11-03-2026, 04:17 AM
(This post was last modified: 24-03-2026, 12:41 PM by Maleficio. Edited 1 time in total. Edited 1 time in total.)
When the telephone rang, I uncertainly picked up the receiver, still lost in thought about my cousin brother’s impending marriage. I wasn’t sure whether I would be able to attend it or not.
That morning, my husband—a computer engineer working in the U.S.—had told me that his leave had not been sanctioned due to pressing work commitments. He wouldn’t be able to join me. That meant I would have to travel to India alone and return by myself. The thought left me feeling desperate. I was longing to attend the wedding.
My Mousi had called the previous day to remind me and had insisted that I come. She sounded sad that her daughter—my cousin sister Cheenu—would not be able to attend. Cheenu had migrated to Canada quite recently, and returning so soon was nearly impossible. The airfare was expensive, and with the festival season in full swing, tickets were scarce and heavily overbooked.
I had no choice but to go. As a happily married woman, I was expected to perform all the customary rituals that could only be carried out by someone in my position. Another reason was that I was simply bored with life in the States. My husband was a complete workaholic; he spent far more time in front of his computer than with me. Even if I walked around nude in front of him, he would remain glued to his laptop, busy programming.
I had married an IIT graduate who was also a green card holder—the most sought-after “Mr. Nice Guy” back in India. My father had even pledged his life insurance policy to meet the dowry demands. In contrast, my elder sister had been married to a government employee in India. At that time, my father wasn’t earning much, and my sister wasn’t as educated as I was.
Just as I was expecting a call from my mother, I heard Jijaji’s voice on the line instead. I was surprised. He was spending a small fortune to make an international call from his new mobile phone.
“Oh, Reenu, is that you? Arre yaar,” he said enthusiastically, “I just bought a mobile. My very first call is to you!”
“Oh, Jijaji! How nice to hear that you have your own mobile now. I’m at your service,” I replied playfully.
“Reenu, what kind of service can you offer your Jijaji?” he asked in a mischievous, hilarious tone.
He had always been a cheerful person and never missed a chance to pat my buttocks whenever no one was around. Though it sometimes troubled me, I couldn’t deny that it excited me too. I still remembered the time he had pressed them and teasingly remarked that I wasn’t wearing any panties underneath. But that was an old story.
“I’m calling you first from my new mobile, Reenu. I haven’t even called my wife yet. I’m calling from the office,” he continued.
“Okay, so tell me—what’s the matter? How is everyone? How is Cheenu? Thanks for remembering your saali.”
“Cheenu isn’t here, yaar. She has gone to her mother’s house,” he replied.
“So you remembered me only because Cheenu is away?” I teased.
“No, dear Reenu. I think about you quite often. In fact, I miss you a lot. How’s your American life? When are you going to give our family a boy?”
Boy! I wasn’t even pregnant. And to get pregnant, one needed to have sex—something my husband hardly had time for. But I couldn’t tell him that. “Don’t tease me, Jijaji. We’ve just been married. Let us enjoy life for a while. Boy or girl can come later—let me settle down here first,” I said.
“Okay, okay. So when are you coming for the wedding? Everyone is expecting you. Is your husband coming too?”
“I will come anyway, but my husband isn’t. He couldn’t get leave.”
“So both your husband and my wife are skipping the marriage. That’s very nice,” Jijaji commented with a chuckle. “Cheenu has been away for the past two weeks, yaar. Your Jijaji is now on a fast in her absence. If this continues, I may have to start eating outside.”
He always spoke in double meanings, and the ladies adored him for it.
“Don’t be naughty, Jijaji. Cheenu will come back soon. Homely food is never contaminated, but outside food always carries that risk,” I replied.
“Don’t worry, yaar. Your Jijaji always wears a condom to prevent contamination. Don’t you know?” he shot back.
That remark instantly took me back to an incident from the past. It was shortly after Cheenu’s delivery. I was helping her look after the newborn. One day, I noticed a strange “balloon” hanging among the clothes on the drying line. I picked it up and examined it. It was filled with a milky, glue-like substance and had a peculiar smell—like raw ladies’ fingers (okra). When I showed it to Cheenu and asked what it was, she turned pale, snatched it from my hand, and flushed it down the toilet. That was when she first explained condoms to me. Later, she must have told Jijaji about it, because he had teased me mercilessly: “Saali, Cheenu told me you took some glue from a balloon in our room. If you ever need glue, just contact your Jijaji. I’m always at your service.” My face had burned with embarrassment.
He went on asking about my travel plans and the wedding arrangements, then ended the call, mindful that international mobile calls were expensive. I relaxed on my posh sofa, took a sip of French wine, and let my thoughts drift into the past.
