saris
vinny bombora
Valerie had the body and complexion of a matchstick. Her voice was about as solid and she wore a red sari to match the head. She hailed from NZ.
It was pissing down in Rishikesh, we were hanging at the Sunrise Café on the edge of the Ganga and so was every other backpacker. We, well that was me, Matty and his girlfriend Cynthia, who’d come over to visit us on the trail.
Valerie appeared at the table one evening; appeared as she was sitting there before we even noticed her approach: like a mouse in your room. Her focus was on me; she spoke to all but when she wanted recognition she’d peer towards me in that way when someone leans their whole body in.
Ashrams close their doors early in Rishikesh, so after talking for half an hour or so she had to make her way back to hers. Cynthia cracked it because it was obvious to her that Valerie had designs on Matty. He and I looked at one another in puzzled recognition that he’d hooked up with someone who had no idea.
The days passed with the rain pounding upon the rooftop of the café. Valerie was there leaning in my direction and while I can’t say I was overcome with her attention I didn’t have anything else to do so I ended up smuggled into her room before the doors had been locked.
I’m in bed beside her, mouth pressed up against thin creases of lips: passion a pale red mixed with the water trickling down the drain hole. We carry on for minutes that seem… like I’m getting it on with my sister, so I decide to spice it up: down over her throat, small mounds of breasts, non-existent stomach towards her yoni.
I’m about to take the dive but she grasps my head and murmurs, “no, that’s too much… too much.”
Now I ain’t one to force my way so I take the cue and pull back; resigned that the proceedings have come to an end.
Waiting for sleep to come, after fifteen of silence, I hear an annoyed, “Well if we’re not going to do anything.”
Really… as if there’s any more.
I awake; she’s not there. I note a few postcards, pick one up and read it. She’s written it yet it’s addressed to herself; she’s asking for help. I place it back and notice that she’s peering through the door slightly ajar.
Time to fly the ashram methinks…
Candice, Aussie, in an orange sari, curvy and I wanted to get in there. She had the essence of India. We’d come across each other a few times. She spoke of home and you’re always hankering for it when you’re out there. It was a giggle when she laughed across speckled cheeks and the bridge of her nose: home amongst dhal and chapatti.
Hanging in a restaurant on Assi ghat, we’d had a few, she went back to her room as she was leaving early. I was left wanting; close to midnight by the time my desire went swimming. Up to her floor, I stood out the front of her door, breathing heavily but couldn’t knock.
I emailed after she left and told her that I’d been standing there.
She wrote back, “you can stalk me anytime you like.”
We made the connection in Delhi; a comfy room in Karol Bagh. She came round to mine and we smoked some hash. We made it; went down on her like she was the source…
I came up, glazed. She said thanks and there was something in it.
We said we’d meet up down south later then the phone rang and it was Alex. She was in the same hotel and wanted me to come round. I couldn’t; thing was she was the one.
Alex was from the land of the Kaiser and so fine… like one of those lucky Sundays when you’ve had no sleep, the comedown never appears and on the Monday you’re still cruising like it’ll be that way for the rest of time. She was blonde, not my preference, and she didn’t know what a sari was but she would’ve worn a blue one.
We met on the rooftop of this guest house in Delhi. There’d been a group which petered out and it was just me, her and this guy who was from Canberra or some such non-destination. Anyways we stood there all innocent-like waiting for him to take the hint and eventually he got it.
She came back to my room. She was on top; a bit schoolmarmish but hell she let down that pony tail and threw off those glasses in such a clichéd way. All over the place and like how… until it was time for penetration then she pulled herself off and said it wasn’t going to happen.
Down at my cock, larger than it had ever dared showed itself and I yanked it; took about two turns before it shot like a cobra. The last droplets fell just below my neck…
Outside this old palace in Bharatpur, standing after dark, we look up at the sky for a moment and there’s a falling star. We both gasp a little, her more than me, trying to contain myself, and just after it bursts we kiss… now shit like that don’t happen except in Bollywood movies.
We’re out at some place in Rajasthan, another old palace but this time it’s off the tourist track. The host a remnant of the old aristocracy still holding on. The rundown place is on a small hill, below a dusty, picturesque town… kids playing cricket, men weaving.
I’m in her room in that state one can get oneself in after as many drinks as you can muster and we consummate; one eye completely shut and well you can come very fast at times.
I pull out and roll over.
She says, “We’re not finished.”
There isn’t anything left so what to do I tell her about how I want to move to Germany with her and how at times I’ve had problems with drugs… which she’s a little aghast to. I speak until that elbow that is holding me up slowly folds away…
We kicked it a little in Jaipur and drifted through some dirty old dhabas that she’d never have set foot in without me; all mystical and romantic. I never know how to play a hand properly when I’ve got one.
We went different ways but met up again in Delhi. She went down on me but I wasn’t asking.
The phone rang and it was her and I was with Candice. She said she wanted to see me but I said I couldn’t.
She was the one and that’s why I left.
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