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   My Story (Part 10) Sharmila Sanyal.

      My first cousin (from my mother's side) was getting married.  So, during the relentless monsoon in early June the following year, I found myself in a small town a couple of hundred kilometers north of Calcutta.  Dipu had written to me that he could not make it that summer and was going to try Christmas.  I was a little disappointed, but I had not broken down or anything.  My studies kept me intellectually busy; and Debi kept me satisfied physically.  She and Ajit had decided to get married sometime that year.  He knew all about us and, from what I gathered, derived much pleasure from the descriptions Debi recounted of our regular sessions.  I could tell, by the way Ajit looked at me and Debi when we three would go out together, that he would very much like to be a part of our intimacy.  I can't say that such a possibility never crossed my mind either — I found Ajit, as I have alluded to earlier — very attractive.  But, not having received any indication from Debi, I had decided not to ever bring that subject up while sober.  I loved Debi too much to risk upsetting her.  I let the chemistry remain just that.

       Anjana, about five years older than me, was all aglow from the anticipation and could hardly hide her excitement.  I have always failed to understand how one can look forward thus to being hitched up with a guy that is virtually a total stranger.

      Chhordi was an attractive girl — always had been — yet she waited for her parents to find a "perfect match" through newspaper advertisements!  Not that their family was any more conservative than ours; but, I guess the girls are either too shy or they lack the confidence in themselves.  After all, sharing your life with someone for the rest of your life is no small thing.  Hence, they avoid deciding for themselves.  I believe it is a form of escapism that has been built into the social fiber.  However, arranged marriages had already become relatively rare in Bengal, and Chhordi's marriage just happened to be one such.  It turned out to be a very good union too.  They now have two beautiful children.  I like her husband.  Subhash-da is a handsome, smart and witty college professor.  Chhordi, though a Chemistry graduate, never sought to pursue any career of her own, being happy taking care of her little family.  But that is another story.  Something else happened during that happy fortnight that warrants a mention in this narrative.

      My aunt’s family used to be an extended one — not unlike our family — and their house is huge.  It is a two storied house with about twenty big-sized rooms.  The house itself probably occupies about three quarters of an acre and sits about a hundred yards back from the main street on a five-acre land, complete with a heavy fifteen-foot-wide iron gate and a graveled driveway that runs from the gate to the front portico.  At the back of the U-shaped house is a pond covering an acre.  The pond used to be rather well cared for.  Needless to say, my aunt's family is quite well off.  Indeed, from what I have been told, they used to own most of the land where the town stands; and the area they now live in is named after their family-name.

      So, I was not surprised to find about fifty to sixty relatives, including us, showing up for the hoopla leading up to the wedding.  Such prolonged festivities were rare even then, and one would be considered crazy to even contemplate such extravaganza these days.  From what I have heard from my elders, there used to be a time when the entire neighborhood would not have to light their stoves for a whole month should a wealthy family happen to have a wedding.  While not in such a grand scale, that house was the focus of the neighborhood when we arrived.  It being the first wedding of a girl in that house — and the first in almost 16 years — Chhordi's family had decided to make it a memorable one.

      Among my relatives were a number of my cousins — close and distant — that I had not met in a few years.  Chhordi's younger brother, Sanjay, had grown into an attractive young 'man' of fifteen.  The last I had seen him a couple of years earlier at our house, his voice had started to change and he had sounded funny.  I remembered teasing him about it.  The handsome boy was now an inch taller than me.  Then there was Parimal-da, another of our cousins who was a painter.  With a face full of beard and shoulder-length hair, he definitely looked like an artist.  His wife, also Sharmila and about three years older than me, looked more beautiful than I remembered from their wedding a year back.  She had put on some healthy weight and looked very attractive in the light blue sari loosely draping her rounded curves.  She wouldn't be considered a ravishing beauty, but she was no doubt pretty and had about her an unmistakable allure.  I realized that Sanjay was not a kid anymore when I found him glancing at her furtively with admiration in his adolescent eyes.

"So, you like Sharmila-boudi?" I asked him in jest.  His face went red.

"I...I...yes, she is nice." Sanjay said.

"You don't have be coy about it," I smiled and said, "She is indeed very attractive, isn't she?"

"That she is." He was visibly embarrassed at my directness; and he tried to make light of it by adding, "So are you, Shona-di." It was my turn to be flustered.

