The Benefit Season (19 page)

I had been taken totally unawares- you see-
forsaking the cell phone had its minuses, the chief being not
getting adequate time to run and find cover. The day after the foul
motivational speaker- the reason most folks don’t work at office-
held up Monal’s panties for all to see, Monal materialized in my
office, unsung and unheralded. As I reached out for the buzzer to
call for help she said,’ I wouldn’t do that- she isn’t here’.

‘
Isn’t here… as in… in
this room or in this world?’ I said, my wits flown, disappeared in
the clouds.

‘
I sent her out on some
important work- she’s at my place getting the plumbing fixed. I
told her she had to be an all-rounder if she needed a
bonus’.

‘
She’s my assistant- she
should’ve informed me’.

‘
I told her not to worry;
I said I would’.

She walked over to the sofa and sank in and
swung her polished legs up on the table; I could see my face in
them. ‘Come sit’, she said, pointing to the empty chair beside
her.

Gingerly I sat down, keeping my knees and
eyes away from the wondrously designed propellers that extended the
long way from her ass to the edge of my glass top table.

‘
I brought something for
you… something you lost’, she says, handing me a crumpled paper
ball full of the sweet scent of promise. Then she plucked the edge
of her skirt with her dainty fingertips and slid it up her thighs
to let me see that she was well lathered and shaven, and moist and
pink, and warm and ready, inside. Her silken slip with the lace
bows was in my hand apparently, once again.

I wanted to nuzzle my nose between her
coffee thighs and beg for mercy but my vow cast a long shadow
between what the noise in my trouser bid me and what the voice that
came from within commanded me.

But I’m just a man, frail in spirit and
strong in flesh; I can only take this much and no more.

A keen bird of prey, she sensed the mouse
ready to make a dash across the open field to the block of cheese
left by lazy picnickers in the forest beyond, and gripped the woody
perch tightly, prepared to leap and dive from the sky above in a
brisk blur of motion.

As I dithered she threw off her stilettos
and placed a talon paw on my thigh and said she was tired, so
tired.

‘
What are you looking at-
show me the fingers’, she said, as I gawked.

Taking that as a cue to commence kneading
the toes, mounds and heels of her comely feet; always the
gentleman, I began in right earnest. There we were; Monal curled up
like a baby in my sofa with her skirt pulled nearly up to her naked
fanny, with a leg tucked into my crotch, and me stoking lovingly
the soles of her unshod foot. One thing would have led to another,
had not somebody walked into my office at that very minute. And
another followed him and shrieked in horror.

The first visitor was Khosla, the
incorrigible father-in-law, and the second his inevitable progeny
and my sweet betrothed, Aarti.

Monal coolly remained where she was, I
remained frozen to the spot with my mouth a tad open, Khosla stood
his ground, turning hot tomato red; all the wine he’d drunk these
years fell-in for duty at the bastions of his Rottweiler jowls.
Only Aarti let out an ear-bleeding screech and leaped behind her
father-soldier, covering her peepers as if a black mamba had bitten
her.

‘
Well hello,’ Monal said
pleasantly,’ don’t you knock?’

Khosla flung his regimental scarf at her
legs and in a commanding tone said, ’cover ‘em lovely things up,
lady’!

And to me he spake, ‘ ‘shun! And what might
you be up to, soldier? Undressing a fine young woman like that! Is
that what you do on parade?’

I remember faintly I made quite an eloquent
speech in my defense at that moment;’ umm…uh…err…sir’.

‘
Do you even know these
people?’ Monal said, thankfully removing her foot from my bulging
lap.

‘
Yeah…Monal…my boss…my
father-in-law… and Aarti- I’m marrying her’.

‘
Nice to meet you’, Khosla
came forward and gripped her hand and kissed it softly. ‘ A
pleasure to make your acquaintance’, he said, sitting by her
side.

‘
Equally’, Monal said,
offering up the other hand as well. ‘ And that must be Asha’, she
said, thumping the sofa, beckoning Aarti to sit. Aarti simply
glanced at her svelte legs and glared at me.

