pleaded, but she didn’t want to talk about all that tonight. She had once whispered a song in Punjabi for me and I asked for an encore:
‘Then sing some Waris Shah in my ears.’
‘There were gleams of Sufi light in China, too, did you know?’
‘It’s Sufi delights that interest me more tonight.’
She took my arm as we carried on walking and talking in the starlight but keeping well clear of the subject that was agitating us both. Mysteriously, cushions had appeared on the marble benches where we had established our base. Anis, despite my wishes, had organized flasks with tea and a box full of chicken sandwiches. She didn’t even notice. If a bloody sitar begins to whine behind a bush, I’ll kill you, Anis. Mercifully, nothing else happened.
‘Jindié ...’
‘Don’t. It’s no use.’
I embraced her and kissed her eyes. She lay back in my arms and I stroked her head. ‘Why did you decide not to go to Leeds?’
‘Why spoil our last evening together by talking about unpleasant facts? Just accept we’re not intended for each other, and let’s forego lofty thoughts and just be.’
I kissed her lips and she responded. And then I thought if we made love and she became pregnant it would be a fait accompli and she would have to marry me and damn the rest of the world. It sounded, even then, like a bad love drama, but the intensity of the moment drowned all my critical faculties. I was gripped by the passion that combines love and lust.
She was relaxed and kept stroking my face and kissing me. Then as I heard the muezzin calling the faithful to the early morning prayer, I made a fatal error. I put my hand underneath her shawl and then underneath her shirt, searching for the creamy texture of her breasts. I stroked the little orb still concealed underneath the bra. She didn’t object, which emboldened me further. I attempted to lift the bra and kiss the flesh. It was a serious tactical error. She jumped up, a look of horror on her face.
‘Why did you do that?’
‘I want to make love to you. It’s our only night together and I thought ...’
She shouted at me in Chinese, yelling the word semen repeatedly as she pointed a finger in my direction.
‘Jindié, I’m sorry.’
‘You’re not. You’re semen. You’re semen. Do you know that? That’s all you are. Semen. I hate you. You don’t really love me. There is nothing pure about your love. I want to go home. Now.’
What could I do? I pleaded forgiveness. I wept. I fell on my knees. I kissed her hands. The young are nothing, if not melodramatic and the location undoubtedly helped, but it was to no avail. She was in a rage and reproaching herself bitterly for having agreed to the meeting in the first place. She ran towards the gate. I followed her out. Plato saw her tears and understood.
‘Please take me home now, Plato. Then you can come back and return Mr Semen to his mother.’
Was it my imagination or did Plato repress a smile? As the car drove off, a familiar voice startled me.
‘You should have forced her.’
It was Anis. ‘Sorry, D. I was unable to resist bearing witness. Were your tears real? Impressive in any case.’
Well aware of his voyeuristic habits, I wasn’t totally surprised. In fact, I was now pleased by his presence. It was a welcome distraction and stopped me feeling too distraught. We were both hungry and the sandwiches were rapidly consumed.
‘Did you hear everything?’
‘Only when you were both seated. Hope the cushions were comfortable. The marble is cold and uncomfortable at night and had you proceeded as you should have the Chinese beauty would have appreciated their warmth, if not yours.’
‘I could never have forced her or anyone else, Anis.’
He sighed sadly in agreement. ‘Our forebears would weep if they could see how pathetic we have become.’
Though we never raised the subject with him, it was hardly a secret to his friends that Anis’s only interest in women was as conversationalists and
‘Then sing some Waris Shah in my ears.’
‘There were gleams of Sufi light in China, too, did you know?’
‘It’s Sufi delights that interest me more tonight.’
She took my arm as we carried on walking and talking in the starlight but keeping well clear of the subject that was agitating us both. Mysteriously, cushions had appeared on the marble benches where we had established our base. Anis, despite my wishes, had organized flasks with tea and a box full of chicken sandwiches. She didn’t even notice. If a bloody sitar begins to whine behind a bush, I’ll kill you, Anis. Mercifully, nothing else happened.
‘Jindié ...’
‘Don’t. It’s no use.’
I embraced her and kissed her eyes. She lay back in my arms and I stroked her head. ‘Why did you decide not to go to Leeds?’
‘Why spoil our last evening together by talking about unpleasant facts? Just accept we’re not intended for each other, and let’s forego lofty thoughts and just be.’
I kissed her lips and she responded. And then I thought if we made love and she became pregnant it would be a fait accompli and she would have to marry me and damn the rest of the world. It sounded, even then, like a bad love drama, but the intensity of the moment drowned all my critical faculties. I was gripped by the passion that combines love and lust.
She was relaxed and kept stroking my face and kissing me. Then as I heard the muezzin calling the faithful to the early morning prayer, I made a fatal error. I put my hand underneath her shawl and then underneath her shirt, searching for the creamy texture of her breasts. I stroked the little orb still concealed underneath the bra. She didn’t object, which emboldened me further. I attempted to lift the bra and kiss the flesh. It was a serious tactical error. She jumped up, a look of horror on her face.
‘Why did you do that?’
‘I want to make love to you. It’s our only night together and I thought ...’
She shouted at me in Chinese, yelling the word semen repeatedly as she pointed a finger in my direction.
‘Jindié, I’m sorry.’
‘You’re not. You’re semen. You’re semen. Do you know that? That’s all you are. Semen. I hate you. You don’t really love me. There is nothing pure about your love. I want to go home. Now.’
What could I do? I pleaded forgiveness. I wept. I fell on my knees. I kissed her hands. The young are nothing, if not melodramatic and the location undoubtedly helped, but it was to no avail. She was in a rage and reproaching herself bitterly for having agreed to the meeting in the first place. She ran towards the gate. I followed her out. Plato saw her tears and understood.
‘Please take me home now, Plato. Then you can come back and return Mr Semen to his mother.’
Was it my imagination or did Plato repress a smile? As the car drove off, a familiar voice startled me.
‘You should have forced her.’
It was Anis. ‘Sorry, D. I was unable to resist bearing witness. Were your tears real? Impressive in any case.’
Well aware of his voyeuristic habits, I wasn’t totally surprised. In fact, I was now pleased by his presence. It was a welcome distraction and stopped me feeling too distraught. We were both hungry and the sandwiches were rapidly consumed.
‘Did you hear everything?’
‘Only when you were both seated. Hope the cushions were comfortable. The marble is cold and uncomfortable at night and had you proceeded as you should have the Chinese beauty would have appreciated their warmth, if not yours.’
‘I could never have forced her or anyone else, Anis.’
He sighed sadly in agreement. ‘Our forebears would weep if they could see how pathetic we have become.’
Though we never raised the subject with him, it was hardly a secret to his friends that Anis’s only interest in women was as conversationalists and
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