MY STORY Sweet Sour Memories

Srinagar  the city of my birth, swathed in the morning sunshine ,crimson cool and sublime.  The brilliance of  faraway mountain sunshine was  exceedingly beautiful to look at in the early hours of the day.

 The city was always  agog with gaiety and grandeur all along especially the streets thronged with  vibrant crowds on their way to daily chores.

It was  4th july 1962  I was  just 16 ,a teenager full of promise to radiate into a  handsome lad.

My  childhood bosom friend  Roshan’s  cousin sister was to be married and I had to be there for a week to assist and attend marriage. The Kashmiri marriages last longer say for a week or so. 

Roshan my friend came very early  in the morning to my house and asked my mother, whome we fondly called Kakni  , to allow me to stay for a week with him to assist  “ in my sister’s marriage”.

Roshan was very handsome boy , of medium build with bright complexion and a cheerful disposition.

Kakni replied in affirmative while hugging him and I said to Roshan “ I will come by evening.”

I was glad that all was settled and that was it.

He left thereafter without waiting for a cup of tea  as he was distributing the invitation cards on his bike. He peddled off to the road across  and was seen dashing towards the main Chowk  onto his way home , without even waving to me.

I put my small things ,a shirt, trouser,a pair of socks  and other knick knacks  in the knapsack ,keeping my small luggage ready for the city journey to my friend’s place.

I, being the youngest among my three brothers,  more conniving of them put together.  May be due to the  pampering  of my mother and father both.

My mother ,Kakni  interrupted “ you should not take too much spicy food ,marriage food is very unhealthy over fried and cooked with too much  oil and red chillies, like Dam Alo,etc.” “ did you understand what I am talking about” she continued  angrily.

“yes yes ,I will take yellow and curd dishes more .” I replied briefly.

The   4th July afternoon was  dark laden with thick dark clouds and fog. The wind was blowing strongly and  possibly  the rains  could pour down  at any time.

I slung the knapsack on my left shoulder and started for my visit to Roshan’s place.

A  flash of lightening  followed by a roaring thunder made me to cross the square and race down the streets to cross the Habbakadal  bridge as soon as possible. For a moment the  Habbakadal Chowk  plunged into darkness and hush fell all over  until the noise of the horse driven Tongas carried over in speed , breaking the deafening silence.

The rains finally came but  not in torrents as expected but steadily and slowly ,the  rain drops slithering down my fluffy cheeks softly wetting my face and hair.

I took the right sharp turn and entered the famous Barbuz lane ,a small alley with pucca  tile pavements on either side  with tarred metallic road to walk through. Due to rains the lane was slippery and I cautiously strode on and on  criss crossing the lanes, by- lanes till I finally arrived at  Roshan’s house decorated adequately for the wedding ceremony.

The large front door was bedecked with flowers of various  colours  and the guests were moving around the large lounge in purple ,blue green  typical Kashmiri dresses with hand embroidery at the corners or  in the middle .

Roshan’s father  Dwarkanathji announced my arrival in chaste kashmiri

“haiyey  Brij kaul hai Aave maun toth ” .  meaning  hey brij kaul has come  my dearest one.

I saw a number of  guests  in and around greeting  with   ‘Namaskar maharra’ — welcome welcome .

 After greeting all the guests  I asked for Roshan  and his sister Krishna ,a young petite girl,directed me  upstairs and I eventually landed into the  room where all our friends had gathered over a booze.  

Meanwhile the evening prepared to slip into the night and the ladies started gathering in large numbers in the adjacent hall for  celebrating  the  ‘Mehandi Rat’ the ladies Sangeet night ;

an expert Henna designer was  busy in anointing the hands and feet of ladies, children with Henna in different  patterns  designs .

The other ones dancing to the tune of Kashmiri songs

in full gusto.   

Our friends and  the  other gentlemen  in the  room  next  were still enjoying  themselves a bit noisily with the whisky punch and other  tandoori starters.

Down in the large hall  dinner was being served. The dinner was excellent , very traditionally Kashmiri in content and substance both.

It commenced with delicious vegetable broth containing cauliflower, tomatoes and prunes followed by  lavish other  Kashmiri dishes  both vegetarian as well as non -veg ones. Dam Alo, cottage cheese,  Sour Brinjal , Roganjosh, Yakhani, minced mutton balls cooked in red chillies. and many more ones

For dessert, there were jellies, Gulab Jamuns  and host of other fruit creams  etc.

The guests were darting in and out of the dinning hall finding the experience enjoyable.

 I quietly had my dinner in the farther corner of the verandha . It was 10 minutes past ten oclock  night already. Iwas feeling a bit sleepy after having a sumptuous dinner.

Outside there was some respite in the  rains  but the  thick clouds  continued hovering over the sky .

I  went upstairs to listen to ladies music for  while ,the woman in pink dress was swaying her hips to the tune of a popular Bollywood song and others singing and dancing with gaeity.

