"That is precisely what I am saying. Not just hugging. Hand holding, leaning against him while say watching TV and things like that. Poor man he would love to have some physical contact with you. You have do take my place."
"What do you mean by 'take my place?'. Where do we draw the line?
"That you two will have to decide. Why that smile."
"If as soon as father comes in if I were to run to him and hug him he would certainly faint in surprise."
"You must do it step by step. When did you last go with him to a movie?
"A year and a half ago or may be two years."
"Why not on Saturday, holiday for both of you, but only if Daya's mother is recovered. No, not the matinee show; the 6.30 show. Daya can take her day off and come and stay with me in the evening till you return. We used to go to movies quite often, always the 6.30 show.
"Why that particular show."
"We like total darkness. Your father and I will be discreetly cuddling all the time."
"Cuddling?"
"Fondling too."
"Don't tell me you behaved like the young people we see in the back rows in movies."
"Very discreetly. No one would know that we were anything but a very prim and staid couple."
"So you think." Mother was not listening. She was in a rewind mode; she was giggling
2.
The theatre my father and I visited was one of the new mall cum theatre complexes that have sprung all over Madras. We had a back row on sofa like double seats. The theatre was not crowded; the movie was nearing the end of a long and successful run. People talk sneeringly of Indian masala movies but I like them. There is something in it for everyone. If you don't like the story line you can enjoy the songs mostly pictured in scenic locations in Europe or Australia. Romance will be there in plenty and lots of melodrama too and then those dances. Fights are important and the experts who direct fights are as much choreographers as those who direct dances. The audience in India is not blood thirsty. Even after the most horrible pulping the patrons will note with relief that nothing more than bruises and black eyes result from these encounters. Finally the ending it has to be a happy one. It was one such movie that father and I settled to watch.
`I had armed myself with a large packet of salted peanuts and cashew. The titles were on when I caught hold of father's right hand and placed a fistful of nuts on it. I rested his hand on my hand and placed my hand on my lap. There was no arm rest separating our seats. We picked up the nuts from this 'container' one at a time and munched. My hand was not idle. I was kneading his hand. It was a simple contact and my movements were innocent enough but to me it was intensely erotic. Appa likes cashew. I searched for cashew and when I got one I took it to his mouth and placed it between his lips. He became playful. Mother must have talked to him too, many times; I am sure of that. Anyway I took his little pranks as encouragement to go ahead. The first few he accepted tamely; then he flicked off a few with his tongue, and then he caught my fingers with the nut into his mouth and sucked at my fingers before releasing them. Was he sucking or was he kissing? Clearly he was finding the exercise erotic. Soon, too soon, the packet was empty, but I held on to his hand and played with it. I was aware that I not doing so with a daughter's innocence. I could feel moisture in my vulva.
On the screen a torrid love scene was getting closer to the climax. I was feeling the heat too. I entwined my father's fingers and with his forearm twisted around mine I brought his hand to my cheek. I have never been this cosy with father. I have no doubt that Amma's talk had melted away my inhibitions. My father yielded placidly. Thus encouraged I took his hand to my cheek and pressed the back of it firmly to my cheek. Such was my mood that the hairs on the back of his hand rubbing on my cheek were thrillingly sensuous. Meanwhile the lovers on the screen were in a tight embrace. I do not know how it happened but his hand was on my lips. Did I kiss? I might have but I do not know for I was in a daze. I darted a glace at Appa. His eyes were on the screen. He seemed unaware of what I was doing. But was he? The lights came on at intermission. I turned to father and smiled. He smiled back and tweaked my cheek.
The second half was full of fights. Women like fight scenes. This is contrary to expectations. Unlike men though the techniques the hero and his men employ are not what we look of. We women like to see villains defeated thoroughly and painfully. This movie did it well. I was doing well too. I slid close to father, so close that from knee to shoulder we were in firm contact. He put his arm behind my back and held my arm at the elbow. My breast that was close to his hand was tingling. A lover would have boldly gone for it, but a father cannot. Father cannot and will not force himself upon his daughter. I realised that I will have to take the imitative at every point. I had to act and act boldly.
