tagHumor & SatireA Back Passage in India

A Back Passage in India

byestragon©

Thanks to LaRacasse for suggesting a story set in India, and homage to E. M. Forster, creator of a masterpiece. I have tried to capture the language and attitudes of the time (roughly 1925), even as I exaggerated them in this parody; that which is offensive today was common speech then, and vice versa. So if racism and other political incorrectnesses offend you, read no more here. Don't raise your blood pressure.

This is a PARODY. Therefore, don't expect a great deal of sex, as there was none in the original work I'm seeking to parody. And of course I've stolen a good bit of (public domain) Rudyard Kipling as well. Could hardly have British India without Kipling. He virtually patented it.

++++++++++++++++

As the Kaisar-I-Hind, hustled and hectored by the tugs at her port side, came slowly up to the pier at Bombay, Mrs. Moore wondered, not for the first time nor for the last, "Que diable allais-je faire dans cette galère?", the long voyage from Southampton not in the least having impaired either her knowledge of French nor yet her knowledge of Molière.

To the casual observer, and as far as her world, the world of Tunbridge Wells, knew, she had come to India's sunny clime to serve as chaperone for her son's betrothed, Adela Quested, who was to follow on the Baroda, until their marriage at Simla that summer.

He was a disgusting baby, she thought, who grew up into an intolerable, self-important young prig. And yet he is better than his father, that bloody swine!

The said bloody swine, her deceased husband Ethelred Moore, was a product of his age, of Winchester School, and of shabby gentility, until he came to the notice of his uncle, Sir Mountstewart Heaslop, Bart. The Baronet, a man whose girth was exceeded only by his vainglory, had been unable to produce a male heir, or indeed any heir. His wife, another of the shabby-genteel maidens a great number of whom were products of English society in the Eighties of the Nineteenth Century, who was first sterilized by, and then killed by, the syphilis he had bestowed upon her, could produce none, and no Irish maidservant, to say nothing of an English lady (Scotswomen he could not abide), would come within a kilometre of his disgusting person.

Sir Mountstewart bethought himself next of nephew Ethelred, his nearest male kin, then a subaltern in the King's Own Worcestershire Light Infantry, unmarried, unencumbered by wealth but encumbered with a taste for the haut monde. If the young laddie would marry, beget a son, which said son would take the surname, not of his father, but of his uncle Mountie, why, the young laddie should find the Baronet not ungenerous, no no, not at all.

Lieutenant Moore, apprised that substantial wealth should be his if he would merely do what any right-thinking, clean-living, God-fearing young Englishman should do, applied himself to the task.

My God, thought Mrs Moore, what a life! Trapped between genteel starvation and marital prostitution, she chose the latter. The wrong choice.

When young Ethelred paid court to her in 1897, the world opened to her. The convent school, with its sexual excesses and immersion in Sapphism extrèmement et toutfois, had readied her to accept degradation in any form--after the dildoes, the fingerings, the weeks of performing cunnilingus on post-menstruating old women that merged into years of unending sexual serfdom--marriage to Ethelred would be a treat after that.

Oh, was I wrong!

Ethelred, though not over-endowed with length, nevertheless was thick of penis and determined of purpose. One hundred seventy thousands of Sir Mountstewart's pounds was a bello spendere, as they said in Naples, even after the 1894 death duties.

He celebrated their marriage by raping her every night for a month. Her maidenhead yielded the first night, in a cascade of blood, as he tore into her. Her barely lubricated labia were rubbed raw, again and again, by his fierce thrusts, as he pinned her to the bed. Her screams and bleeding loins did not in the least dissuade this man, this beast, to whom she had entrusted her life, her fortune and her sacred honor. It was, after all, only business, nothing personal, doncherknow?

Nothing was more disgusting, nothing, not even Sister Perpetua's urine in her face as she nibbled the Superior's foul-smelling pussy. Or so she thought.

Until that morning when, springing out of bed under the direst of compulsions, she barely achieved the bathroom sink, and regurgitated her soul. And the next day. And the next. And before luncheon. And after luncheon.

Then she saw the letter. It changed her life indelibly, ineluctably, indescribably.

Ethelred had been summoned to Whitehall. The messenger had arrived as he was writing, but the imperative command would brook not the slightest delay. Saying nothing to her (but why should he? They had not spoken in days), he sprang to the proffered calèche and was off.