"I'll beat you up, you elf." I said in an attempt to hide my reaction.  I guess I actually gave it away, for he responded with a wink.  'Boy!  He IS an elf' — I mused.  I have not been flattered like that by a fifteen-year-old and it felt funny.

      The day we arrived, the sky opened up above us from the afternoon, and we spent the remainder of the day talking and playing cards in the huge drawing room.  There was a constant supply of 'Jhhaal-muri' and tea.  We talked and we sang and we munched on the fritters till it was time for supper, which, of course, most of us young folks had to forego.  By the time we went to sleep it was about midnight.  I fell asleep peacefully listening to the rain.

       Next morning, after finishing our 'community breakfast', I was sitting on the steps of the back porch, enjoying the beautiful green in front of me and admiring the geese paddling busily in the pond, when Sanjay appeared behind me and asked.  "Hey, Shona-di, I'll have to go to the market to get banana leaves, want to come?" Having really nothing else to feel useful about, I welcomed the idea.  I looked up at the sky and saw very few clouds.  The local market was about half a mile away and I suggested that we walked.  Lunch would not be ready any time soon, and the banana leaves should not be a priority anyway.  Sanjay grabbed one of the several umbrellas from the house and we were on our way.

      Having been born and raised in Calcutta, I always enjoyed the countryside.  This was a fairly big town with the ambience of a village about it.  We talked about his school and my life in Calcutta and, before we knew it, we were at the bustling market.  It was crowded and the ground beneath us was wet and muddy from the downpour of the night before.  I cursed myself for wearing a pair of sandals that splattered mud all over my back with every step I took.  Sanjay was wearing rubber shoes and made fun of my mud splattered form.  I tried to take it in with good spirit; but for a city girl like myself, it was hard to ignore the mud on my skin.  I used the aanchal of my white sari to try and wipe it off, cursing myself some more for ruining one of my favorite saris.

      There was a hand-pumped tube-well beside the stall selling the banana leaves.  Sanjay went up to it and pumped some water to wet his hands and, walking back to me said, "Here...let me," and, without much ado, he was wiping the splatters of mud off my back, from the back of my neck and from the area between my blouse and my sari.  I didn't know what to say.  The lady who was managing the stall knew Sanjay.  She smiled at me and asked him who I was.  Sanjay said, "This is Shona-di, my aunt's daughter."

"Your brother is terribly nice, Didimoni," she said with a grin exposing her stained teeth, "See how he cares for you!"

      Now, readers unfamiliar with Indian dialectics would probably find some innuendo in her comment; but let me assure them that there was absolutely none.  It is easy to translate words; but, not so when it comes to expressing the meanings or feelings behind them.  Anyway, I was actually caught off-guard by Sanjay's good intentions; and, till this day I have not been able to figure out why his wet hands on my bare skin had sent a shiver through my body that morning.  Well, they did, and abruptly — albeit involuntarily — I moved out of his reach with something like, "Never mind, Sanju, I will clean up when we get back..." or something equally lame.

      My reaction at my 'brother's' effort to wipe the mud off me must have appeared funny to the lady at the stall, for she stared at me just long enough to make me uncomfortable.  However, I tried not to think much of it; and I was certain Sanjay was not mature enough to detect my uneasiness.  We picked up a few other things from the market and headed back.

      The sky got dark above us as we walked side by side, and about halfway between the market and the house, it started to rain again.  By the time I took the big bundle of banana leaves and the small bag of knick knacks from Sanjay's hands to allow him to open the umbrella, we were both drenched.  There is little one can do to avoid getting drenched in monsoon, unless already wearing a rain- coat.

      We started walking a little faster — as fast as I could make it with my blasted sandals — huddled close together, under the only umbrella.  Pretty soon, I started experiencing the same sensation I had had moments ago when, at the market, my cousin wanted to wipe the mud off my back.  I realized that my blouse and my sari were sticking to my skin, making it impossible to hide much of anything.  The blouse was sticking to my breasts like a second skin and the elbow of his arm, that held the umbrella, was directly pressed against the side of one of my breasts.    I felt a familiar stir in my body.  I looked at Sanjay's face; he was staring straight ahead as we briskly walked towards the house.  I could not read any emotion there.  I should have felt at ease, but something inside kept chiding me for even feeling the way I did.  I kept reminding myself that the boy next to me was my cousin — and three years younger than me.  My attempt at disciplining my mind was actually backfiring every time I thought about his age.  I felt faint from the primal urge.  I walked closer to him, trying to feel the side of his folded arm against my breast through the wet blouse.  I felt my nipples swell up underneath my bra and I looked down at them to assure myself that they were not obvious through the drenched clothes.  I thanked myself for wearing a sari, for even the pleated length of the aanchal barely concealed the telltale sign.  

