28-10-2021, 07:08 AM
Ramesh had the weekend off and as usual, he and Prakash, one of his roommates, decided to get some beer and relax. They had the large bottle of kingfisher set up between them, and were drinking from glasses—small glasses that originally contained tea from the little stall down the lane.
They made small talk for a while and then Prakash said, “How’s that gori memsaab of yours?”
Ramesh colored and mumbled. He wasn’t drunk enough yet to talk about her.
He had become friends with Prakash after he had reached the big city. The latter had invited him to share his room that he already shared with Nawaz, another boy from a neighboring village.
In a previous drunken conversation, after the first time, he had told Prakash how he had seen the gori memsaab in a state of partial undress and how her clothes on the floor, especially the bra, had provoked many nights of cot-shaking masturbatory sessions.
Before then, he had almost never seen anyone in the office at the time he went in after his daytime job at the Raj Hotel where he worked as a porter.
The evening hours were solitary, the offices were usually clean, and didn’t take a lot of effort, and the garbage that had to be collected and disposed of was usually paper which he had to take to the second basement under the building. Besides, it was only a few days a week, one of which was usually a Saturday or Sunday.
It was therefore quite a shock to him to see a beautiful woman in one of the offices that late in the evening.
“She was so bitchy initially, you know, like a pagal kutti,” Ramesh said, “but then, something happened, something changed in her face."
"She asked my name."
"She smiled at me, Prakash bhai, and oh my god! She had these dimples!” He demonstrated by poking his own stubbled cheeks with his index fingers, “I lost my heart to her that very second.”
“Be careful,” Prakash said with a gravity and wisdom he didn’t possess, “she’s married, and besides, she’s way, way above your league, boy!”
Prakash was of an age with Ramesh but exuded an air of sophistication and worldly-wiseness. The truth was he had been in the city quite a bit longer than Ramesh and unlike Ramesh had a good idea of what went on in the elevated circles. He and Nawaz had made the rounds of the red-light districts, both in Gurugram and in Delhi and knew a thing or two.
Ramesh had acknowledged the truth in Prakash’s words, but he was smitten. He held his hands out, cupped as though holding large bowls. “Man those boobs!”
There was silence as the two men contemplated the possibilities that presented themselves with an apparently willing if not eager upper class memsaab.
“I still don’t know what that gulabi thing was,” he said, slurring his words and showing with his hands how large the thing was and the rough shape.
“Might have been some kind of pen? Computer thing?” Prakash was equally clueless. He had a similar educational background, class eight pass, although the two men were from different villages in the heartland, but he had an idea about how he might go about finding out what the object was.
“Torch?” said Ramesh, suddenly inspired. “It was dark in there and maybe that’s why…” he trailed off realizing that was a foolish thing to say because there hadn’t been a power failure. No one would use a torch these days if the power was still on.
He sighed and said, “but her boobs were out of this world, man.” He cupped his hands in front of his chest, then readjusted the cups to be larger, then larger still. In his imagination, Swati’s breasts had grown larger and larger, her face more beautiful and her skin tone whiter.
Many things had happened in the month or so after that conversation, and now Ramesh looked thoughtfully at Prakash, assessing how much he should tell. There had been developments for sure. And what developments they had been! He could never have imagined such things, even the stuff in the cheap Hindi paperbacks with lurid covers at the bus-station were nothing compared to that.
He decided to give an abbreviated version of the events that had transpired.
“It was the week after, same day that I’d seen the light under her door. I initially decided to skip her office, but then something made me knock on the door. I didn’t want to surprise her like last time.”
Prakash nodded with understanding. The power of lust on a young twenty year old was too difficult to overcome. Even if someone had threatened him with job loss, he might have still knocked. Hell, even if they’d threatened to kill him. Prakash had never seen the memsaab, but he would have done the same.
“I heard ‘Come in,’ and so I opened the door—it wasn’t locked like last time—and stuck my head in. By God! The scene was same to same, man! The only thing different was the color of the clothes on the floor.”
“And the gulabi torch thing?”
Ramesh shook his head. The pink object he had seen on his previous visit was nowhere in sight.
“She gazed at me like she wanted something, like I was supposed to do something, so I remembered I was supposed to take out the trash, so I opened the door wider and stepped in, pulling my cart in behind.”
“Then?"
Ramesh took a swig of his drink and motioned Prakash to wait, not to rush him. The story was going well, and he was in no mood now to rush it.
