Day to Day Life in an Indian Dormbycowboy109©
Hi. My name is Radha. I am a twenty year old Indian girl with brown skin, dark eyes, and black hair. I am a freshman in a Bangalore all girls college. I grew up in Hebbal, which is Northern most part of Bangalore. We have a large lake, which is very creatively called Hebbal Lake. Many people come for bird watching. One of my strongest childhood memories happened there.
There was a crude tree house built to observe a colony of spot-billed pelicans. When the little ones had grown and left the nest, so did the bird watchers. Then, it became our club house, the club house of a few local kids. That day Billy was with me in the tree house. His parents called him by his American name Billy, because they thought to prepare him to get a job at an American high tech company like his father did.
Billy was naked on the floor. He was tied with the rope from a nearby swing at a play ground. He laid there in the corner against the backdrop of wood slats. The wood was rough and dented from the use. Bright narrow lines of light painted on his body from the sunlight cutting through every crevice in the wall. He looked surprised. I wondered, what his feelings could have said. The British teacher in our high school kept asking us over and over, what we were feeling until she would get a satisfactory answer. I often told her that I was feeling like beating her ass up. Yet, she insisted that weren't a feeling. Billy would have been quiet, because the red and white checkered handkerchief was placed pretty well in his mouth.
The way down the tree house was to climb wood pieces that had been nailed to the tree. Right about the middle of the way was a large branch going out horizontally. It was a good place to stand. We sometimes played a dare, who dared walking out the furthest onto the branch. Right under the branch were many of the nailed wood pieces missing. So, one had to get low, put the belly on the tree, and slide down until one could wrap the arms around the branch and dangle from it. Often small pieces of the lichen covered bark would break of and paint little dots on your stomach. Sometimes a scrape would add a few red lines that would rarely bleed.
That day, I had to wait for Billy's sister and her girl friends to climb up. They were carrying on a chatty conversation about something that they had read in a magazine. They paid little attention to me. The screams only started, when I was safely on the ground and disappearing into thick of shrubs.
You can say that I am a bad girl. I am. That's what how I got into this particular college. On a Friday afternoon in high school, the teacher decided to take it easy. His mind was probably already on weekend plans. The sun was shining lazily into the room. Half the kids were already busy doodling in their notepads. The class was fascinated with Japanese manga. Groups had formed around certain manga comics. They were trying to replicate the characters. The books of previous classes that day were still on the desk. Classmates had been too lazy to store them away in the book bag. A fashion of wearing ties had swept the class as well. The boys were wearing thin ties in stark colors like pink and neon. The girls were wearing half length wide ties with horoscope symbols on them.
The teacher announced that the student painting the best ganish on the blackboard would be excused to leave early. Ganish is a kind of Indian elephant deity. The teacher explained that Ganish were a remover of obstacles and getting out of class that day surely seemed to be the largest obstacle. He was trying to be funny.
Of course, carnage ensued. The kids were running to the blackboard. On the way, they were running into tables and book bags. Once at the black board they were pushing, shoving and quarrelling about space for their master creation. It was perfect for me. Before the girl sitting next to me could get up, I grabbed her hair. It was short hip hair. I pulled her head down under the table. She fell kicking her chair over and landed on her book bag. The world from down here looked different. The desks were scrupulously cleaned from above. Yet, beneath they were a calico patch of stickers. There were expressive stickers like 'you suck'. There were random price stickers from the cafeteria. The religious Hindu students had left quotes under their desks: "It is better to walk than to run; it is better to stand than to walk; it is better to sit than to stand; it is better to lie than to sit."
My classmate's mouth was on my thigh to muffle the volume of her cries below the chatter of everyone else at the blackboard. She was wearing a white thin t-shirt. It was intentionally very large to be kind of like a dress draping down on her body. The neck cut was large as to show the décolleté above her large breast. The front that was now pressed against the ground showed Marilyn Monroe's face, large lips, and mole in Andy Warhol colors. Her bra strap stood out on her back. I quickly unclipped the bra. Pulling it over her tense struggling arms was not so easy. By the time, the artsy girl in the class had won the Ganish competition, the white underwire bra was in my back pocket. My classmate was sitting next to me clutching her arms across her chest to protect her nipples from showing through the shirt.