‘
She’s Aarti, my daughter-
not Asha- though that’s a nice name too’, Khosla clarified, still
holding onto her hand, in a voice so loaded with honey that it sent
me into a tizzy.

‘
Of course I’ve seen her
somewhere… she looked… fresher then. Office work hasn’t agreed well
with her it seems. She would be better off keeping house I
guess’.

‘
So true! Her mother
always said that was the only job for a woman. In fact that’s why
we are here; to seek your blessings for the couple!’

Monal raised her hands in mock
blessings.

‘
We thought we’d bring
Arjun along but he wasn’t taking any calls, so we decided to step
in and surprise him. And obviously, surprise him we did!’ And then
Khosla added a little sternly to me,’ what was going on here
boy?’

‘
My feet were killing me
dad’, Monal interjected.

“
Dad”! She’s a cunning
wench, that one!

‘
I begged Arjun to help
me- he’s a sportsman who knows all about injuries, you know?’ She
continued, ‘ it was a life and death situation! What a fine man
you’ve got for your daughter- any woman would kill for
him’.

‘
Yes, yes, a little hard
to believe that though, don’t you think.’ He said looking not a
little unfavorably at me. ‘But under your wings, I’m sure something
will become of that boy yet’.

‘
I’ll be there at the
wedding popsy, for him and for you, even if you tried stopping me
with your military gun’, Monal said, folding a thumb and pointing a
mock forefinger gun at him.

‘
Thank you, and don’t
forget to send him’, Khosla said, mockingly raising his arms. After
respectfully laying down the sweets and cards at the table he
excused himself and his glowering daughter. I escorted them to
their car; there was stony silence on the way. I tugged at Aarti’s
sleeve and tried to smile at her, but she gave me a look that
nipped in the bud any further conciliatory misadventures I might
have thought of bumbling into.

ϖ

That was that and I
haven’t heard from anyone answering to the name of the Khosla clan
ever since. That I have power over Aarti, and that I’m a saved man
after the confession to my mother, banishes the gloom from the
wintery skies and it is indeed with a spring in my step that I
board
The Dubai
on
the starry Friday night for a sea-faring jaunt to Diu.

This baby is a behemoth; over 100 meters
long and can travel at a top speed of 30 knots in warm and shallow
waters. A glossy white on the outside, its interiors are done in a
relaxed French-empire style. It has an all-white crew of 92 except
the captain who is; well, a shade of pink. There are five decks
above the water line, and two below, he tells us proudly as we
enter. It has a swimming pool on one of the decks, which can be
raised to make a dance floor, which is where he promises we are
likely to spend most of that night on. There are three choppers on
board and even a small submarine to dive to the ocean floor for
exploration! The boat has its own air defense system, bulletproof
glass, and armor plating on the sheik’s suite! The ship is
decorated with crushed bones of real dinosaurs and tiny meteorites-
it gives new meaning to excess! There are other obscenities too
profane to be listed for the common man here. That a yacht is
manifest as the ultimate miracle of power and wealth is before us
to gaze- if I had a rod and cast it before the ship it would turn
into a serpent no doubt.

Having gazed for long upon the miracle and
having no rods to turn into serpents, we the faithful, with feet
that make haste to run to evil, are shepherded to the upper decks
and lounges to partake of refreshments, mostly of the order of live
seafood and diverse forms of intoxicants. I hesitatingly ask the
hostess, a shy French girl, for milk, and instead of laughing, she
dips into her fridge and hands me one of the whitest and the best,
a produce of Denmark.

‘
We keep it for the
sheik’s kids. The sheik himself prefers only breast milk,’ she
says, adjusting her bra. ‘Do you want me to add cereal to
that?’

I shake my head and move on.

‘
Should I put it in a milk
bottle for you…’ she shouts after me as I head for the lounge to
sit myself by the silvery railings to admire the view, ‘hey, come
down to the parlor later if you need any breast milk.’ Her breasts
are fair and balanced I am sure, but I’m done sucking up at the
udders.

We are eased out of the port by powerful
tugboats, and soon after, the diesels on the boat sputter into
life, taking us out into the open sea; the twinkling lights of the
shore give in to the sparkling stars above.

