A Back Passage in India

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estragon
estragon
46 Followers

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They sat that evening in the "parlour" of Professor Godbowel, A.B. Delhi '19. There were gathered Mr Ram Dass, Mahumid Ramitin the merchant, Dr Odwallah M.D., and the Professor, who taught at the local boys' academy.

"It is a pollution, this system whereby justice is blinded and perjury rewarded," said Mr Ram Dass.

"My dear fellah, when was it ever otherwise, as long as these English grasp India by the t'roat," said Ramitin, taking a long pull at his hookah and carefully adjusting the front of his trowsers.

"This line of conversation, my deah Ramitin, might well have taken place fifty years ago, and might well take place fifty years hence even, with the same result, or ought I to say the same want of result," replied Mr Ram Dass.

"Be it Heaslop or some other," said Professor Godbowel, "the tragedy of India will be
that of a great and fertile mother enslaved by puny and immoral, but cunning, savages completely foreign to her ways."

Dr Odwallah M.D. here interjected, "Whilst all this is truly a tragedy, deplorable in extremis, my dear friends, the hour grows late and I must move adjournment. May I say tomorrow evening at the same hour, at Lalun's?"

"My dear Dr Odwallah, M.D., a capital thought," said Ramitin heartily, scrambling to his feet and extending his hand.

I'd spit on his hand, bloody cow-eater, thought Dr Odwallah, M.D., but we can exclude none who would fight for our freedom...and after we obtain the which, we can kill them all. He rose and shook Mr Ramitin's hand.

Lalun was...well, as a poet has said, "Lalun has not yet been described. She would need a thousand pens of gold and ink scented with musk. She has been variously compared to the Moon, the Dil Sagar Lake, a spotted quail, a gazelle, the Sun on the Desert of Kutch, the Dawn, the Stars, and the young bamboo. These comparisons imply that she is beautiful exceedingly according to the native standards, which are practically the same as those of the West. Her eyes are black and her hair is black; her mouth is tiny and says witty things; her hands are tiny and have saved much money; her feet are tiny and have trodden on the naked hearts of many men."

Alas, as none of the four could have begun to afford the cost of even one hour with Lalun, except to sit and talk in her tiny whitewashed salon, we must forgo a description of her erotic skills. Suffice it to say she could extract an orgasm from any brick you care to designate in the Red Fort of Agra at a distance of ten metres.

"By the Jesu Krist of the missionaries, no more political discussions," Lalun pouted. "These weary me. I had sooner hear a daw crowing."

"Dearest lady, we are but poor men, dust beneath thine elegant feet. We can but feebly lament our unworthiness and the sorrowful, yea, lamentable, state of our poor country."

"Lament indeed, Professor Godbowel. But what do you do?"

"We meet, instruct the younger generation, sow the seeds that will result...."

"In more blather, more keening and whining, like a pariah funeral where the dogs are the chief mourners and gather round the ghât in hope of some unspeakable morsel. Fie, fie on this! I shall withdraw." And she did, in a flurry and susuration of the finest silk.

"D'ye see, my dear Professor Godbowel? We weary the most beautiful jewel, the ne plus ultra of the Eternal Feminine, and accomplish nothing." Dr Odwallah, M.D., was crushed at Lalun's displeasure.

"Think ye this Ghandi wallah, this bankrupt barrishter-at-lahr, will save us?" asked Mahumid Ramitin, "for I do not."

"Bah, running around in an old dhoti I wouldn't give to a bhisti, talking like some missionary, as if that would dissuade the Sahibs! Much less drive them out! Passive resistance? Passive fiddlesticks!" scoffed Dr Odwallah, M.D.

"Yes, we talk, we denounce, we scoff, and the English bleed India white!" said Mahumid Ramitin.

"Haven't done that to you," murmured Mr Ram Dass, "you're still as jet black as the rest of us darkies."

"I beg pardon!" exclaimed Mahumid Ramitin. "I perceive you insult me! But what else would I expect from a kafir idolater!"

"My friends! Gentlemen! Remember in whose house we are! Remember in what cause we all serve, black or white or half-caste, Hindu, Jain, Moslem, Sikh, yea, even Yehoodi...." Mr Ram Dass was working himself up into a summation to a non-existent jury.

"Oh, pray draw the line somewhere," said Mahumid Ramitin. "There must be some limit. Yehoodi--Jew--never!"

"No line! India for all! Except the English!"

Dr Odwallah, M.D., here objected. "Not the damned Scotchies, those devils who talk through their noses and are forever on the scrounge."