She had a tear in her eyes. I told her not to cry, because we would get both in trouble. Plus, I would let her earn her bra back. She had to do two tasks. Her mouth was pleading with painful grievance. Her sweaty little fingers were quick to scribble. She had to write a note to a boy in the front row. The boy was often made fun off. His clothes were often too small. His pant legs would stop middle in his calves, when he was sitting. It looked like a woman's Capri pants. He had these large glasses on that were purely bought for the most square inch of coverage rather than style. It was rumored that he was farming frogs in his room at home. Almost every student on the route to the boy read her little note: "I am in love with you. To proof my love to you, I am not wearing a bra today. If you can see my nipples and believe in them, write me back."
When the boy joined the other students staring back at my class mate, I made her uncross the arms. Her breasts were large. They were touching each other in the middle. On the side, they reached past her chest. Without the bra, they were hanging lower. The large round areola showed slightly in the sort. The nipples clearly stood there. The classmates were grinning and whispering each other. The boy had deer in the headlights look and quickly put his face on the desk and covered his head.
The next boy was our token punk. He was always wearing black clothes. His hands were covered with a black type of henna. They had paintings of slain dragons, a black eight ball, or a dog in a spike collar. Even in the middle of the hot dry summer, he would wear boots. He was sitting with the cool people in the back. When he got the same note with his name on it, he pointed at my classmate, then back at him, and he blew a kiss over to her. He sent her a note back saying that he could match her parents' endowment with his parents' endowment to him. He was holding his crotch for a full five minutes after he sent the note back.
Of course, I returned the bra to my class mate as promised. The moment, the recess bell rang, my class mate bolted out of the class room, leaving her book bag and everything behind. The whole class had learned about her notes and followed her eagerly to the bathroom. Our token punk proudly pushed his way through the crowd to the girl's bathroom door. Before he reached for the door handle, he turned around to seize the crowd. With a huge smirk on his face and erect posture, he turned towards the door. The frog farmer boy grabbed the sleeve of the punk boy's t-shirt and told him that entering a women's bathroom was unacceptable. The pull on the t-shirt had made a loud ripping sound. No hole seemed to appear. Yet, the punk boys face grew dark and mad, as he squinted a frown. Next the punk boy shoved the frog farmer boy to the ground and a fight ensued.
The chanting of the class had attracted our teacher. The crowd gave way to make space for the teacher, like the parting sea for Moses. Frog boy was pinned on the ground pointlessly bending his body and reaching with his legs to get punk boy off him. Punk boy was sitting on frog boy and had him in a good hold. They silently got up in the teachers presence. Punk boy offered his hand and said 'no hard feelings.' Frog boy was more occupied with holding his tears back and fumbling his glasses.
Naturally, the Friday at school lasted much longer for me than the other kids, as I was sitting in detention. The chairs in the detention room were already put on the desk for cleaning, except for the chairs that we were sitting on. We were in the science room. Posters of animals and anatomy were taped on the wall. A preserved owl looked out of a glass shrine with its glass eyes. A jokester had left a mark on the blackboard: "Forgiveness is the fragrance that the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it."
Our teacher was Indian, yet had her hair colored blonde. She was wearing a skirt, high heels, and stark red lip stick. She was talking with her girl friends on the phone, as she was applying nail polish. Punk boy was working on a new henna tattoo on his forearm. Frog boy was doing homework. He was almost done with English.
Next to me was another girl from class, Chelsea. Chelsea was wearing lip stick that gave a strong pink highlight. Here eyes were surrounded by a blue hue. Her lush black hair was braided into a tight tail. A straight lock of hair was falling down near the middle of her face to under her chin. Bindi jewelry stuck in between her neat eyebrows. A tiny pink gem was in the middle of the bindi. She was wearing a blue halter dress that barely reached below her butt. Her legs had to cross at all times, when she was sitting for modesty reasons. The contours of her body showed clearly through the tight dress covered in floral patterns with dark blue color. She was wearing high heels with many thin black straps wrapping around her feet and ankles.
