Kirpal Kaur was the same age as I was. She was crazy about me and never played with anybody else. She roamed about aimlessly when she was alone. She would hold my hands like a mirror before her eyes, kiss them and rub them on her body. I would enquire why she did that. She would say: ‘I may steal some of your colour this way.’ When she tried to make me kiss her, I refused, fearing that her black colour would rub off on me. She did everything to see her desire fulfilled. She brought roasted grain, pulses, sugar candy and sugarcane from her field for me. When she could not manage anything, she got me flowers. She would decorate my hair with those flowers and proclaim: ‘You are my Krishna and I am your Radha.’
Once she saw me pissing and it was as if she had found something unique. She came closer and looked inquisitively. She was astonished and immediately tried to imitate my style. But she could not piss beyond her feet and wet them. It was a strange discovery for me. I was proud of myself and she was ashamed. I put a precondition for playing with her, ‘You must piss as far as I do, only then will I play with you.’
My unyielding attitude confused her. She tried to please me in divergent ways. She would push her loins forward, throw her head back and piss with all the force she could muster. Her colour grew deep crimson in her efforts but she could not manage to piss beyond her feet. When she could not compete in the game, she grew dispirited and asked, ‘Why don’t I have the thing you have?’
‘Only a boy will have such a thing, you are no boy,’ I would catch hold of my organ and tell her with pride.
Once I knew her weakness, I started impressing her in many ways. I turned round while pissing, made the urine flow in an arc or a circle, as I wished. I held my organ facing upward so that the flow rose toward the sky and then dropped down. Kirpal Kaur witnessed this scene and applauded spontaneously. She would hold my organ in one hand, caress her groin and at last withdraw dejectedly. But she seldom remained in that mood. She grew hopeful the next moment and persuaded me to rub my organ on her groin. When I asked why, she replied, ‘Something like that may sprout here in due course of time.’ She would lie underneath me, even though my weight prevented her from breathing smoothly, and hold me over her. She was happy to see me naked. Even if I did not fulfil her desire to her satisfaction, she would say, ‘I like your nakedness. I wish I could see you like this forever.’
Then it so happened that Lashkar Singh came from Sargodha with a little cart powered by a hand-crank. The cart became so popular with the children that they could not stop talking about it. When he took out the cart from his outhouse, the children stopped playing, encircled him and begged him to give them a joyride. He refused to oblige everyone but when I asked he would accede to my demand readily.
One morning I was returning from the fields, when I saw Lashkar had just closed the door of his outhouse and was about to bolt it. When he saw me, he stopped abruptly and asked lovingly, ‘Want a ride?’
What was there to ask! Riding the go-cart was like riding a flying chariot. I ran impulsively, pushed the door open and barged in. My impulse was so sudden that if Lashkar Singh had not left the bolt at the right time, he would have fallen in. The go-cart was kept in the veranda and I ran to sit on it. It was my first chance to have that sweet go-cart all to myself. I had always wanted to have a close look at it, ride it to my heart’s content, but never had a chance because of the crowd. I went up to the go-cart and started caressing its body and appreciating its design. It had everything that a loaded motorcar should have. On the driver’s seat was a wooden mannequin dressed as a chauffeur and on the other seats black corks were placed, which looked like passengers against the white-painted background. Between the two rows of seats, there was a line of red paint which looked like a carpet. The roof was made of bright tin, which resembled a steel mirror. I made faces at the mirror. It was fascinating. From different angles, I could see my face change. Just then, Lashkar Singh came from behind and kissed my cheeks noisily. I did not like it. I cleaned the spit off my cheek and looked at him angrily. He said affectionately, ‘Do you like the go-cart?’
‘Yes, I love it.’ My anger abated and I replied, ‘Let me ride the go-cart to my heart’s content,’ spreading my arms as wide as I could.
He brought the go-cart outside the veranda, turned it towards the door, made me sit on it, cranked it and let go. It went at full speed and when it stopped, I felt the happiness in my bones. I was turning the go-cart back when Lashkar Singh came running to me and again cranked it; the go-cart hurtled down a slope and took me farther than before. By the time he reached me, I had already turned the car uphill and was sitting on it. He stood smiling before me, twirling the crank in his hand. I asked him to crank the go-cart. He bent over me and said luringly, ‘I’ll give you this cart but there is a condition.’
‘What is that?’
I was so overjoyed that I could hear my own heart thumping.
‘Give me five kisses.’
He showed me a five, spreading his fingers.
I was at the end of my patience and offered him my cheek. It was so spontaneous that there was no gap between his asking and my response. Kissing me, he threw me onto the ground. In my ecstasy I felt that he was loving and gave myself up to him.
