Rivalry in Indian Dorm Life

The second person was a holy woman. She looked like she had been living in the streets of donations for months. Her hair was kinky, twisted, and unkempt. Her hands were dirty with street dust. She must have crawled through the filthiest streets as a form of karma yoga to wash clear of her sins. Her sole dress was a black torn sarong that was thrown over sloppily. It exposed skin here and there in between the folds of fabric. White and red paint covered most of her face. She approached pocket boy cautiously pushing the right leg forward and dragging the left behind. As she stood next to his naked butt, she called out to Lord Shiva and slapped his butt hard.

A uniformed police officer entered the bus. The driver had summoned for help earlier. However, the holy woman gave the whole thing the appearance of a religious act. The officer stood there curiously in the distance out of respect to this obviously ascetic initiation act. The woman started tickling the helplessly tied up pocket boy. While he writhed around giggling, she chanted to cow spirits. She reached under her sari to her crotch. Her hand came out. She painted mystic symbols on his back with juices of her unwashed twat. She sat on the ground under him and performed fellatio. As he came shuddering into the dirty wicked woman, she had her satisfaction. She hadn't received any donations in days and was hungry. The cum was her food. She walked off the bus at the next stop.

The police officer called after her: "You forgot your disciple." She was gone. The police officer scratched his head. Once backup arrived at the next bus stop, they untied him and walked him off the bus. They made a tight circle around him.

I remained sitting in the same seat. There were only people left in the front half of the bus. The streets outside had gotten empty, as we approached my residential neighborhood. I had a notepad on pen on my lap to record the events and the story of pocket boy. I glanced at people outside. I looked at their boobs, behind, and feet, the mundane body parts that had been so alive a few minutes ago. A woman walked with a sari that I now knew could be used to tie someone down. A sandal foot stepped into a water puddle with foam. I knew such a foot to be in pocket boy's face a little earlier. Pocket boy, the boy who had learned to grab his penis through his pocket, while talking to girls.

At home, everything was quiet. My brother was probably out chasing pants. My dad was still at work. My mother was quietly doing house work. My room had an unmade bed and a pile of clothes. The computer was in the corner. The canopy of the tree outside my window shielded most of the sun light. The window was wide open. I could feel the outside air and hear the sounds of our quiet residential street. My computer crackled the hard drive as it started up. My brown hands were resting on the keyboard waiting for the slow box to come alive. The notebook with the fresh notes was open next to the keyboard. I looked at the snow globe on the drawer. It was a souvenir from visiting my uncle near the Himalayas. He had a beautiful farm with its own lake and baby chickens under a heat lamp.

My fingers started typing the anthropology article for the Bangalore Society of Living Anthropology: "Hidden Auto Erotic Behavior in Adolescents". The time blurred as I was typing. By the time that I was done, I had to check around me, as darkness had fallen and my ma had already thrown her second slipper against the wall to make me come down for dinner: Yellow dal with rice and chapatti again. The good news was Mangos for dessert.

The next morning at school, Ekanga already waited outside on me. He stood there leaning against the school building with his hands in his farmer John pants with the two shoulder straps. His white sneakers were slightly worn. The stream of school children ignored him as they passed through the double glass door building. Ekanga looked straight at me, as I walked up to him. I was wearing a green skirt today to celebrate my successful research of yesterday. The green skirt was my most prized possession. It was from a boutique of imported clothing. It was knee high and made of soft, fluffy material.

After I finished telling pocket boy's story on the way to my classroom, he said that he'd honor his bet. He would get me into a college to study anthropology. He'd drive me to admission interviews, write me a recommendation letter, tutor me, or whatever needed to be done. He said that he was bound by his word. He also suggested that the Blank Noise Project girl may have point to an interesting anthropology research project. The Blank Noise Project is an anti-eve teasing organization. They sometimes walk around with banners or video tape young man harassing young girls. Their slogan is 'I never asked for it.' I had been curious myself.