Chelsea reached for my hand. Into my open palm, she placed her black lace bra. She closed my other hand on top of it. Her hands were holding my hands together with the bra in the middle. I could feel the texture of the lace in my palms. As I stowed her bra away, her panties followed in the same manner. They were smooth and still warm from her skin. She added that she poured the drink on purpose on the teacher to end up in detention with me. We became best friends. Every morning, she would give me her offerings of bra, panties, or whatever else I demanded. During the day, she would carry out my little missions.
During the last week of high school ever, I was trying to take my mind of the weight on my spleen. All the finals were past us. Everyone, including Chelsea, had been accepted to a good college, or at least bragged about the alleged elite status. Even the rundown state college was puffed up, because a professor had been nominated as a Nobel Prize laureate, even though he was never even accepted as a nominee. I was doomed to work in a call center like my ma taking orders for McDonald's in America or scaring the living daylight out of people for medical debt collection on America. That day, providence came through for me and opened another door.
Chelsea was on another mission of mine. She was standing in the boys' bathroom. Her glamorous dress and hair stood out among the plain, functional metal stalls and worn graffiti scribbling on the white washed walls. Hand paper towels were overflowing onto the ground. The half wet bunches of paper towels were so messy, while Chelsea stood their immaculate with poise ready to deliver her acceptance speech as Miss India, ready to wave at the crowd and throw kisses.
A paper sheet was taped to her chest: "Water broke. Please, wipe your hands on me. Management." Some of the boys avoided going to the bathroom that break. Some of the boys were simply standing there looking at her in awe. The bold boys lowered their pants the bare minimum to pee in the urinal in front of her. She got to observe them. There were the tight legged peeing boys. They stood prim and proper with their feet together. There were the wide legged boys. Some stood so far that their legs were further than the privacy divider. They put their heads back, starring at the ceiling, before they jiggled their body up and down for the last drop. Their clothing would shift around and make fabric noises. Some head a sudden involuntary shudder before the stream would gush into the urinal. Amazingly many of them had problems with the first stream. Completely out of control, the first stream came on their shoes, the walls, and anywhere.
After they had done their business, they would turn around. The five steps from the urinal to Chelsea was the proudest walk of their life for some of them. They would smile big. They would walk with a swagger. They walked with the energy of trying to dodge Chelsea's glance yet lured to touch her. They would wipe their hands on her dress, while she looked them straight into the eyes, as they stood a foot or two away from her. They wiped their dirty bathroom hands on her pretty dress on her person. The hands, that were holding heir penises right in front of her, were putting that onto her body. She could imagine the penises in her head, as the hands were touching her. She could imagine the musky smell of them. Some of the boys were smelly and dirty. They did not seem to have taken a shower in two or three days. Who knows what dirty, private things they may have done with that penis? That penis had accumulated all of that dirt and filth and was now put forth on her. Some red blushing boys had accidently peed on their hands. They were wiping the golden drops of urine onto her. Chelsea's dress collected little dark wet dots. The boys never put one and one together about the dark dots. They were so engrossed with being able to touch the body of hot Chelsea or denigrating her that they never realized that they were touching a filth pot of male wipe indirectly touching all those other boys' penises.
The day ended of course in detention again. Detention had become our afternoon hangout. The teacher had warmed up to us girls. We took turns in bringing cookies and tea to pass the time. After the other teachers had left, our detention teacher would often bring out a board game. That day, we were playing Monopoly, which is a very long game. The teacher offered a prize to me, if I'd win. It was almost too simple, like the teacher had calculated it. Chelsea made enough mistakes in my favor to make sure that I'd win.
After swearing us to secrecy, because she could loose her job, she told us about the college that she went to. The academic program was poor. Yet, the hazing among the students was first rate. The hazing rituals had been perfected over the years. There were secret rules. Student life would be very much like the relationship between Chelsea and me. Only, there was no detention. She had gone to that college. Hearing all the stories that had landed us in detention had always brought up good college memories of her own.
