Recounting almost everything - I

People have different ways of 'moving on'. Moving on from relationships, experiences, traumatic experiences, what not. I write. I prefer this mode because frankly, nothing else seems cathartic. Nothing else seems to make me focus my mind on that one thing. This is also because I have hardly been a speaker. Or expressive (in terms of words from my mouth). On top of that, I am evasive, and massively so. All this in combination makes me explosive (I don't think I have ever used so many adjectives for myself!). And I prefer to spew that explosion on my keyboard (or paper) rather than on someone.

So, why this sudden urge to write? Primarily because I have been thinking. Thinking how I have never thought, at length, of the one thing that dominated my childhood. Most of the recounting of those series of incidents happens through speech and especially when it is the occasion of 'coming out' to someone. Then begins the saga which started years ago and ended quite some time back. However, I realized a few days ago as to how I have never recounted that to myself. And how, while telling others about it, I miss details, some incidents. I don't know if they are crucial or even significant to recount and I have no idea what effect such recounting will have on either me or anyone else. But somehow I feel its important for me to write it down. Especially when writing is catharsis for me. The only mode of expression where I am able to express myself truly and honestly. Today, I make an attempt to recount almost everything.

Although it was a long long time back, I clearly remember the first time it occurred. I was in the room that my sister and I shared in our second house in Lucknow. That being one in the series of similar houses built by the government for its officials, sharing roofs, similarly structured and painted in similar patterns of red and fading yellow. Anyway, it was evening-ish and my mother was either in the kitchen or somewhere in the living room. I was preparing for school next day and particularly meeting the very specific (and peculiar) requirements of my then fourth grade class-teacher. She wanted our 'pencil-box' to have eight pencils at any given point of time. Eight pencils was a huge number back then, and she had even specified the brand of pencils required. Natraj, the ones with the red and black lining. And all of them perfectly sharpened. I was falling short of four of those at that time and my mother had asked Ram (our 'help') to get some from the stationery shop nearby.

I was fidgeting with my bag when he entered the room and placed the pencils next to me. Ignorant of his presence in the room, I took them and placed it in my box. I didn't realize his presence  until I felt his hand on my back. And then it slowly progressed to a caress, moving up and down, stroking me as if I were his pet who loved being caressed so. Frankly, I didn't mind his actions then. I didn't raise a voice, neither did I seem to object to it. It's hard to recall the feeling today but I definitely recall it not being one of repulsion. At that point of time, it was just a caress and didn't progress beyond that.

The period between the time it first happened and the next is much of a blur. We changed houses and moved into our newly built one in 1999. He was still there. Since the first time it had happened, I hadn't complained to anyone. Neither my sister nor my parents. It wasn't as if he had threatened me or specifically instructed me not to. I just didn't want to. At that point of time, the reason to not tell wasn't one of fear or shame. The urge to tell it to anyone just wasn't there.

It was after we had moved into our new house that the frequency of our 'interactions' increased. It's hard to recall when it happened for the first time in this house, but the pattern of those incidents is still fresh in my mind. I began to crave for some amount of action. I probably didn't know then that it was called 'craving', but whatever, I was quite desperate. I would anxiously wait for it to happen. My heart rate would increase thinking about it and it was probably then that I started feeling erections.

We used to utilize every possible alone time to touch each other. Dad was mostly posted outside Lucknow and since sister was a nerd so she was either buried in books or busy attending tuitions. Mom used to be largely at home but somehow we did use to find some time. It wasn't as if I was an un-monitored child or my parents didn't make any efforts in terms of discipline. They did and hugely so. There were hardly any complaints from me behaviour-wise, or from school in terms of academics. It was just that this was a tiny vent where I could be the exact opposite of what everyone else expected me to be or had an image of me. And these were the moments when I would experience the highest level of enjoyment. It was rather a thrill to feel his skin on mine or his lips on my nipples. My eyes shut, I could do nothing but moan when his warm penis used to rub against mine.

It wasn't as if he was hugely attractive (judging by my sense of 'aesthetics' now) or was charming in any way. I don't know what pulled me to him. Maybe it was the thrill of it. Or the excitement. I don't know.

There were moments when he would attempt something truly 'adventurous'. I didn't know how to ride a cycle till quite some time. So if I needed to go somewhere, he would make me sit on the bar in front of his cycle seat and go wherever I wanted to. There was this one time when we were returning from some place and as we were about to reach home he attempted to lift me by his dick, it being hard, obviously. I was caught by surprise as my back was towards him and didn't see that coming. However, he brought his face close to mine and smiled, wide-toothed. I still remember that face.

One thing that largely aided our 'escapades' was the fact that he had a separate room on the roof. To add to that, the manner in which he was called down to our floor. There was a bell in his room the switch for which was downstairs. Whenever my mom needed him downstairs or needed to wake him up in the afternoon, she would ring the same. And if  two-three pushes of the bell didn't succeed, he had to be physically woken up, and mostly I was required to do it. Taking an advantage of my position, I would rush upstairs to his room. His room used to constantly reek of bidi or guthka. Somehow, my senses had accustomed themselves to that smell to the extent of eventually liking it.

If he used to be still asleep, I would touch him on his chest or caress him. Mostly, I would ruffle his hair or run my fingers on his lips. Stimulated, he would pull me on himself and we would either make out or just go about each other's bodies. However, this used to be brief as anything long would cause suspicion downstairs. There were times when we had had a narrow escape because someone would come upstairs, not because they wanted to inquire but simply so. I clearly remember in times such as these, we would position ourselves close to the door so that any approaching footsteps could be readily apprehended.

At times when he did use to come down on hearing the bell without anyone having to go upstairs, and if there was no one in the house except me, I would make sure I was lying in my bed shirtless and exposing my back till the waist. I was quite sure that he would come to my room and wouldn't hold back upon seeing me lying so exposed. There were times when I used to lean into my cupboard with my shirt lifted so as to expose my back again. I somehow made sure to expose a certain amount of skin to catch his attention. He would encircle my waist and squeeze my chest, each time passing heavy breaths through his mouth. 

When I entered college, one of the many discussions among the 'boys' revolved around when one first masturbated or watched porn. To the first question, I used to often repeat what others said. However, in my head I still had a clear image of that particular afternoon when Ram first blew me. Prior to that, I had had no feeling of orgasm or even ejaculation. It was in dad's office room which had then been converted into a guest room. That used to be the site of most of our actions. I remember that afternoon so vividly that to this date, I recall what I was wearing. Somehow, I have this tendency to remember what one was wearing at a given point of time. But this one scores the most in terms of memory. Anyway, the feeling when it first happened is indescribable. I had never experienced anything of that sort and then I was confused and overwhelmed at the same time. What was this? What had just happened? Can't it keep on happening? Why was it so short-lived? From then onwards, I would always insist that 'वो दोबारा कर दो'. To ease himself of the effort, he taught me how to masturbate. 

Till then, I probably hadn't had any realization. Realization of what I was doing. And when it did dawn on me, I was a wreck.

(contd.)