(Part 2 of 3 part series)
Anagha never pestered Anant. She was different, a guardian like. She spoke to him at length walking through the fields, sitting beside the river, or playing under the jackfruit tree. She talked. He listened. Understanding was not important then. She too was patient to Anant’s blabbering. Anagha hardly got annoyed with him, never actually.
Only once though.
Anagha used to wear a long skirt and a blouse. Her skirts used to be long and beautiful with nice colourful floral designs. Her blouses, mostly bright coloured and shiny, would complement her skirts. Her costumes and dressing used to charm Anant. Anant wore simple short knickers, mostly blue or black or khaki coloured with a white half sleeved kurta, almost every day.
Often when playing and trying to hide away from his Mother, Anant used to skim under Anagha’s skirts and disappear into the darkness beneath. It felt like a long upward tunnel with no opening at the other end. He felt safest there. He used to do this when he got scared. The obscurity under her skirt never scared him though.
Anant was waiting for Anagha to finish her bath. He was sitting on a rock next to a spring, where Anagha usually bathed. Anagha was dressing up behind the bushes. Suddenly, he heard a commotion and a huge crowd of people marching somewhere with fire torches in their hands, they were shouting slogans. Scared Anant ran behind the bushes and hid under Anagha’s skirt, like he always did. To his utter revulsion this time, when he traversed his eyesight up her thighs, he saw a clump of hair there unlike a stalk he had. She had screamed in rage, pulled him out from underneath and hammered him black and blue, almost to death. Villagers took a chance and thrashed him more. They dragged him till his veranda and continued banging him, shouting at him in front of his Mother. With tearful eyes, he could see a blurred picture of his Mother begging to all the villagers to spare her little boy.
‘Please don’t beat him. Don’t be so harsh to him, please. He is just a kid, he is innocent, he does not understand anything,’ Mother continued pleading to the crowd.
Finally she bowed to Anagha for help. Anagha had calmed down by now and she rescued Anant. Mother apologised to Anagha with folded hands. Mother sat resting to a wooden pillar, holding Anant firmly in her arms. They both were crying; Mother was little soft though. Mother’s tears dropped on Anant’s hair, his on her bosom.
Mother complained to her Gods. She began her conversations with them. She cursed them one by one, muttering about why was she the chosen one for all the sufferings.
Anagha and Anant studied together at school. However, Anant could study only till the third standard. A misfortune disabled him from studying further. He could not grow beyond 8 years of age. He matured physically but was impeded mentally. Anagha was blessed with growing intellect, beauty, and stunning physical aesthetics.
Anagha was well aware of his disability. However, that day’s enrage was devastating. Mother explained Anant that he was wrong. He agreed. That was the only rift that took place between Anant and Anagha. Else, their bond was intense, almost inseparable.
Anant loved playing with Anagha. She had everything in abundance – intelligence, prettiness, vigour, smiles, words, and hair. He loved her hair more than her beauty or her eyes or her lips or her fingers. Silky, strong hair; pitch black, yet shiny; the most beautiful feature of the most beautiful girl of the village.
Anant used to run with Anagha in the fields, along the river banks, sometimes up the hill, and seldom on the highways. He was addicted to see her hair flowing freely behind her. It gave him hallucinations.
Anagha took Anant to school on her bicycle. As her cycle pierced the wind, her hair kissed Anant all over his face. The feeling was nothing less than orgasmic. He used to keep smelling her hair. He used to close his eyes and conceive of being in the heaven.
She never liked tying up her hair. Though, she adored herself sitting in front of the mirror, trying various styles. Anant used to stand next to her, assisting her with different ribbons, rubber bands, hair clips. She used to ask him to hold a strand of her hair in particular manner while she experimented. He obeyed accordingly. Anant used to comb her hair and at times run his fingers down her hair when they sat under the jackfruit tree. She used to narrate stories that happened in school. She also tried teaching few things which he could have learned had he been in the school then. Anant used to hold her hair and make a string of hair fall softly on his face. At times, he covered his entire face with her hair. The shade under her hair was soothing.
Anant spent most of his time under the mystiques of his friendship and bonding with Anagha. He was unaware that his Anagha would eventually just become his muse, nothing more.
Anagha was married off to Parshuram. Parshuram owned two trucks and was into business of goods delivery. He was 34 years of age, twice that of Anagha. Her mother had considered Parshuram’s two trucks and reputation that his family had had in the village as the only parameters to give away her daughter.
Parshuram was an ugly, dark skinned, school dropout, with a typical truck driver persona. He had no respect for fellow villagers and was caught molesting women and girls, many times. Under the pretext that driving trucks made him stressful, he consumed heavy doses of alcohol; smoking bidi was a common culture across all village men. However, Anagha’s mother was beyond understanding all this, ‘my daughter is aging, she has ripened enough, she must get married now,’ she pledged by such ideologies. ‘She should get married on time. What’s the use of making her sit at home and play around in the fields?’ she justified herself.
