The Letter

Dear Bhaiyyaji,

Since you had asked me to write to you in detail about my encounter, here it is:

I picked her up from under the flyover near her hostel. She had been about to cross the street when I managed to catch up with her. Half a minute earlier an autorickshaw had slowed down beside her and I had seen her face scrunched up indecisively as she weighed not taking it. When I whisked her into the back of my car her dupatta waved filmically in the breeze. Her glare pierced me, her voice rising in abuses. I felt scolded like a boyfriend who had arrived late for a date. You remember how I love playing that role, to have a finger on the pulse of a woman? Just like I had mine on hers then. I have to admit that it wasn’t easy for either of us. I had instructed Bhola to look ahead, not to interfere and drive at a good speed to avoid the love-sucking thullas. We kept crashing into each other trying to steady ourselves against the pace of the vehicle and our screaming hearts. I held her, tight, close to me, smothering her with a flurry of kisses. She struggled against my roughness but I knew I would change that. I bound her arms with her dupatta and made for her breasts, which had grown perky against my weight, kneading them, licking them. When I felt Bhola slowing down I looked up to check if all was well and was encouraged by the warm soft glow of the nearly full moon. It lit up the safety of the tree-lined avenues that we were passing through. Then I moved my attention to her long neck, caressed her face while I bit into it. I put my hand over her mouth to stop her from shrieking and left it there, knowing that soon she would not be able to control herself. By then she was feverish in her movements. To make sure she was ready, I did as you had so kindly suggested: took off her green-coloured bottoms and sapped her up in my mouth. I knew that got her really going because she kicked her legs about frantically, gasping for air, arousing in me the desire to end her miserable wait. The strong orange light coming in through the windows told me that Bhola had turned onto the expressway. I quickly pushed back my pants and moved in, slapping rapidly against her body. Although, it didn’t take long to get over, much to my

disappointment, I felt alive. She, however, looked spent as she lay curled up in the foetal position. It was getting very late and I knew she would be missed at home. I asked Bhola to turn around, and carefully put her clothes on. I wiped her sweat and tears, and brushed her hair gently. Just as you had advised, I dropped her ten kilometres away from the place where we had started. I made sure she had money to make it back in an autorickshaw. Even then she looked pretty and enticing in her pink and blue salwar-

kurta. As we drove off, my mind lingered on her taste and smell, and my face broke into a contented smile.

As you see, I am truly your blood, brother. And maybe next time you will be with me, to guide and direct me.

Yours lovingly,

Chhote

[Typed as a memo on my meagre phone as an impulse while travelling one evening on the metro, having read 3 days' newspapers in the hour before]

[PPS. This was exhibited as a creative entry in 'Postfeminist Postmortems?: Gender, Sexuality and Multiple Modernities', Annual Conference (2011) of Department of English, DU]