The Widow

Noble Romance Publishing, LLC

www.nobleromance.com

The Widow ISBN 978-1-60592-073-3 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED The Widow Copyright 2010 Rosemary Ambale Cover Art by Fiona Jayde This book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any existing means without written permission from the publisher. Contact Noble Romance Publishing, LLC at PO Box 467423, Atlanta, GA 31146. This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. The characters are products of the author's imagination and used fictitiously.

Book Blurb Set in early 20th century India, when sati, the practice of burning widows on the funeral pyres of their husbands had just been abolished, but widows were still regarded as accursed, this novella explores the passion buried in the heart of one young widow who would not let custom and tradition get in the way of her love.

Dedication To: The Bat—In grateful acknowledgment.

Chapter One As he splashed cold water from the copper cauldron onto his brown, muscled torso, Abhy kept his eyes on the door of the red roofed cottage. With the sun just coming up over the horizon, she'd soon be emerging for the pooja. He'd watched her worship many times and memorized her schedule. He was rubbing homemade neem soap into his matted chest hairs when he saw her. As usual, she draped herself from head to toe in white, with the edge of her sari drawn low over her face, and the long black plait of hair flowing down her back to kiss her buttocks. As Abhy watched avidly, she walked to the sacred basil plant in the courtyard, poured a brass tumbler of water on it then circumambulated, her feet moving just so, her hands joined in prayer. The sari fell back over slender arms and where it draped, her bosom lifted a little to reveal a sliver of creamy waist. Abhy craned his neck out of the window for a last glimpse of her, as her morning worship over, she went back inside. Her long, boyish strides molded the sari to her slim thighs and tight buttocks. She disappeared and he sighed for what came next . . . . Invariably, each time he saw her, he got hard. He never saw any part of her body, but the curve of her waist where it swelled into her hip, the pert uplifted shape of her bosom, and her swaying butt never failed to turn his knees to water. He had spent every day since his arrival watching her, but had gotten no further than that. If this had been England, where he had lived until a few months ago, he would have taken her by now. But this was India and the woman was obviously a widow. And although sati—the practice of the widow immolating herself on her dead husband's funeral pyre—had been abolished

nearly 50 years ago, even in the early 20th century widows were taboo. They spoke to no one and no one—certainly not men—spoke to them. Abhy would have been prepared to breach tradition and go up and speak to her but the repercussions to her would be instantaneous and deadly. The villagers would ostracize her, throw her out of the village, and brand her immoral. And that's only if she were very lucky. In some villages, she'd be killed for such a transgression. To make matters worse, she came from the servant class. The red tiled cottage was where Pundit, the family cook, lived. She was probably his sister or daughter. And Abhy, as the young master and landlord of Garhwal, could not socialize with a servant. Especially not a servant who also happened to be a widow. To do so would raise a storm. Of course, there were unscrupulous landlords who used widows and servant girls ruthlessly to satisfy their lusts. But no one in his family had ever done that. Even the thought of anyone treating that slim, dignified figure in white like a tart squeezed his heart. But at the moment, some other body part needed squeezing. His cock quivered urgently between his legs, demanding attention. Abhy splashed cold water on himself, to no avail. There was no help for it. He would have to pacify the beast. With soapy hands, be began caressing himself while he imagined her standing before him. Some day he would find her alone and she would come to him, beg him to take her. She would lift the veil from her face, bare her bosom before his greedy eyes. How would her breasts be? Pale, pink-tipped globes? Or firm peaches with nipples like long, purple mulberries? He imagined sucking at those mulberries and his hand, slick with soap, moved faster, sliding up and down the rigid shaft. He pictured himself pulling up that decorously draped sari and thrusting into her. His mouth would crush hers and he would squeeze her breasts while she squeezed his

cock into her hot moistness. He would take her hard, forcefully, just as he now thumped like a piston into his hand. She would cry out his name, beg for more .... The cold marble of the bathroom wall seared his back and he groaned as his pulsing, dark rod erupted, shooting long sprays of white cum against the green marble of the bathroom floor.

***** Since his return to his ancestral home in Garhwal, India, Abhy spent his mornings with his father and the estate manager, or visiting the family farmlands, inspecting accounts and sometimes going over to the city for discussions with the family attorneys. He'd spent his childhood at an English boarding school and holidays with his aunt in Sussex. In the last 20 years, he had returned to India only twice and he'd found it wonderful. But now that he was here for good, he saw the cracks beneath the surface—the superstitions, the way the people blindly followed the old usages and customs, despite the injustice they often caused to the weak. And the British who ruled India were very different from their counterparts in England. Abhy longed for his country to have the freedom and progressiveness that England had and had recently joined a local branch of Congress which, headed by lawyers like Gandhi and Nehru, was agitating for the establishment of an independent India. When he returned to the house, usually in the late afternoon, he would sit at the big bay window overlooking the cottage while he ate his lunch, watching her as she sat cross-legged under the fig tree in her courtyard teaching the village children. So long as she was there, he could not bear to move away.

