World’s Greatest Husband Ch. 01

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Chapter 1: Fuse Is Lit For A Strange Transformation

“Bommi is holding the handsome fellow’s hands.” The woman who spoke was a surprise. The old fashioned way she wore her sari, the glitter of her nose rings, the kumkum dot on her forehead, and more kumkum in the middle at the hairline proclaimed that she was an orthodox Hindu. The surprise was the half filled glass of whisky she was sipping. She thought she was talking in a whisper to her husband who was by her side on the sofa, but being slightly under the influence, she was loud enough for Bommi to hear. Her husband, though wearing pants and slacks, had the look and mannerisms of a prohit, a temple priest. He had no tuft of hair on the back of his head that temple priests have, but when he shook his head a topknot seemed to toss about at his occiput.

The couple was in a fellowship party, which in India means a party where liquor flows. Occasionally orthodox couples do find themselves in such surroundings; and when there they participate with enthusiasm.

Bommi, who on the sofa in front of the couple, was indeed holding the hands of a young man in his late twenties seated at her side.

“She is rubbing her thighs against his,” said the older woman still in a loud whisper, “and she is playing with his hands.”

“Oosh, Amulu” said the prohit, “won’t you be if you had the chance to get a fellow as handsome as that?” The woman was not shocked at this imputation. She broke into a hacking laughter. She prodded her husband on the ribs with her glass and laughed again.

“Naughty,” she said.

The scene was a room in a government guesthouse in a narrow road that branched from the coastal highway. The group of persons who had come together for fellowship, though known to each other, were not close friends. Other than for this special purpose they rarely met. This was a feature of these gatherings. The social prejudice against alcohol consumption amongst the middle classes, in spite of a cultural tilt towards the west, still exists. Those who want to indulge preferred to do so in the company of acquaintances rather than friends. Being occasional users they, as a rule, indulged unwisely.

There were six of them including the host who was an official of the department whose guesthouse it was. There were two couples, the prohit and his wife, both in their early forties, and Bommi and her husband in their early thirties. The younger woman’s husband was seated next to the prohit’s wife on the sofa opposite where his wife sat. He lay stretched on the sofa, head pointing to the ceiling, eyes closed, and breathing stertorously. His drinking day was over. The young man was an invitee of the host. The official and the couples knew each other, but the young man was new to the group.

“The old lady is talking about us, Shakir,” said Bommi to the young man. She had a shapely up-tilted nose and a fine figure. She wore a light blue sari of synthetic material; her blouse was sleeveless, and its lower edge came as high up as was possible. Her sari was sufficiently low slung to bisect the umbilicus.

The prohit couples were replenishing their glasses.

“Three fingers Amulu,” said the prohit, whose name was Vasu, to his wife. He held up three fingers horizontally as if to make his meaning doubly clear. Social drinking might be alien to Indian culture, but the wife had to serve her husband in the traditional manner. In carrying out her husband’s instructions Ammu was taking no chances. She placed three fingers of her left hand against the bottom of the glass, and holding the heavy bottle of whisky by the neck with the other hand she carefully tilted the bottle to deliver the exact amount he needed. She expertly opened a soda bottle and started pouring.

“Say when,” she said. Shakir was amused to hear that phrase used when pouring soda, but her husband did not see anything unusual in it.

“Stop,” he said at one point and Amulu stopped. She poured herself her regulation quantity that as per the shastras had to be exactly what her husband had ordered for himself. She diluted it with the same quantity of soda. She rearranged the pallav of her sari, disturbed by the recent excretions. She tucked the pallav to her waist after making minor adjustments to cover her breasts properly.

“Please permit me to help you,” said Shakir to the young woman.

“Yes,” she said, ” thanks for asking, two fingers.” She laughed. “You can call me Bommi.” Shakir poured the required quantity.


“Up to the brim.”

“Almost water, Bommi.”

“I like it that way.” Shakir mixed himself something stronger. Bommi got two saucers and deftly shovelled boiled and salted chickpeas kept in a bowl on to the saucers and placed two spoons çankaya escort on the saucers. She offered one to Shakir and kept one for herself.

