The Age of Shiva by Manil Suri Page B

provocatively in the dark corners of the room, corollas unfurling to form giant flowers.
    Then Dev kissed me. It took me a few seconds to recognize the sugary odor of alcohol in his mouth. When I was seven, there had been a period when Paji staggered home late every night, when he always seemed to have that same odor on his breath. I stiffened and shifted towards the lower edge of the bed.
    â€œVijay uncle brought along a bottle of whiskey. It was only a sip—I had to, for politeness’ sake.” I sat in silence, remembering Biji’s anger towards Paji, her recriminations and threats. Dev tried to touch my shoulder, but I eased it out of the way.
    â€œTell me, have you ever slept on a charpoy before?” he asked after a moment of silence. I shook my head sullenly. They were only good enough for servants where I came from, I felt like retorting. “Let me show you something then.” I looked in bewilderment out of the corner of my eye as Dev started bobbing up and down on the bed.
    â€œArya bhaiyya and I used to do this in the charpoy we shared when we were small. Sometimes we’d set Hema in the center and try to launch her into the air.” He began bouncing more vigorously, and I wondered how drunk he was. “It’s better without the mattress, though—here, let me take it out.”
    Dev pulled out the mattress from under us and threw it on the floor. The wooden frame creaked in protest as he pitched himself against the bare ropes. “We’d sometimes stand up and use it as a trampoline, but that never worked. I don’t know how many beatings we got from Babuji for breaking the ropes.”
    It was such an incongruous sight that despite myself, I began to laugh. My husband, the bouncing groom. Could I have married a boy at heart? Surely life shouldn’t be too awful with someone as playful as that. Dev started laughing as well. “You can do it too, you know, from the other end.”
    He cheered in encouragement as I joined in. Was this what marriage was about, bouncing together on the bed? “Press down each time I go up,” he instructed, and I felt our rebounds increase in strength. With each surge, something else got dislodged and fell away from my thoughts—Hema, the doli, the whiskey, the marriage ceremony. I started feeling buoyant and carefree, as if I was back with Sharmila on the seesaws we used to ride in Rawalpindi at the midsummer fair.
    Then I missed my cue and descended when I should have risen. The motion sent me toppling into Dev’s arms. I was still laughing when I realized he had pulled me free of my blouse. My breasts spilled out against his chest, and he raised me up to take the left one in his mouth.
    It was a shock to look down and see my flesh encircled by his lips. My body had never been handled with such a casual sense of ownership before. I tried to lean backwards to pull myself out, but Dev was holding me too tight. I felt him suck my nipple, felt his tongue lap clumsily over my skin. Then he let go to grab the other breast and taste that as well.
    â€œMeera,” Dev said, and I was careful not to let the dismay rise to my face. “How long I’ve wanted…”
    He began pulling out the sari from around my waist, throwing it to the ground in great handfuls, like wrapping paper torn off a wedding present. He lay me flat on the charpoy and worked my petticoat off. His hardness pressed against me in several spots, like a finger testing the ripeness of a fruit. Then he entered me.
    That day in the tomb, the day the warmth had sprung up and risen from between my legs, I had become aware of another sensation. A deep-rooted craving, a hidden emptiness, that had opened up in the same part of my body. Now, the thought that first flashed through my mind was that this emptiness was going to be filled. That this nameless yearning would be appeased, that waves of satiation would radiate everywhere else.
    What spread