“She said, ‘Oh, Ramesh,’ with another smile that made my heart go crazy, ‘I was almost done. Leaving actually. Come on in.’
Ramesh made pumping movements in front of his chest to indicate how fast his heart was going. If Prakash noticed any similarity with his mime of Swati’s breasts and this movement, he didn’t comment on it.
“She spoke in Hindi or English?” Prakash was a stickler for details.
Ramesh closed one eye and looked up at the ceiling fan, trying to think. Finally he said, “Hindi I think. But maybe some English word or two.”
Prakash grunted and motioned Ramesh to go on.
“Then she pushed back from her chair and I could see her malai-makhan legs completely naked…completely naked! under her kameez which had bunched up from sitting in the chair. As she stood, the garment slowly unfolded and fell to her knees, but not before I got an eyeful of her legs. Those rounded calves, the sexy looking shoes she had on, I was in heaven.”
“Wait!” Prakash almost choked on his drink as he frantically signaled Ramesh. He coughed, snorted, sneezed, and then recovered.
“Sorry, I just wanted you to tell me again what she looks like. How tall, and how long hair and so on.”
Ramesh sighed. He hated interrupting his narrative, but they were both unmarried, and what was this conversation but for titillation?
“She’s average height, about five-two, maybe five three, and has hair upto here.” He indicated the small of his back, just short of the waist.
“Heh,” Prakash chuckled. “Good to grab, you know, when doing it from behind. Like a horse?”
Ramesh ignored his uncouth friend, but then chuckled and agreed. “Yeah, that would be good. Anyhow, she’s fair, not like Kartina Kaif, but fair, like a *****, you know, very fair. Very nice skin, no pimples or anything.” He was embellishing somewhat because he really didn’t know all the details, but he went on anyway.
“She’s slim,” and here he mimed an hourglass with his hands, “and her stomach is flat but with just a little bit of charbi, you know, just something to hold on to…and very very nice and broad ass.” He used the Hindi terms for all the anatomical details.
“And did I tell you about the boobs yet?” Ramesh raised his eyebrows and made cups of his hands in front of his chest, the fingers spread as wide as they would go, cups that might contain a medium size melon each.
Prakash put a hand to his heart and sighed theatrically. “Haai! Haai! I’m going to just die! Carry on with the story man.”
They made small talk for a while and then Prakash said, “How’s that gori memsaab of yours?”
Ramesh colored and mumbled. He wasn’t drunk enough yet to talk about her.
He had become friends with Prakash after he had reached the big city. The latter had invited him to share his room that he already shared with Nawaz, another boy from a neighboring village.
In a previous drunken conversation, after the first time, he had told Prakash how he had seen the gori memsaab in a state of partial undress and how her clothes on the floor, especially the bra, had provoked many nights of cot-shaking masturbatory sessions.
Before then, he had almost never seen anyone in the office at the time he went in after his daytime job at the Raj Hotel where he worked as a porter.
The evening hours were solitary, the offices were usually clean, and didn’t take a lot of effort, and the garbage that had to be collected and disposed of was usually paper which he had to take to the second basement under the building. Besides, it was only a few days a week, one of which was usually a Saturday or Sunday.
It was therefore quite a shock to him to see a beautiful woman in one of the offices that late in the evening.
“She was so bitchy initially, you know, like a pagal kutti,” Ramesh said, “but then, something happened, something changed in her face."
"She asked my name."
"She smiled at me, Prakash bhai, and oh my god! She had these dimples!” He demonstrated by poking his own stubbled cheeks with his index fingers, “I lost my heart to her that very second.”
“Be careful,” Prakash said with a gravity and wisdom he didn’t possess, “she’s married, and besides, she’s way, way above your league, boy!”
Prakash was of an age with Ramesh but exuded an air of sophistication and worldly-wiseness. The truth was he had been in the city quite a bit longer than Ramesh and unlike Ramesh had a good idea of what went on in the elevated circles. He and Nawaz had made the rounds of the red-light districts, both in Gurugram and in Delhi and knew a thing or two.
Ramesh had acknowledged the truth in Prakash’s words, but he was smitten. He held his hands out, cupped as though holding large bowls. “Man those boobs!”
There was silence as the two men contemplated the possibilities that presented themselves with an apparently willing if not eager upper class memsaab.