Once she went inside, Abhy generally took Shaitan for his evening ride to the burning ghats, which led down to the river on the outskirts of the village. There, he spent time with his friend, Jay, a young lad from the village. Like Abhy, Jay did not seem to mind that the ghats were the cremation grounds for the village Hindus. Occasionally there would be a cremation in progress and Abhy would turn back, but generally the villagers cremated their dead well before sunset and he and Jay would sit under the trees bordering the ghats, watching the river flow serenely past. Abhy spoke to him of his life in England and how difficult he found it living here, and for the most part, Jay listened raptly, occasionally interrupting with anecdotes of his own childhood in a boarding school in Vingurla. Chapter Two That evening, Abhy rode toward the ghats, his spirits low. He had not seen her all day. He hoped Jay would be waiting. Occasionally he wasn't, and at such times Abhy would sit forlornly beneath the banyan tree, hoping he would turn up. But today Jay was there, looking like a young fakir, his face half hidden by the turban that he wore, the long hanging branches of the banyan moving like ropes in the breeze. He tipped his face up to Abhy and asked quickly, "What's wrong?" "I didn't see her at all today." Abhy threw himself down besides Jay, adding forcefully, "Why should it be like this. Why is everything so complicated? Why can't I just go up and talk to her? All I can do is to sit and look at her morning and afternoon. It's ridiculous! I hate it here." Jay looked at him with large, serious brown eyes. "Yes, I hate it too." Abhy's mouth fell open. "You? Why do you hate it?" The young man shrugged. "It is a harsh country. But tell me, why are you so obsessed with this woman?"

"I don't know. I want her. Not only physically, but also to talk to her, get to know her. But because she's a widow she's inaccessible." "Yes. I've often thought widows have a worse fate than the untouchables in India. They must always wear white, cover themselves, eat the blandest food to prevent carnal desires. They would be better off dead. Is it a wonder that many widows prefer to become sati—to kill themselves— rather than live like this?" Jay gave Abhy a curious look. "But you are a landlord. You could have any woman you choose. Don't you mind that someone else has had her before you?" "No. The poor thing! Did she have any choice in either marriage or widowhood? She's living a cursed life through no fault of her own. And she's doing it so gracefully, so patiently." "You could just send for her. After all, she's just a servant." "No. I don't want her like that. I couldn't bear her to be stigmatized . . . ." Abhy trailed off, unable to explain the tenderness he felt for that frail figure. "I just wish I could get close to her." ***** Jay came up with the idea for Abhy to ask Veeru, his personal servant, about the girl, on the pretext of discussing his lunch. The next day, Abhy spooned creamy cheese balls cooked in cashew nut gravy, and said, "Veeru, Pundit is going to a lot of trouble cooking these special meals for me. Tell him I said thank you." Veeru grunted. "Pundit doesn't cook your special meals. He has too much to do cooking for the entire household. Your mother asked his daughter to do it." Abhy, striving hard to sound casual, said, "Mother shouldn't have done that. Poor child!"

"She's no child. And she should be grateful your mother allowed her in the house." "Why? What's wrong?" "She's a widow." "Very young to be a widow, isn't she?" "She was a child bride. Married at twelve and widowed at fourteen. Serves Pundit right!" he added vindictively. Abhy's eyes grew wide. "Why do you say that?" "Well," the servant said, looking unrepentant, "her husband was a landlord and Pundit was very cock-a-hoop over getting such a rich son-inlaw, even though the landlord was years older than Pundit himself. The old man died within a year of the marriage." He chortled. "Riding a young mare was too much for him." Abhy's stomach churned. The image of a fat, aging man mounting his slim girl was unbearable. Sending Veeru away, he went out onto the balcony, where gaudy bougainvilleas climbed up the trellis and the gulmohur blazed orange. The heat hit him like a blast from an oven. Shading his eyes, he stared at the shut door of the cottage. His meal had been hot, which meant she'd waited until he came home before she actually began cooking it. Had she eaten anything herself? The shimmery haze stirred as a figure stepped quickly from behind the house. Abhy could only see her feet as they twinkled in and out under the folds of the sari, and the plait of her hair swinging behind. He imagined those feet entwined around the skinny thighs of an old man. Had her husband made her undo that plait and loosen her hair? Had he spread that black mass on the pillows, rubbed his old, wrinkled face into those tresses? And had he also, as Abhy so often fantasized, wrapped his cock into that black sheet of hair,

twined those curls around his member, and emptied his seed into it? Abhy felt sick at the thought.

