Dharma Sutra
Page 13
‘Get off me, bitch!’ Sherif tries to pull away.
My clowns hold him tight; they are getting ready to enjoy the show. Fatou may not give any signs of pleasure, but she is damn good at giving head. She has done an amazing job of taking Remus’ near twelve inches down her throat, quite a sight. Sherif’s penis is growing, she is struggling to take it; he must be fourteen or fifteen inches long, lucky bastard to be born with such a blessing. What the fuck went wrong with my genes, my father’s brother had a good-size cock. I had to hide mine from him when we went for a piss behind Marie’s Pub in Serrekunda. I guess the fault lay on my mother’s side; my God man that woman had control over my life. At least she didn’t force Islam down my throat, no reward in Heaven; if I want seventy-two houris, I can buy them here. I have used one reading of the houri myth to my sexual advantage, houris do not have a menstrual cycle, actually they don’t even shit or piss in Heaven, nobody does. This then excuses my occasional lapses into taking advantage of underage sexual beings; they are cheap and easily obtainable when you are in my line of business. I call them sexual beings as I believe every human being is capable of being sexually active from a very young age. It was such great fun in my junior school days, playing, “I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours!” Halcyon days when size didn’t matter, when taste and smell were enough to give me a hard-on.
‘Stop this, Bob, she’s about to make me cum!’
As I drift through my interpretations of the Quran, my eyes haven’t left the riveting scene of my smartly suited P.A. taking on this enormous cock.
‘Ah, we don’t want you to cum just yet, you ungrateful bastard; slow down, Fatou, but keep him up!’
‘Let me tell you, Big Size, it cost me a lot of money to get you into England and all I asked for from you was one year’s service.’
He is fighting against the caress of Fatou’s lips,
‘Fuck you again, Bob, that service was stealing children from the street, for the gratification of fat cats like you!’
What he says is true, it’s all supply and demand; the demand comes from those with wealth and power who are looking for a particular kind of forbidden fruit to taste. This goes for both men and women, their money has bought them all that they can acceptably buy, and I provide them with the unacceptable. Bringing this young fruit to their table brings me wealth and at the same time a power over them, so I get many favours in return, as well as lots of cash. I trade in the cheapest commodity and resource on the planet, human beings. Calling some of my cargo human is sometimes an honour too far. The creatures I deal in are more like bonobos; they are brought into this world through thoughtless shagging and are sold off easily enough for a few trinkets. A laptop computer has more worth to the bonobos than their accidental offspring. I can sell these swaps on for the price of a Porsche. I arrange delivery, collection and disposal, and this worthless piece of shit in front of me dares challenge my method of business.
‘You are an evil man, Bob; I’m ashamed to be your cousin!’
Sherif is really fighting the pleasure she is giving him.
‘You, Cousin, were glad enough for me to help you out of Africa.’
I am enjoying his treatment more than he is.
‘But the price, man, it’s my soul,’ what shit he was talking.
‘Your soul and whereabouts is that and what is it worth?’
I explain to him that I had come out of nothing, with just my own skills, intelligence and admittedly a rather nasty streak of ruthlessness. I came from the same family as this thing in front of me, but I raised myself out of the jungle. Some Arab traders had come to Cassalol village; they were looking for children to work in a factory in Europe, to earn big money.
“When it sounds too good to be true, it probably is,” goes the saying, but I did a deal with them. I told the guys to meet me on the beach at midnight and I persuaded my sister to go skinny-dipping with me. They took her, thinking they might take me too, but I did another deal with them, more children. They paid me well and I served them well; dozens of kids went missing over the next five years, I made a lot of money and made good contacts. I told my mother that I had a part-time job as a jungle guide for the Dutch guy in Varela; he’s paying me lots of money. I had enough money to go to school in England; I promised Ma that I would earn big bucks and get her a nice house in The Gambia. I found myself in a swanky boarding school in Surrey; I found out everyone’s little secrets, man the place was a hot bed of suppressed homosexuality. I was happy to sell my arse to anyone with the cash to purchase. They soon learned that I was such a ruthless bastard that no one messed with, especially after one of my schoolboy customers was found to have hanged himself in his dorm. I had always been fit, very strong for my size, but more especially I had no qualms when it came to crossing the so-called line of decency.
