Banging On The Palace On Wheels

Starting in the 1600s, when the English first found India, family tradition has it that at least one male member of every generation has gone off in quest of Indian cunt; a kind of coming of age thing.

Others went off to subjugate, to teach those damn natives what the white man's superiority was all about; but not us. Not for us pseudo patriotic thoughts of going forth to conquer for King or Queen, while building personal fortunes, or thinking in derogatory terms of black, brown and yellow natives. All that twaddle was left to the other classes.

We are straightforward working class people, with simple goals in life - like fucking Indian cunt.

Nothing written anywhere, but passed on by word of mouth - I first heard murmurs when I was eleven. By the time I came of age I had heard all about it. Not from my parents (my father and I had a nodding acquaintanceship, my mother was just too quiet and too strait laced and I am an only child), but from numerous cousins, uncles and aunts.

We, of the English working class, have a strong sense of family. We stick together and meet frequently - at family gatherings and of an evening at the local. And we talk, oh yes we talk.

I still speak in the manner I learnt at my mother's knee - even though I went and got myself a bleeding education. I am still working class and damn proud of it. But scholarships galore and before you could say Bob's your uncle, I was a doctor and not just any old doctor but a bleeding neurologist.

Dealing with people is not my forte, but I have an insatiable curiosity; so I found myself a research position at the Institute in Queens Square. When I have to get up and speak I still find puzzled looks on some of the faces in front of me. As if education and a working class accent do not go together. The devil with them, I say; that is if there is a devil, and if there isn't, then who cares?

But back to our quest for Indian cunt - goes back a few centuries. It started when my ancestors signed on as hands on sailing ships and the first Indian cunt was encountered - most likely a prostitute's. Later, when the East India Company was established we were there helping with this and that. And that is when the legend really took off - of Indian women and their superior fucking.

Who knows if any of it is true, who knows if Percy who spent thirty years in India was the greatest fucker of them all? (For that matter who cares? It all sounds good). Family legend has it that Percy (1830 – 1860 in India, and who died eight years later of consumption, but with a smile on his face, in England) was the ultimate, the pope, the emperor, the man who had all the moves that everyone who followed, followed, to a T; and if they did, they then sank their pipe and buried their desires in prime Indian womanhood, to be resurrected to a higher level of fucking. Hallelujah.

And it is his moves that I followed in 1992 when I went to India. Actually, it is more like his moves that I should have followed and didn't or more correctly – couldn't.

Just out of school, scholastically accomplished, I wanted more out of life than more ofthateducation. I wanted more education of the right kind. Of life. Or so I thought at that time. Of the stuff that would quiet my rampant hormones. The kind I was sure I would find in the arms of an exotic creature – gloriously brown skinned, black eyed and oozing sex from every pore.

I was young but I was not naïve, at least not in the ways of fucking. I had started to plough my way through prime British womanhood soon after puberty struck and by the time I finished school I had acquired a modicum of expertise in fucking. Not because I was a natural gifted lover, but because older women, hairy cunts and all, love to teach young colts how to pleasure them and I loved to learn, and what the hell, family tradition had laid down that I had to be a gifted fucker.

So in 1992 I thought I was ready to follow Percy and Will and Clarence and all the other ghosts of my ancestors down India way. Ready to discover what it was that had driven them crazy with lust and then had them die with perfect knowledge and a perfect smile on their face.

Dead wrong, about my preparedness that is.

I was not prepared for the filth, the stench, the emaciation, that passes for modern India. Where were the pristine sugar cane fields of lore where Percy held willing nubile Indian women up against swaying green stalks and banged their cunts till they cried uncle? The ramparts of forts where Will bent young wives of soldiers and jammed his manhood up their posterior apertures? As a matter of fact, where were those exquisite women of folklore?

All I saw were dirty, emaciated working class women who lived in slums – Indian working class women according to our family folklore were the most uninhibited and hence the most passionate fuckers. And what little I saw of women of any other class, they all appeared to be wrapped up in the business of marriage - either married and hence inviolate or getting ready to be married and hence inviolate.