Chapter Three It was late summer before Abhy's wish to see her face was finally fulfilled. The heat had been building up and that afternoon the sky grew heavy and dark. The sound of thunder filled the air, and fat drops of rain splattered to the ground, breaking up her noon class. The children scattered and she stood calling after them, urging them to take care. The tearing winds molded the sari to her body and blew off her head cover. For one transfixed minute, Abhy saw her profile clean and pure—a mass of dark curls kissing her cheeks, pointed breasts, and a little round belly—before she turned and whipped back inside the house. That evening, Abhy rode breakneck to the ghats, and throwing himself down next to Jay, burst out, "I saw her face." "And?" "Oh, exquisite! She was like a candle, standing there in the blowing wind. I wanted to dash out of the house and clasp her to me." He clutched his head. "God, I want her so much. I'm going mad with desiring her." He felt Jay touching his head gently. The young man said softly, "You like her very much." A statement, not a question. His fingers threaded through Abhy's hair. Abhy took off his riding boots and flexed his feet. "Yes, I think she is beautiful." "Do your legs hurt?" "Yes, I had a long day today standing in Noha's fields, explaining to him why he has to keep them fallow this year." "Let me massage them."

Taking Abhy's feet in his lap, Jay began to rub them expertly. Jay had always carefully avoided any touch before, and Abhy felt surprise and pleasure as the strong fingers pressed hard on the painful points in his heels and ankles. He sank back on the ground, perfectly relaxed. As he continued to massage, Jay grew gentler and his fingers moved upward to wind smoothly around Abhy's calves, pressing and caressing. After a while, he pushed up Abhy's loose trousers and kneaded the tender skin behind his knees. To his horror, Abhy found himself getting hard. He dared not move. He looked apprehensively at the young man, but Jay, head bent, seemed intent on his task as he moved his hands up to Abhy's hard muscled thighs. To Abhy, those slim hands were like tongues of fire caressing him. He wanted them to move higher. It was all he could do to stop himself from grabbing them and pressing them to his crotch. Would Jay notice the bulge in his trousers? As if he had heard the thought, Jay looked up. His eyes were wide, his lips parted, the red tip of his tongue showing slightly. The desire in his face was unmistakable. He quickly looked away, and moved his hands to caress Abhy's upper thighs. "No. Jay, no." "You are burning for her," Jay whispered. "Let me make things better." Before Abhy could move, Jay put his hand flat on Abhy's crotch and as if a switch had been pressed, Abhy's cock rose strongly upward. Jay laughed softly, and cupping Abhy's crotch in his hand, gave a gentle squeeze. The mound swelled tighter against the fabric. Abhy groaned. "No."

Jay dug his elbow into Abhy's ribs, forcing him down, while with his other hand he opened Abhy's trousers, carefully drawing out his tight, hard member. Abhy felt the young man's hot hand gripping his shaft and he was lost. A small sound escaped Jay's lips. His fingers ran restlessly up and down the swollen cock, dribbling excruciating lines of sensation. He gently dragged the foreskin down and with light fingertips circled the wet head, the blunt, glistening tip. A single moist finger pressed against the eye of his penis, and Abhy's body convulsed. Then Jay put both hands around the stiff shaft and began rotating in opposite directions . . . smoothly, smoothly . . . and Abhy shuddered with pleasure. Just when he thought he would climax, Jay stopped, and reaching down, took Abhy's balls in his palm, massaging them with feathery strokes, while continuing to pump rhythmically at the shaft. "Oh my God!" The words were torn out of Abhy. He could not have stopped Jay to save his life. He found himself pushing his cock upward into the young man's palms, harder and harder, longing for fulfillment, gripping Jay's thin shoulders as he felt his cum shoot out through his fingers and into the air in strong spurts. Abhy took a few minutes to get his breath. He lay, eyes shut, feeling ashamed and yet exhilarated. He had never in his life wanted to lie with a male. He had never had fantasies of having sex with a man. He had even despised men with different sexual preferences. And here, in one moment, he'd been stripped of all his prejudices. He wanted to cringe at what had just occurred but found himself remembering instead the exquisite pleasure those hands had given him. "You should not have done that," he said, slowly. Silence. Abhy opened his eyes to find himself alone. In the far distance, he saw Jay running swiftly toward the village.

