Mrs Sharma's Trip

Mrs Sharma hadn't gone on a trip in five years. Ever since her husband had died, her life had revolved around home and school. While she hadn't shaved her head or donned white clothes, her life seemed dull and grey. Her English classes, her daughter, her cat..... she couldn't recall the last time she had laughed out loud.

The headmaster had called her to his office. The tenth standard students were going to Shimla. All her excuses had fallen on deaf ears. She had motion sickness and couldn't stand hill roads - they were going by train. She couldn't stand the cold -Shimla in April wasn't cold, surely. Besides, Mr Pratap would be there to take care of everything. She suggested that perhaps Mr Pratap could go on his own. The headmaster brushed this aside, murmuring something indistinct about teenage girls.

Mr Pratap was a tall man with a broad forehead and a perfectly trimmed French beard. Mrs Sharma had often noticed his classes with admiration and, she had to admit to herself, some irritation. While she had to cajole, punish and reward the students into good behaviour, a mere glance from Mr Pratap could silence an entire class.

The train ride was uneventful. The cold hill air made her shiver slightly as her dark green silk saree rustled in the slight breeze. Their hotel was small and old-fashioned. The school budget wasn't accommodative of such luxuries as air-conditioning and marble flooring. She sank into an armchair while Mr Pratap dealt with the receptionist.

She was slowly drifting into sleep when loud voices shook her awake. She saw Mr Pratap talking loudly, his beard bobbing aggressively. As she approached them, she could hear the reception saying," I'm sorry, sir. We thought both teachers were men. And we were asked to minimise the expense." As she peered over Mr Pratap's broad shoulder, she could see the ledger -"Deluxe double room - Sharma, Pratap", it said in bold untidy letters.

"I'll try to find another hotel for myself nearby ", Mr Pratap was saying. She thought of the fifty children she would have to manage alone- fights to break up, lovebirds to separate, sneaking out of rooms, damage to hotel property.... She heard herself saying, " I'm sure the double room is enough for the two of us. Don't go to the bother and expense of another hotel." Mr Pratap seemed relieved and embarrassed at the same time. He murmured something about separate beds.

Dinner was a quick affair, or as quick as fifty children with large appetites and a flair for mischief would let it be. They ensured the children were tucked into their three seated rooms, before climbing up to the top floor where the deluxe rooms were. As Mr Pratap opened the old door, she saw a small room with a table and two chairs. "If this is a deluxe room, I wonder what regular...", her words trailed off as she noticed there was only one bed.

Mr Pratap went on search of the receptionist, his tie fluttering importantly, his face angry, He returned in minutes with the news that the receptionist had left and that there was only a night watchman who knew nothing about rooms and beds. "I'll sleep on the floor", he said. She looked at this expressive eyebrows, at his perfectly combed hair and at his manicured nails. She looked at the mosaic floor - cold and forbidding. "You will catch pneumonia", she said. "We can share the bed." "I'm an old woman", she said, by way of explanation.

They spoke for a while - of their classes, of their hobbies and other unimportant things. Then she opened her suitcase, lying beside his trunk of the old table. She took out a black nightgown with white lace trimmings. Almost unconsciously, she added a matching set of undergarments, and walked briskly to the bathroom door. She could see his eyes on her back as she walked, careful not to drop the clothes.

As she bathed, she wondered what he was doing. Was he still angry? Was he perhaps lying down, tired from talking? She would her red towel around her head turban style, and dressed. As she opened the door and entered the room she saw that he was lying in bed, his black expressive eyes open but faraway. As she removed the towel and let her long black shiny hair cascade down to the top of her thighs, he woke from his reverie and looked at her, as if seeing her for the first time.

She packed her discarded clothes carefully, in a separate compartment of her suitcase and then sank into bed. The bed was still warm from his body. She tried to go to sleep, but couldn't. She lay facing the bathroom door, wondering when it would open. When it did open and he stood in an off white shirt and a dhoti that played around his ankles, a hairy calf peeping through from time to time, she averted her gaze. Wordlessly he approached the bed. She heard the click of the light switch and felt the bed creak slightly as he eased into it.

She tried to go to sleep. But her mind wouldn't rest. Was he asleep? Was he facing her or away? Was his hair still perfectly combed or had was it ruffled? Was his dhoti still at his ankles or had it perhaps..... She shivered slightly. And then she felt the bed sway as he moved, nearer she fancied. A hand looped around her narrow satin-clad waist.

As he moved nearer she could feel his warm breath on the back of her neck and his feet slightly touched her own, almost playfully. His hand remained at her waist as wordlessly, his body pressed against her back. His dhoti was most certainly not at his ankles, she thought wryly. His hands then rose to where her chest heaved, cupping her breasts gently, making her nipples, already taut from the cold, stiffen in anticipation.

And then his skilful hands dropped gently, back to her waist and then they traced the gentle curve of her hip before resting on her ample buttocks. And then, slowly, with infinite care, he lifted her nightgown until she was in her black lace underwear, goosebumps rising on her flesh. She turned to face him - in the moonlight streaming in through the window, she drank in his broad hairy chest, his unbuttoned shirt, the dhoti, half on, but off in the places that mattered. He exclaimed inpatiently as his hands struggled with the clasp at her back, before she helped him. Soon, her damp, black panties joined the heap on the floor.

He climbed on her and the two warm spots on the cold bed became one. His mouth moved skilfully, awakening parts of her she never knew existed. She felt her legs parting as he moved restlessly on her, his breath hot and insistent. "Wait, I'm not on protection", she said reluctantly but desperately. She felt him ease away for a second and then there was a crackle of plastic, a sound of rubber stretching and he slid into her waiting wetness with a practised ease.

And then, they began a passionate timeless dance in the moonlit darkness. He was slow at first- gentle and unhurried, despite his pounding pulse and ragged breathing, until she urged him on by a touch. His movements then quickened and slowed, slowed and quickened like the waxing and waning of the tide. She felt her legs tighten around his buttocks as he spent in her - wantonly, copiously, deliciously - even as her loins convulsed around him, her mind full and empty at the same time.

When she woke, the sunlight was streaming in through the curtains. He lay, still asleep, his dhoti bunched up around his waist. She rose and slipped on her nightgown, and went into the bathroom to wash.

As they descended down the stairs and woke the children up, the night remained unspoken. As they ate, she gazed at his lips as they moved hypnotically. As she ushered the children out the front door, she turned around. Mr Pratap was slipping ten crisp perfectly-folded notes to the receptionist, the same polite man they had seen the day before. The man gave her a roguish wink.