Scotch went down smoothly, warming him up. He did not brood over the intimation of his mortality that had brought him here. What had to happen would happen, he thought to himself. There was so much beauty in life; how did it matter if in the midst of it there was also death. He only wished he had discovered this place earlier. It had restored him in half a day. After a light supper he climbed into his bed under a mosquito net.
He spent the next two days exploring the countryside and taking long walks along the river bank. He dipped his hand in the fast-running stream and splashed water on his face. It was icy cold. He walked past the ashram Bharati had written to him about, a few hundred yards away from the holiday home. Its gate was closed. On one side of the black metal gate was a crude statue of goddess Durga astride a lion. On the other, a notice in English reading ‘No trespassers allowed. Beware of tiger.’
Back home he asked the caretaker about it. ‘That, Sir, is the ashram of Ma Durgeshwari. She is a powerful tantric. People say she was born in a cave in the high Himalayas. She owns a tiger called Sheroo who I’ve been told is a strict vegetarian. He follows her everywhere like a pet dog. She takes him to the Ganga every day and they bathe in the river together. People are scared of going anywhere near them. They call herSheron wali ma—mother of tigers. For her darshan you have to approach her chief disciple who is an Englishwoman.’
Victor saw her early the next morning from his balcony. She was going downhill, the tiger following on her heels. They made an impressive sight. She had a saffron cloth wrapped around her torso and a length of tiger skin around her hips as a skirt. She had a trishul in one hand. Her long raven-black hair was left loose. As she strode down to the Ganga her hair caught the breeze and streamed behind her. The tiger, lean and agile, moved more like a cheetah, looking straight ahead and never once faltering or varying his speed. They got to the river bank where the tantric woman planted the trident she was carrying to indicate that the spot had been reserved for her. She took off the saffron scarf, then the tiger skin. She rolled her hair up and tied it in a bun on top of her head. She was stark naked: skin the colour of old ivory, large, firm breasts and buttocks and a neat black triangular bush between her legs. Victor guessed she would be in her late twenties. For a while she stood rubbing her body with her hands. Then she felt the water, withdrew it quickly and said something to her tiger who raised his long stiff tail once and brought it down slowly. Gingerly she stepped into the ice-cold stream, splashed some water on her body, then sank down into the stream till the water flowed over her head. The tiger jumped into the river and swam up to her side. She splashed water on his face when he came too close to her. They played in the river for a while till she could not stand the cold anymore. She had no towel and exposed her body to the sun to dry her. She sat on a rock, combed her hair with her fingers and re-tied it on top of her head. The tiger licked her body for the drops of water that remained.
They sat in the sun for a while. She covered herself again with the saffron scarf and tiger skin. She pulled out her trident and started uphill towards their ashram. She looked the exact image of Mother India on calendars Victor had seen in paanwala’s shops. Suddenly she looked up and saw Victor standing in the balcony. An angry scowl came on her face. She looked away and quickened her pace.
Victor sat back in his chair, exhausted. It had been many years since he had seen a naked woman. He had been busy enough and the lack of sex hadn’t really tormented him much. So when he saw the woman bathe in the river he was totally unprepared for the effect it had on him. As he watched her wash her most secret places, he was overcome with violent desire. It was the wild lust that sometimes afflicts the middle-aged and it made him shudder. He was still trembling. He had to get away for a while; he decided to drive out to a nearby town for a surprise check on one of his sugar mills. It would keep him away for a good part of the day.
That evening as he was about to pour himself a second Scotch his secretary came in and announced, ‘Sir, Ma Durgeshwari has come to see you. I told her she had made no appointment but she insists she has something of great importance to say and will not take more than ten minutes.’
‘Who is she?’ asked Victor, knowing full well who she was and the purpose of her visit.
‘She is the sadhvi who runs the ashram next door. The one with the tiger.’
‘Has she brought her tiger with her?’
‘No sir, she is alone.’
‘Okay, let her in.’