“I still don’t know what that gulabi thing was,” he said, slurring his words and showing with his hands how large the thing was and the rough shape.
“Might have been some kind of pen? Computer thing?” Prakash was equally clueless. He had a similar educational background, class eight pass, although the two men were from different villages in the heartland, but he had an idea about how he might go about finding out what the object was.
“Torch?” said Ramesh, suddenly inspired. “It was dark in there and maybe that’s why…” he trailed off realizing that was a foolish thing to say because there hadn’t been a power failure. No one would use a torch these days if the power was still on.
He sighed and said, “but her boobs were out of this world, man.” He cupped his hands in front of his chest, then readjusted the cups to be larger, then larger still. In his imagination, Swati’s breasts had grown larger and larger, her face more beautiful and her skin tone whiter.
Many things had happened in the month or so after that conversation, and now Ramesh looked thoughtfully at Prakash, assessing how much he should tell. There had been developments for sure. And what developments they had been! He could never have imagined such things, even the stuff in the cheap Hindi paperbacks with lurid covers at the bus-station were nothing compared to that.
He decided to give an abbreviated version of the events that had transpired.
“It was the week after, same day that I’d seen the light under her door. I initially decided to skip her office, but then something made me knock on the door. I didn’t want to surprise her like last time.”
Prakash nodded with understanding. The power of lust on a young twenty year old was too difficult to overcome. Even if someone had threatened him with job loss, he might have still knocked. Hell, even if they’d threatened to kill him. Prakash had never seen the memsaab, but he would have done the same.
“I heard ‘Come in,’ and so I opened the door—it wasn’t locked like last time—and stuck my head in. By God! The scene was same to same, man! The only thing different was the color of the clothes on the floor.”
“And the gulabi torch thing?”
Ramesh shook his head. The pink object he had seen on his previous visit was nowhere in sight.
“She gazed at me like she wanted something, like I was supposed to do something, so I remembered I was supposed to take out the trash, so I opened the door wider and stepped in, pulling my cart in behind.”
“Then?"
Ramesh took a swig of his drink and motioned Prakash to wait, not to rush him. The story was going well, and he was in no mood now to rush it.
“She said, ‘Oh, Ramesh,’ with another smile that made my heart go crazy, ‘I was almost done. Leaving actually. Come on in.’
Ramesh made pumping movements in front of his chest to indicate how fast his heart was going. If Prakash noticed any similarity with his mime of Swati’s breasts and this movement, he didn’t comment on it.
“She spoke in Hindi or English?” Prakash was a stickler for details.
Ramesh closed one eye and looked up at the ceiling fan, trying to think. Finally he said, “Hindi I think. But maybe some English word or two.”
Prakash grunted and motioned Ramesh to go on.
“Then she pushed back from her chair and I could see her malai-makhan legs completely naked…completely naked! under her kameez which had bunched up from sitting in the chair. As she stood, the garment slowly unfolded and fell to her knees, but not before I got an eyeful of her legs. Those rounded calves, the sexy looking shoes she had on, I was in heaven.”
“Wait!” Prakash almost choked on his drink as he frantically signaled Ramesh. He coughed, snorted, sneezed, and then recovered.
“Sorry, I just wanted you to tell me again what she looks like. How tall, and how long hair and so on.”
Ramesh sighed. He hated interrupting his narrative, but they were both unmarried, and what was this conversation but for titillation?
“She’s average height, about five-two, maybe five three, and has hair upto here.” He indicated the small of his back, just short of the waist.
“Heh,” Prakash chuckled. “Good to grab, you know, when doing it from behind. Like a horse?”
Ramesh ignored his uncouth friend, but then chuckled and agreed. “Yeah, that would be good. Anyhow, she’s fair, not like Kartina Kaif, but fair, like a *****, you know, very fair. Very nice skin, no pimples or anything.” He was embellishing somewhat because he really didn’t know all the details, but he went on anyway.
“She’s slim,” and here he mimed an hourglass with his hands, “and her stomach is flat but with just a little bit of charbi, you know, just something to hold on to…and very very nice and broad ass.” He used the Hindi terms for all the anatomical details.
“And did I tell you about the boobs yet?” Ramesh raised his eyebrows and made cups of his hands in front of his chest, the fingers spread as wide as they would go, cups that might contain a medium size melon each.
Prakash put a hand to his heart and sighed theatrically. “Haai! Haai! I’m going to just die! Carry on with the story man.”
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