Sound Quest

I can describe many sounds. The song of the wind through the trees, gentle ballads in summer, cruel whistles in winter. The dry
rustling of a serpent’s scales as it glides over rough hewn tiles. The light bubbling of a Himalayan stream nimbly rushing to join a
river. The increasingly loud thudding of my heart as moments of excitement escalate. Ba-boom-ba-boom-boom-boom.

But I could never quite decide what the sound of flesh on flesh was. How could I describe that? Was there even a sound
made? Yes, there was. Of that I was sure. And I would discover what it was. Find a way to describe it.

I lie under him, by the river. I look up to see the leaves move as the wind passes through. The soft quivering of the blades of
grass as little insects and animals move among them. Soft sounds. The piercing cries of a hunting hawk mingle with the timid
chirps of a nesting sparrow.

I hear its soft foot-falls on the lush grass. It is looking for worms I suppose, occasionally diving into the grass and gulping
something down. I look into its eyes. Curious eyes, looking straight into me. Almost at my eye level. He looks at me. And as a
low groan involuntarily escapes me, it flies, startled into the sky. I hope the hawk doesn’t get him. Poor little bird.

And the rhythmic motion above me continues. Faster and faster. Almost there now. Of course, he was always careful. Always
retaining one layer of clothing. White zodiac underpants. Starkly white.

"Pretty little girl. Mine. My pretty little girl. Yes, yes….aaah." All that dry humping bringing him release. My friend’s dog,
Tommy (uninspired name) used to do that to anyone’s leg he could find. But only during certain times of the year. But I could
shake him away.

He rolled off pulling his pants up, sucking in his rather large paunch. A thin line of drool was trapped in his wiry moustache. I
was fascinated by it. It glistened like a captive piece of crystal. Like the crystal in our chandelier at home.

"Now, wasn’t that nice? Here, I have something for you." A large slab of the chocolate I loved made its appearance. I
grabbed for it. It hadn’t been for nothing then. "Your mother wants us to be back at 9 tonight. Now, you and I, we had fun as
always right? And, it’s going to be our little secret, right? No-one else needs to know."

I nodded whole-heartedly. My teeth first savored the silky smooth texture of the first square. Then, delicately, I scraped,
almost shaved a layer off. I had to take my time with it, or it would disappear too soon. Occasionally, unable to help myself I
would bite a little piece off and let it dissolve on my tongue, pressing it into the roof of my mouth before swallowing it. Mmmm,
nothing quite like sweet, milk chocolate.

I can still taste that warm, brown sweetness in my mouth. I can’t stand the stuff now, of course. Chocolate. It reminded me too
much of the summer I was nine. The summer, when every two weeks or so, I got as much chocolate I could ever want.

Uncle, I called him, uncle Jamil. "Don’t be rude," my mother would admonish, "he is so nice to you. Really, you have no
respect for your elders. He says he misses his daughter when he’s away from home. Be nice to him. Go sit with him while I
make some tea."

And, while she fried pakoras in the kitchen, their conversation would progress.

"Yes," his hand unbuttons my blouse quickly, "my case is going well, but I do have to keep coming into town twice a month."
His large, sausage fingered hand works its way onto my pre-pubescent chest, caressing, pinching.

"Yes, yes, being away from my wife and kids is really hard. If it was not for you all. Like my second family, you know. Your
Rita, here is like my own daughter." I wonder if he tweaks his ‘own daughter’s’ little-girl nipples. She is about my age, perhaps
a year or so younger.

The tea kettle starts to whistle. Just a few minutes now. I am amazed at how his voice does not quaver, as his breathing heats
up. Sheeeeeeee goes the kettle. Hmmm hmmmm hmmmm goes his breathing. Sheeee hmmmm sheee hmmmm……

The conversation about the specifics of his court case continues. Mundane details, as one of his hands falls to his crotch,
rubbing and stroking himself through the rough cloth.

The sound of water being poured over receptive tea leaves. The slight rustle of a tea cozy settling over the pot. A slight sigh as
the tray, with its tea and pakoras and sweet biscuits gets picked up. Light footfalls. A deeper sigh from him.

"Button up," he
mouths, as he hands me a candy. Chocolate was reserved only for the ‘trips.’ Peppermint candy for the home visits.

"So, I was thinking. Since you are so busy these days with the wedding and everything (my cousin’s wedding for which
feverish preparations were being made), I thought I might help you out by taking little Rita here (his hand ruffles my hair) out
this evening. You know, go to that new pizza place all the kids are talking about. Maybe the new Disney movie."