Sherif is still protesting, trying to hold back his close ejaculation; time to end this.
‘Shaft Man, Tosh, bring him to the table!’
It’s only then that Big Size sees the wooden chopping board on the table.
‘No man, please don’t chop it off, please, no!’
‘Better than that, old chap, give me some imagination!’
I show him my meat-tenderising mallet.
Chapter 51: I Think I’ve Sold My Soul
Jeffrey’s Journal, India
Three months have passed since my journey to Lithang, I’ve been chronicling the story that is my life today. Most of the time was spent in Little India in Georgetown, Penang, Malaysia; a microcosm of the sub-continent.
Back in India, I went to Sikkim in an attempt to get close to the other side of Tibet. The capital, Gangtok, was once the British gateway to Lhasa. I didn’t have the papers to cross the Friendship Bridge into Tibet; I had just acquired a new Indian visa with an official permit to enter Sikkim. The Tibetans are fully integrated into Sikkim’s society and are perfectly happy with their lot. The sharpest insight I had into Tibetan life came in the upstairs room of the Dai Chi Bar & Restaurant, Gangtok, more of a drinking hole than a gourmet establishment but good food nonetheless. I was on my second bottle of Hit, the local strong beer, when a Tibetan amala and pala came in with their seven children. Pala ordered one bottle of Hit and eight glasses of water. They occupied two tables between them, and the waiter didn’t bat an eyelid. The reason this scenario touched me so much was that both of my dear former Tibetan co-workers, Rinzen Choden and Sangmu Yangchen, came from families of seven children. The expense of trying to run such a large family is felt more acutely on the youngest child, as they both were, it’s easy to feel that you are a burden.
Sikkim is very cold in December, Darjeeling, where I stopped on the way had been even colder, so cold that even the town bars closed at 6pm. I decided that I needed somewhere hot, I’d been to Goa on the West coast of India several times and thought it time to visit an East coast beach resort. Now there began a series of strange coincidences. After only catching three morning glimpses of Mt. Khangchendzonga, the third highest peak in the world, and suffering from the cold, I decided to head south sooner than planned. Feeling defeated I went down to the computerised train booking office in Gangtok to try to get a through ticket from Siliguri to Puri, via Kolkata, but the railway computer had gone down. I took this as a sign that it was not yet time to give up on Sikkim; I decided to see what the weather was like in Namchi, closer to the Himalayas than Gangtok. When I arrived the next day, it was to glorious sunshine and spectacular views of the world’s highest mountains, a stunning surprise that I should have missed had the Internet been working. I stayed at the family-run Hotel Himalaya, the only guest as it happened, and the weather remained gloriously sunny, right up to Christmas Day. I had no intention of celebrate the feast of our Saviour’s birth and went down to Namchi’s only decent internet café, to see if either of my children were on Skype. Edgar was back in The Gambia, so we chatted for as long the signal lasted. When I got back to the hotel, the Hindu family insisted that as I was born a Christian, I
must celebrate the day. Not a lover of the British gravy dinner, I was overjoyed that they had prepared a massive Indian vegetarian spread. What was more remarkable was that the mother of the family indicated, with a wide sweep of her palm, the well-stocked hotel bar,
‘Drink all you want, it is our present to you.’
Can anyone point me to a much wealthier British hostelry that would demonstrate that level of generosity?
I climbed Mount Solophok to visit the newly opened Siddhesvara Dham complex with its massive 108ft statue of Shiva, who looks to the opposite mountain, where the even larger figure of the Tibetan Buddha, Padmasambhava, looks back at him. I had no idea that this spiritual theme park contained scaled-down replicas of India’s most holy temples, including my favourite, the epic Rameswaram temple in Tamil Nadu. Each of these replicas is still considered holy and is attended by their own priest.