Readers! Childhood is such a mirror of inexperience and simplicity of feelings that it does not recognize any blemish of the lover. I felt a piercing pain in my buttocks and felt as if I was tearing at the seam. I let out a full-throated cry which rent the air. Frightened, he let go of me and stood a little away from me. I stood up weeping and made towards the gate. He stopped me in my tracks and renewed his promise. As he came close to me, I drew back in fear, as if he were a monster. Had my cries not been frightening, he would not have opened the door for me. I was eager to complain about him and was weeping inconsolably. But when I went away from him, a strange fear came over me and I became calm. By the time I reached home, I was feeling ill. I supported myself against a dark corner and then abruptly drew away from it, thinking that anything I touched would hurt me.
That delicate age! That repulsive incident! That selfrestraint!
That unnatural sexual experience stuck to me like a shield which defended me from homosexuals in later life.
Will anybody believe the reality of my sentiments? After revealing this secret, I have gone through the same spiritual pain which the blood thirst of that moment had made me feel. The memory of that incident still bites me like a poisonous snake. At that time my face was angelic and its beauty was that of the simple hill-folk. My countenance conveyed such softness and innocence that even a hungry carnivore would have spared me and licked me fondly. But a man’s lust is that repugnant thing which in its frenzy of expression can shame the most frightful of imaginings. In the years after that experience, circumstances have made me inculcate tolerance but I cannot accept its fiendishness in any way.
The result of that event was that I stopped taking gifts from anybody. If a boy elder to me wished to see me alone, I would run away from him. I would not accept gifts even from my dear friends.
Translated from the Urdu by the author and Hoshang Merchant
from Sheltered Flame
Iqbal Mateen
The following are extracts of some of the key episodes in the novel.
‘Iam yours now,’ Kaushalia exclaimed. Dearbald jumped from his chair. He bent down towards Kaushalia, and she surrendered her lips to his. Pyare Lal kept smiling. His eyes kept coming back to Shanuja, lying asleep in the bed . . .
Kaushalia reached her room and started pounding the door noisily. She threw herself at it as it was bolted from inside. Somehow, the bolt slipped down, and the door flew open. Kaushalia almost fell to the floor inside the room.
Shanuja’s shorts lay on the floor, and he was lying in Pyare Lal’s bed, moaning. Kaushalia’s eyes filled with terror . . .
Samsamuddin confided to Kaushalia: ‘The forty-year-old son of the chief of the rich Pathan clan now keeps Shanuja. The boy wears women’s clothes, puts on saris, has b
angles round his wrists, applies lipstick to his lips, and . . . and, has two small bulges on his chest to look like breasts.’ . . .
Hansen used to spice his account of Shanuja’s new ways. He said that Shanuja was doing things which were not at all proper for boys. He said that Shanuja would augment his mother Kaushalia’s income. ‘Things which are done surreptitiously today will be done openly tomorrow. After all, now is the time when the “boy” can make money, and he is so ravishing. Kaushalia knows everything. Some rich fellow is “keeping” Shanuja, and she must have got a good price for the boy . . . She wanted a girl who, on growing up, would continue in the profession. Since she has a son, she has put him on the same track.’ . . .
Kaushalia woke up and realized that Dearbald was not there.
‘Dear, dear,’ she called out.
She rose from her seat in a flash, lifted the mosquito curtain, and found that the bed had not been slept in. She turned around as if struck by lightning. The reality was revealed to her.
Someone was whispering into her ear: ‘Shanuja has taken away your last solace. Are you Shanuja’s mother, or a rival?’
No. No. No.
Like one gone mad, she moved from room to room, until she reached Shanuja’s room and started pounding the door furiously. Shanuja rose from the bed:
‘Who is there?’ he asked, in an irritated voice.
Someone was pounding the door like a mad person. Shanuja tried to cover his nude body with a shawl. Flower petals sticking to his back and buttocks fell to the floor. He wrapped the shawl round his body, reached the door and unbolted it. The two shutters flew open like a harlot’s pleasure-chamber. Kaushalia asked him, ‘Where is he?’ Shanuja smiled. Without paying any heed to Kaushalia, he said, ‘I am not wearing any clothes. Under the shawl I am totally nude. Surprisingly, you are wearing clothes as though you never removed them during the night! It doesn’t matter. But what surprises me is that even now you have not come to tell me that you are not my mother.’
Kaushalia felt the barb aimed at her. ‘Shut up! Tell me where he is.’
‘He has gone! And even if he had been here what could you have done to him?’
‘So you have slept with him also! Do you know that he is . . .?’
Shanuj started. He realized that Kaushalia was referring not to Pyare Lal but to Dearbald.
Shanuja looked contemptuously at Kaushalia. “He doesn’t have the money to pay for my services.’
‘Otherwise you would have become his?’
‘No, no . . . I would have fallen at his feet and called him father. That’s what you wanted, didn’t you?’
Translated from the Urdu by Taqi Ali Mirza
from Yayati
Vishnu Khandekar
Devayani had flared up due to the developments of the last couple of hours. In a rage, she walked up to Puru and said to him, ‘You are Puru, aren’t you? Sharmishta’s son? Then why are you keeping quiet now? She loved your father passionately, they say! You are the son of that same mother. You too must be doting on your father. What are you thinking about? Give your youth to your father! And take his old age instead!’