Memories of my elder cousin Cheenu, my Jiju Ravi, and the time we spent together flooded my mind. Cheenu and I had stayed in Nainital for our studies. There were running jokes in the family that, being the youngest cousin, I would eventually have to “take care” of both my Jijas. The bawdy banter between my mom, my mausi (mother’s elder sister), and my mami (aunty) played like a film before my eyes.
My mother had been married very young, as was the custom in those days—women were married off as soon as they reached puberty. She was barely sixteen when she got married, and exactly nine months later, my elder sister was born. I was the second child. Coming from a village background, my mother wasn’t highly educated. She and her sisters spoke in a bold, bawdy language filled with sexual references and double meanings. They were extroverted and never hesitated to include me in their jokes.
My mother was the youngest among her sisters. Her manjhali mausi was only a year older, while the eldest was four years older. All three of them loved indulging in the raunchiest jokes and songs. When my mother visited Nainital, my mami would first greet her with a string of colorful abuses (gallis) before offering her water. My mother would happily return the favor in the same coin.
Whenever only the ladies were around, their conversations revolved around sex and neighborhood gossip—who was sleeping with whom. My mother’s only brother was married, and she was easily the bawdiest of them all. She freely used countryside slang—words like “cunt” and “pussy”—without any hesitation. Unlike city girls who learned about sex from Mills & Boon novels, I received my sexual education early through these uninhibited conversations.
They never addressed each other by their maiden names, but as “mother of so-and-so.” When I was around, I would hear things like “Reenu ki mummy” (Reenu’s mom). My mami would welcome my mother with, “Arre, Reenu ki mummy pakki chinar aa gayi!” (Reenu’s mom, the top slut, has arrived!). My mother would fire back, “Reenu ki mami badi chudavsi hai—unki bur mein 10-10 yaar ghus jaate hain!” (Reenu’s aunty is a top fucker; ten lovers at a time disappear into her cunt!).
It wasn’t just talk. They would hug each other warmly, and my mother would inevitably squeeze my mami’s breasts or pinch her hips, saying, “It looks like there was some serious fucking last night—see how these boobs have swollen in my brother’s hands!” My mami would laugh and reply, “Why not? Your brother is ready to fuck me even in front of you. Last time at the wedding, he took me right in the toilet while the other ladies were waiting outside to pee!”
We also had a servant named Champa, a village woman who was a walking encyclopedia of local scandals and gossips.
That morning, my husband—a computer engineer working in the U.S.—had told me that his leave had not been sanctioned due to pressing work commitments. He wouldn’t be able to join me. That meant I would have to travel to India alone and return by myself. The thought left me feeling desperate. I was longing to attend the wedding.
My Mousi had called the previous day to remind me and had insisted that I come. She sounded sad that her daughter—my cousin sister Cheenu—would not be able to attend. Cheenu had migrated to Canada quite recently, and returning so soon was nearly impossible. The airfare was expensive, and with the festival season in full swing, tickets were scarce and heavily overbooked.
I had no choice but to go. As a happily married woman, I was expected to perform all the customary rituals that could only be carried out by someone in my position. Another reason was that I was simply bored with life in the States. My husband was a complete workaholic; he spent far more time in front of his computer than with me. Even if I walked around nude in front of him, he would remain glued to his laptop, busy programming.
I had married an IIT graduate who was also a green card holder—the most sought-after “Mr. Nice Guy” back in India. My father had even pledged his life insurance policy to meet the dowry demands. In contrast, my elder sister had been married to a government employee in India. At that time, my father wasn’t earning much, and my sister wasn’t as educated as I was.
Just as I was expecting a call from my mother, I heard Jijaji’s voice on the line instead. I was surprised. He was spending a small fortune to make an international call from his new mobile phone.
“Oh, Reenu, is that you? Arre yaar,” he said enthusiastically, “I just bought a mobile. My very first call is to you!”
“Oh, Jijaji! How nice to hear that you have your own mobile now. I’m at your service,” I replied playfully.
“Reenu, what kind of service can you offer your Jijaji?” he asked in a mischievous, hilarious tone.
He had always been a cheerful person and never missed a chance to pat my buttocks whenever no one was around. Though it sometimes troubled me, I couldn’t deny that it excited me too. I still remembered the time he had pressed them and teasingly remarked that I wasn’t wearing any panties underneath. But that was an old story.
“I’m calling you first from my new mobile, Reenu. I haven’t even called my wife yet. I’m calling from the office,” he continued.
“Okay, so tell me—what’s the matter? How is everyone? How is Cheenu? Thanks for remembering your saali.”
