It was just a peck, that first time. Chaste, like a bird feeding its young. We pulled away almost as soon as we began, declaring the whole thing stupid and overrated. But the following afternoon we were back in that room of discards, in that third-floor haven of all things undesired. “Maybe we should open our mouths wider,” I suggested in a whisper. “And suck a little. The magazine says that’s the kind of thing boys like.” It was why we were doing this: boys. When we came back the next day and the day after that, it wasn’t because we were odd or crazy, or because every time Farzana locked her fingers in mine, a pinpoint of electricity rolled down my spine. No. It was because when the opportunity to do this with actual boys presented itself, we wanted to be prepared.
After a few such afternoons, our secret caresses got firmer, sweeter. We let our shoulders relax. We allowed our hands to rest on each other’s bodies. We didn’t check ourselves every time our voices rose and we didn’t bother locking the door. On the sixth day, we found ourselves lying face to face on the floor, my chapped mouth on Farzana’s petal-like lips, our hands moving to new places because it was important to know what it would feel like when a boy stroked your body. Farzana gasped at one point, a small, surprised gasp that made my heart flutter. My senses were drawn together in such sharp focus, I couldn’t see, hear, or taste anything apart from that which I held in my fingers. I couldn’t tell if it was light outside or dark, or if there were birds in the trees. Even if it had been louder, I wouldn’t have heard the creak of moving hinges at the edge of the room or the familiar footfall soon after. It was only when his voice rumbled out that I realized Aslam was standing at the door.
“Chheee! Ammi! Come quickly and see what is happening here!”
I imagined his words stopping at every ventricle of the great concrete organism their house was, before reaching his mother in her air-conditioned room on the lower level. He stood guard in his spot until she could make it upstairs, a chocobar stick melting in his hand, his mouth a twist of morbid horror and insane pleasure.
Neha Chaudhary-Kamdar earned her MFA at Boston University, where she was awarded the William A. Holodnak Prize for Fiction. She often writes about the lives of women in India, where she grew up. Neha lives in Berkeley, California, and is working on her first novel.
