Let those who notice think my face is flushed because of the exertion.
I step off the bus determined to walk off, but then hesitate. I look up at the bus. There is one passenger standing where I was, staring at me. One passenger with slightly oily hair and clad in a synthetic shirt. I see no revulsion in those eyes, only a shared knowledge and a shared desire. The bus begins to pull away and I realise I was wrong. The worst thing I could see in his eyes is not disgust. It is pain and bewilderment. He continues to look at me even as I stare hungrily back. Then the bus is gone and I am devastated.
I straighten my shoulders, and gather my pallu about me. I am not defeated. There is next time. He will be back. He will be in the same bus again, hoping to find me. I saw it in his eyes. And I will be there. I step around a puddle, careful not to muddy my sari. I will be wearing it again tomorrow.
The Marriage of Somavat and Sumedha
Devdutt Pattanaik
I f the queen had seen them naked, she would have known they were both boys, exceedingly beautiful boys, virgins, eager for marriage.
She would have especially appreciated Somavat with his large languid eyes, and his irresistibly charming smile. But a layer of creamy turmeric cleverly masked the roughness of his face. Drapes of red fabric hid the expanse of his chest. His manhood, thick and long, envied by all those who saw it wet in the village pond, was firmly tucked in by an extremely tight loincloth. All the queen of Vallabhi saw was a short, stocky, rather awkward bride leaning against tall Sumedha of the serene face, sonorous voice, silken hair, and graceful walk. To her eyes, these two were husband and wife, a young couple, seeking her blessings and her cow, not childhood friends who loved to wrestle on wet riverbanks.
Imposters! That’s who they are! The royal cow, Nandini, saw through the bridal disguise the instant she was handed over. She noticed the groom’s hesitation as he bowed to the queen, and the hurried gait of the bride as they walked out of the palace. She lowed in protest, but no one understood what she was saying.
This would not do. The pious queen could not be fooled. The sky grumbled with thunderclouds in acknowledgement. A drop of angry rain fell to the ground. The trees hissed. The boys wanted to hurry, but the cow refused to cooperate. She hoped the guardians of the city would bare their fangs, catch the deceivers and castrate them.
Unaware of the cow’s frothing fury, Somavat and Sumedha walked on either side of the cow, placing their hands on her tawny back, their fingers brushing occasionally in reassurance and relief.
Orphans since childhood, they had always relied on each other for support. Together they ate, together they bathed, and together they washed the sacred utensils in the temple courtyard. Together they understood the meaning of the songs that the courtesan sang before the deity on festive nights. Together they dreamt of the dark voluptuous nymphs described in epics, whose walk caused the jasmine to bloom all day and whose dance distracted sages all night. Together they figured out why bulls leap over cows, why snakes coil around each other, and why bewildered dogs walked in pairs in the middle of the street trapped at the genitals. Together they peeped into homes and discovered how the clumsy priest made love to his clumsier wife, and why the rich merchant grunted every time his young wife, his third, buried her head between his ample thighs. Together they learnt what makes a boy a man and a man, a husband.
Eager for brides, they had spoken to the village elders and were told, ‘Earn yourself a cow, and we will find you wives.’ But who would give a cow to orphans? Desperate, they had hatched this plan to dupe the kind queen of Vallabhi, famous for giving cows to newly-wedded couples.
It was Somavat’s plan; he always took the lead. Sumedha always followed. He had long accepted that Somavat was the smarter one, who always
I step off the bus determined to walk off, but then hesitate. I look up at the bus. There is one passenger standing where I was, staring at me. One passenger with slightly oily hair and clad in a synthetic shirt. I see no revulsion in those eyes, only a shared knowledge and a shared desire. The bus begins to pull away and I realise I was wrong. The worst thing I could see in his eyes is not disgust. It is pain and bewilderment. He continues to look at me even as I stare hungrily back. Then the bus is gone and I am devastated.
I straighten my shoulders, and gather my pallu about me. I am not defeated. There is next time. He will be back. He will be in the same bus again, hoping to find me. I saw it in his eyes. And I will be there. I step around a puddle, careful not to muddy my sari. I will be wearing it again tomorrow.
The Marriage of Somavat and Sumedha
Devdutt Pattanaik
I f the queen had seen them naked, she would have known they were both boys, exceedingly beautiful boys, virgins, eager for marriage.
She would have especially appreciated Somavat with his large languid eyes, and his irresistibly charming smile. But a layer of creamy turmeric cleverly masked the roughness of his face. Drapes of red fabric hid the expanse of his chest. His manhood, thick and long, envied by all those who saw it wet in the village pond, was firmly tucked in by an extremely tight loincloth. All the queen of Vallabhi saw was a short, stocky, rather awkward bride leaning against tall Sumedha of the serene face, sonorous voice, silken hair, and graceful walk. To her eyes, these two were husband and wife, a young couple, seeking her blessings and her cow, not childhood friends who loved to wrestle on wet riverbanks.
Imposters! That’s who they are! The royal cow, Nandini, saw through the bridal disguise the instant she was handed over. She noticed the groom’s hesitation as he bowed to the queen, and the hurried gait of the bride as they walked out of the palace. She lowed in protest, but no one understood what she was saying.
This would not do. The pious queen could not be fooled. The sky grumbled with thunderclouds in acknowledgement. A drop of angry rain fell to the ground. The trees hissed. The boys wanted to hurry, but the cow refused to cooperate. She hoped the guardians of the city would bare their fangs, catch the deceivers and castrate them.
Unaware of the cow’s frothing fury, Somavat and Sumedha walked on either side of the cow, placing their hands on her tawny back, their fingers brushing occasionally in reassurance and relief.
Orphans since childhood, they had always relied on each other for support. Together they ate, together they bathed, and together they washed the sacred utensils in the temple courtyard. Together they understood the meaning of the songs that the courtesan sang before the deity on festive nights. Together they dreamt of the dark voluptuous nymphs described in epics, whose walk caused the jasmine to bloom all day and whose dance distracted sages all night. Together they figured out why bulls leap over cows, why snakes coil around each other, and why bewildered dogs walked in pairs in the middle of the street trapped at the genitals. Together they peeped into homes and discovered how the clumsy priest made love to his clumsier wife, and why the rich merchant grunted every time his young wife, his third, buried her head between his ample thighs. Together they learnt what makes a boy a man and a man, a husband.
Eager for brides, they had spoken to the village elders and were told, ‘Earn yourself a cow, and we will find you wives.’ But who would give a cow to orphans? Desperate, they had hatched this plan to dupe the kind queen of Vallabhi, famous for giving cows to newly-wedded couples.
It was Somavat’s plan; he always took the lead. Sumedha always followed. He had long accepted that Somavat was the smarter one, who always