I look straight ahead as if into a snakes eyes. Please no, please no, please no, I chant silently.

"Oh, how nice, Rita. I know
you’ve been wanting to see that. And it’ll free me up. We have to sew the gota on the gharara today, and poor Rita gets so
bored, don’t you?"

"No, not really, I want to go with you Amma. I’ll be good, really."

"Oh Rita, you get bored and then you just start tugging on me to go home every five minutes." They laugh conspirationally
together. I feel desperate.

"But really, I won’t."

"Don’t be rude, Rita. Uncle Jamil is being so nice, and it’s going to work out so well for all of us. Really Jamil, you spoil the girl
too much. I saw the doll you got for her a month ago. You spend too much money on her."

"Oh, Apaa, she is like my Rana, and I miss my little girl so much. Besides money is for spending after all, and who better to
spend it on?" His fingers affectionately pinched my cheeks. I smiled, weakly.
And so it was settled, another furtive assignation near the river. The deserted, lush, weeded field that was always abandoned.
Ice cream, chocolate, and perhaps another surprise later on. A new doll, a stuffed bear, some of those new colorful, scented
erasers.

Oh well! I suppose it wasn’t all bad. After all, this sudden spate of new toys and enough sweets to share with my friends was
buying me some popularity in school. In fact, last month when he had given me a Japanese pink, yellow and green eraser that
smelled of pineapples, and was shaped like a fish, I had cut it up into ten equal, tiny pieces and distributed it to my friends.
In the mid 70’s with the scarcity and the craze of "foreign," stuff, I could buy plenty of friendship and loyalty. Of course, the
tiny pieces were too small to be of any use. But still, I had seen Soma pull hers out of her pencil box to sniff it approvingly
several times a day. Life could be worse I guess.


Indian civil cases, especially those involving property, are notorious for their longevity. My father was fond of describing his
favorite cartoon depicting just such a case. The cartoon shows two old men. One is totally naked, the other wears a loin-cloth.
The naked one is labeled ‘loser,’ the one with a loin-cloth, ‘winner.’ A banner proclaims, ‘After twenty years of litigation, there
is a winner.’

So, to stoke the fires of the litigation, Uncle Jamil kept coming back. My bank of toys grew steadily. And I retreated deep into
their embrace. "Oh, Rita is becoming so mature. She is so quiet now," people who hadn’t seen me for a while would say.
"What a nice quiet girl she is now," others would say to shame their own rambunctious children.

"She used to be such a mischievous chatter-box, never stopping, now she is such a proper young lady," others would beam.

And when he would come, off I would go to him, as if by clock-work. He would take me to ice-cream parlors for large
sundaes, and every toy store was mine to raid. It was becoming habitual to me now.

He was always careful, of course. No bruises. Certainly, no real intercourse. But just about everything else. Now I know what
prostitutes must really feel like. ‘Well, he gave me money and an additional tip, not to mention he didn’t hurt me, physically.
What else can I want?" So, say the street hookers on numerous real life documentaries on television. Or something to that
effect, anyway.

It is an old story after all, as old as time I would think. After five or six years, I learned to avoid him. Friends houses, art
classes, extra tuition sessions: I carefully arranged my schedule. The latter were especially needed, since the past years had
seen a gradual drop in my grades. From the 90%s they had descended to failing grades. In fact, my mother became my
unwitting accomplice. "Oh no, she has to go to math tuition today, Jamil. Besides no fun for her a while. She needs to study."
What a relief. Eventually, he won his case. Rather quickly, in fact. The rumors were that he had greased the palms of an
especially corrupt judge. Anyhow, he stopped coming to our house. Let his wife and daughter deal with him now. What a
relief.

So, here I sit, almost fifteen years later, trying not to think of him. Trying to think of my life now, not as it was. I flip the
channels of the television. For some reason, I am addicted to cooking shows. I think it’s because they are soothing, there is no
controversy and all the dishes turn out looking perfect and delicious. A soft, gentle escape.

Some chef is demonstrating how to de-bone a chicken perfectly. The camera pans in really close to the chicken. It takes
center stage.
The sharp knife cleaves cleanly under the breast…a sssssssth kind of sound. The chef saws gently, and the tendons detach,
bones break…a soft pttthhhh.

I sit up. Finally I have it. Of course, how could it have eluded me for so long? That sound I had looked for ways to describe.
That one haunting sound that I could never tell anyone about. The sound of his flesh upon mine.