Their host took a cane chair. He had in his hand a large glass full of the brown liquid.

Bommi took a spoonful of the chickpeas and delicately put it in into her mouth without allowing the spoon to touch her lips.

Shakir noted with some surprise that Bommi’s glass was half gone though he did not see her sip so often. Soon it was empty.

“Some more?”

“Yes, Please.”

“The same?”

“Umm, just a little more and not so diluted.” Shakir understood. In order to keep her company Shakir emptied his tumbler and helped himself to another slightly stronger mix. When he sat again it was very close to his fair companion.

“This chick peas are very good,” he said. Bommi nodded. The prohit woman kept up an incessant chatter to her husband.

“Bommi and that young man are getting hotter and hotter,” she said.

“The young man is the type I know, but the woman is a puzzle,” said the prohit to his wife. “That young man is not here to drink. When no one is looking he empties his tumbler contents into the flower pot.”

“Why does he do that?”

“He is a predator,” said the prohit hoarsely.

“What is that?”

“He remains sober and approaches a woman in an inebriated state when the husbands are fully drunk and starts a conversation, and takes her to a corner and, and…” the prohit was searching for the word that was genteel enough for the prude sensitivity of his wife, “and takes liberties with them,” he said finally.

“Liberties?” repeated the lady. Her voice was slightly slurred.

“Yes liberties.” The woman did not understand.

“Which woman?”

“The one seated in front of us.”

“What is she doing?”

“She is doing the same thing.”

“Taking liberties?”

“No, she is also surreptitiously pouring her liquor into the other flower pot.”

“A good day for the flower pots,” said the dame.

“Possibly, but why is she doing that?”

“Taking liberties?” said the woman. She shook her head as if to rearrange her thoughts. She knew the answer, but was not quite able to put it into words.

“May be she doesn’t like the stuff,” said the prohit, “but for fellowship’s sake fills up her glass.” He pouted his lips. He was not satisfied with his explanation. “Something tells me it is not so.” He poured himself another three fingers and started sipping. “I think I have it. She keeps sober to drive him home.”

There was some movement at the other end of the sofa. Bommi’s husband’s head slipped and landed comfortably on the armrest of the sofa. This gave the cue to Ammu. She also wanted to rest comfortably. She got up for the sofa and lay on the carpet at the feet of her lord and master.

From the floor she was darting glances at Bommi and the young man alternating between their faces and the region of the thighs. Suddenly she knew the answer. She announces her discovery in a loud raucous voice.

“She is a predator too.”

“Ooosh, sleep it off”

“I have better things to do,” she said and focused her bulbous eyes on the pair, presumably not to miss the predation when it happens.

“The lights are too bright. We’ll go to that corner sofa,” said Bommi. She took her glass and emptied its contents into his. Following her example Shakir emptied the contents of his saucer into the other. The prohit joined his wife on the carpet. Bommi went to her husband, stretched him properly on the sofa, and placed a cushion under his head.

Bommi and Shakir moved to a single sofa. It was the right size for two slender persons who wanted to rub thighs. Shakir drew a tea table to the side and placed the glass and saucer on it. Shakir put his arms round Bommi’s shoulders and pulled her to himself; Bommi placidly laid her head on his chest. She sipped from the glass casually as if resting her head on the shoulders of a total stranger was a natural thing to do. Her pallav slipped off baring the magnificent valley of her breasts. She took a spoonful of chickpeas, and no doubt owing to the unsteadiness of her hand, one pea fell into the valley. Shakir stared down into the valley with no trace of embarrassment.

“The pea is deep down, may I remove it?”

Bommi nodded. Shakir inserted his middle and index fingers down the rift but the pea was beyond his reach. He undid the top hook of the blouse the better to reach the errant pea, and then he undid the other hook. Bommi did not react I any way. He got the pea and reverentially put it into his mouth and chewed with relish.