On the bus ride home, the Blank Noise girl was there again. She sat by herself. Today, she was wearing a tight snow camouflage pant that showed her butt clearly. She was wearing black slippers and a blank t-shirt with a deep v-cut. Her hair was pulled back into a tight bun. The black hair at her sides was smooth and shimmering in the daylight. Her lips were painted red and she had mascara on her eyes. She said, 'hey girl,' as I sat down next to her. She explained to me that she was part of the military wing of the Blank Noise project, just as the IRA had a political and a military wing. The political wing works the public perception and negotiations. The military wing achieves real results on the ground. She invited me to follow her. Her name was Fila.

Fila stood up. She placed herself next to a group of standing bus riders near the rear exit. A middle aged woman was facing the front. Her right hand held onto a vertical bus pole. In the crook of her elbow was a large black handbag hanging. It was one of those large handbags that may as well be able to have carried a shotgun. Next to her facing outside the window was college boy. He had his black hair slicked and styled. He was wearing a damper pant and shirt. The top button of his shirt was undone to add a casual note to his elegant appearance. He had an elegant leather watch on his arm. His face looked like he was a bit too eager to look like a business man.

At the first rustling in the bus for a pot hole, everyone swayed a bit, except for Fila. Fila swiftly pushed the black handbag into the college boy's groin. The middle aged woman assumed that her handbag was swinging, because of the pothole. The college boy's eyes popped open and his butt popped back. Fila whispered to me: "It does not hurt them. It simply startles them a lot to get touched there. He is learning that the recipient side of eve teasing is not much fun."

The cute college boy had the habit of changing his weight from one foot to the other about every minute. Every time, he did that, his body shifted a couple inches to either side. Fila perfectly timed the next shift towards her with her moving her full, beautiful, and round boobs forward. The college boys arm softly bumped into her boob. He stopped. He shirked back. His face turned red and he shuffled a step away mumbling 'sorry.' Fila quickly took up the space and waited for him to relax and shift his bodyweight again. When he turned at her in surprise again, she gave him a look like he was seriously out of line. He walked a few steps off to the center of the bus. There was a space without chairs to provide more standing room. Fila giggled to me: "This is the bus waltz."

A minute later, Fila motioned me to follow her to where the college boy stood. There was a map over head. She placed herself in front of college boy to point her finger up at the map. She told me about a few stops that we could take for different clothing stores. I almost thought that she wanted me to go shopping with her, until she let her arm drop down with a little too much a swing. Her hand swung a bit behind her and got college boy in the crotch. He jumped a little bit with both feet. His posture and movement suggested discomfort and confusion. Fila said to him with a sexy voice: "Oh, you are standing awfully close to me." College boy turned around to face away from us and cut us out of his world. She whispered to me: "Oh, now he is learning to give us girls some space."

Fila slowly and carefully reached her hand towards his butt. His pants were dressy. The fabric was a pattern of grey, white, and black dots, mostly grey. His butt looked well formed. There was a sharp line running down his pants from ironing. At first, college boy did not even seem to notice the hand. With a little more pressure, his butt twitched like a fly had landed there. Fila started drawing circles on his butt cheek. College boy seemed to be confused. He made a step forward. Yet, Fila's hand kept following him. She switched to his other butt cheek. A little boy from across the aisle was turned around back to watch the scene.

The crowd from the front of the bus shuffled deeper to the back to make place for newcomers. College boy had to make a step back to make space. Of course, Fila was standing right behind him. So, his body pushed against hers. Her boobs were rubbing in his back. His hand hanging down touched her pants. He turned around to apologize. Fila slapped his face faster. There were tears at the edge of his eyes. His face was deep red. He said that he was sorry. There was space behind Fila. Yet, she did not budge at all. The college boy was wedged between her and a large, overweight market merchant. The market merchant had large flabby t-shirt with sweat stains running down the bag.

College boy was now helplessly trapped. Fila's hand started tapping his butt. She quickly and easily tapped on his butt in the middle and lower part. She gave him thin pinches with her thumb and index finger. When college boy reached back to push her hand away, she'd be quicker and make sure that his hand would reach her t-shirt or pant fabric. Then, she would loudly and shrill for everyone to hear tell him to let go of her clothes. He gave up resisting. Fila played with his butt, however she wanted.

