hugging woman behind. I want to tease him, to impress my presence on him. It is he who shall receive the gift of my attentions. I have an image of walking home with a man. I want it to be real. I know this is not where that dream will come true, but I cannot resist being attracted to this man.
I incline my head towards him ever so slightly. I know that my breath is leaving a cooling trail on his neck. I begin to control my breathing and let each slow exhalation rake its way across his skin. His stance becomes rigid, and I sense that he is afraid to move lest he miss a single caress. This knowledge makes me bolder. I purse my lips and trace the outline of his ear with my breath. I am rewarded with a shuddering sigh and he backs into me.
It is all I can do to not rest my chin on his shoulder. Is this what it feels like to spoon with someone, I wonder. Like he did only a few minutes earlier, I stand still. Like a woman enchanted by the trusting approach of a bird, I am scared to breathe lest the moment end. For a long while, we stand quietly. The ache in my arms is forgotten. All I can feel is the wonderful warmth of another body resting against mine. I open my eyes and study him as he stands there. He is not unattractive, I realise. He is real. Uncomfortable with the situation, I had only seen the negative in him. Now I see a hardworking and simple man who tries to make the best of what he has. I rein my thoughts in and laugh at myself. I won’t see this man again. We are thrown together by chance. He is not a soul-mate. I scold myself out of my fantasies and bring my thoughts back to the present.
He is pressing against me now, his buttocks hard against that most private part of me. I wonder if he is thinking of what lies underneath the softly-draped sari. I wonder if he is aroused at the thought of entering me, of being enclosed in a protective embrace. I am suddenly uncomfortable as I realise the gap between his fantasy and my reality. I lean into him, shifting my pelvis away. My breasts press against him, and I let them grind against his back. This will take his mind off his earlier quest, I reason. My secret will be uncovered when and how I choose. I will decide the time, the place, and the person to whom I reveal myself.
For a few minutes, my plan of offering my breasts to the man works, and he ceases to grind against me. But soon, his old search begins. Despite my dodging, his buttocks graze against me once, once more, and yet again. On the pretext of shifting his footing, he moves into me. The woman behind, whose touch and breath I so enjoyed, has left me no place to move. He presses against me once again and all at once I have no more secrets. His gasp and the sudden stiffening of his back dispel all my illusions. He hesitates and then presses against me again. His body slowly and discreetly grinds against mine. But I have now lost the pleasure I took in our game. This uncovering of my secret feels like a public disrobing. I feel exposed, dirty, ashamed. I want it all to end.
I seek a way to leave and just above me I see my lifeline. Loosening my hold on the overhead bar, I grab the rope and give it a quick yank. I hear that sharp ting with relief.
The driver hears it too and the bus rolls to a stop. I mutter a quiet – and hypocritical – ‘Excuse me, bhaisaab,’ and make my way through the crowded aisle to the exit, my head inclined downwards. Not once do my eyes meet those of the other passengers. Good girls like those I resemble do not make eye contact with men. There is one man on that bus however, who knows that I am not what I seem. I do not look at him either. I do not want to look into the eyes of the stranger with whom I have played an illicit game and see his shock. Still, shock would not be the worst. The worst would be to see disgust in his eyes. I will not look up, I decide. I know where I am, I don’t need landmarks to guide me. I will keep my eyes on the road and walk demurely to the office.
I incline my head towards him ever so slightly. I know that my breath is leaving a cooling trail on his neck. I begin to control my breathing and let each slow exhalation rake its way across his skin. His stance becomes rigid, and I sense that he is afraid to move lest he miss a single caress. This knowledge makes me bolder. I purse my lips and trace the outline of his ear with my breath. I am rewarded with a shuddering sigh and he backs into me.
It is all I can do to not rest my chin on his shoulder. Is this what it feels like to spoon with someone, I wonder. Like he did only a few minutes earlier, I stand still. Like a woman enchanted by the trusting approach of a bird, I am scared to breathe lest the moment end. For a long while, we stand quietly. The ache in my arms is forgotten. All I can feel is the wonderful warmth of another body resting against mine. I open my eyes and study him as he stands there. He is not unattractive, I realise. He is real. Uncomfortable with the situation, I had only seen the negative in him. Now I see a hardworking and simple man who tries to make the best of what he has. I rein my thoughts in and laugh at myself. I won’t see this man again. We are thrown together by chance. He is not a soul-mate. I scold myself out of my fantasies and bring my thoughts back to the present.
He is pressing against me now, his buttocks hard against that most private part of me. I wonder if he is thinking of what lies underneath the softly-draped sari. I wonder if he is aroused at the thought of entering me, of being enclosed in a protective embrace. I am suddenly uncomfortable as I realise the gap between his fantasy and my reality. I lean into him, shifting my pelvis away. My breasts press against him, and I let them grind against his back. This will take his mind off his earlier quest, I reason. My secret will be uncovered when and how I choose. I will decide the time, the place, and the person to whom I reveal myself.
For a few minutes, my plan of offering my breasts to the man works, and he ceases to grind against me. But soon, his old search begins. Despite my dodging, his buttocks graze against me once, once more, and yet again. On the pretext of shifting his footing, he moves into me. The woman behind, whose touch and breath I so enjoyed, has left me no place to move. He presses against me once again and all at once I have no more secrets. His gasp and the sudden stiffening of his back dispel all my illusions. He hesitates and then presses against me again. His body slowly and discreetly grinds against mine. But I have now lost the pleasure I took in our game. This uncovering of my secret feels like a public disrobing. I feel exposed, dirty, ashamed. I want it all to end.
I seek a way to leave and just above me I see my lifeline. Loosening my hold on the overhead bar, I grab the rope and give it a quick yank. I hear that sharp ting with relief.
The driver hears it too and the bus rolls to a stop. I mutter a quiet – and hypocritical – ‘Excuse me, bhaisaab,’ and make my way through the crowded aisle to the exit, my head inclined downwards. Not once do my eyes meet those of the other passengers. Good girls like those I resemble do not make eye contact with men. There is one man on that bus however, who knows that I am not what I seem. I do not look at him either. I do not want to look into the eyes of the stranger with whom I have played an illicit game and see his shock. Still, shock would not be the worst. The worst would be to see disgust in his eyes. I will not look up, I decide. I know where I am, I don’t need landmarks to guide me. I will keep my eyes on the road and walk demurely to the office.
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