It was June in the time of the little monsoon. Every morning strong winds blew from the south and by afternoon thunderclouds built up over the high hills around us. It rained up in those hills nearly every day but not down in our valley. Just enough water came down in streams to irrigate seedbeds that would be transplanted when the main rains came.
Magar girls from those hills came to work in the rice paddies for a few days, girls with smooth round faces and narrow eyes wearing black velvet blouses, headdresses and necklaces of silver rupees. Their songs wafted back into the rooms where I lived with my cook. Magar girls were free to flirt and sometimes managed to take lovers, but Bahuni and Chhetrini women in the valley were given in arranged marriages when they were extremely young.
I wondered if the freedom of the hills was like what I had enjoyed as a student. I thought of old girlfriends. I had spent the night in a hotel with my first mistress when I was 19 and she was 20. She woke me in the middle of the night by touching me, and when I awoke already aroused, she whispered, “Enter me right now, please! I want you inside me.”
I thought of my last girlfriend in college when we both lived off-campus. We found each other only a month together before we graduated and went our separate ways, but desire had burned hot and bright. We spent every other night together, at her place or mine. If we stayed at my place we had to be very quiet because my apartment-mate was a strange person, made to be a priest. He struggled but could not change this; was celibacy the other curse of the Irish besides drink?
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My bedroom had been a small enclosed porch in the cottage I shared which was hidden in a grove of small trees. My mistress and I would lay together on my narrow bed and in the morning the sun would shine through trees and be fragmented by their shifting leaves, now painfully bright, now shadow as we made love once more before going to classes. We were living charmed lives with no idea how fortunate we were.
That had been over a year earlier, halfway around the world. Now I had to endure celibacy myself. I was a teacher in the remoteness of west Nepal where you couldn’t possibly find a cold drink, wheeled transportation, an electric light to read by, certainly not a woman for the night. Almost all women were married before they were fourteen, and they were closely watched. Besides, I was a teacher who had to set an example. As the first foreigner to live in my village, I was an object of intense curiosity. So there I was, living in a goldfish bowl.
The wife of my nearest neighbor had given birth to a girl a few months before. In the morning after serving her husband dal-bhat and then eating herself she would wash her pots and trays in the irrigation ditch below my window as I worked preparing lessons. She wore no blouse and had only the end of her sari to cover full breasts that refused to stay confined as she bent down to dip water from the canal and scoured away the last grains of scorched rice. It was a feast for the eyes, only for the eyes. Was she an exhibitionist? Didn’t she understand the effect she was having on the poor Sahib? It doesn’t matter; wasn’t it better to sin with the eyes than not at all?
I slowly became friends with a much older woman, a Chhetri’s cast-off wife named Poorna who lived in a small house a hundred yards above my place. She was a slender woman with a ready smile and a mischievous gleam in her eyes. Sometimes she told me stories of life in Burma when her husband was a soldier for the British. She would show up at my place and demand, “Let’s drink rum!”. I’d get out my dwindling supplies of imported cognac, or we might have small cups of raksi, local spirits that were sold aged all of five minutes, the fast track to a two-day hangover. Poorna would tease me about my solitary life and joke that I should take up with the local dancing girl. I think she began to worry that I was living a diminished life, which was certainly true.
One evening I finished grading papers and stopped by her house to chat. Soon we were joined by a deaf-and-dumb couple who wandered from place to place, dressed in tatters and living off whatever kindness they could find in villages where nobody had much to spare. They stayed just outside on the porch. The boy was shy and serious, but the girl was playful and soon we heard them getting romantic. This was the first time in Nepal I had been aware of anything sexual going on close by. Poorna and I listened intently and joked about the goings-on a yard or two away. I expected matters to be over quickly; this totally illiterate couple certainly hadn’t read the Kama Sutra. But they went on a good half hour, with piquant moans and small cries and I was grateful for these small crumbs too.