      I sensed Sanjay's tension momentarily as he flexed his arm.  He could have easily shifted the umbrella to his other hand if he wanted to; but he didn't.  He seemed to be enjoying the feel of my breasts against his arm!  He had been breathing heavily and so was I.  But that could very well have been from walking so fast!

      By the time we were back at the house in our drenched state, there was little doubt in my mind that I was a miserable sex maniac that lusted after her fifteen-year old 'brother'.  I was also wet between my legs.  Once at the house, Sanjay grabbed the leaves and the plastic bag and quickly disappeared towards the kitchen, leaving me feeling guilty for putting him in an awkward state.  After all, his adolescence would make him extremely vulnerable.  Adolescent!  I should not have thought about that...!

 "Oh God, Sharmila!  Look at you...you'll get pneumonia!" Sharmila-boudi was sitting inside the doorway that led into the drawing room.  She jumped up and dragged me upstairs to the room that their family was assigned to.  She made me take everything off in spite of my protests.  "You don't need to get bashful like that in front of me," she said, "I am older and I am a woman, after all."

"Yeah...you are almost fifty, ain't you?" I said jokingly.  I was trying to hide my tension from everybody, for I was too aware myself of the sinful arousal.  I wasn't sure either whether I would be able to hide the wetness between my legs if I stood naked in front of her.

"You OK, Sharmi?" She asked.  She was probably wondering about my momentary hesitation in getting out of my clothes, but, to me it sounded rather penetrating.  "You will catch cold if you don't hurry!" She repeated.  Her back was turned towards me as she looked for some clothes for me in her own suitcase.  I quickly pulled the sari out of my petticoat and unhooked my blouse — all the time hoping that the brassiere would not be wet enough to warrant getting out of.  But, they were.  My petticoat was sticking to my thighs too.  So I hoped my panties would be wet all through to hide my arousal.

"Here, I had brought some pairs of saalwaar-kaameez," Boudi had picked one up for me as she turned around and found me standing in the middle of the room in my wet bra and petticoat.  "Oh...Sharmi...I had not figured you as that shy!" She said with a smile.  "Here, wear these for now; I'm leaving.  You don't need to wear bra for a while...or are you the kind that can't do without one?" Sharmila-boudi added with a naughty chuckle and a wink.  That's when I realised that I she rarely wore one.  I was quite impressed, for she hardly needed one.

"That's OK, Boudi, you don't have to go out...." I finally became bold enough.  "It's just that I have not undressed in front of anybody since I was twelve or thirteen." I added a lie as a justification.  I took my bra off and heard a compliment from Sharmila-boudi.  I picked up the Salwaar so I could slip it on over the petticoat without having to reveal the rest of me.

"Won't it get wet if you did not take the petticoat off?" Sharmila-boudi had to say something like that, didn't she!

      I thought I had it all figured out, but she was right.  Feeling rather helpless, I put the shirt back on the bed and untied the knot. The petticoat essentially stuck to my thighs and I had to pull it down.  As I was doing that, I looked down at my panties and, the next moment, thanked the Person upstairs for having poured buckets on, allowing even my panties to soak through completely.

      Sharmila-boudi was sitting right in front of me on the bed.  I looked up at her and found her looking at me.  Her gaze, quite naturally brushed over the area where my panties barely hid my womanhood.  It was probably the first time I felt somewhat vulnerable in my nakedness.

"Oh how I wish I had a figure like you!" She said as if talking to herself.  At around twenty-one, she certainly need not have felt self-conscious of her figure; and I told her so, and she looked at my eyes and blushed.  Her stomach wasn't as flat as mine, but the slight plumpness she had developed over the past year made her look healthy.  Indeed, I thought she looked very sexy.

"Don't say that, Sharmila-boudi," I said, stepping away from the small puddle that had formed where I was standing, "you look quite 'sexy' the way you are.  What does your hubby have to say?"