I entered the Jagannath temple, not realising that it was in Puri and closed to non-Hindus. I knew very little about Jagannath other than he lent his name to the word juggernaut after his huge cart, drawn by 4,000 devotees. I had no idea what the god looked like, when I entered the miniaturised holy of holies I was blown away, he’s an African. A black-faced wooden man with no legs and hands, the representation of something strange hiding in the forest. This figure was possibly one of the earliest interpretations of Vishnu and possibly starting point of all Hindu belief. When I visited the interior of Orissa, I found the indigenous people had strong African similarities; it made me think that possibly not only did humankind originate in Africa but Hinduism might have arisen out of juju. I was imagining a tribal hunter coming across a fallen tree and the artist in him seeing this figure. He hacked straight through the tree, hence the statue had no legs, and then chiselled out the features one can see today.
It’s very strange that I have found myself so torn between my love of India and Africa and now found this meeting place. Even stranger, though I was denied entry to Puri’s Jagannath temple, I was only allowed into his presence here by a failure of modern technology.
Staying on the former hippie hangout Chakratirtha Road in Puri and sulking that I couldn’t visit the great Jagannath Dham, I walked down to the beach and found a small locked up temple. I peeked through a chink in the padlocked door and there I could see the image of the Lord Jagannath and his two siblings, would I be allowed inside? Nearby there was an equally small Saturn Temple, where some priests were playing cards under its portico; I asked if the Jagannath temple would be open for evening puja.
‘The priest there has duties at the main temple tonight, come back tomorrow morning,’ was the suggestion.
The next day, following the priests’ advice, I went down the beach temple early, only to find it still locked. Turning up the small lane in disappointment, a cyclist in a white lungi was hurtling towards me,
‘Wait, wait!’ he shouted, ‘Lord Jagannath told me you’d be coming.’
He spat out a red glob of paan, betel leaf with areca nut, chewed for its stimulant and slightly psychoactive effects.
‘Lord Jagannath was expecting you yesterday, come, come!’
I tried to explain that I had found the temple locked, but he urgently bundled me into the shrine, minus my shoes. I was down on my knees head on the floor next to, what I was to learn, the Chakra Tirtha itself, an ancient sacred stone wheel. I was anointed several times as the young priest chanted and introduced me to each of the triumvirate in turn, followed by more anointing and chanting.
He paused briefly by the white figure of Balabhadra, saying,
‘This one is yours.’
‘How are you feeling?’ looking into my eyes, ‘Happy?’
‘Intensely happy!’ and I could not believe the intensity of happiness coursing through my body, I was tingling everywhere.
‘Good, that is all Lord Jagannath wants from you.’
The young priest introduced himself as Papu.
‘Welcome to Nabakalevara Yatra; you have been too unhappy, so now you must spread the happiness and the message of Jagannath Consciousness.’
Chapter 52: The Greater Song of Suliman: Shanti on the C.T. Road
Remus and Om Pekesh arrived at Puri railway station at 7.10 am, to be bombarded by auto-rickshaw drivers offering to take them to the best hotel in town.
‘The sadhu and I shall go to the Shanti Hotel on Chakratirtha Road,’ Om told the first driver, ‘so no tourist price!’
‘You will like this place, Remus; my friend Kali will give us a very good room at sadhu price.’
‘Kali, she goddess of death,’ the African replied.
‘You are learning some things, Remus, though I must address you as Rama in future,’ the Kingmaker looked somewhat impressed.
‘Kali more clearly represents the changing aspect of nature, which brings things to life, death of course being a big change,’ Om continued, ‘In your case you are at the beginning of a new life, a rebirth.’
‘I not sure I want reborn if I to die first,’ Remus was remembering portraits of a many armed black-skinned woman carrying a sword and a severed head with a necklace of small shrunken heads and a very long tongue.
‘Goddess Kali very ugly woman,’ Remus added.
‘Well, I can assure you, Rama this Kali is very beautiful but she does have a very long tongue.’