Nobody really cared about what Anagha felt, had any concern for her happiness. Anagha’s wretchedness was evident. Radiance on her face had disappeared into darkness of that of an amavasya night. Her skin was turning pale. Her bones were gaining prominence creating crests all over her face, shoulders, all over her body. She had started looking double her age. Weary, and weak; an old lady of 40 when she was just 24. Anagha had become unhealthy. She had missed the fortune of motherhood twice.
Parshuram was forcing himself on her once. He was drunk. She was about six months pregnant. She hated when he drank and pounced on her like a wild animal. She couldn’t tolerate the stink; neither could fight back his pervert claws. She would fall prey to his licentious wildness, often. To utter embarrassment, at times, Parshuram made Anagha play at the hands of his drunkard friends.
That night, Parshuram swooped on Anagha’s ailing body, she revolted. She tried to throw him away. Anant, like usual, watched everything from the window. He heard a loud slap on Anagha’s face and her scream later. Parshuram was sitting on her, wild like a giant. Anagha’s sari was folded up to her waist. Anant stared astounded at her bright fair thighs, which he had until then only looked up as a burrow full of darkness. Anant stood there shivering holding the window sills gawking at the scene. Parshuram was getting violent. He paid no heed to Anagha’s pleas. In no time his hands had reached breasts and the blouse was ripped open. Anagha struggled to free herself from those merciless claws of a drunkard-sex-maniac. Parshuram bent down on her chest; Anagha tried to throw him away. In the vehement tussle, Parshuram’s mouth had found its way to Anagha’s breasts and his teeth sank into her nipple. Anagha and Anant screamed in unison. She could finally push the animal away. Parshuram fell from the bed. Anagha sat on the bed, gathered her thighs and held them tightly to her chest with hands firmly tied around her legs.
Parshuram got up little while later and in rage pushed away Anagha. She fell on the other side of the bed, trying to adjust her balance; she fell flat on the ground, with a hard punch in her stomach. Her womb turned void. The second time was due to poor health and weakness. She had become frail not to gather enough energy to deliver a baby. No one really cared however. Her mother-in-law thought that it could have been a girl and hence Gods punished her. Having a boy was matter of pride; no one wanted girls. For Parshuram it was never a matter of concern. For him, his only duty towards Anagha was to shove his manhood inside her and order, “Better it be a boy this time”.
Anant witnessed all this through the window sill or through the cracks in the door and windows. He was eye to every torture, ear to every scream. He could only understand that his Anagha was in pain, she cried, and so did he. However, he could never help her. He could never understand how to. Anagha too, started neglecting Anant, as she did not want him to be a part of trouble that she faced.
Anagha never pestered Anant. She was different, a guardian like. She spoke to him at length walking through the fields, sitting beside the river, or playing under the jackfruit tree. She talked. He listened. Understanding was not important then. She too was patient to Anant’s blabbering. Anagha hardly got annoyed with him, never actually.
Only once though.
Anagha used to wear a long skirt and a blouse. Her skirts used to be long and beautiful with nice colourful floral designs. Her blouses, mostly bright coloured and shiny, would complement her skirts. Her costumes and dressing used to charm Anant. Anant wore simple short knickers, mostly blue or black or khaki coloured with a white half sleeved kurta, almost every day.
Often when playing and trying to hide away from his Mother, Anant used to skim under Anagha’s skirts and disappear into the darkness beneath. It felt like a long upward tunnel with no opening at the other end. He felt safest there. He used to do this when he got scared. The obscurity under her skirt never scared him though.
Anant was waiting for Anagha to finish her bath. He was sitting on a rock next to a spring, where Anagha usually bathed. Anagha was dressing up behind the bushes. Suddenly, he heard a commotion and a huge crowd of people marching somewhere with fire torches in their hands, they were shouting slogans. Scared Anant ran behind the bushes and hid under Anagha’s skirt, like he always did. To his utter revulsion this time, when he traversed his eyesight up her thighs, he saw a clump of hair there unlike a stalk he had. She had screamed in rage, pulled him out from underneath and hammered him black and blue, almost to death. Villagers took a chance and thrashed him more. They dragged him till his veranda and continued banging him, shouting at him in front of his Mother. With tearful eyes, he could see a blurred picture of his Mother begging to all the villagers to spare her little boy.
‘Please don’t beat him. Don’t be so harsh to him, please. He is just a kid, he is innocent, he does not understand anything,’ Mother continued pleading to the crowd.
Finally she bowed to Anagha for help. Anagha had calmed down by now and she rescued Anant. Mother apologised to Anagha with folded hands. Mother sat resting to a wooden pillar, holding Anant firmly in her arms. They both were crying; Mother was little soft though. Mother’s tears dropped on Anant’s hair, his on her bosom.
Mother complained to her Gods. She began her conversations with them. She cursed them one by one, muttering about why was she the chosen one for all the sufferings.
Anagha and Anant studied together at school. However, Anant could study only till the third standard. A misfortune disabled him from studying further. He could not grow beyond 8 years of age. He matured physically but was impeded mentally. Anagha was blessed with growing intellect, beauty, and stunning physical aesthetics.