She looked. Stunned, she read. "Lieutenant Steuart Albert George Catterson, K.O.W.L.I., Redditch Barracks, Redditch. Darling Steuie, Thanks be to God, the deed is done, she is with pup! What a month, darling boy, what a month of horror, burying my Essential, which should belong only to you, in that wretched orifice nightly. Her jewel, forsooth! Yet nothing will keep me from my darling Steuie! I trust the little bugger will be a boy, God grant! Then my wretched uncle Mountstewart will down with the pecuniæ, and be the source of my mounting my own Steuart forever, as we should be, as we should live--haha! We shall both of us be quit of the Army, of the inelegance, the torpid ennui. O, I long for your elegant shaft, and the sweetest taste I wot of, that of your elixir of love, poured into my mouth. How I will taste each of your glorious pendula, lick your perineum, and at last bring my tongue and lips to the source of all my joy, your glorious Nether Entrance, truly as Wagner has said, the Venusberg, the hidden sanctuary of our love. How I will penetrate you and penetrate you, and spill my heart and soul in every drop of my spend in your---"

She ran to the bathroom and threw up, as if she could expel the fruit of this man's degeneracy from her womb, the filth he had planted there. But why?

She kept away from him, and he was just as happy. She finally arrived at the truth, by dint of repeated importunings of the solicitor's latest pupil, who was in love with her. She obtained, quite without the solicitor's knowledge, enough of a glimpse of Sir Mountstewart's will to find out the import of her pregnancy, now well advanced.

Lieutenant Moore was now gone to the Soudan, marching with Lord Kitchener to avenge the fallen hero Gordon of Khartoum. Sir Mountstewart died a raving lunatic, as Lieutenant Moore reached the city of Khartoum. Trying to evade a maniacal dervish, Lieutenant Moore was bayonetted by one of his own men, with whom, in derogation of his professed love for Steuie, he had tried to "interfere", and was dead of the wound the next day.

The following day Ronald Augustus Heaslop was born. Mrs Moore inherited her husband's money, suppressing the will made in favor of "Steuie", who dared not speak his name.

Mrs Moore handed over the rearing of her son, whom she detested, to servants. Notwithstanding and nonetheless, she and Ronald maintained a public facade of mother-love and filial devotion.

Ronald missed the Great War by days, arriving in France, with a despondent draft of replacements for the slain and maimed in his father's old regiment, on November 12, 1918.

"Darling Steuie" Catterson, now a Lieutenant-Colonel whose retirement was delayed by the outbreak of war, took one look at the new subaltern and decided he would never do. "Got to get rid of this sprig, Newton," he told the Adjutant. "See to it, won't you, there's a good chappie."

"Sir, haven't anywhere to send him, we're full up, complêt as these bloody Frenchies say, what?"

"Well, Christ's bloody wounds, don't make your problem into my problem! Solve the friggin' thing, or I'll have your bollocks for breakfast."

Duly admonished, the Adjutant telephoned to the War Office. Subaltern Ronald Augustus Heaslop was demobbed and sent to India, to become Assistant Resident Magistrate of the town of Agashiwallah, miles from nowhere. Ronald, brash but withal the product of an English public school, soon found the way to discharge his duties was to thrash his bearer, babu, sais, khitmutgar, khamsaman, punkahwallah, dhobi and bhisti and everyone with a skin darker than his, not less often than thrice daily. And to require their female relatives to fellate him on demand. The district was quiet; he was promoted Resident Magistrate, and twice had leave for a year to return to England.

His tastes were not those of his father. He found release in some of the better London bordellos; and, at a garden party given by the great-nephew of Sir Mountstewart, he met young Adela Quested.

By Jove! he thought. She has titties, real big ones, not like those emaciated specimens one sees in Bond Street! And a real arse, that sticks out and all! Not like those beanpoles, dressed up to look like boys by the jew poofters who make women's clothing! She'd do to keep me company back in Uttar Pradesh.

He proposed. She, sensing escape, accepted.

++++++++++++++++++

The voyage had been a barely sustainable horror. Sharing a stateroom was necessary, and Mrs Moore was billeted with Edna Shawangunk, an American heiress now Anglicized by marriage as Lady Bitsfugger. She was old, vulgar of speech, and the possessor of a rebellious digestion that rendered the stateroom frequently uninhabitable, even by the least fastidious.

"Jes' call me Bits, ev'erbuddy does," was her greeting to Mrs Moore.

Entering the stateroom and trying to find space for her reticule amidst the overflowing trunks and fitments of Lady Bitsfugger, she simultaneously gagged and fell forward as a lengthy, sonorous expulsion issued from her co-tenant, the Peeress.