The DJ, needing no further convincing,
flicks a couple of switches, turns the knobs, moves the sliders up
and down on his mixing table, and calling out to the blokes to hit
the dance floor begins to build up his music’s tempo. It’s a bit
early though; people throng the bars and down the drinks, loosening
up before the hip, shake, and grind. A white couple, probably high
on some club stuff that you pop in with your drink, sways past and
then turns back.

‘
Hey, that thing there
looks interesting’, the girl says, speaking in thick Portuguese
accent, pointing to my glass of milk. ‘Mind if I have a
sip?’

‘
Sure’, I pass up the
drink.

She takes a sip, rolls her eyes, throws back
her head as if she’s gagged and then tells her friend, ‘umm,
interesting, try’.

He takes a sip too, then another big one and
then says, ‘wow, swear I’ve tried that somewhere- it’s so good.
Where can we get one of these?’

‘
Skinny cow by the bar?
Visit her. Ask her for the fresh stuff- straight from the
source’.

‘
Hey, what do they call it
by the way?’

‘
Milk’.

‘
Milk’, the girl repeats,
and the two lapse into uncontrollable giggles and walk
off.

I roll the milk around in my glass turning
it white and then finish it off. I am tempted to toss the glass
overboard but am afraid of knocking a sleepy fish over her head. I
decide not to have another round of mammarian secretion as it seems
to attract too much attention, and I am not one for intoxicants. So
I’ll keep a glass of plain water for company from now on. I’m sure
many people on board this night haven’t tasted that either, but at
least it’ll pass off for vodka. I stroll around the decks, see
people from all nations, mostly single, all good looking and fit,
determined to get drunk and desperate to get laid before the boat
docks in the morning. Females check me out brashly; males check me
out too, shyly. I stand close to the dance floor and tap my foot to
the rhythm. A pretty Palestinian girl walks up and asks me for a
dance, I say okay and shake the leg with her. She’s something of a
belly dancer, and that makes the sequins and beads on her
iridescent lace skater dress flutter and shift in a kaleidoscopic
pattern in the dazzling disco lights. I wish I’d brought my glares
and eye drops along. She wants to get up close and personal and
thrusts her crotch at me, teaching me to gyrate in sync with her.
As she senses me getting hard, she grips my buttocks and pulls me
close and buries her face on my chest. I can smell the Chanel No. 5
on her, which fills the air around us with its scent. I wrap my
arms around her slim waist, and as one, we sway to the slow number.
Being not much of a dancer, I often step on her toes, so to solve
the problem; I fold her in my arms and haul her up, circling around
happily with her feet up in the air. She laughs and grabs my hair
and pushing my head back, looks me dreamily in the eye and asks if
I’d like to go down to the lower decks where the guest rooms are. I
say yes and we head for the passage to the decks below, holding
hands and laughing like children.

As we weave our way through the sweaty young
people and come out into a clearing, we halt in our tracks- it’s
the Nagraths standing in a small circle with Tom, the greying and
courteous Sheik, and other important looking officials. We pause to
greet them, and there are intros all around. The girl with me is
Nadia, who heads the team at Beirut. The sheik knows her well it
seems, and steals her from me, leading her into his suite. She
doesn’t even stop to look over her shoulder at me. A busty Moroccan
girl, barely legal, hangs on Vishal’s arm while Monal just stands
by and smiles coyly at me when her hubby isn’t looking. She acts
aloof and ignores me after her initial greeting- a lazy wave of a
limp wrist.

On her arm hangs a small man; dark, wearing
Gandhi glasses on shifty eyes that dart to and fro like marbles on
a labyrinth board game.

‘
Hi’, he says, smiling
needlessly, looking away as he offers me his soft hand to shake,
‘…Arjun. Phalit Modi.’

‘
He’s the President
RCA
’, Vishal chimes in,
for the first time that evening acknowledging my
existence.

That’s Rajasthan Cricket
Association for dummies
.

‘
I was expecting you to
win unopposed… silly of them to pitch Dalip Gavaskar against you-
great cricketer of his days, but administration- no sir’, Vishal
says, bowing lightly.