A hand on my shoulder woke me up from my reverie and saw an elderly woman an ,aunty of Roshan whispering  affectionately to me “ Brij ji will you  accompany her  pointing towards  a young  beautiful lady dressed in pink sari with brown shawl draped over her shoulders,  to her  home . She is alone and lives in Banamohalla, a nextdoor colony. please just do this favour to me.” she pleaded with finality.

  A repugnant  incident

It was mid night and we stepped out of Roshan’s  sprawling house  in the cold night for  journey to Banamohalla  a distance of 5 to 6 kms .

The wind ,a bit harsh whipped at the young lady’s brown shawl ,the sari was  worn tightly as we headed up the tiled alley ,lighted feebly by a  yellow lamp post. The alley was long  dingy one  and we crossed a maze of streets  paved with white brown tiles and the rain water flowed into the open gutters on the end of each street,

we did not talk  but walked briskly on and on.

“your name young boy” she asked me to break the silence.

“Brij” I replied briefly.

 “ yours” “

“Manorma”  she replied smilingly.

 She lifted her face towards the sky ,while  closing her eyes as she inhaled some fresh air.

“I like the starry sky but no stars today”.

“The clouds are thinning out and it should be a sunny morning tomorrow”  She spoke to me.

I simply nodded in assent.

we crossed the  lane and turned right into main road, the tall  huddled buildings  stood on either way and after  crossing the busy street  we reached the house of Manorma  my lady guest .

The house was  a gracious pile of  moderate size with  white sloping roof  and the gate  graced with ivy creepers all  along  two pillars with broad door.

“ Right  madam  you have reached your home  I should go now” I said politely.

“no no young man come inside for a cup of tea .” she dragged me  holding my hand firmly and went inside the gracious house.

I pleaded to go but of  no avail.

she seemed adamant and did not listen.

I got my hand free and followed her quietly. The corrider was long dimly lit with a yellow lamp dangling from the farther corner .There was one  servant sleeping  in the  far end of the corridor ,who got up saying something to the lady and slept again.

 The lady went upstairs nodding me to follow. I hesitated briefly but followed her right in to room and closed the door behind me and walked into a big sitting area.

A small  wooden lamp burning on the  small table threw shadow on to the side space possibly for changing dress etc.

she threw her shawl on to the chair ,removed her sari and put on night gown partly unbuttoned. she went to a side room  and in trice came with   two cups of tea.

“just drink that you will feel a bit comfortable” she said handing over the tea cup. I readily accepted that without discerning anything sinister . I stared at her elbows moving and revealing her part of bodice in her loose sleeves.

she nudged me a bit and sat close to me taking the cup from my hand and  held me close to her breasts.I felt awkward and tried to get up but she firmly pushed me to her bosom in a firm clasp sealing my  lips with a kiss.

 She  pushed her peachy fruits  into my mouth and held me entrapped in her hug, revealing  her radiant  enormous nudity  beyond my imagination.

 I tried  to wriggle out and run away but being more powerful she assumed woman superior position and pinned me down.

 kneeling down she lapped up my male part  adjusting it to her magical pigeon hole.

 She lusted for the thrusts  and indulged in such sinful acts with ecstasy. 

I felt the pain and agony .

 There tears welled up in my eyes, my heart  pounding in my chest fiercely . The room looked claustrophobic and Iwanted to throw her aside to seek freedom into the open world outside.

In a flash I felt power in my arms and threw her away to extricate from her clutches.

Picking up my clothes and buttoning my pants I zipped down  and ran way  from the back door of the corridor into the garden skidding over a wicker  door into the  open street. I explored the maze of strees ,narrow winding of the quaint old city  .

 I reached Roshan’s  house,  spotted  Roshan in the  Langar (cooking) area  and related the repugnant incident to him.

His initial reaction was anger “who the hell she was, who told you to accompany her” he blurted out angrily.

The  head cook  noticed something amiss and came with cups of Kashmiri Kahwa . we drank the tea and Roshan calmed down  .

“ we should not tell about this incident to anyone.” he  declared “ nobody will trust us that she was maniac and seduced you , instead  people might raise fingers at you.so keep it buried in your thoughts for ever.”He said with an air of finality.

 Roshan ,though one year older to me, but was endowed with much more wisdom and maturity of thoughts.

 Roshan, my dearest one, a thorough gentleman ,  passed away in 2005 at the young age of 59 never to return. I pray to God every moment for his peace in the heaven.

I am hopping around with some more  tales to tell in  the coming years.

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6 thoughts on “MY STORY Sweet Sour Memories

  1. It looks like a # Me Too…accident down the memory lane , …. the story have been well crafted & narrated beautifully. The Reader has to decide whether the memory was sweet or sour .
    …… You have a flair for ‘ Story telling ‘ & do it extremely well. Kindly give it a try . The product will be worth the Effort .You will not be Disappointed. & All your admirers will have a literary Treat ..
    …. Waiting for the Effort…..???

    Like

  2. The story started with beautiful portrait of Kashmir and Kashmiri marriage… but the #metoo incident back then is an eye opener that it’s an old phenomenon and is not gender specific…

    Good read… As always

    Like

  3. Expressing such an incident of personal and private nature so boldly is of great value as it shows the transparent thinking of the author.

    Like

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