So, here you go.
Su-Gag Raat: The OS (Or, what should've been as opposed to what actually happened)
Arnav entered the room almost in slow motion. His heart was racing at 189 beats/minute. He knew because he had counted. The pressure was too much, he thought, wiping his forehead. Today had been a heck of a day. He'd fallen in love in the morning, come close to admitting it in the afternoon, fallen out of love and into hatred in the evening, and was married by night. And now he had to have sex too! He was made of stern stuff, he mused. But this required some Platinum level hardness. Speaking of hardness, he grimaced! He didn't think he was going to be able to perform tonight. His libido had pretty much gone on vacation after today's events. He looked up at the woman sitting on his bed wishing he could just gobble her up and spit her out.
Khushi sat on the bed, the voluminous skirt of her lehenga fanning out around her. She had her legs curled up, and her hands rested on her knees. Her eyes were steadfastly downcast. She couldn't, wouldn't look up. For if she did, the heat emanating from her Hercules of a husband's eyes would quite decimate her, she was sure. Such a tall, lovely man, she mused. Such intense eyes. Such a firm grip. When he backed her into walls and held her arms until she bruised, she felt quite breathless. All these months she'd been thinking the breathlessness was acidity. But now she knew. It wasn't acidity. It was fear. She was afraid of her lion tamer of a husband. As she rightfully should be. After all, what sanskaari bharatiya naari actually did NOT fear her husband? Husbands were such deliciously fearful creatures. And in that fear, there was pleasure. The pleasure of doing what she had always been meant to do. Be married and tied to a man who thought she was dust on his boots. Sigh. The romance of being dust on a man's boots! She had never quite understood it until Arnavji had made her his with that elopement at the temple. And now, he would make her his in every way that mattered. Khushi quivered with excitement.
Arnav looked at her, the ghungat drawn low over her face so he could see nothing of it but her chin. Then he fished in his pocket for the list Di had given him. There were several items on the list. Di was nothing if not thorough in instructing him on how to go about the process of removing her hymen.
1). Lift ghungat from her head.
2). Give gift for muh-dikhai
3). Drink milk if she offered it to him.
4). If she didn't offer milk, demand some and make her fetch it for him. (Milk must have haldi!)
5). Do it. (But please don't make too much noise, or mess the room up with your enthusiasm. I am in the room next to yours and was impregnated by parthenogenesis. Please mind my sensibilities.)
PS: Please DO NOT use protection. Remember, we need not just an heir, but also a spare. So, hop to it Chotey! And for Khushiji's sake, I hope your nickname is not true of everything about you. (That wasn't me, that was your Jijaji *blush*)
Arnav walked to the bed and sat down on it. Khushi drew herself back as if she were drowning in her 15 pound lehenga. Her heart fluttered. Almost Fibrillated. Muscles fasciculated. She looked up adoringly at him through the ghungat. His head was in a pusillanimous funk. "Damn you, Khushi", he thought.
"Swami!" she spoke.
"Huh?"
"Swami," she said again timidly.
"Who are you talking to?" he asked.
"You, Swami. Now that we are married, I must never say your name. It is against my dharma as an Indian woman."
"Don't call me Swami. I feel like Nitynanda!" he replied, huffily.
"Will Naath be better?" she questioned, wondering who this Nityananda was. Must be a great man for her lord and master's lips to kiss his name, she mused.
"What the'No!"
"Praan Naath?" she asked.
"Why don't you just say Aji sunte ho like all the other women?" he said, a trace of impatience in his voice. "Haven't you heard Di? She never calls Jijaji anything. She just says Aap when he's there and Ye when he's not. That's the classy way to be a submissive Indian wife!"
"Sorry. I'm really sorry. Should I press your feet now? You must be tired after dragging me up the temple stairs that way. Plus that carrying me over the threshold thing. I'm heavy, I know. Let me massage your lotus feet, please!" she implored.
"Err'No. Listen, I have other important things to do. Like removing your ghungat. What the!" he said, when all of a sudden in response to his talk of removing her ghungat, she buried her face in her hands and tittered.
"What are you doing?" he asked, confounded by her nuttiness.