“Better than the others,” he said. Bommi chuckled. He kissed her softly on çayyolu escort the cheek once, and then he kissed her in all parts of the face, cheeks, nose, eyes and lips. Bommi offered her face but did not respond. Shakir embraced her, resting his chin on her shoulder. Boldly he undid the clasp of her bra. He rubbed the back were the bra had made indents on the skin; then in one move he swept his hands round and cupped both her breasts. Her back was resting on the sofa and he was over her imprinting innumerable kisses on her; this time she was responding with equal warmth. Shakir explored one and then the other breast rubbing and feeling their exquisite softness and then they kissed passionately on the lips. Shakir then sat by her side fondling her and kissing her.

“I need to go to the bath room,” she said. She got up. “Please hold me Shakir.” He held her and helped her to the bathroom at the end of a narrow corridor. She went it and bolted the door. Shakir heard sluicing and then she unbolted. She was holding some object crumpled in her hand.

“What’s that you are holding?” She spread it out. It was her lace trimmed brown silk knickers.

“I took it off but I am too unsteady to put it on again.” She laughed,

“May I help you put it on?”

“You may not.” Her sari was loose and it came off. She was in her skirts. Her blouse was awry too and her breasts, pendulous, but imposing nevertheless, were bare. Shakir took one and bit the nipple. She held his head with both her hands. He bit the other.

“Let us go and lie down. I find it difficult to stand.” She tucked her knickers to her skirt, wrapped the sari round her and covered her breasts. They went and lay down behind a sofa.

“This jute carpet is hard,” said Bommi. Shakir had the solution.

“I will lie on the matting and you lie on me,” he said. Bommi chuckled.

“Worth trying,” she said. Shakir lay on his back and Bommi lay on him face down as if he were a mattress. Shakir groaned.

“I do not think this is a good idea ,” he said. “You must support part of your weight on your knees.” She did the obvious; she got astride him, knees and elbows resting on the carpet. Shakir caught the dangling nipples with his lips and worked on them. His hand was now on her thighs, but when he tried to insert his hand under her skirt she pushed his hand away.

“Not that Shakir,” she said with such decisiveness that Shakir obeyed.

She took a sip from the glass.

“You want one?”

“Yes, but how can I?”

“You can. I’ll show you how.” She took a mouthful and asking him to open his mouth she squirted it in, and then they kissed moistly with their tongues. And then she lay on him with her thighs spread wide apart and her flexed knees pressing his hips—an outstandingly elegant posture of a frog princess. She rubbed his cheeks with hers and when he arched up his pelvis she gave counter pressure with her pussy on his turgid organ. He wanted more, but when he tried once again to get under her skirt she pushed him hand away rudely. She unbuttoned his shirt and pressed her breasts on his bare hairy chest. They lay for a long while luxuriating in each other’s warmth.

Suddenly she got up. She went to the bathroom. She needed no help this time. When she came out she was fully dressed.

“It’s time for me to go, Shakir,” she said. “Sorry to leave you in this state. You better go to the bathroom and release the pent up energy lest you harm yourself.” She smiled sweetly. She woke up her husband, straightened his dress, and dusted him as if he were a pillow. She helped him out and into the car, revved the car to a roar, and drove away in a flash.

‘Fast woman in every sense,’ said Shakir to himself.

Shakir lay down on the sofa. He eyed the prohit lady. In the state he was in she was an option. The prohit, though he sportingly conceded his wife’s desire to make out with handsome men, was taking no chances. He lay on the carpet by his wife’s side with his arm over his wife. Shakir closed his eyes but could not relax. His eyes drifted once again towards the prohit couple. Suddenly he noticed that the woman’s eyes were wide open. They made eye contact. He smiled. She smiled in return, a coy smile. She turned round and seemed again to go to sleep. With her face turned away she looked quite attractive: Narrow waist, and good hips, and he recollected that her figure was good too. He thought of leaving but decided to wait in the hope that something might turn up. He snoozed.

He woke up with a start. He took out his hankie and wiped his mouth. The prohit lady got up to go to the toilet. She turned and smiled, again that coy smile. Shakir got up and stood at the passage as if he was waiting ankara escort for his turn for the toilet. When she came out she stopped and smiled.

“Where your girl?” she said. Shakir liked her direct approach.

“She left.”