Anagha was well aware of his disability. However, that day’s enrage was devastating. Mother explained Anant that he was wrong. He agreed. That was the only rift that took place between Anant and Anagha. Else, their bond was intense, almost inseparable.
Anant loved playing with Anagha. She had everything in abundance – intelligence, prettiness, vigour, smiles, words, and hair. He loved her hair more than her beauty or her eyes or her lips or her fingers. Silky, strong hair; pitch black, yet shiny; the most beautiful feature of the most beautiful girl of the village.
Anant used to run with Anagha in the fields, along the river banks, sometimes up the hill, and seldom on the highways. He was addicted to see her hair flowing freely behind her. It gave him hallucinations.
Anagha took Anant to school on her bicycle. As her cycle pierced the wind, her hair kissed Anant all over his face. The feeling was nothing less than orgasmic. He used to keep smelling her hair. He used to close his eyes and conceive of being in the heaven.
She never liked tying up her hair. Though, she adored herself sitting in front of the mirror, trying various styles. Anant used to stand next to her, assisting her with different ribbons, rubber bands, hair clips. She used to ask him to hold a strand of her hair in particular manner while she experimented. He obeyed accordingly. Anant used to comb her hair and at times run his fingers down her hair when they sat under the jackfruit tree. She used to narrate stories that happened in school. She also tried teaching few things which he could have learned had he been in the school then. Anant used to hold her hair and make a string of hair fall softly on his face. At times, he covered his entire face with her hair. The shade under her hair was soothing.
Anant spent most of his time under the mystiques of his friendship and bonding with Anagha. He was unaware that his Anagha would eventually just become his muse, nothing more.
Anagha was married off to Parshuram. Parshuram owned two trucks and was into business of goods delivery. He was 34 years of age, twice that of Anagha. Her mother had considered Parshuram’s two trucks and reputation that his family had had in the village as the only parameters to give away her daughter.
Parshuram was an ugly, dark skinned, school dropout, with a typical truck driver persona. He had no respect for fellow villagers and was caught molesting women and girls, many times. Under the pretext that driving trucks made him stressful, he consumed heavy doses of alcohol; smoking bidi was a common culture across all village men. However, Anagha’s mother was beyond understanding all this, ‘my daughter is aging, she has ripened enough, she must get married now,’ she pledged by such ideologies. ‘She should get married on time. What’s the use of making her sit at home and play around in the fields?’ she justified herself.
Nobody really cared about what Anagha felt, had any concern for her happiness. Anagha’s wretchedness was evident. Radiance on her face had disappeared into darkness of that of an amavasya night. Her skin was turning pale. Her bones were gaining prominence creating crests all over her face, shoulders, all over her body. She had started looking double her age. Weary, and weak; an old lady of 40 when she was just 24. Anagha had become unhealthy. She had missed the fortune of motherhood twice.
Parshuram was forcing himself on her once. He was drunk. She was about six months pregnant. She hated when he drank and pounced on her like a wild animal. She couldn’t tolerate the stink; neither could fight back his pervert claws. She would fall prey to his licentious wildness, often. To utter embarrassment, at times, Parshuram made Anagha play at the hands of his drunkard friends.
That night, Parshuram swooped on Anagha’s ailing body, she revolted. She tried to throw him away. Anant, like usual, watched everything from the window. He heard a loud slap on Anagha’s face and her scream later. Parshuram was sitting on her, wild like a giant. Anagha’s sari was folded up to her waist. Anant stared astounded at her bright fair thighs, which he had until then only looked up as a burrow full of darkness. Anant stood there shivering holding the window sills gawking at the scene. Parshuram was getting violent. He paid no heed to Anagha’s pleas. In no time his hands had reached breasts and the blouse was ripped open. Anagha struggled to free herself from those merciless claws of a drunkard-sex-maniac. Parshuram bent down on her chest; Anagha tried to throw him away. In the vehement tussle, Parshuram’s mouth had found its way to Anagha’s breasts and his teeth sank into her nipple. Anagha and Anant screamed in unison. She could finally push the animal away. Parshuram fell from the bed. Anagha sat on the bed, gathered her thighs and held them tightly to her chest with hands firmly tied around her legs.
Parshuram got up little while later and in rage pushed away Anagha. She fell on the other side of the bed, trying to adjust her balance; she fell flat on the ground, with a hard punch in her stomach. Her womb turned void. The second time was due to poor health and weakness. She had become frail not to gather enough energy to deliver a baby. No one really cared however. Her mother-in-law thought that it could have been a girl and hence Gods punished her. Having a boy was matter of pride; no one wanted girls. For Parshuram it was never a matter of concern. For him, his only duty towards Anagha was to shove his manhood inside her and order, “Better it be a boy this time”.
Anant witnessed all this through the window sill or through the cracks in the door and windows. He was eye to every torture, ear to every scream. He could only understand that his Anagha was in pain, she cried, and so did he. However, he could never help her. He could never understand how to. Anagha too, started neglecting Anant, as she did not want him to be a part of trouble that she faced.
- Parikshit J.
Categories:
Fiction,
Short Story