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About a month later Poorna came to my house with important news. A niece she called “Jimli” (second daughter) was visiting and I should be sure to come meet her. Poorna knew that I had briefly pursued a local girl by that nickname but it had come to nothing when she told me she wanted to be taken to America forthwith. So I asked what was the point of coming to see this Jimli? Her eyes sparkled with mischief and she said, “No, no. Another Jimli!”
As it was getting dark I took my torch and climbed the hill behind my house, crossed an irrigation ditch, and paused outside the door of Poorna’s small house. Like all houses in our valley, it was made of unbaked brick. Some houses had roofs of baked tiles but hers was of straw thatch. Just outside the front door was a shed of the same construction sheltering her cow. About half a kilometer away on the far side of a small valley I could see a village of similar houses and the twinkling light of a lamp or two.
I called out and Poorna answered and opened her door. The inside of her house was nearly bare with only a few brass trays and the cheap aluminum cooking pots we all used. For light there was a single kerosene lamp with no glass chimney. Few could afford the more elaborate table lamps, let alone pressure lamps which burned prodigious amounts of kerosene. I went inside and saw Jimli. She was about thirty, medium height for a Nepali woman with a long braid down her back and she had a baby with her, not more than six months old. I guessed Jimli was a Chhetrini like Poorna because her coloring and features were intermediate between Bahun and Magar, the kind of fortunate mixture that made Nepali woman sought-after in Mahadesh, as the large country three days walk to the south was called.
We sat on the floor coated with the traditional mixture of gobar and mud which had been smoothed and allowed to dry. As unsanitary as it sounds, it was pleasantly cool to the feet in summer and warm in winter, slightly resiliant and smelling faintly of grass. I sat on on the floor while Poorna introduced us and we made small talk about life in Nepal and life in America.
I only expected we might drink a bit of raksi together, but other plans were afoot. Poorna got up and announced she had to run a small errand in the village of potters higher up the hill. So Jimli and I were suddenly alone together. Jimli immediately went over to the sort of ladder, actually only a slanted log with notches cut in it, and started up to the second floor. She looked over her shoulder and motioned for me to follow. Then she put her finger over her lips to show that I should be quiet and laid down on the floor. Quickly I laid down beside her and embraced her. She fumbled with the drawstring of my salwar and I pulled them down. Then she pulled me on top of her. There was no foreplay. I entered her and the heat of her body passed to mine. What she was thinking I’ve no idea, nor did I seriously care. I completely lost control, like a tremendous sneeze I absolutely could not stop or even delay. When my senses came back I could only feel helpless and relieved that my enforced celibacy had ended.
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We rearranged our clothes and went back downstairs. In a few minutes Poorna returned from her errand. It was decided that Jimli and I would stay downstairs with the others upstairs. As soon as it became quiet, Jimli raised her blouse and began suckling her baby, facing away from me. Suddenly she hiked up the skirt of her sari and petticoat behind and reached behind herself to caress me. The invitation was unmistakeable, so I entered her from behind. This time I was able to last and so we fucked for a while. At first light I slipped out and went home. My cook liked to gossip and it would not do for the whole district to learn of my little escape from the goldfish bowl.
So with Poorna’s help I had ended a stay in purgatory and returned to the land of the living. My relationship with Poorna began to change subtly as I began to understand that she indeed loved me as mother to son, but not only that way. She too had been forced into a solitary life. Probably I should have helped her as she had helped me, yet I could not quite feel desire for someone so much older, or imagine growing older myself.
I only saw Jimli once more, about six months later. It happened on the trail out of the valley when I completed my tour of duty. She was with others including a husband or brother probably and gave me a piercing glance that burned my eyes, my entire skin. I put my hands together in silent acknowledgement and after the last of her group passed I turned to watch her go on down the trail toward the valley where I had lived nearly two years and have never returned to.
Love may be sacred, or profane, or both together. When it comes our way we may be unready to understand its subtleties. Too many lovers I have already forgotten but in the clarity of highlight Poorna’s love burns bright.
First published on – https://desibahu.com/poornas-love/