The college had a rule by which an alumnus could enroll a special protégé. The purpose of the rule was to ensure that the protégé would fit into the school and support the hazing environment. The applicant had to bring a young man to the all girls schools interview. The young man had to present himself naked to the principal. He was not to be forced physically. Also blackmail or deceit was acceptable. Actually, the degree of psychological twistedness or cruelness was carefully being judged on. The principal was an old man. He did not actively support this. Yet, over the years, he had become accustomed to match by the student body.
This was my chance at college past late application. Chelsea and I set the plan in motion. I spread the rumor that Chelsea had a secret crush on frog boy. The whole class quickly distributed the information. On the last day of school ever, I allowed Chelsea to wear her bra. She was wearing a pushup bra. She slithered over to frog boy before class started. She touched his arm to get his attention. He looked at her silently. He was wearing a short sleeve shirt that was too large. The buttons did not line up on both sides. Chelsea started unbuttoning his shirt, while she told him about all the years that they had spent in class together. She told him, how he was always in the front of class. She had spent so many years looking at him that her secret desire had developed in her. As she started buttoning his shirt back up correctly, she admitted to a growing fear last night in her bed that kept her up all night. She would not be able to see him anymore. While she had to accept the reality of everyone moving all over India after graduation today, she still wanted to have a memory of him. She whispered into his ear that she would offer her body to him, if he should come with her after school.
School was over at noon, because there was nothing left to teach us anymore. Frog boy was a man of few words, yet he showed us secretly the condom in the front pocket of his pants. Chelsea quickly pushed his hand against the pocket and looked around, as if they might be found out. She whispered into his ear that she was so wet for him. Yet, even though they were both of age and high school graduates, she still needed her father's permission. Her father's office was in a nearby district.
Off we went walking through the busy streets of Bangalore. There were the street carts selling potatoes, jewelry, and snacks. There were beggars and ascetic holy man in the street. Often the two were indiscernible. A few scrawny dogs with torn fur lurked in holes of dilapidated walls. Frog boy never even asked why I was coming along. Either, he was mentally ripping the clothes off Chelsea or he was completely frozen up with fear. Either way, it did not matter. He was coming along.
The next step in the plan was delicate. Chelsea started talking about her father being a doctor. She started talking about sexual diseases. Then, she dropped the bomb. Her father would insist on inspecting frog boy naked. Her father was supposedly a secular man. He would care little about sex before marriage, yet he wanted to keep his daughters reproductive organs healthy. So, frog boy would have to strip naked in front of her father to ensure his complete health. Frog boy started hemming and stalling. Chelsea quickly took is hand under her clothes, under her bra and asked him, if he wanted to touch, see, and kiss these lovely boobies. Frog boy became sullen. He did not let go of Chelsea's hand. He would only momentarily wipe his wet hand on his pants, when Chelsea insisted that the clenching was squeezing all the water out of his hand. Good Chelsea put up with all this for me.
When we arrived at the college, Chelsea stayed behind in the hallway. She explained that her father wanted to have a man-to-man talk with him. In reality, it was my admission interview and not Chelsea's. Chelsea waved to frog boy and blew him a kiss from her chair outside the door. Frog boy followed me into the office.
The office was a rich old office. There were wood panels all around the wall that were not covered by ginormous book shelves with thick big leather bound books. The wide desk had a golden shiny lamp with a green hood. Photographs and certificates were framed in ornamental metal working and pitched on the desk. The principal was an aged gray haired man. He was wearing a tailored suit with a diagonally striped tie. He put on his glasses and carefully unfolded the Bangalore newspaper. He did an interview technique typical of Oxford. He asked me to do something that would draw his attention away from the paper. In Oxford, it was rumored that an applicant ones took out the lighter and set the paper in the hand of the Oxford principal on fire. Allegedly, the applicant was accepted for quick and effective thinking.