The bus filled up even more until they were all stuck in a mass of people like a tire is stuck in deep mud. Fila pressed her body against college boys back side. Her thighs touched his hamstrings. Her boobs pressed against the middle of his back. Her lips were resting on the side of his neck leaving red lip prints. Her hand reached around his waste and slipped into the front of his pants. Her hand slipped under his drawers. Her hand slipped onto the hardened mast. Her hand explored the mast going down. Her hand found great depth until she reached the base of the mast. The hand gripped firmly and pulled the skin up over the head. With a little more pressure the hand pulled the skin down over the penis again. The hand explored the balls that were hanging much lower. The ball sack was relaxed, open, and large due to the heat in the bus.

College boy steadied his stance and got a firmer grip on the handrail. Fila enjoyed feeling the soft skin on the hard organ. She pumped it well. The penis started convulsing a bit. Fluid came out of it. The fluid slowly seeped into the drawers. Fila's hand wiped herself off on the college boy's clothes. A minute later, the fluid had seeped through the thin dress pant fabric and started marking a dark circle. Fila's hand tapped the market merchant in front of college boy: "Hi, I think that this man has been rubbing himself on you."

The market merchant turned around to seize up college boy. When the market merchant saw the dark wet spot at the crotch of the pants, he started bawling. Two large brawns came down on college boy's shoulders. College boy came down to the floor with them. Bystanders were falling sideways. Others shuffled to the side. The market merchant was sitting on college boy's belly. Ironically the wet spot was right up against his ass. I did not see more, because Fila was pulling me by the hand through the crowd. Fila found narrow spaces between people to squeeze in.

We were at the market. Multi-colored clothed people were pressing their way ahead, while pushing large bags and carts with their purchases in front of them. Fila pulled stickers out of her back pocket. She'd peel off the back side and press the sticky side onto crotches of men that she pushed her way through. An old man with grey hair and a shifty gait from age was holding his woman by the side. Fila's hand made a mouth out of her middle finger and thumb. She pinched the old man's underside with her index fingers on the balls and her thumb on his asshole. The man slowly turned around and looked at her to avoid startling his wife.

"The young man on the bus did not do anything. Yet, you punished him."

"Yes, he did not do anything. Remember, an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure."

"I think that maybe you liked the handsome guy."

"Yes, that too. What is your interest in this anyway?"

"I want to study anthropology in college. To get credentials on my college application, I am publishing papers at a local anthropology paper. My friend proposed that your organization would be a good topic."

"I tell you, what a good topic is. It is the best topic ever. Research rites, codes, and life of secret societies at college! There is a college here in Bangalore, which has the most evolved secret student life of all schools in India. There are many reports and claims of bits and pieces. Yet, nobody has been able to write anything substantial about that college."

"(continued) Three anthropologists have tried to go to the college undercover. The first already failed admissions. Apparently, one has to bring a man. The man has to completely undress and present an erect penis. Her husband, who had volunteered, apparently could not get hard under the pressure of the situation. The second was found on the first day naked in the trunk of a cab. She had three cucumbers stuck in her body: her mouth, her pussy, and her ass. The third lasted all four years in college. However, she was turned by the secret societies in school and never published a word."

We kept walking through the market and taking different buses. Fila's games with the men continued. I took notes. She even let me interview some of the men after her counter harassment, if she had only done simple things to them. That evening, I wrote another successful article for the Bangalore Society of Living Anthrophology. Ekanga had agreed in the end to come to the admissions interview, if he could wear a black towel across his face with holes for his eyes cut out.

The college building was a large rusty red square with white stones at the corner. There was a low brick wall around the building. The little patches of grass between the entrance gate and the building suggested that the designer had intended the brown patch to be a lush green lawn. A singular tree guarded a hard patch of soil. The hallway behind the entrance door was linoleum and functional white walls. A couple photos of principals hung on the wall. A glass cabinet showed a few trophies and certificates for various student activities. A wall carpet had the school banner woven in. An open door into an administrative room lit up the hallway a bit. There were only spaced out singular sounds suggesting that college was not in session at the moment due to an early summer break.