All the desires in my mind started shouting in my ears. ‘That beautiful young woman is waiting for you in the salon. For the last fifteen days you have been waiting for her! Today when that glass of nectar is within your reach, will you throw it away without drinking? Then what was the point of refusing to be an ascetic eighteen years ago? Think about it, you fool! Luckily, you have been granted an antidote to the curse. Make use of it. What great harm would it do to Puru to accept your old age for a few years? On the other hand, he will get this kingdom in return. Get enjoyment for a few years; quench all your desires and then give Puru his youth back.’
Perhaps provoked by Devayani, Puru quickly came forward. He laid his head on my feet and said, ‘Father, I am the son of that mother who, although being a princess, chose to be a slave for the sake of your lineage. I am prepared to take your old age.’ ‘All right’ were the only two words that I uttered. Instantly realizing the implication of these words, I closed my eyes. After a few moments, I opened them to give my blessings to Puru, but I could not lift my hand. Puru was now standing in front of me as a very old man!
Devayani was astounded to see this miracle. She quickly left the palace along with Yadu.
Puru went and stood in front of a mirror. He took a good look at his appearance. For a moment, he covered his face with both his hands. I could not make out whether he was regretting his sacrifice. But soon he was seated on the throne with a composed face. Looking at him, I calmed down to some extent.
Earlier, I had not been able to bear the sight of my own reflection. Now I could not bear the sight of Puru. Before leaving the town, Sharmishta had sent a message for me: ‘Let Puru always be blessed by the King.’ Instead, today I had struck him with a thunderbolt. I felt like going near him, embracing him, consoling him, but only for a moment. I could not dare to do it. Sin is such a coward!
Translated by Nilesh Jahagirdar from the Marathi
Desire Brings Sorrow For Eunice de Souza
Dinyar Godrej
Cool, no colour,
flawless shell
without even the stench
of your sea
You say
desire brings sorrow
and have done away
with it, pitched
your maw upon
a distant star
and now enjoy
gutless ananda.
It is not
an easy question of preferences
for us unlike you,
not the choice
of sweet over bitter,
but a concession
that love and lust
though terribly troublesome
are certainly not
without flavour.
Under Water
Dinyar Godrej
1.
Where are the quiet pools, flat and untroubled,
that mirror nothing?
Where are the depths, covered and shaded,
the wet beds of moss?
I have turned around a question
omy lover
till I have become a question
and memory is the noise of the sea
the crash of a wave that breaks upon me.
2.
A little creeping grief
grubbing the ocean floor
heart blot of
grim regularity
searching . . .
little clawing crust
working under pressure
the moss—long settled—swirls
3.
The land is alive with rain.
Children playing on the bank
have plunged a volley of stones
into our dull waters.
Forgotten coral uncovered
beauteous blood bloom,
the rising rush bubbles
with distant chords,
wrenched voices that reverberate.
See infant evil’s rippling strength,
terror once dropped concentric grows.
The death ship passes, its bristling wake
glistening like a row of pearls.
4.
‘I step out pure from my bath,’ she said
‘It’s like a new birth.’
What was it she lost in there
that made her shine reappear?
I had to find out.
I slipped into the bath and it opened beneath me
I sank through the years to the ocean’s bed
and looking up I could see no light
save the mockery of a luminous fish.
I tried speaking but my words were bubbles.
I could not rise for the world was over me.
Then I tried to give up trying
and suddenly the waters cleared.
I saw the continents moving
the world I had loved
afloat.
5.
The waters bore down the sacrifice
an old man, ashen and dead.
I am sure he did not feel
the scallops kiss
or the lick of currents—
those were beyond his knowing.
He was sent this way for a purpose.
Who knows whether it was fulfilled?
Several beings fed.
6.
Feel
the pull
Atlantis was childhood sinking
a precious bubble
the tug
the wreck weighted with bullion
was younglove
the persistence
the poet’s surrounded isles
were humanity
of memory.
7.
The stone I dropped in the pool as a child,
its ripples now overwhelm me.
Walk carefully through these waters
my lover
for you are now within me.
It is the small fish that have taught me
the wisdom of fright.
On the Road to Jata Shankar
Dinyar Godrej
Through looming rocks the sky a jagged knife,
Underneath, trees crawled numerous millipede legs,
Between, the dirt road dipped out of sight too soon.
My mother fluttered birdlike,
Trapped in the plummeting cage of the car.
Her arms turned jelly and cold,
Her scant hair wet with sweat.
Passing swaying trees and outsized rocks
She could not bear to look, and said,
‘Stop the car. I want to get out.
I’m feeling very frightened.’ My father,
Unsettled by her shrill despair, hotly said,
‘Don’t be crazy! This road is quite travelled.
You can’t get out here.’
But we did.
Mum and I walked to make the trees stop.
The shapeful rocks bought comments,
Flecked oddly as they were with pastel blue,
‘Mum,’ I said, ‘You’ve been here before.
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