“Carrying her husband with her I suppose.”

“Almost,” agreed Shakir. “Your man may need to be carried too.” The lady laughed.

“That is almost always the case.”

“You seem OK now. I am too. Shall we sit somewhere and talk.” The lady nodded. They moved to the place behind the sofa. Shakir was now very familiar with that corner. They squatted on the carpet.

“Do you come here often?” asked Shakir.

“Our fourth.” She stopped to listen. The sound of deep breathing from her husband that stopped started again. She relaxed.

Shakir held her hand. She did not object, rather she held him too. That was signal for Shakir to proceed.

“Your hands are so soft. You can’t be doing house work.”

“Not much. But I do.”

“Very soft. I suspect you must be wearing gloves.”

She laughed noiselessly. “I do no such thing.”

Shakir went closer and kissed her on the cheek. Shakir was surprised that she should receive it as if it was her due.

“Soft too, as one would have expected.” He held her head by the cheeks and touched her lips with his. Her large lips may seem incongruous on her thin face but they were good for kissing. He did not fancy nose rings, and this woman had two, both large, sparkling with diamonds. But in the mood he was in anything clad in a sari would be welcome. She responded weakly. He kissed her again, this time firmly. She pecked him. He then held her and she held him, softly at first but gradually with increased intensity till they were kissing passionately. He then deliberately undid her blouse hooks and bra clasps. Her breasts sagged but they were a lovely pair, not one bit inferior to that of Bommi’s. He played with them and then he sucked and she moaned softly. Shakir noticed her pulling her sari up and up. She bent her knees and spread out her thighs, driving him to frenzy with her spontaneity. Now her pussy lay exposed, and surprise of surprises she had shaved it smooth. He gently nudged her and she lay on the carpet, hips flexed, knees bent, and thighs spread widely, ready to receive him. He lowered his pant and his cock came out big and angry. He penetrated and she moved her hips to settle it in. He pumped once. Ammu raised her hand asking him to stop. The husband’s breathing sound suddenly ceased. She waited awhile. Still silence. Ammu hurriedly pushed Shakir aside and got up. She pulled down her sari, buttoned up and ran to the toilet. She came back and lay by the side of her husband and took his arm and placed it over her. It was a false alarm for the man was now snoring. She cuddled closer to him. She was once again a dharmapatini.

Shakir cursed. Twice in one afternoon was too much. There was no point in his staying there any more. His host lay on the sofa breathing deeply and rhythmically. No formal leave taking was possible. He got into his car and turned the ignition key.

May be the unreleased energy and the anger of frustration disturbed his concentration, or may be the few sips of whisky he did imbibe were having an effect, or may be he just snoozed on the wheel, anyway a passing bus nudged him into the lane of the oncoming traffic; he collided head-on with a container truck.


The scene was a third floor flat in one of the suburbs of Madras. Early morning sun was streaming in through the many windows in the drawing cum dining room of the flat. Ammu was on the sofa newspaper in hand. She was sobbing.

“What’s the matter,” asked her husband Vasu as he walked in form the balcony. She pointed to a column in the paper and she gave it to him.

“I read it,” he said. “He is critical, but I believe his condition is stable.”

“How do you know?”

“I called the official whose guest he was yesterday.”

Amulu continued to sob. Wherever any young man is involved in a serious traffic accident she always thought of her brother and made herself miserable.

“That slut must have disturbed his concentration.”

“Why do you call her a slut,” she said angrily. Vasu was surprised at her anger. She almost screamed.

“What else should one call her? Handkerchief sized blouse, beasts exposed, navel showing, any man would be attracted. As if that was not enough she rubbed her thighs on his. Any man who comes to a drinking party and does not drink has some sinister design. I am sure they made out behind one of the sofas when we had gone to sleep. If she had dressed and behaved modestly like you it would not have happened.”

Amulu fidgeted in her seat. Her husband was annoying her. She moved to the bathroom. She needed a quiet place to weep her eyes out.

Vasu reread the report. ‘Serves him right,’ he said and threw the paper down. He had no further interest in the matter. He could not have guessed it, but incident was to change his life forever.

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