I had to carry on the plan I had in mind with great care. I pressed father's arm against the back of the sofa to prevent him from removing it altogether. As if wanting to rearrange my pallav (sari wearers do it all the time) I removed his hand from my elbow. I now boldly took his hand and placed it firmly on my waist. His hand was now just three or four inches from cupping my breast. For all that it could be miles away unless I take decisive steps. I waited for something exciting to happen. Soon it did. The villain who escaped in an earlier fight was now back and waiting to ambush the heroine at the very lip of a steep cliff. In masala films cliffs and waterfalls have critical roles to play. He had her cornered. She can escape only by jumping down the cliff into the river far below, and she does just that to the jubilation of the front benchers. I was jubilant too for during the melee on the screen I boldly placed my father's hand on my breast and held it there. With my hand on it I made him squeeze my breast. I leant my head on his shoulder and he caressed my head with his other hand and kissed me on the forehead. I had crossed the line—we were now lovers.
I clung on to him on the way out of the theatre and during the auto ride back home. On the dark steep stairway we hugged and kissed passionately on the lips.
"Must have been a thrilling movie," said Daya, "you face shows it."
"The best movie experience ever," I said.
"I hugged him," I told mother later when Daya was not there.
"Poor man, he needs it," said mother.
3
I served him supper. We ate in silence. My thoughts were on how I should proceed. I was in a state of total arousal and bold to the point of recklessness. I soon had my plans ready. After supper, always a light meal, father watched TV. Half and hour after supper I would heat a cup of milk in the microwave oven and he would sip it. Today I will do more.
I do not normally watch TV with him at that hour. I had other things to do. Later I join him for a couple of serials. To day I sat by his side holding his hands, then I lent on him and he lovingly held me by the shoulders. I rubbed my cheek on his shoulder.
"It is milk time," I said. "Today the milk will be special."
"Hope you are not mixing Ovaltine or some such thing. I am not a fan of those."
"It is something different."
"Then what?"
"Appa, you must be patient. That is what you used to tell me when I was little. What I have lined up for you though very special is old stuff for you, very old stuff." I did not wait for his reply. I moved to my room. I had some preparation to do.
First I rummaged through our collection of gifted silverware and picked a tumbler with embossed designs on it. I polished it till was as good as new. I changed my sari to one of thin material. I did not wear a skirt. I removed my blouse and bra and covered my chest with the pallav. I saw myself in the full length wardrobe mirror. I liked what I saw. Suddenly I felt weak. My knees seemed to give way. I sat. What I was contemplating was something quite beyond my comprehension but some force within me was impelling me on. I stood up. I suddenly felt strong. I prostrated myself in front of the deity in the puja corner and prayed to the Almighty for His pardon for the embarking on an adventure that society so strongly disapproves of. I prayed to Him to bless me. I poured the boiling hot milk in the tumbler and sallied out with a thudding heart.
When father saw me his eyes widened and then his jaw dropped. I smiled.
"Do I remind you of mother," I said. He nodded feebly. "Here is your special milk."
He took the tumbler and turned it round.
"Must be a familiar, this tumbler."
"It is."
"Nuptial?"
"Yes. How did you know?"
"I did not. I saw the elaborate design and guessed it must be that. Drink Appa, drink when it is piping hot. You know why." He looked up. I allowed the pallav to slip off my shoulder. I do not have words to describe my father's face when he saw his darling daughter standing before him with breasts exposed. I held his free hand and took it to my breast. "Think I am Amma and hold it." He rested his trembling hand on the breast. "Hold it," I said. He held it with finger tips. "You can do better than that." I took his hand and moulded it on my breast. Still holding it I said, "Squeeze." He squeezed. I felt great affection for him at that moment. "My most darling Appa," I said and kissed him on the cheek. This was no lover's kiss. It was a daughter's kiss. "Now sip the hot milk." He sipped. I came closer to him and took a nipple and placed it between his lips. Hesitantly he parted his lips and took the offering. "Firmly Appa, I must feel the warmth. Amma told me about it. Here take another sip. Amma called it heat transfer." Thus goaded father took a sip and immediately held my nipple between his lips. I felt the heat. It was delicious. We did that a number of times and them to the other nipple. The cup was half empty. We had played out one part of Amma's script. I boldly launched the other more critical second part.
