He came. He saw. He conquered. (Short Story)

I sat on the bed, alone in the room, waiting for him to come, hoping he doesn’t. I could hear merry voices coming from outside, audible over the noise produced by the cooler. But my heart was not merry, darkness filled my frame, uncertainty agitated my nerves. It was a quarter past one in the morning and my happiness, my love was probably sleeping peacefully on his bed, several kilometers away from where I was weeping.

I remember when I saw him the first time, twelve years ago, he was eating his dinner with his father in the dining-room. When I had entered the room, both he and his father had looked up from their plates, smiling at me. He had a round, fair face, like his mother’s; his eyes twinkled when he smiled.

We became friends soon. Whatever time I used to get when I had no household chores to attend to, I used to spend around him if he was at home. At such times, he used to order me to do petty jobs for him like tidying up his room, fetching a glass of water, arranging his clothes and even sharpening his pencil. He always thanked me after each job and attached a ‘please’ before the next one. All in all, he treated me in a much better manner than his mother.

We grew up together. We were the same age. When he grew older, he started spending lesser time at home and I used to long for him every time he would be gone. When at home, he continued to order me to run him small chores and I used to oblige him happily.

When we were younger, he used to tell me stories about his school, teachers, friends and so forth. I used to enjoy them thoroughly. His tales used to fill me with wonder, amazement but I never let my sentiments show themselves. But when we grew up, he hardly talked to me about his life though he used to patiently answer whenever I asked him anything. He was sweet. I felt he cared for me.

Initially, I called him by his name. But one gloomy day, six years after I met him, his mother asked me to stop calling him by name. ‘Call him bhaiyaji,’ she had sternly said. I had no choice but to call him like that. I hated his mother.

He grew up beautifully. By the age of seventeen, he was taller than his father, much taller than me. I had to tilt my head up on the rare occasions when we came to face. His features were handsome. His face had become oval but his color had remained the same. He was lean but not skinny, just like me, just the way I liked him.

On Sundays, I used to spend more time in bathing and dressing up. He used to spend most of his day at home on most Sundays.

When we were eighteen, his parents had to go out of station once, for two days. He refused to go with them. His mother asked me to stay with him. I agreed happily. I was excited. I trusted him but at the same time wished that he would break my trust.

In those two days, I took complete care of him, served him as best as I could, tried to make him happy, satisfy him. I loved his smile and whenever I used to see him smiling, something used to twist inside my stomach. His parents had to extend their trip by one day. On that day, he brought four of his friends home, two of them were girls. Both looked pretty. I took solace in the conviction that given a chance, they would not be able to take care of him as nicely as I could. And beauty? It lies in the eyes of the beholder, no?

He started shaving that year, his face became manlier. I loved him. But he had stopped talking to me altogether and I felt shy in asking him anything now. I was forced to admire him from a distance. He was smart, confident and still ordered me to do small chores for him with a ‘thank you’ and ‘please’.

He called me by name and I loved to hear my name called by him. From a boy, he transformed into a complete man soon. And started working in a company after he passed out from college.

I hardly used to enter his room now when he was inside and I had been instructed since the age of fifteen to always knock on the door before entering his room if he was inside and if it was necessary for me to enter.

One Sunday morning, when six moths still remained for my wedding, his mother asked me to go and wake him up as it had got very late in the morning. He had returned home at half past two in the morning. I had not been able to sleep before his arrival.

I went and knocked at his door. Twice. Thrice. But his voice did not answer my knocks. Excited and both scared, I opened the door and entered the air-conditioned room. He was sleeping on the bed on his right side. Sunlight coming from the window opposite the door illuminated the entire room. While his right leg was fully stretched, the left one was bent more than ninety degrees. His left hand concealed his face, revealed his hairy armpit.

I could not take my eyes off him for what seemed like a minute. Two minutes. Ten minutes. Until it was absolutely necessary to wake him up.

His blanket had fallen down from his bed. He was clad in a black vest and red cotton shorts. The shorts revealed more of his thighs than they would have usually done because of the manner in which he lay. His legs, long and sculpted, were covered with a thick blanket of black hair. His upper body had lesser hair. His biceps seemed well-formed. On the whole, he looked exotic. Erotic. Storms were taking birth and clashing with one another somewhere inside my body.

After I don’t know how many minutes, I called his name again. Slowly. He didn’t stir. It was becoming impossible to restrain myself. I took my palm to his bare shoulder and shook him. The touch was heavenly, every nerve of my body had felt it and had felt alive, had tickled.

This time, he stirred, removed his hand, revealed his breathtaking face, and opened his eyes. My heart was beating insanely. He parted his red lips, said, ‘I’m coming,’ and placed his hand in its original position. His shamelessness over his state struck me. It was after a long, long time that he was present in so little clothing in my presence. But he didn’t seem to mind anything.

After filling my mind with his image for five more seconds, I left the room, wanting him more than ever before, craving for his touch, his body. His love.

The door of the room opened. He had finally arrived. I felt no excitement. I was just tense, scared. He closed the door and bolted it. He came and sat on the bed, his face facing me. My eyes were cast down, orange flower petals strewn on the bed-sheet were dancing in my head. He lifted his right hand, put it under my chin and lifted my head to have a better look at my face.

I lifted my eyes and saw his dark mustached face, his soon-to-be-bald head, his red hungry eyes, his breath smelling of alcohol, his charred lips. He smiled and revealed his yellow teeth. By now, I was petrified.

He pushed me back. My back touched the soft mattress. The jewels on my body made noise. He got up and switched off the lights. The window above the cooler sent moonlight inside. He came and lay beside me. His heavy fingers touched my lips. I wished, hoped, prayed that he would stop. Sleep. Die.

He didn’t.