Remus lapsed into a quiet reflection on the workings of women’s tongues, as they drove through the potholed backstreets to the few lights of C.T. Road. It was gone 7.30am, still dark and nothing was open, even the railway canteen had been closed, despite sporting three signs which read “24/7”. Everywhere he had been in India he found shops open early, Om reminded him that this was the tourist ghetto with lots of bars and a government-approved bhang shop, so most tourists got up around 11 am. Remus asked if the bhang shop may be open now but Mr Pekesh disappointed him. The new sadhu’s spirits picked up when he was introduced to Mrs Kali Khadanga. Remus was falling in love again, Kali did indeed have very black skin but with lush thick Indian hair and her forty-something body displayed in its full glory by a tight-fitting dark-blue Lycra cat suit. Studying every inch of her in detail, he wondered why she would be dressed so sexily at 7.40am. His curiosity was answered when she handed them the room key and left on her daily ten-kilometre bicycle ride. The African was amused to see that the woman was playing to her namesake goddess by wearing a fifty-four-piece mala, each one a tiny male head, all her past lovers? Could he be number fifty-five? It had been a long time since our new sadhu had touched, smelled or tasted a really black woman; he admired her backside as she straddled the saddle. He would inspect the bicycle’s seat when she got back, still warm from her ride and carrying the scent of her womanhood.
‘Let us rest, Rama, and then I shall take you to a high place from where you will see your future,’ Mr Pekesh whispered into the rampant stag’s ear.
The high place turned out to be the rooftop of the Shanti Hotel, which had a 360-degree panorama of the city, to the east the beach and the Bay of Bengal, to the south the towers of the great Jagannath Dham. Om took Remus over to the east side and told him to look down on the now busy C.T. Road.
‘Here is your future,’ Om indicated the dozens of young, mostly female Remus noted, Western and Japanese tourists.
‘They are all looking for something more, study them closely, they will be your harvest.’
Remus saw that when they were not discussing restaurant menus, the young women were looking at the dozens of posters offering many kinds of enlightenment. They offered so many ways to self-fulfilment, Yoga, Acupuncture, Crystal Healing and Quantum Healing, at least twenty types of meditation, from Vedic, Zen, Kundalini, Pranayama, Vispassana, Tibetan Tantric, to of course Transcendental. My friend Remus had no idea what any of these meant, he was just hoping he could spot Mrs Khadanga dismounting from her bicycle, so he could sniff the saddle. Curiously though, among the crowds on C.T. Road, Remus thought he spotted an old man with a white hat covering his features, who reminded him very
much of his friend, Jeffrey Dharma.
‘All these people are searching for the latest way to enlightenment, so they can return from India, set up their own Yoga cum Osho franchise or simply impress their friends with their new inner peace,’ Om waved his arm the length of the street and turned to see that Sadhu Rama had disappeared. Remus had just spotted his new love dismounting her bicycle.
Chapter 53: In the Arms of Kali
The bicycle was resting against the huge chakra wheel that decorated the Shanti Hotel entrance. Remus, dressed only in an orange lungi and mala beads, looked around, the street was very busy so he decided that sniffing the seat might not be appropriate. Settling for a quick fondle of the saddle, he was surprised by a voice behind him,
‘Come to my office, African, and I might give you something warmer to touch.’
Kali was still dressed in the tight-fitting deep-blue catsuit; Remus looked embarrassed, fortunately his black skin hid the blush. The office seemed to also be her boudoir, decorated in what he took to be an African style, complete with a bed sheet with a pattern of leopard spots on alternating purple and hot pink bands. In-between the spots were flowers, which Remus took to be roses with no thorns, instead from each branch grew the letters L-O-V-E in ascending order. Remus couldn’t read in any language but recognised one of his favourite English words.
‘You many African things,’ the Gambian was feeling at home.
‘No, they are from the hill tribes here, mostly Bonda, but there are sixty-one other tribal people,’ Kali replied.
‘Bonda black people?’ Remus wanted to see more of her skin.
‘Not black, you know ochre, like Kalahari Bushmen,’ she replied.
‘Not been Kalahari, you very black all over,’ he wanted to unzip the Lycra suit, slip it off and study her closely.