Professor Godbowel laughed drily. "It is true what the English say. We would kill one another but for their army and poliss, and when we conspire our people have so many languages that to be understood, each by his fellows, we must perforce conspire in English!"

The evening being well sped into night, they withdrew, leaving each one a few coins in thanks for Lalun's gracious entertainment.

Lalun was, the while, devoting her attentions to squeezing and biting the ponderous testicles of the Lieutenant Governor, prior to buggering him with a silver-plated elephant ivory dildo, lubricated with pig fat, in exchange for an extraordinary line item in the special supplemental Indian Civil Service budget entitled "Necessities."

India was revenged.

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"Mother dear, here's a wire from Bombay. Baroda's wired from Gardafui. Expect her in a week's time, Deo volente." Ronnie Heaslop was just about to leave the dâk bungalow for the ride to his chambers and courtroom when Buddoo bore in the telegraph office flimsy on a tarnished silver tray.

Breakfast was nearly finished, and Mrs Moore in consequence was contemplating her first bowel movement of the day; several would follow, no doubt, as she was still becoming accustomed to the food and water, both being rank.

"Very well, Ronald. Shall I make ready to go down to meet Miss Quested?"

"Better had, Mama. Well begun is half done, and all that rot. Now 'tis time for me to toddle. Labor me vocat, doncherknow?"

"Good day, my son."

"Toodle-oo, pip pip and all that, my good mother." He kissed her forehead, as she flinched and he winced.

The act was for the servants, of course. They detested one another.

Mrs Moore hastily fled to the privy, and noisily emptied her bowels. This was followed hard by with a sonorous colonic expulsion. There sprang from her lips, utterly independent of her will, "My God, that wass a good'un, eh what?"

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

Adela Quested, nauseated by the heat and the smell of several millions of bodies unwashed since their last immersion in the filthy Ganges, stood, or rather was barely able to stand, in the passenger shed at Bombay.

The passage had been mild, for the storms had by now abated, and the port side of the Baroda was remarkably cool, even in the Red Sea. Her fellow-passenger, Mrs. Quickly, was a delightful if somewhat old-fashioned person, the wife of a Methody missionary, going out to rejoin her husband after visiting their children in Monmouthshire. Her sweet voice sang endless hymns. Her manners were exquisite, her tastes fastidious.

Miss Quested was entranced: oh, if only dear Mrs. Quickly were to be her belle-mère, and not that sour old Mrs Moore! But here was the woman herself, escorted by as foul-looking and worse-smelling a band of ruffians as ever Miss Quested had seen.

"My dear, here we are to take you to Agashiwallah and dear Ronald," Mrs Moore said, with carefully concealed insincerity and a fulsome smile.

"Oh, Mrs Moore, how nice." Mein Gott, thought Miss Quested, the Cheshire Cat and the familiars of the Devil. Can I possibly get back on that boat and get to bloody Hell out of here?

But in a trice, her trunks, valises and portmanteaux were seized by these jabbering ragamuffins, a path through the thronging dockwallopers hewn by this tall blackamoor, and her profusely perspiring person installed in a four-wheeler that must have come from a rubbish tip.

The imprecations, epithets and ungodly howlings that attended their departure from the passenger shed and their funereal progress to the railway station deafened her, and caused her nearly to vomit, could she find a way of reaching the edge of the conveyance, but the sheer mass of impedimenta surrounding her forestalled her slightest movement.

Mrs Moore seemed utterly impervious to the entire process. "Fret not, dear daughter, if I may so denominate you. You will soon grow used to the manners, or lack of manners, endemic to India. And its distinctive sights and aromatics.

"Ah," she quoted, "'the dust upon the highways, the stenches in the byways, the clammy fog that hovers over earth'...soon, soon my dear child, they will be unnoticed, taken as matters of course, even as they are by me."

By God, I should bloody well hope not! This country smells like a shithouse and sounds like an insane asylum! It was a typical Englishwoman's response to "the grim stepmother of our kind". Why in God's name did I ever come to this horror?

The journey by rail and barouche need not detain the reader; it varied little from that which was previously indited.

Miss Quested, however, being at least presumptively, a virgin, was spared the "treatments" at Mrs Moore's direction. The bathwoman was disappointed, but Mrs Moore gave her tuppence and promised that, post-nuptially, Miss Quested would be a favored patron of the bathwoman's delightful ministrations. Mrs Moore had little confidence in her son's ability to keep his spouse satiated.