Victor prepared himself for a dressing down. But not for the kind he got. He heard her come in and latch the door behind her. Without introducing herself she said, ‘Ganga mai kay kinaarey baith viskee peeta hai (You sit by the bank of Mother Ganga and drink whiskey)!’
Victor stood up to greet her and with palms joined mumbled an apology. ‘Bhool huee, maaf keejiye (It was a mistake, please forgive me).’
‘And you stand on top of your big bungalow and watch girls bathing in the nude,hain?Sharam nahin aati (Aren’t you ashamed of yourself)?’
Victor repeated his apology and added, ‘It won’t happen again.’ He hoped that would be the end of the interview and he could resume drinking. Ma Durgeshwari had other ideas. She put her trident against the wall and sat cross-legged on the sofa facing his chair. Her fleshy thighs were exposed. Victor tried to avert his gaze, but it was no use; his mouth was already dry with longing.
‘I am told you are the richest man in India and have great ahankaar about your wealth.’
‘Yes, Maji, God has been good to me. But I am not arrogant.’
‘You talk of God’s kindness? I am told you don’t believe in God, don’t go to temples, don’t do any poojas. You think no end of yourself. You are a ghamandi.’
Victor did not contradict her because all that was true. He decided to take the offensive. ‘Maji, did you come only to scold me and put me in my place?’
‘No, I have much more to say. Although you are a lot older than me, you have not read the Shastras and other holy books. All you have learnt is from the materialistic West where nothing matters more than money. All that is Maya jaal; you must free yourself from that web of illusion. Do you do yoga? Do you meditate? If you do, you will get nearer the truth of life.’ ‘
Maji, I am willing to learn. Please take me on as a disciple.’
‘Now you are talking sense. I can tell that you suffer from a sickness. I can cure you. But if you want to be my bhakta you must first touch my feet and seek my blessing.’ She uncrossed her legs and put her feet on the ground.
Victor began to enjoy the charade. He went down on his knees and touched her feet. His eyes wandered to her thighs and his hands began to shake. Ma Durgeshwari held his head with both her hands and pulled it to her breast. She untied the sash covering her breasts. ‘Now drink the milk from your mother’s bosom,’ she commanded.
Victor grabbed one soft breast, took it in his mouth and began to suckle it greedily like a hungry babe. He mov
ed to the other and then back to the first one, lapping up the salt of her flesh. Ma Durgeshwari reached down to unbuckle his belt and with her big toes pushed down his trousers. She fondled his testicles and phallus. ‘You need release,’ she pronounced. Then she took off her tiger skin, lay down on the sofa and commanded: ‘Come inside me, but don’t move too much.’
Victor entered her and lay still on her with his tongue darting around busily in her mouth. She did not move but by contracting her vaginal muscles began to milk him. Victor had never experienced the sensation with any woman before. His own complete surrender excited him too. Perhaps too much, for soon a shiver of thrill ran through his body as he pumped his hot seed into her, and to prevent himself from howling, clamped his teeth on her shoulder. He lay like a corpse on her. Ma Durgeshwari caressed his face and played with his hair. ‘You finish so soon! The fire still burns within me. I’ll teach you yoga, you will be able to hold your semen for an hour or more. If you don’t want to spill it you can withdraw it within yourself.’ Victor raised his head and looked at her, puzzled. She smiled. ‘Don’t look surprised; it is possible. This is the ignorance I want to cure you of. When I saw you spying on me I knew you had been denying yourself the ultimate in bliss known to mankind. You men only know the quickchhook, chhook, phut. Treat sex like worship and you will get more fulfilment than making millions of rupees.’
‘Yes, Maji.’
‘Arre, what is this Maji business now? You’ve just fucked me. You know what they call men who do this to their mothers? Call me Durgesh.’
‘It is you who have fucked me, Durgesh. And I have no complaints. I’ve never known sex to be so thrilling, not even when I first did it at fourteen,’ said Victor.