      I am not sure if I sounded impudent saying things like that to my 'sister-in-law', but the words came naturally ... kind of; perhaps because I was myself buck naked — save the panties — in the middle of the room.  She did not seem to mind either.  In our family, there are very thin yet palpable boundaries between people of different ages.  One did not say, to somebody 'older', things that might sound brassy.  And, Sharmila-boudi, though just three years my senior, could easily have fallen in the 'older' bunch — especially since Parimal-da was almost ten years 'older' than me.  Ordinarily, the relationship between two 'sisters-in-law' would be either adversarial or friendly; even sweet.  If closer in age, often the latter happens.  With Sharmila-boudi, due to rather infrequent encounters, I had not developed any relationship.  In fact, that was probably just the second time we met since I attended her wedding.  So, her very casual reaction to my obvious allusion to their conjugal intimacy put both of us at ease momentarily.

"You know your Dada.... he can be quite oblivious to such things," she said.  Then, after a moment of apparent hesitation, she added, "but we do have regular.... you know; just that he never shows if he likes the way I look." Amazing, isn't it? They courted each other for about two years before they got married.

"Well, don't worry about what Parimal-da says or doesn't say," I ventured to express my opinion, "I'm sure he thinks you are sexy." Something in her openness was reassuring enough that I could get out of the remaining wet piece without feeling shy anymore.  I got into the clothes she had so generously offered.  She said I looked wonderful in that light mauve colored saalwaar.  And then she said something that startled me.

"Are you sure you are OK, Sharmi?" Sharmila-boudi said again.  We were about to leave the room, and I stopped.

"Why?" Is all I could manage.

"You seemed to be rather flustered when you came back from the market...with Sanju...." she let that last bit of redundant statement hang in there as if she had something more to add.  I looked at her eyes trying to gauge that 'something'.

"Was I?" I asked back still trying to decide what she was fishing for; and I tried to explain it away, "Oh.... I don't know, I might have been breathless or something...we were almost running, you know."  "Perhaps," she said, "I wasn't sure.... knowing Sanju..." she added that almost under her breath.  I wasn't sure if it was meant for my ears and I deliberately chose not to hear that.  We joined the crowd downstairs.

      The wedding was truly something that I will remember.  There were at least a thousand guests and the food was fabulous.  Some of the men that made up the groom's party tried to flirt with me and other girls.  Not finding anybody interesting enough to oblige, I pretty much kept to myself.  Subhash-da, the groom, was dressed quite modestly in the usual dhoti and panjabi.  I was glad to see that he refused to wear the traditional cork toque which, in my opinion, makes anybody look extremely funny.  I struck up a conversation with him easily and decided that I liked him.  He definitely had his wits about him and, by the time everybody was retiring after the grueling day, he had made quite an impression among his new sisters-in-law.  Herself being a very outgoing and jovial person, Chhordi definitely felt comfortable in the knowledge that she was not getting hitched to a social washout.

      The girls that stayed up at night, lurking around the room assigned to the bride and the groom — for pure voyeuristic delights — were totally disappointed.  The next day, Chhordi left for her new home.  The usual sadness and tears notwithstanding, I knew she was happy.  Although we used to see each other once in a blue moon, watching her leave made me sad too.  My mother did not want to leave her sister right after the following day's reception at the groom's place; so we were to stay back for another week.  I look back upon that week with some mixed feelings, mostly fond.

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(To be Continued)

Notes:

"Sharmila-boudi" : Older Sister-in-laws are addressed as "boudi", a compound word formed from "bou" (pronounced 'bo-u'), meaning 'the bride', and 'di' (abbreviated address for 'didi' - - elder sister).

"banana leaf" : Traditionally food is served on banana leaves in such festivities.  It is more common in Eastern and Southern part of the country than anywhere else, I believe.

"Jhhaal-Muri" : A very Bengali delicacy.  Puffed rice with chopped onion, coconut, germinating chick pea (Bengal gram), peanuts, green pepper, coriander leaves, etc.  mixed with a dash of a special spice mix and raw mustard oil.  I have not known anybody not to savor this one.  Almost a must during such evening get-togethers; especially if it happens to be monsoon.

"Brother": In India, there is no equivalent word for cousin.  In our languages, they are simply "sisters" or "brothers".

"Didimoni": A generic address for a younger girl.  Often used as generic address for ladies.

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