Flash Fiction
SLEEPLESS BEAUTY
by
Hareendran Kallinkeel
Her white silk sari sweeps back from her shoulder as she walks toward the blazing fire.
I watch fascinated.
Draped in white, she looks like a woman-shaped cloud. She unties her hair. It cascades, reaching below buttocks that strain under sheer white. She glides through the fire like a cloud sliding through streaks at sunset. The sari floats in a milky stream behind her.
I feel a tepid hand below my half trousers.
The woman stands smiling. The fire does nothing to her. She looks down at the old man prostrated before her. Orange rays flash from her eyes.
The hand reaches inside my trousers, fingers sneak beneath my briefs.
The old man holds his palms together, tries to rise. He looks up, his eyes pleading. Thunderbolts from her eyes crash through his chest.
The hand crawls over my balls, fingers trap my small, limp rat, wrap around it, teasing.
The old man rolls over. His body twitches and goes still.
Twelve-year-olds can't have a hard-on. Oh God! Don't incite me to sin. I pray.
The hand withdraws. The screen goes blank. The maroon curtain slides down, the gold threads of its hem shine in the white light that floods the hall.
# # # Sun sets.
Night falls.
He arrives. His chariot has seven horses.
The bedroom is dark. I am on my knees. The hum of the air conditioner breaks the silence.
He pulls the reins with his right hand. The horses neigh. The chariot comes to a halt.
The boy's chest swells and drops as he breaths. The pink bedspread wrinkles as he turns on his back.
He drops the reins. His shoulder-length curls dance like spring coils as he jumps down the chariot. His thigh muscles ripple under his silk dhoti as he walks towards me. His shoulder blades arch like stretched bows when he returns my salutation, palms pressed together.
My hand sneaks under his shorts. His brief is as warm as his silken thigh. Goose pimples rise on his skin as I push between his thighs. He begins to liven up. My palm fills, then overflows.
A smile creases his lips, casts a brilliance of light, its warmth glows on his black face.
His hips thrust towards my hand. His breath grows rapid. I feel a current pass through my hand and sunlight explodes in my head. The boy keeps thrusting. He turns on his stomach. My wet lips moisten his neck.
His firm steps shake the earth as he walks back to the chariot. He retrieves the reins.
The hum of the air conditioner has subsided. I listen to his snores.
The chariot rolls as night ends.
Sun rises.
# # # I wait for the night to grow older.
It is her house. She sleeps in the first floor bedroom.
Beside it, is her study. No one comes to the first floor during night. Others sleep upstairs.
She has made a couch for me in the study. I don't want to sleep alone when I am with her.
Twenty-eight years is not enough time to forget the warmth of her hand.
I hear scratching. A rat jumps from a table and bolts. A fat, grey rat.
Can I ever again see the girl I saw the day she violated my innocence? I don't think so. That threshold of new adventure seems beyond me.
My sagging belly grumbles as I close the door and walk towards her bedroom.
The door is unlatched. Good.
I sit on the bed, staring, trying to imagine her in a white, silk sari with hair cascading below her ass. I wonder how she looks undressed. I have never seen her naked.
Then I see that her hair is untied and reaches just below her shoulders.
I tug at the blanket.
She shifts beneath its coziness.
A rat skitters on the floor.
I run my hand under her nightdress. The hairs on my arm stand erect. My palm burns.
My breath hastens. I feel its warmth glide down to my chest. I pull her panties down. They snuggle to her warm flesh and refuse to slide.
She turns on her back.
My hand, clasping the panty, is trapped beneath her heavy globes. I struggle to pull it away.
The rat scratches again.
She wakes up. "Please go."
"I want to sleep with you."
"No, you can't."
"You used to fondle me. You used to enjoy it."
"A long time back. I amused myself, grabbing what circumstances offered. You were twelve and I was seventeen. Now I'm forty-five."
"I don't mind, and the circumstances are still good." My hardness strains against my brief.
"I do. I am married. Things are changed. I see neither the chariot, nor the horses."
"But your husband is no more." I feel a twitch between my legs.
"That's irrelevant. I still have a family, kids. That matters…a lot."
"Please…"
She sits up and switches on the lamp. I see her sagging breasts through her flimsy gown.
More scratching noise from the floor.
"Oh God! Don't incite us to sin," she prays.
I go limp.
§ § §
Hareendran Kallinkeel is from Kerala (India), presently living in New Delhi. Hari enjoys writing, owes it to his tolerant wife and sweet little daughter. He remembers the lush paddy fields and the hillocks beyond, listens to his grandmother’s voice. His stories are appearing in the October 2002 issue of Poet’s Canvas (Web) and Peeks & Valleys (print).
He can be reached at: megha555@satyam.net.in
Alternate email: hkallinkeel@rediffmail.com .
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