‘Naturally,’ Durgeshwari responded, ‘you hadn’t met me, so how could you. I’ve spent years mastering the art of tantra. I will show you things beyond your wildest dreams.’
Victor laughed. ‘I don’t doubt you will. But be careful with me. My doctor says I should avoid too much excitement, my heart might not be able to take it.’
‘Arre these cheer-phaad doctors—what do they know? They cut you up then sew you back and send you to your death before your time. With me you will rediscover your youth.Solah saal ke chhokre ka dil hoga tera (You’ll have the heart of a sixteen-year-old lad).’
Victor believed every word she said. She had dispelled whatever little gloom still remained in his mind. Sex was the best antidote for the fear of death. ‘Will you come to see me tomorrow?’ he asked.
‘I will come as often as you want me.’
‘Remember, I have become your bhakta, you can’t forsake me,’ he said with a grin. ‘But don’t bring your tiger with you!’
‘Sheroo can be very jealous. If he sees you eating me he will eat you up,’ she laughed.
He took her in his arms and pressed her middle against his own and ran his hands over her buttocks till he was aroused again.
‘Bas, enough!’ commanded Durgeshwari. ‘Leave something for tomorrow.’ She kissed him on his lips.
‘The same time tomorrow. I'll send my car to fetch you,’ he said.
Early the next morning Victor was on his balcony again, waiting. Ma Durgeshwari and Sheroo appeared soon enough and went down the hillside to the place where they had bathed the day before. Durgeshwari stuck her trident at the same spot and divested herself of her trademark dress. The sight took his breath away all over again.
Before Durgeshwari, Victor had had sex with a few women, mostly whores, and of course his own wife. He was always in a hurry and had little time to savour their bodies before getting down to the act. It had been the same with Durgeshwari when they had made love the previous day. He had barely noticed how perfect she was. Till that morning he had not realized how sensuous a woman’s buttocks could be. Most white women’s behinds were like men’s: two fleshy buns to act as cushions when they sat down. They left Victor cold. His wife’s were not much to speak of either. This young sadhvi’s, on the other hand, were a delight. They were large and beautifully rounded: if he got the opportunity he would spend hours running the palms of his hands gently over them feeling their contours. Why his ancestors had compared women’s buttocks to the hind parts of a female elephant, a hasthini, was beyond his comprehension. Who in their senses would want to stroke the backside of a pachyderm? But here was an apsara rising out of the waters of a holy Ganga, raising her arms in salutation to the sun rising above the range of hills and offering her behind to him to marvel at and worship.
Durgeshwari sensed that she was being watched. She looked up and saw Victor standing on the balcony as she had expected. She raised both her hands high above her head and joined her palms, as if in salutation, showing him all she had to show. He waved back vigorously. What a vision of beauty, he thought. Like Aphrodite rising out of the sparkling waters of the sea. He had never seen a woman as beautiful and free-spirited as this before. Nor any one as hypnotic. He continued to watch her bathe, sport with her tiger and dry herself in the sun. Then she dressed, facing him all the time, went up the mountain path and disappeared from view.
Victor sent for his secretary. ‘Go to the ashram and see what it is like. Find out if it is registered as a charitable institution and has a bank account. Take the car.’
Two hours later the secretary returned and reported, ‘Sir, it is a ramshackle kind of place with only the office, a Durga temple and a meditation hall which is a pukka building. The rest of the compound has huts with thatched roofs and a shed for three buffaloes. They have a tube well to water their vegetable garden. There are about thirty residents including a swamiji who is their yoga teacher. An Englishwoman who seems to run the show told me it is registered as a charitable institution and they have an account in a bank in Rishikesh. It is a hand-to-mouth existence, sir. In fact they had to give away all their guard dogs because they were too expensive to maintain.’
Victor made out a cheque for one lakh twenty-five thousand in the name of the ashram. In the envelope he also put in a slip in Hindi which read ‘Guru dakshina from your latest bhakta’, and asked his secretary to put it in the hands of Ma Durgeshwari.
