Chapter 1: Fuse Is Lit For A Strange Transformation
"Bommi is holding the handsome fellow's hands." The woman who spoke was a surprise. The old fashioned way she wore her sari, the glitter of her nose rings, the kumkum dot on her forehead, and more kumkum in the middle at the hairline proclaimed that she was an orthodox Hindu. The surprise was the half filled glass of whisky she was sipping. She thought she was talking in a whisper to her husband who was by her side on the sofa, but being slightly under the influence, she was loud enough for Bommi to hear. Her husband, though wearing pants and slacks, had the look and mannerisms of a prohit, a temple priest. He had no tuft of hair on the back of his head that temple priests have, but when he shook his head a topknot seemed to toss about at his occiput.
The couple was in a fellowship party, which in India means a party where liquor flows. Occasionally orthodox couples do find themselves in such surroundings; and when there they participate with enthusiasm.
Bommi, who on the sofa in front of the couple, was indeed holding the hands of a young man in his late twenties seated at her side.
"She is rubbing her thighs against his," said the older woman still in a loud whisper, "and she is playing with his hands."
"Oosh, Amulu" said the prohit, "won't you be if you had the chance to get a fellow as handsome as that?" The woman was not shocked at this imputation. She broke into a hacking laughter. She prodded her husband on the ribs with her glass and laughed again.
"Naughty," she said.
The scene was a room in a government guesthouse in a narrow road that branched from the coastal highway. The group of persons who had come together for fellowship, though known to each other, were not close friends. Other than for this special purpose they rarely met. This was a feature of these gatherings. The social prejudice against alcohol consumption amongst the middle classes, in spite of a cultural tilt towards the west, still exists. Those who want to indulge preferred to do so in the company of acquaintances rather than friends. Being occasional users they, as a rule, indulged unwisely.
There were six of them including the host who was an official of the department whose guesthouse it was. There were two couples, the prohit and his wife, both in their early forties, and Bommi and her husband in their early thirties. The younger woman's husband was seated next to the prohit's wife on the sofa opposite where his wife sat. He lay stretched on the sofa, head pointing to the ceiling, eyes closed, and breathing stertorously. His drinking day was over. The young man was an invitee of the host. The official and the couples knew each other, but the young man was new to the group.
"The old lady is talking about us, Shakir," said Bommi to the young man. She had a shapely up-tilted nose and a fine figure. She wore a light blue sari of synthetic material; her blouse was sleeveless, and its lower edge came as high up as was possible. Her sari was sufficiently low slung to bisect the umbilicus.
The prohit couples were replenishing their glasses.
"Three fingers Amulu," said the prohit, whose name was Vasu, to his wife. He held up three fingers horizontally as if to make his meaning doubly clear. Social drinking might be alien to Indian culture, but the wife had to serve her husband in the traditional manner. In carrying out her husband's instructions Ammu was taking no chances. She placed three fingers of her left hand against the bottom of the glass, and holding the heavy bottle of whisky by the neck with the other hand she carefully tilted the bottle to deliver the exact amount he needed. She expertly opened a soda bottle and started pouring.
"Say when," she said. Shakir was amused to hear that phrase used when pouring soda, but her husband did not see anything unusual in it.
"Stop," he said at one point and Amulu stopped. She poured herself her regulation quantity that as per the shastras had to be exactly what her husband had ordered for himself. She diluted it with the same quantity of soda. She rearranged the pallav of her sari, disturbed by the recent excretions. She tucked the pallav to her waist after making minor adjustments to cover her breasts properly.
"Please permit me to help you," said Shakir to the young woman.
"Yes," she said, " thanks for asking, two fingers." She laughed. "You can call me Bommi." Shakir poured the required quantity.
"Soda?"
"Up to the brim."
"Almost water, Bommi."
"I like it that way." Shakir mixed himself something stronger. Bommi got two saucers and deftly shovelled boiled and salted chickpeas kept in a bowl on to the saucers and placed two spoons on the saucers. She offered one to Shakir and kept one for herself.
Their host took a cane chair. He had in his hand a large glass full of the brown liquid.
Bommi took a spoonful of the chickpeas and delicately put it in into her mouth without allowing the spoon to touch her lips.
Shakir noted with some surprise that Bommi's glass was half gone though he did not see her sip so often. Soon it was empty.
"Some more?"
"Yes, Please."
"The same?"
"Umm, just a little more and not so diluted." Shakir understood. In order to keep her company Shakir emptied his tumbler and helped himself to another slightly stronger mix. When he sat again it was very close to his fair companion.
"This chick peas are very good," he said. Bommi nodded. The prohit woman kept up an incessant chatter to her husband.
"Bommi and that young man are getting hotter and hotter," she said.
"The young man is the type I know, but the woman is a puzzle," said the prohit to his wife. "That young man is not here to drink. When no one is looking he empties his tumbler contents into the flower pot."
"Why does he do that?"
"He is a predator," said the prohit hoarsely.
"What is that?"
"He remains sober and approaches a woman in an inebriated state when the husbands are fully drunk and starts a conversation, and takes her to a corner and, and..." the prohit was searching for the word that was genteel enough for the prude sensitivity of his wife, "and takes liberties with them," he said finally.
"Liberties?" repeated the lady. Her voice was slightly slurred.