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The winter was nearly past, and the spring was drawing on. Soon it would be time to ascend to Simla, for the summer was not to be borne. No Englishwoman would survive, when at midnight the thermometer stood at 100 degrees and the simoom threw dust in eyes, noses and other parts. Sexual congress then became an admixture of burning at the stake and having one's privy members sandpapered smooth.

"One last excursion before the Great Exodus, eh what?" Ronald suggested. "We've not taken dear Adela out to the Malabar Caves, neglectful us. We'll make a picnic of it, bring iced claret and a hamper of cold tucker...just the ticket, that! Buddoo!"

Ronald in full cry was enough to make Adela shrink back into her chair at the dinner table. He'd been walloping the port decanter after a particularly trying day in court. An elderly native was suing for the return of the dowry he had paid and the dastur for which he had contracted, as the groom was either impotent, or the maledictory possessor of a tool of such infinitesimal length and laughable circumference, that the plaintiff's daughter was likely to die a virgin before their marriage was consummated.

Both plaintiff and defendant, by their respective counsel, moved for in camera inspection and called for measurements. Ronald adjourned the trial, as he was damned if he was going to sit in eighty-five degree heat looking at some darky's wilting banger pasted on a foot-rule, while a brace of over-educated rascals dinned mutual calumny into his ear.

"So we may take it as settled, then?" inquired Mrs Moore, with an attitude of quiet gentility that masked her underlying distaste for her son and his petulant, ill-tempered betrothed.

The Malabar Caves, limestone grottoes that extended nearly a kilometre long beneath the sandy soil and a hundred feet below it, were a local gathering-place. It was customary for picnickers and wanderers to venture thence in the early winter and the late spring (the rains making them unattractive in winter and early spring).

Miss Quested had heard much about the Malabar Caves. Compared to the life she had led since arriving; each day a wretched breakfast followed by a thunderous cleansing of the bowels and bladder in an outdoor convenience followed by letter-writing followed by a carriage ride around the dusty maidan followed by a miserable luncheon followed by drinking oneself into a near-stupor at the Club (Ladies' Entrance and Sitting Room only), succeeded by a lengthy siesta to sleep off the rotten whisky and warm soda, and dining with Dear Ronnie and Mama; and attendance at worship was mandatory, of course; the Church was dim, grim and as inviting as a badly-managed gaol, neither the liturgy nor the

homiletics being up to the standard of the premises; all these were enough to make holiday even of an excursion into the Valley of Death with the Noble Six Hundred, an overnight trip to the Black Hole of Calcutta being included at no extra charge.

"Let us make our excursus on Saturday, then," suggested Mrs Moore.

"As Karl Marx said, dat's capital!" quipped Ronald. "I'll stir up the niggers and set it all in train."

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Miss Quested had asked Mrs Moore, early in her stay, whether there was any "amusement" for ladies. When Mrs Moore handed her a seven-month-old copy of Punch, damp with humidity and with anything that might be considered in the slightest "offensive" carefully scissored out of its pages, she lost her temper.

Jesus Christ fuck a duck, does the old bitch need me to draw her a fuckin' picture? "No, dear madam, I meant any activity or pastime?"

"Why, my dear, I'm sure I don't know to what you might possibly be referring."

"Dear Mrs Moore, something soul-satisfying, earth-shattering, trembling...."

"Oh, you mean a good fuck? Best of British luck to ye, me ol' darlin', you'll get none from the darkies and the whities are a dead loss."

"Well, what happens to you at your bath every morning that gets you grinning like a buggered baboon?"

"Oh, you mean the treatments?"

"Is that what they're called, when that fat nigger bitch twists your titties and jams that thing in your Down There?"

"Well, if you know all about it, why need you ask me?"

"Because she never asked me if I wanted any."

"My dear Miss Quested, you have to have your maidenhead intact for Dear Ronnie, and the treatments would at least dent, and possibly puncture irretrievably, your Precious Jewel. Failure to provide a bloody good show, or rather, a good bloody show, on your wedding night will lead to unpleasant consequences, like being flayed with a horsewhip by your husband before the Wedding Breakfast."

"When one doesn't work, try the other."

"What the devil is that supposed to mean?"

"If you can't go forr'ard, go aft."

"Oh, do you mean per anus peradventure?"

"Got it in one."

"My dear, I'll see you get it in one."

The next morning Mrs Moore thoroughly coached the bathwoman, who gave Miss Quested a comprehensive treatment, pinching Miss Quested's clitoris as she used the dildo with abandon on the virgin lady's upthrust arsehole. Miss Quested's grunts and screams testified to the efficacy of the bathwoman's treatments.