“Cheenu isn’t here, yaar. She has gone to her mother’s house,” he replied.
“So you remembered me only because Cheenu is away?” I teased.
“No, dear Reenu. I think about you quite often. In fact, I miss you a lot. How’s your American life? When are you going to give our family a boy?”
Boy! I wasn’t even pregnant. And to get pregnant, one needed to have sex—something my husband hardly had time for. But I couldn’t tell him that. “Don’t tease me, Jijaji. We’ve just been married. Let us enjoy life for a while. Boy or girl can come later—let me settle down here first,” I said.
“Okay, okay. So when are you coming for the wedding? Everyone is expecting you. Is your husband coming too?”
“I will come anyway, but my husband isn’t. He couldn’t get leave.”
“So both your husband and my wife are skipping the marriage. That’s very nice,” Jijaji commented with a chuckle. “Cheenu has been away for the past two weeks, yaar. Your Jijaji is now on a fast in her absence. If this continues, I may have to start eating outside.”
He always spoke in double meanings, and the ladies adored him for it.
“Don’t be naughty, Jijaji. Cheenu will come back soon. Homely food is never contaminated, but outside food always carries that risk,” I replied.
“Don’t worry, yaar. Your Jijaji always wears a condom to prevent contamination. Don’t you know?” he shot back.
That remark instantly took me back to an incident from the past. It was shortly after Cheenu’s delivery. I was helping her look after the newborn. One day, I noticed a strange “balloon” hanging among the clothes on the drying line. I picked it up and examined it. It was filled with a milky, glue-like substance and had a peculiar smell—like raw ladies’ fingers (okra). When I showed it to Cheenu and asked what it was, she turned pale, snatched it from my hand, and flushed it down the toilet. That was when she first explained condoms to me. Later, she must have told Jijaji about it, because he had teased me mercilessly: “Saali, Cheenu told me you took some glue from a balloon in our room. If you ever need glue, just contact your Jijaji. I’m always at your service.” My face had burned with embarrassment.
He went on asking about my travel plans and the wedding arrangements, then ended the call, mindful that international mobile calls were expensive. I relaxed on my posh sofa, took a sip of French wine, and let my thoughts drift into the past.
Memories of my elder cousin Cheenu, my Jiju Ravi, and the time we spent together flooded my mind. Cheenu and I had stayed in Nainital for our studies. There were running jokes in the family that, being the youngest cousin, I would eventually have to “take care” of both my Jijas. The bawdy banter between my mom, my mausi (mother’s elder sister), and my mami (aunty) played like a film before my eyes.
My mother had been married very young, as was the custom in those days—women were married off as soon as they reached puberty. She was barely sixteen when she got married, and exactly nine months later, my elder sister was born. I was the second child. Coming from a village background, my mother wasn’t highly educated. She and her sisters spoke in a bold, bawdy language filled with sexual references and double meanings. They were extroverted and never hesitated to include me in their jokes.
My mother was the youngest among her sisters. Her manjhali mausi was only a year older, while the eldest was four years older. All three of them loved indulging in the raunchiest jokes and songs. When my mother visited Nainital, my mami would first greet her with a string of colorful abuses (gallis) before offering her water. My mother would happily return the favor in the same coin.
Whenever only the ladies were around, their conversations revolved around sex and neighborhood gossip—who was sleeping with whom. My mother’s only brother was married, and she was easily the bawdiest of them all. She freely used countryside slang—words like “cunt” and “pussy”—without any hesitation. Unlike city girls who learned about sex from Mills & Boon novels, I received my sexual education early through these uninhibited conversations.
They never addressed each other by their maiden names, but as “mother of so-and-so.” When I was around, I would hear things like “Reenu ki mummy” (Reenu’s mom). My mami would welcome my mother with, “Arre, Reenu ki mummy pakki chinar aa gayi!” (Reenu’s mom, the top slut, has arrived!). My mother would fire back, “Reenu ki mami badi chudavsi hai—unki bur mein 10-10 yaar ghus jaate hain!” (Reenu’s aunty is a top fucker; ten lovers at a time disappear into her cunt!).
It wasn’t just talk. They would hug each other warmly, and my mother would inevitably squeeze my mami’s breasts or pinch her hips, saying, “It looks like there was some serious fucking last night—see how these boobs have swollen in my brother’s hands!” My mami would laugh and reply, “Why not? Your brother is ready to fuck me even in front of you. Last time at the wedding, he took me right in the toilet while the other ladies were waiting outside to pee!”
We also had a servant named Champa, a village woman who was a walking encyclopedia of local scandals and gossips.
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