Okay, so I had this thing figured out all wrong. I did not know the language, had not bothered to really apply myself and had entered the whole enterprise with romantic notions of sexy nymphs throwing themselves at me, the moment I set foot in India. All right, so I was naive. For crying out loud I was only eighteen. And one month was definitely not enough time. You see, I was actually on my way to work on a distant relative's sheep farm in New Zealand and really could not afford to stay in India any longer.

So I screwed up. But I still had a few years. I mean a generation is twenty five years. Is it not?

The last successful screwing of Indian womanhood by a family member happened in 1982. He was a British Airways employee. She was a dusky flight attendant from a small town in South India and lonely in London. He had validated it by travelling to India and nailing her voluptuous frame in Claridge's hotel in Delhi. Actually, validation had taken place earlier at the airport where he had banged her, standing up against the wall, next to the urinal, in the first class lounge's unisex bathroom. What we were given to understand, by him, was that he could have had her anywhere. She was like putty in his hands.

Interestingly, this putty like creature, upped and went her own way shortly after this encounter and when last heard from had settled down happily with a husband and kids in a small town in South India. And he, who was a repository of family knowledge of fucking Indian women, a veritable encyclopedia of the techniques used by those who had gone before, had ironically actually gained access to her cunt by pure chance and good fortune. And never had he gained admittance to another Indian cunt.

But the way he told it, he would have you believe that he had used his intimate knowledge of women, and of Indian women in particular (and this he had gained from family folklore), to bang her. Maybe all this so called family knowledge was hogwash? But who cares, the important thing was fucking; fucking prime Indian cunt. The end, not the means.

By the way, he was Uncle George (named after the King, who was reigning in 1950, the year he was born, and his parents were running out of names as he was their eighth offspring).

Sorry, all this is neither here nor there. All I meant to say was that I had till 2007.

Why the emphasis on me? After all there were plenty of my extended male relatives still around, surely someone was going to do the deed? Sure, but the opportunities were very limited and each of us had to think as if it all rested on him. Before India's independence – Indian cunts galore, but since then prospects of hammering Indian cunt in India had diminished and had practically dried up since the seventies.

Through my earlier farcical foray I had discovered the reason – you had to live there for a while to have a chance, and finding a job and living in today's India, for any length of time, for an English working class bloke was very difficult.

Then I met Razia Ahmed. She was a post graduate student working with me on a research study. In her early twenties, tall, leggy, light brown with heavenly features and breasts to die for, she was a living wet dream. She fucked with her mind and body; bloody out of this world experience when she really got into it. Born and brought up in Bradford, she was not a virgin when I met her but her experience was very limited – two encounters with a distant cousin.

I just could not get enough of her.

But banging her in England was not really continuing the family tradition. And her family was originally from Pakistan. But this, we all decided, was a mere technicality. The real India was British India, not the present one, which was the result of an artificial religious division.

But validation had to be in India.

A colleague had recently visited India and been blown away by a tour of northern India in a luxury train. I was told that tickets for this 'Palace on Wheels' were difficult to come by and you had to book way ahead of time. So in May 2006 I bought two tickets for December '06.

Banging Razia on the Palace on Wheels, everyone agreed, would satisfy family tradition and free everyone else for the next twenty five years. The train trip was scheduled to start on December 31st. and I had decided I was going to propose to Razia on the first day of the New Year. Oh, yes, I was smitten; head over heels in love; this exquisite woman had reached every fibre of my being, filled me, and made me complete.

And then in November came the bombshell. Razia told me her family hadarrangedfor her to be married to this son of a rich businessman in Lahore, Pakistan. This was delivered in a flat monotone, after a mind blowing fucking session in my Mayfair flat.

"And you said yes. How could you? I love you, Razia," said I, plaintively. She had just come out of the shower, looking fresh and lovely.

While fixing her bra she said, "You just love fucking me. But there is more to life than that. Oh, grow up Charlie." For crying out loud, this girl was just 22 and I was 32, closer to 33!

"Like what?" I said, exasperated.

"Like family honor, and tradition and besides which you are not really the marrying kind." She said this as she ruffled my hair and then got her shirt, panties and pants on.

