The Desi Masala Story

Every story has a certain truth in it.

Every truth has myriad opinions following its course of existence.

Each opinion is important, as it is an accumulation of one’s upbringing, morals, cultural, religious and social standpoint, and more. It depicts one’s socially stimulated individuality.

The following events will instill piety in some of the readers, in others it will bring out a sick envy, in few it will originate an ethic debate and the rest will be sticking to either of the three or form some minor point of view. But what really matters is – the conclusion.

The place is the heart of India- Varanasi. It has a heavy stardust of ancient culture, beautiful detail of related structures and a million experiences all residing in that one place. The trio of Varuna, Ganga and Assi converging into a whirlpool of sanctity, and nesting possibly the biggest pilgrimage hub in whole of India.

It is a house a few kilometres away from the river bank. The house is quite lavish, with a few fruit trees in the backyard, a wall garden with Bougainvillea and Tulsi and some parking space up front. The fence is of a human’s height and whole construction is located a house away from the road. For a monkey to summit the house it must jump from the ground floor to the balcony of the first then make it to the roof or simply climb up either on the mango or the guava trees and leap. There is a room on the roof that one of the residents had built to comfortably give his board exams in a joint family environment.

It was the wake of 21st Century, but the time has no value in the following.

The family living in the house is a huge one. The building belonged to the great grandfather of the Kid. He was a very old, strict and just man living a next to yogi life. He lived on the ground floor. The house was divided into two portions – one for each of his lovely daughters. One of his daughters lived right above him with her family. The other half of the building was leased by the second one, residing in the same city. Kid’s grandparents are people of academia and at those times happened to be approaching the dusk of their careers. They are Brahmins by social status and are very particular about helping the fellow needy people they know. They always try to employ them, educate them, give them relatively better opportunities and perform numerous related acts of philanthropy. The dynamic duo parented a son and two daughters into the successes that they are now. Their son went abroad for studies, one thing led to another and soon he landed a job and married his college sweetheart. That’s how the Kid came into the picture.

It was the third time their son visited homeland after the Kid came to this world. This time it was different, the former wanted his parents to get closer with his newly founded family. The stay was planned to be 5 months long. Arrangements like schooling were made for the Kid. He was 5 back then. His father had to get back to his job and hurried back abroad. His mother and he were left to mingle even more with grandparents, educate themselves of Hindi and finish LKG & UKG in the given time. Funnily, the Kid was a foreigner to both of his homelands.

The food was delicious and the spices were heavenly. Both grandparents are great cooks. Both tutored their daughter- in- law the art of Indian cuisines. There was a domestic Help- a curious and friendly teenage girl who was given an opportunity to progress from family’s home village to the city. Grandparents helped her out, gave her ample different opportunities throughout her tenure and supported her even further. She’s somewhere in Mumbai now, married and happy. But back then, the kitchens were mostly ruled by the Grandmother, but whenever she wasn’t home- by the Help. There was also a Maid who came in the evenings or whenever there was a soiree and the volumes of the spicy art were not manageable by the limited number of chefs in the house. These were visits by relatives, but they were even relatively infrequent. The communication gap was a challenge, but was quickly overcome by the fertile young mind and motherly efforts. But even after that it was not allowed for the Kid to roam around and play in the streets with the rest of the children, because such an ordeal could’ve proved to be dangerous. The lessees didn’t have any children of Kid’s age, so he was pretty much left all to his own.

These were times when Cartoon Network showed great cartoons and looked like a checker board. A lot of hours were well invested into watching the television. There were a lot of self- strategized and self- directed epic toy soldier battles and numerous vehicle chases before one day the Help offered to play with him. It is practically fascinating how young children and basically everyone who’s not yet an adult find a common language fast and easily make new friends.

During a common day, the Help finished all her responsibilities and by the time she did it, Kid did his homework and was generally about to click open the cartoons. The TV had its own course of life and magically was not allowed to stay awake whole day. They had it to themselves for an hour or so, then there was an optional nap time. The option was controlled by the Mother. The Kid slept with his mother in his room while unknown to him things happened around the house. Little did he know that the house turned into a peaceful sanctum with a kingdom of dreams ruling over it, as everyone napped. Slowly waking up, house always picked up its pace towards the evening. Whenever the Help was free, the Kid used to play with her. They were the Ludo masters, the King & Queen and what not. Whenever she was busy, the Kid always nagged her to allow him to help. As he was not allowed near the stove or any sharp objects, all he got to do was cleaning peas, pitching water and an occasional crushing of Maggi.

One day, she was cutting some vegetables in the kitchen on the first floor and the Kid barged in. His hyperactivity stepping a notorious melody, filled the atmosphere with playful energy. She looked at him and asked what was everyone doing. She got to know that everyone else was either asleep, busy or didn’t yet reach home from an extra detailed chirrup she heard in retaliation. A few minutes passed when she looked at the Kid and enquired, if he had any homework left to do. His patience wore out as he blurted out “No!” and started hopping out of the kitchen. She called him back. She asked if he wanted to play something new with her. She left the vegetables and the knife, turned towards him and added- “But you must promise me not to play this game with anyone else, they won’t play it nor will they understand it…” “What are the rules?”, he enquired. “Silence.”, she replied, “and your hands…” “Should I build something?”, was his first reaction. “No, you must feel something…”, she said, “give me your hands!”