All the doors had square signs next to them. I stopped at the one labeled 'principal's office.' Ekanga stood behind me. His nervousness made him seem extra wobbly. He was wearing a shirt with lines running across the white. His shoes were extra shined for the occasion. He carefully pulled the edges of his black towel over his face. He feared that he could be recognized by his ears and wanted to know, if they were showing. Supposedly, ears are as unique as a finger print. I was holding a portable stereo in one hand and my application papers in the other. I was struggling to knock at the door and open it later with my elbow. Ekanga was busy bending his elbows as a gymnast would to prepare for a series of summersaults.

The esteemed principal's office had wide glass windows that gave an expansive few on the local low rooftops. Plaques and framed certificates gave the principal his power. The principal had a large leather chair with a high backrest. The two chairs in front of his wide and deep desk were simply metal frame chairs with a plain fabric and thin cushion. The armrests were simply metal bars holding the backrest in place. A wide open daily Bangalore newspaper hid the entire principal. Only a glowing cigar appeared to rest on a glass ashtray on the table and tell us: "Capture my attention." It was an old application interview trick from Oxford to make the applicant work hard.

"Okay, my turn. Run the music!" said Ekanga. I pressed play on the portable stereo. The Bollywood movie music Dum Mast Mast started blaring. The stereo was quite chap. So, the blaring was stronger than the music. Ekanga jumped out of his chair. He raised his arms in front of him and started shaking his shoulders. His whole body flabbed around. Then, he jumped across the room scissoring his straight arms in front of him. Next, he rested his chin on the top edge of the principal's newspaper. He had to lean far over the desk to get there. He started at the top button to undo his shirt. His butt was shaking next to my knees in the air with the music.

The shirt went flying through the air behind him. I had to get up to collect it. Now, Ekanga was half squatting down. He pulled his arm back and pulled himself forward by the power of pantomime. After a few pulls, his feet started swinging high to throw off his shoes. One shoe hit the window with a bang. The other shoe hit the lamp. I rummaged through the principal's window plants to find the shoe. Ekanga stood now next to the principal vibrating his whole body to make his pants slide down. He stepped out of them and started running around the office to stop frequently and look around like a spy trying to spot a hidden enemy. Ekanga's fat flapped on his middle aged body. He had a few hairs on his chest and rosy small nipple buds. His back was a bit hunkering round from fat with a bit muscle. Around this time, the principal covered his entire head in the newspaper. The principals head looked like Papier-mâché.

Ekanga started really getting into it as his hands and feet were on the ground with his butt happily in the air dancing to the music, while facing the sunlight and the principal. The son had ended. In stark silence, Ekanga rushed to get his drawers pulled down and flung over his feet. There was a little stomach fold over his pubic hair. His balls hang lower than his penis. Ekanga reached for the penis and talked to him: "Get hard! Get hard!" The silence brought the full awkwardness to the situation. It was awkward in both directions. Ekanga was naked, very immodest. Ekanga was soft, not good enough for admission. In desperation, Ekanga started smacking his penis on the leather of the desk with loud thuds. The principal's head appeared from under the newspaper to find out, what was going on.

"Babbita, I would never think of you in that way. You got to hold my penis with your hand." Ekanga turned to me. I reached with my hand for his penis. I felt the soft flesh. It felt like jell-o, only the skin held it together to keep it from running between my fingers. Worried about failing admission, I leaned forward, puckered my lips, and placed a gentle kiss on the tip of the penis right were the opening was. Ekanga looked out of the window: "I am not even looking."

I was looking at the brownness and pinkness of it. I looked at the straight shaft and the round curve, where the head attached to the shaft. I gave it another neat kiss through puckered lips. This time, I pointed my tongue, moved my tongue out of my mouth and tasted the handyman's penis. The skin was dry. I formed a large cave with my mouth. Without touching his penis, I slowly blew hot and moist air on it.