She tucked her shirt into her pants, wrapped herself in a heavy woolen foot length coat, took my face in her hands, kissed me on the lips, and said, "I will miss you forever, but specially your blue eyes." And then she walked out of my life forever.

Just like that, it was over. Having my love rejected was bad but not being able to fulfill the family's fucking tradition was devastating.

So now I had these two tickets, worth a great deal of real money and meaning really nothing. I called the travel agency through which I had booked the tickets and tried to get my money back. Of course it was all in the fine print. You had to cancel at least three months in advance to get your money back.

Since I had already taken the time off, I decided to bite the bullet and endure this so called luxury tour on my own.

So New Year's Eve found me on Delhi Safdarjung railway station, jet lagged and listening alternately to bag pipes and shehnais, as me and my fellow passengers were welcomed onto the train.

Later on, after the train got moving, we were all assembled in the two dining cars on the train for a sumptuous New Year's Eve meal. I found myself sharing a table with a middle aged German couple, dour and tight lipped, who suffered their way politely through the meal.

Suddenly, there was this delightful tinkle of laughter from an adjoining table and I looked up to meet the most beautiful pair of brown eyes that I had ever seen in my life. Briefly our eyes met, then she smiled politely in acknowledgement that we had made contact and turned her attention back to the person who had elicited that tinkle of laughter.

She never looked at me again that evening. But I could not help flinging furtive glances her way. This was the face of a goddess, an Indian goddess I thought, in my fevered got to fuck an Indian cunt mind, but without those bilaterally symmetrical ten arms. An Indian goddess, an absolute Indian beauty, broadcast by her elegant sari and stylish blouse.

She was fair, and I mean white like a Northern European, a long flawless neck enhanced by a discreet gold necklace, wrinkles around the eyes announcing middle age, but without the fleshiness below them that proclaimed it. It was an aristocratic face with beauty and not just vacuous beauty but beauty with character.

Her full lips were painted with a hint of pink. My cock was at full mast thinking of what that delicious mouth could do to it.

Why stop there? I could feel my cock's underside being coddled by an educated tongue while the helmet was being pampered by a discerning palate. So, maybe I am hornier that most and had not been laid in a while.

After dinner I retired to my billet - a sumptuous cabin meant for two. The other bed was of course empty. Ah, if only Razia were here. My erotic reminiscing was brought to an abrupt halt by the ever present, splendidly attired, properly obsequious, male attendants. They wanted to know what time would Sahib want his morning tea served? I was beginning to understand why past generations of my countrymen had delusions of grandeur.

Tomorrow's stop was Jaipur and we had to make an early start to tour the city.

Next morning, I drank my tea, served surprisingly piping hot in an exquisite china tea set; then shat, shaved and showered and made my way down the narrow passage to a small common area at one end of the carriage where breakfast would be served. And there she was - my beauty of last night! In my coach! Of all the 14 coaches on this train she was on mine! Some things are just meant to be. Fate, destiny or kismet as the Indians would say.

She was decidedly middle aged - mid to late forties as far as I could discern in the morning light, but deliciously so. Wrapped in an expensive silk sari which outlined her elegant form softly, with kohl highlighting those lovely brown eyes, and her dark hair done up elegantly in a bun at the back of her head, she looked even more like a goddess.

"Good morning," she said brightly, "No one else is up so early, I have just ordered breakfast and he has gone to get it. But I am sure either he or the other fellow will be here shortly to take your order." Sure enough before she finished speaking the other fellow was there, tassels and all. And to my enquiry as to what was available for breakfast, he of course cheerfully said, "Whatever you want, sahib." We whittled down this nonexistent 'whatever you want' to bacon and eggs (sunny side up), with a pot of freshly brewed Darjeeling tea.

Since she had spoken to me and I had not said a word to her, I happily informed her that she had been absolutely right about the other fellow turning up immediately and that there was nothing like genuine Darjeeling tea.

She looked through me looking for the actual guy speaking behind my cardboard cutout likeness. I was so used to this, I just said with resignation, "I am English. Working class English."