He gave her his hands, palms up, the way he gave them to the teacher before he got hit with a ruler. He got worried, if that’s what was going to happen right now with some kitchen utensil. She held his hands in hers and as if studying the fair skin crevices turned them upside down. He looked up at her and asked- “So?”. She pulled his hands under her kameez and stuffed them up to her chest. The Kid was stunned, but turned playfully curious. She told him to feel her breasts and tell her the experience. With awkwardly straight open palms he traversed from the tips to the ribs and back both ways. He told her that it felt soft and big. Each scaled at least three of his palms in breadth and almost two in length. She instructed him to fondle them. He pressed them like balloons. In unease, she exclaimed to be gentle. He didn’t understand how so she took his hands in her own again and guided him. It was a strange, undefined, rather exciting feeling for the Kid- a brand new experience and he liked it. She seemed dissatisfied, so she told him to hug her from behind locate them again and massage the tips. She folded his palms and explained the light twisting movement that she wanted him to perform. He was more than happy to conform to her instructions. They stood like this for a while and once he got steady she started chopping vegetables again. In a few minutes, he got a bit bored and pulled himself away from her. She asked if he liked it. He said that he did. He asked the name of the game, she told him that it was “love making”, but if he wanted to play he should ask her whether “they could clean some peas together”.

The Kid was bedazzled with the new occurrence and developed an inexplicable curiosity to play it again. The memory of the feeling drove him to ask her every day, but only once in a few days did they get a chance to play this game again. They literally got a chance to clean some peas in the kitchen. As always, when everyone was either away or asleep, they sat in the kitchen. She laid the newspapers on the ground, spilled the pea pods into a pile on the wicker grain cleaner and put a kneading plate nearby to collect the cleaned peas. She told him to throw away the plastic bags into the dustbin under the washbasin while she latched the kitchen door. She sat on one of the newspaper edges and started to clean the peas. He sat nearby and moaned at her. She asked him if he wanted to play. He agreed. She told him to sit on her lap and face her. He climbed into her lap and sat facing the peas. She told him to turn around and hug her with his legs and hands like a monkey. He got excited with the reference and did as she asked. She asked him if he remembered what to do since the last time. The Kid complied to her request. He spent a great fraction of time figuring out a way to find his way under her shirt. He was unpleasantly surprised when he discovered that their texture changed and reminded him of some fabric. He complained, she smiled and single- handedly took each bosom out of the brassiere and let them hang freely under the shirt. He didn’t get the structure of the vest she wore under her kameez, but satisfied with recollection of the previous experience started to play. He kept on fondling her while sitting in her lap. She pulled him closer to herself and started cleaning peas behind his back whenever she got a chance. Howsoever bedazzling was the nature of the game and whatsoever effects it had on his body, he felt ecstatic under effect of what appeared to be something close to adrenaline. He kept on caressing her summits the way she wanted. It was only when grandmother came home and called for her that she asked him to stand up and rushed to unlatch the door. Grandmother saw the door opening and asked why was it closed. The Help confidently told her that they were cleaning peas and the air blew the door shut. It was convincing enough.

Whole house became their castle when the siege of mid-day solitude used to hit. They even played on the roof whenever it wasn’t that hot. Whenever it was as sunny as it gets in Varanasi, they simply played in the room on the roof or so it used to be before. They got into the room to the left of the staircase and sat on the mat. The Kid used to have these figurines of soldiers and a Batman Beyond which he brought to the roof along with an aeroplane and some Hot Wheels. She said- “I am tired today, let’s just lay down on this hot day.” The Kid made a grimace, turned around and played on his own for a while. He was running one of the figurines across the wall when she sat up and pulled him towards her. She immediately lied on her back and told him to climb on top of her. She promised that he won’t be able to get out of the comfortable bed she was going to make for him. He climbed on her from her side. He thought he knew what followed this so he reached out to fondle her. She stopped his hands and pulled his head on her breasts. She asked if he liked the cushions. He didn’t deny that they were surprisingly calming and homely. He turned his head to the side with his head planted right in the trough and looked at the wall across the bulging fabric of her kameez. He was content in his innocence.

The above is not the sole event that happened to the Kid here and neither it might be to either of you, readers. The events followed, less aggravated or even more despicable, then, now and might still affect most of us in the future. The essence of these events stays true even if details vanish in time. The following conclusion contains more points, but those cannot be mentioned due to possible “radicality” of some readers.

There must be no blames associated with the described act, neither it must be fine to accuse an individual for an unguided portrayal of their curiosity. It is only a common effort that might prevent such things from happening. Sex must not be a taboo anymore in a nation as dynamically affected by development as India. People must accept sex as a basic orientation of human curiosity. Instead of imposing bans on the mentioning of anything related to the theme, yet openly joking about such things in the dark corners of their abodes and developing high sex valuing mindsets and psyches, we must rather seek guidance, discuss the simplicity of this act with no attached value to it and educate themselves and people around them. India, the home of Kamasutra, must now embrace, guide and nurture sex, instead of exiling it altogether and leading to formation of secretive crooked minds.

For, as long as peacocks shed tears, the nation will stay in the darkest corners of dynamic, yet confused culture.


2 thoughts on “The Desi Masala Story

  1. I get goosebumps every single time I read or hear about such stories. And it is so frustrating that I live in a country where I get to hear these stories from every third or fourth person I meet.
    What this country really needs is mass sex education, otherwise these unguided portrayals of sexuality will keep harming children and adults on so many levels of pain, stress and trauma. Every female friend of mine says #metoo with a chilling heart-shivering story and this is so exasperating.
    This confusion will only clear up when people in India start understanding that every problem cannot be treated with cow’s urine or peacock’s tears. Some problems need real solutions.

    Liked by 1 person

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