That evening Victor took a long time shaving and bathing—he soaped and scrubbed himself thoroughly, then doused himself with eau de cologne. He brushed his teeth, scraped his tongue and gargled with his specially imported mouthwash. He wore his finest silk shirt and a fresh pair of trousers. It felt good to be young and whole again. He had his bottle of Scotch, soda and bucket of ice laid beside the sofa where he knew he would spend most of his time. He took a large helping of Scotch and waited impatiently for the sound of his car.
He was on his second drink when he heard the car pull up in the porch and hurried down to meet his visitor. As she stepped out of the car, trident in hand, he bent down and touched her feet to show his secretary and chauffeur he was paying deference due to a sadhvi. She let herself be escorted up the stairs. Victor latched the door behind him and took her in his arms. ‘Paakhandi (impostor)!’ she exclaimed. ‘You make chootiyas of your staff? One minute you touch my feet as if I were a devi, the next you put your arms around me lustfully as if I were your rakhail!’
Victor did not contradict her; she was indeed his goddess, his mistress. At the moment she could make him do absolutely anything she wanted. He put away her trident and pulled her close. ‘All night and day I have been brooding and waiting for you. I have never felt like this for anyone I’ve met.’
‘Jhootha (liar),’ said Durgesh. ‘There is no need for such lies. It makes no difference to me how many gori-chitti white women you bedded in vilayat or how many others in India.’
‘You are more beautiful than all of them put together. And stop scolding me; the evening is for better things.’ He pushed her gently onto the sofa.
‘Tell me before you shut my lips: that large sum you sent me this morning, is it in payment for last night or for the ashram?’
‘Oh shut up!’ snapped Victor impatiently. ‘There’s only one way to stop
you from saying nasty things.’ He glued his lips to hers and fumbled with the sash that served as her blouse. She helped him with the task, and as soon as her breasts were free he fastened his mouth to them. Her nipples grew rock-hard against his tongue. ‘Lose yourself in your worship,’ Durgeshwari urged him, and when his worship had pleased her enough, she pulled his head back. She helped him take his clothes off then undid her tiger skin and said, ‘Last night I had half my share of the pleasure due to me. Give me the other half tonight.’
It was a different experience for both. Victor began at her toes and ran his hands from the sides of her feet to her head and his tongue along the inside of her thighs; he bit her breasts, lips and neck. In turn she dug her nails into his buttocks, when he had slid in, urging him to press harder into her. As before, she contracted her muscles and milked him with vigour. He had got used to the sensation and as pleasant as it was he was able to hold back. It was Durgesh who yielded the battle to him. She thrust her hips up with tremendous force and began to moan and then wailed: ‘Hai mar gayee (I am dying).Qatal kar de (Kill me)!’ Victor raised himself on his arms and toes and gave her all he had, pummelling into her till she thrashed her legs in the air above him and the sofa shook and he felt the room go into a drunken tizzy as if rocked by an earthquake.
It had lasted over an hour. Both were utterly exhausted. Victor released her body from under him. He gave her a gentle kiss on her cheek and said, ‘Durgesh, I am in love with you. I can’t live without you anymore.’
Durgesh ignored his school-boy confession and replied, ‘Look what you have done to me! There are nail and bite marks all over my body. How will I face the people in the ashram? They will think Sheroo must have attacked me. Are you a man or a tiger?’
‘Okay. I am a tiger-man in love with you. Will you marry me?’
‘You must be half mad as well. For one you are a Brahmin, I a Kshatriya. We can have sambandh but we cannot be man and wife. For another you must be almost twenty-five years older than me. And most important of all, I am a sadhvi used to living in an ashram. I can’t change into a memsahib doing git-pit in English at your parties. So put marriage out of your mind. It is not meant for me or even for you. I will come to you whenever and wherever you want me.’
Burial at Sea Page 9