"This is so embarrassing," she said, "I am so sorry. We are so used to the English speaking BBC English that one forgets how diverse that country is, at least in its accents." She carried on cheerily," You know, this so called plum accent, is held in such regard by us Indians that we have people we call brown sahibs imitating it." And then and there I fell in love with her. And then and there I decided I had to find a way to fuck her and do my duty by my family. Was this going to be 1992 all over again - high hopes and lousy reality? No, I thought vehemently, no, I was better prepared, older and wiser.

The morning activities in Jaipur got off to a start by going up to a fort on an elephant, seated directly behind the mahout who had obviously indulged excessively the night before. There is nothing more stomach churning than the expelled breath of yesterday's cheap liquor. At least the elephant had not been involved in the night's proceedings. I mean I was hanging on for dear life just to stay put on that swaying back. Heaven help me if it was the back of an elephant with a hangover!

Lunch was on the lawns of a five star hotel. By the time I got there most of the tables had been taken. The only ones left, were out exposed to the sun. This was an Indian winter's sun, balmy and perfect for me. Not expecting company I spread myself out on a table meant for six. A jacket on this chair, my state of the art digital Canon camera on another, and the morning's purchases from the shop at the fort on another.

"Mind if I join you?"

I squinted into the sun and found my goddess of this morning looking down at me, the sun framing her face.

"Absolutely, please," as I scrambled to get my stuff off the other chairs.

"Please, please," she said," relax. There is plenty of place here. No need to be the perfect English gentleman," as she sat in the chair opposite me. Then after a moment's reflection," I am so sorry I was not belittling you or being sarcastic."

And then," What is wrong with me! I am apologizing yet again to an Englishman. After what you people did to my country you should be apologizing for the next one hundred years!" And she meant it, brown eyes flashing, aristocratic features haughtily distorted. I cringed, because I kind of agreed with her. And then her features lightened," Ah, well, we can still be friends and let bygones be bygones." You bet we could - get real friendly, and the sooner I get to bang you the better me lovely, I thought.

"Ah, there you are Ma," said a husky voice, and as I turned to look at who owned it, it continued," Got held up putting my stuff away. And here you are deep in conversation with a stranger."

"Oh, no he is not a stranger at all. He is in our carriage, met him this morning. I just don't know his name."

I got up and bowed," Charlie Hill, working class English, at your service." And despite all that working class stuff thrown in, the husky voice looked at me with gaping mouth.

The mother quickly rescued her, "I am Alka Sapru and this is my daughter Priya."

Oh, my, I was going to have trouble getting my tongue around all that.

It had amused Razia no end - my inept pronunciation of Hindi and Urdu words. I got her to teach me how to pronounce cunt, cock and arse - choot, lund and gaand.

One evening, while I was banging her doggie style (her favorite position because she said her G spot was maximally stimulated in that position), with my thumb embedded in her arse hole, I was very close to coming as she vigorously thrust herself back at me, I linked those words together with my version of Hindi/ Urdu and delivered them hoarsely in the throes of passion.

It was very discomfiting to discover myself ejaculating into a body wriggling like jelly, wracked by laughter.

I looked at the husky voice now called Priya, as she settled in a chair opposite me, and found a younger version of my goddess. Like a filly to a mare and a few inches taller. So I was the horse since I wanted to, no had to, mount the mare. Except, I did not have a clue how to. I mean our family folklore had a ton of great ways of bedding a nubile Indian. Except all those pointers were from a bygone age and pertained mostly to working class Indians, some of whom could be enticed with nothing more than the promise of exotic beedies. This was a sophisticated product of modern India. How was I going to bed her?

Even worse, how was I going to pronounce her name? I mean your iconic philanderer would look a little foolish, if in the throes of passion, the person who is being philandered laughs, because your iconic philanderer conjures up visions of a fat mother in law or some such, while he thinks he is fervently calling out the name of the fuckee, to ensure that the said fuckee, understands that the fucker, is stamping the act of fucking with authenticity by calling out the name of the fuckee, while he is depositing a boat load of charged semen in her accepting vagina.