Mrs. Moore then treated Miss Quested's stern quarters to a quarter-hour's brisk impalement on Mrs Moore's seven-inch strap-on, carefully unwrapped from the parchment in which it had been brought all the way from the most exclusive shop in Jermyn Street, W1.

"Things are looking distinctly up," said a breathless Miss Quested.

"This thing can look distinctly up wherever you like," replied Mrs Moore.

"Let me lick your cunny?" asked Miss Quested.

"With pleasure."

"No, with my tongue."

"Haw haw."

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

Miss Quested having grown quite fond of Mrs Moore's post-treatment treatment, it was decided that they would use the visit to the Malabar Caves as an opportunity for Mrs Moore to probe the other's dark passage au naturel.

It is with the consequences of their otherwise light-hearted (but heavy breathing) connexion that we shall be hereafter concerned.

Reaching the caves, Buddoo and Ronnie ceremoniously handed the ladies down from the barouche. Ronnie demanded the disembarkation of the hamper, with its jellied calves'-feet, cold roast mutton, Protestant pudding and grilled beetroot. The flagon of iced claret (Château Malescasse '82, a villainous year) was decanted.

They ate with delicacy, chatting lightly. As the servants were packing up the remains (and filching what little was remaining, to feed their legions of hangers-on), a troop of young boys, led by Professor Godbowel, came marching along the road.

Professor Godbowel called the step, as the boys sang lustily "Glory glory hallelujah, hish tooth is hanging on". Spying the picnickers, he instantly silenced his followers, and, dressing the line and admonishing his little squadron to "look sharp, now!", paraded them past, ceremoniously saluting the Resident Magistrate, and brought them sharply to halt.

"Mr Resident Magistrate, sah!" he shouted. "Pray permit me to present the Boys' Brigade of the Agashiwallah Primmery Skule!"

"Very good, Professor Godbowel. Hoyoop, boys! Put a good face on it, that's the style! March 'em on, Professor, don't want 'em fallin' out, y'know!" Ronnie gave the merest hint of a salute, and Professor Godbowel, suppressing his fury at being treated like the merest low-caste privywallah by this pink-skinned oaf, stamped his foot (raising a mini-dust storm) and shouted "Patrowel, to the froont, forwaaaard...march!"

The boys all stamped their feet, showering the picnickers with dust and various creeping things, and marched off, singing "John Brown's booby had a nipple on his chest, huzza huzza huzza!"

"Bloody woggeroos, wrecking our outing with their feeble imitation of Lord Baden-Powell's magnificent Boy Scouts," sneered Ronnie. "If I had my way, they'd crawl past Englishwomen on their bellies, licking the bloody dust, so they would! That rascal Godbowel. 'Professor', my arse and whiskers! He's a bolsheviki, inciting rebellion. I'd flog his black arse white, if it weren't that it'd be in all the papers back Home. Damn Congress Potty!"

"Don't fret yourself, Ronald," said Mrs. Moore. "You can always resign your post here and return to me and England. I'm sure you'll find a position to suit you there."

"Oh yes, Mama, I can find a position. On a streetcorner with a begging bowl. But there are a lot of applicants for that situation, doncherknow."

"Oh, my dear," said Miss Quested, "what can't be cured must be endured, and I'm sure it will all come right in the end."

Ronald poured the last of the wine down his throat and coughed. "Quite right, m'dear. Well, who's for a peek at the celebrated Malabar Caves?"

The servants searched the hamper, and produced torches for the party. Leading the way, the Resident Magistrate made straight for the cave entrance.

"Now these caves branch in various directions, so mark your paths well," he said, handing each of his followers pieces of coloured chalk. "There's never any water here during the dry season, and the snakes come here to breed only during the wet. The floor is quite smooth in most places, but look sharp as you tread."

Miss Quested stayed close to Mrs Moore. She had wisely put on tennis shoes, but Mrs Moore wore her old buttoned boots. Mrs Moore was carrying her reticule, and Miss Quested trembled slightly at the thought of its contents, the seven-inch india-rubber bestower of unending delight.

Mrs Moore, who had once before descended the caves, directed her away from the main path Ronnie was following. Skirting into an enclosure off the path, she quickly wrapped her muslin skirt round her waist, and delved into her reticule. She had left off underdrawers and similar obstacles to fulfillment, so that she could more swiftly and deftly encompass her loins with the delectable device.

estragon
estragon
46 Followers