"Good God, that wass a good 'un, what?" said Her Ladyship.

"Yes," whispered Mrs Moore, covering her face and praying for a swift and silent death.

The tired old Kaisar, frequently awash in the high seas, grimly chugged her way from Southampton to Biscay and through the Med, crept past Ismailia and Suez, and staggered through the last of the Monsoon toward Bombay. Lady Bitsfugger matched the ship shot for shot. Mrs Moore kept the porthole nearest her berth open, despite the rain and wind and spindrift. Her Ladyship, when not at the cardtable or on the convenience, was trying unendingly to inveigle the more callow of the young men aboard to meet her in various storage rooms for "a stand-up".

Finally, Mrs Moore, disgusted past endurance by her enforced companion's borborygmus and unending lubriciousness, sought refuge on deck. The worst storm of a terrible season bore down on the hapless Kaisar. The ship bucked, pitched, reared and wobbled like a copulating capybara. The waves came green over the bows. Soaking wet and blinded, Mrs Moore staggered down to the stateroom.

Her Ladyship was showing that the Peerage of Olde England was equal to any challenge. She was naked, her thin, flabby breasts swinging every way free with the lurches of the staggering vessel, as she was bent over the tiny desk. Behind her, a rather large young man, clearly a Rugby hooker, naked as she was, plowed his way into her anal cavity, grunting like an annoyed hippopotamus.

"My word!" cried Mrs Moore. At that, the young man yelped as if someone had trod on the most sensitive of his organs, quivered violently, and withdrew.

"My God, that wass a good'un, eh what?" said Her Ladyship, in the identical terms with which she dispatched the unspeakably foul-smelling issue of her back passage.

"I suppose I shall have to take your word for it," replied Mrs Moore quietly, "as I have not the least intention, to say nothing of the means, of otherwise verifying the matter."

"'Scuse me and all that rot," said the young man, rushing into the ensuite toilet and, without closing the door or lifting the seat, spurted forth a load of urine that would have done great credit to a rhinoceros at Oktoberfest. "My godmothers!" he exclaimed....Mrs Moore finished the sentence for him, "That wass a good'un, eh what? If I hear that phrase again I shall do murder. Now kindly wipe the frigging seat, as I have to pendre une petite pisse myself."

"Oh, righty-friggin-ho, doncherknow," said this young heir to the Empire upon which the sun never sets. And he gave the toilet seat a cursory wipe with their last clean towel.

Debating whether to laugh or commit double murder, and still dripping with seawater, Mrs Moore sat down to piss.

++++++++++++++++++++

Mrs Moore stood in the passenger shed, ejected into Bombay like one of Her Ladyship's rectal bombardments, awaiting the arrival of means of conveyance to Agashiwallah. There was no railway station nearer the place than fifty miles, and the map showed the roads thereto to be impassible otherwise than in fine weather. Her trunks, valises, and portmanteaux were heaped about her.

The heat was murderous. She felt perspiration trickling from her face and back. Her breasts were awash, and she felt she could not answer for the itch that was developing Down There; prickly heat, that scourge of the Saxon bringing civilization to the farthest meridional reaches of the planet, was beginning to intrude.

A grinning man, easily six feet tall, black as night with glittering white teeth and dressed in a dazzling white robe, approached her and bowed low. "Meeses Moore? I am Buddoo, butler to the Magistrate Heaslop Sahib. My men will take your belonkinks to the carriage, please."

"Very good," said Mrs Moore. The guidebook she had read said nothing about tipping the butler. She wisely did nothing, as some four or five ragged men, looking half-starved but grinning insanely, seized her possessions and carried them off.

Buddoo, waving a large walking-stick and howling unintelligible imprecations, cleared a path for her through the ill-smelling throng inside and outside the passenger shed, and handed her into a large four-wheeler. Springing to the guard's seat, Buddoo punched the coachman awake, upsetting the coachman's silk hat.

Curses and blows followed, until each had settled himself. They drove off slowly, as the streets were nearly impassible with the flow of humanity, howling, stinking, pushing, scrambling humanity.

Finally the lurching conveyance reached the railway station. The up-country for Marbar Junction had arrived; Buddoo gave the coachman a coin or two, the alleged inadequacy of which pourboire incited a further altercation. Finally, her trunks, valises and portmanteaux secured in the baggage waggon, and herself in a solitary first-class seat with a frosty glass of iced sweet tea to hand, Mrs Moore was able to observe India. While scratching her groin.