"I'm feeling shy!" she said in a muffled tone through her hands.
"Shy? But I haven't done anything yet. Besides, we've been closer than this before. Remember when I almost kissed you? And how about that sexy dance at the sangeet last week? You didn't seem shy at all then," he said.
"Arna'.sorry'.Aap! What are you saying?" she said, turning a fiery pink to the roots of her hair." She shrank back even further as she felt his hand rustling up her head to grasp the palloo draped over her face. He gave it a firm tug.
"Aaarrrghhh!" she yelled.
"What happened? I'm so sorry," he said alarmed.
"No. It's OK. Just the palloo is pinned to my head with hairpins. You'll have to take them out to get it off," she said hesitantly.
"OK. Sorry I hurt you," he said.
"Oh No. To be hurt by you is like receiving Manna from heaven. It's what I was born for. It's what I will die for. Sada suhaagan is what I want to be. That is my goal now. To serve you in every way. Bear you many sons, (and some daughters provided they come after 3or 4 sons) and predecease you at the end of life," she said earnestly.
Arnav felt a surge of pride at her words. She worshipped him. It was a good feeling, this. He knew how famous actors felt now. It was a good feeling. To be worshipped. A real ego boost. He felt like maybe, just maybe, he could perform tonight.
He patiently removed about 200 hairpins from her head, and brought the palloo down. She giggled more. He snapped, "If you make that annoying noise again I won't give you your muh-dikhai!"
That shut her up. Then he fidgeted in his pockets and brought out a necklace. It was a gold necklace with a large pendant that said "Property of ASR. All rights reserved."
"It's beautiful. What does it say? I can't read English. I was brought up unsullied by all the corrupt western influences," she said.
"It says you belong to me!" said Arnav.
"Oh! Wonderful. For that I do. I'll keep it for special occasions when I want to feel doubly yours. Like Karva Chauth," she said.
"Whatever. Listen, you have any milk for me?" he asked.
"Of course Swaa..sorry. Of course. Here it is," she said reaching for a glass on the nightstand. He gulped it down in a flash, and peeked at his list again. Only one item left. Shoot, he thought.
"Should I play In Lamhon ke daaman mein?" asked his ever-pragmatic wife.
"Huh?" he asked, flabbergasted.
"You know. In all the soaps, they play In Lamhon ke daaman mein, when the couple you know, performs the act that is the physical manifestation of their heavenly love. Of course, usually they've been married for about 7 years in soaps before they're allowed a first night. But we are different. We are blessed," she said timidly.
"We don't need a song to get it on!" he said unfeelingly.
"Err. Of course we do. I mean, of course you can never be wrong, my Lord. But, in my humble opinion, a song is essential. If you don't like In Lamhon ke daaman mein, which is contemporary, but classic, we can always go for "Kabhie Kabhie". That's also very good. She's crying for her lost love while he removes her jewelry, laughing dementedly at nothing."
"Are you trying to put me in the mood or off it?" asked Arnav.
"Oh! I am sorry. Please forgive me. I was merely making a suggestion. If you don't want music, no music. I am willing to submit without music, of course," she stuttered.
"Alright then. We're going to do it without music," he pushed her on the bed and flipped the light switch off.
"Can I at least hum?" she asked timidly.
"Quiet wife! Or I will have to take my belt off and whip you for insubordination!"
"Oh! Would you? I think that just turned me on more than I've ever been. Oops, sorry. I didn't mean to say that. After all, I am a bhartiya naari. We're not actually supposed to enjoy sex. I'm so sorry Swaam'I mean, I'm so sorry!" she finished. He merely grunted in response. All this apologizing was all the foreplay he needed. He was good to go.
Outside, it rained. Poured even. Thunder crashed. Lightning flashed. Roses shook violently against each other as if plant sex was achieved by maniacal shaking. Inside, it drizzled a wee bit.
9 months later Khushi gave birth to a beautiful baby Boy. They named him Ekpal. For that's all it had taken.
Is that awful enough for you people? This is the worst piece of shit I've ever written. And I've written lots of shit.
Cheers!
Vidhya
PS: @15 year old looking for hot stuff: Gotcha! 😉
PPS: For more shit, go here.
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