At Marbar Junction, nearly prostrated with the heat, Mrs Moore was handed into a barouche, wedged in place with her trunks, valises and portmanteaux so that escape or indeed liberation was but a remote possibility. Buddoo and his far-from-merry men hung from every bolt or screw that gave them the least purchase, and somehow contrived, with the skill of the primates they resembled, to cling to the lurching vehicle as it groaned its way toward its dubious goal.

At last, past exhaustion, longing for the wretched stateroom of the Kaisar, and willing, nay begging, to endure the odiferous emanations and sexual athleticisms of dear Lady Bitsfugger, Mrs Moore was disgorged from the dust-covered barouche at the dâk-bungalow, the principal residence of the Resident Magistrate, Heaslop Sahib.

Buddoo leapt from his perch in the guard's seat, and screamed directions to his now filthy but still ragged acolytes. In a trice Mrs Moore's trunks, valises and portmanteaux were from the carriage untimely ripp'd, bestowed and emplaced within the guestroom. There issued from her new dwelling a grinning, bowing, obsequious crew, each chattering out his or her name and function.

"I want a bath, a comfortable chair, and a large whiskey-soda."

The bathwoman, brown of skin and fat of rump, bowed and escorted Mrs Moore to the bath, which she filled with tepid water of doubtful provenance, and speedily divested Mrs Moore of clothing. Handing her into the tub, she proceeded to wash Mrs. Moore thoroughly.

"Memsahib want treatments?"

Treatments? What the devil are 'treatments'? Well, when in Rome and all that....

"Very well, set about it."

This the bathwoman did with a will, massaging Mrs Moore's breasts (not in bad shape for an elderly feringhee, thought the bathwoman) until her nipples stood proud and then pinching and twisting them. Reaching into a cabinet close by, the bathwoman extracted an india-rubber dildo, penetrated Mrs. Moore with remarkable delicacy, and stimulated her to three rather noisy orgasms.

"Memsahib likes treatments? So. Very satisfactor-ee," said the now-grinning bathwoman. "More tomorrow?"

"Indeed," replied the other.

Now dressed, provided with an iced stengah, Mrs Moore awaited the return from his official duties of the Resident Magistrate.

The Resident Magistrate was the while hearing the usual perjury from the natives in a case of breaking and entering.

Mr Ram Dass, a local pettyfogging stuffgownsman, was attempting to cross-examine Abdullah Solyman, carpenter, who complained that a Hindu or two had broken into his shop to defile the tazias he had been building for the next Mohurram.

"And you testify, do you, that you saw Rookie Patel relieve himself in your shop?"

"Bloody well sure I do!"

"Your Worship, I must, with regret and submission, again most respectfully request Your Worship to caution the witness once more to refrain from obscene and profane language, Your Worship."

"Oh put a sock in it, the both of you! I'm bloody sick of your unending wrangling! Now look here, Soly, are you sure it was ol' Rookie over there who pissed on your floor and jacked off on your jackplane?"

"With all due respect and submission, Your Worship, I friggin' well do! That cow-bugger fucker and his crony Dush Tattoo the both of them!"

"Proceed, Mr Ram Dass."

The trial, if one could call it that and not denominate it as the travesty of English law and justice it so obviously was, ground on.

"Decision reserved," said Ronnie Heaslop. "Prisoners remanded in custody." He struck the gavel twice, harder than necessary. I'll give those niggers a half-dozen each of the best rattan in the shop, and let 'em go. Soly is a lying sod, but so are they all, all lying sods.

He rose, and the usher bellowed "All rise!" Ronnie stalked from the stifling courtroom to his chamber, letting the door hit him in the arse. He picked the wedgie, which had tortured him throughout the afternoon sitting, from his soaking wet anus, tore off his judicial robe and threw it on the ground, and bawled for his clerk.

"Gooshie, get your black arse in here!"

"Yes, Your Worship."

"Tidy up in here, get those letters over to the postwallah before he leaves, lock up and go home."

"Yes, Your Worship." Bloody bastard, thought the clerk. Wish it was 1857; your pale pink arse would be hangin' off that shelf!

The clerk summoned the sais, who brought round the Resident Magistrate's Waler. Painfully hauling his dripping carcass into the saddle, Heaslop extracted the whip from its sheath, gave the animal a smart tap to the hindquarter, and cantered off to meet his mother, the sais running behind him, gasping.

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