Chapter Four The encounter with Jay left Abhy in an emotional turmoil. Suddenly, he couldn't be sure whether he was homosexual or heterosexual. Perhaps his pent up desire for the woman had led him to this confusion? He decided he would have to take immediate steps to resolve the situation. He had to meet and talk to the girl, convince her of his love for her and let her know he wanted no other woman. But he would have to be discreet. If things went wrong, she would be in serious trouble. Marrying a widow was not legally a crime, but in the villages, if a widow even looked at a man, her brother or father would kill her to save face. And if they did not, the villagers would. If he managed to marry her, would his parents support him? If they did, it would be half the battle won. Would they go against the local feeling?

***** Abhy had his answer the next week. He and his father sat in the shade of the huge rain tree outside the Big House, nursing their drinks. Abhy had stopped going to the ghats and now spent his evenings with his father. They were about to go in to dinner when Machi, the gatekeeper, ran in to tell the latest news from the village. Sarju, a young cowherd, had been caught in the hills making love to his neighbor's widow. The pair had been brought to the village square and been publicly whipped. Afterward, they'd banished the woman to the widows' city at Benares, and they'd driven Sarju out of the village. Abhy's father listened, seemingly unmoved.

"Aren't you going to do anything, Baba?" Abhy asked incredulously. "Loving a widow is not illegal and these people cannot be allowed to take the law into their own hands." "Here, it is the village elders who make the law, son." "But Baba, they would listen to you." "Yes. But change must come slowly. To say anything now, when tempers and emotions are running high, would just turn them against me." Abhy knew his father was right. "What is this 'widow's city'?" he asked. "It's a small place in Benares—the temple city—where only widows are allowed to live. No man is permitted to enter. The women live on alms begged from those who come to the temples on pilgrimage, and the older widows keep a strict eye on the younger ones. Once a woman goes in there, she never returns." "That's cruel." "That is how it has been for generations." "It has to change, Baba. I've joined the Congress party and will work for it. After all, it is political activists who managed to stop sati." "Sati is still very much alive. Last summer, at Basrapur, a young widow was burnt alive on her husband's pyre. The villagers erected a temple at the site." His father sighed. "And if people still think sati is the religious duty of a wife, you can be sure they will never permit a widow to live a normal life." "Baba, you sound as if you endorse these views . . . ." "I don't. You should know better. All I'm saying is that it will take a long time to get people to change their ways of thinking." "Yes. And I think that we, the upper class, should be the ones to initiate that process." "Fine, Abhy. Work with the Congress party and do your best." "And if I do manage to bring a change, Baba," said Abhy slowly, "Will you support me?"

The landlord of Garhwal looked at his son. What did he have in mind? The boy was a product of England and his ways of thinking were not Indian ways. But he was not a bad boy. And besides, it was past dinnertime. He was hungry. He laughed. "Yes, I will. And now, let's eat." He clapped for a servant. Chapter Five The talk with his father emboldened and spurred Abhy to arrange a meeting with her. In a fever of passion, he decided he would waylay her when she went to the cottage at noon. At siesta time, there would be no one about. The next day, he bolted his lunch and went outside to the balcony. As soon as he saw her he took a cotton shawl, and throwing it over his head, let himself out the back door. She reached the cottage and went in. Abhy was just wondering if he should call out, when she returned, carrying a plate of food and a brass water-pot. She headed toward the woods, probably to eat her lunch under a tree. Abhy followed her, his face shrouded in the shawl. The trees grew densely here and dry leaves softened the ground underfoot. Not a leaf moved, not a bird stirred in the depths of the neems, babuls and banyans. The heat had silenced everything. He looked around. Where could she be? A mynah suddenly flew up chattering, and Abhy looked to see what startled the noisy bird. There he saw her, standing half hidden behind a huge peepal. In the dim green twilight, she looked wraith-like. She apparently saw him, for she dropped the brass pot and the plate, and took off running. Abhy gave chase, and in a few seconds he came abreast of her. He reached out, caught her shoulder. She came up against him, her

back hitting his chest. Abhy caught her into his arms, steadying them both. She struggled in his grasp. "Wait," he said, "I just want to talk to you." He dragged the shawl from his head. "Look, I'm Abhy, your master," he said, his breath rasping, "I won't hurt you." She turned to look at him. Her head cover had fallen off. Her face, inches away from his, was a pale oval with huge dark eyes staring at him through the long tendrils of hair that were sticking damply to her forehead and cheeks. He bent his head and kissed her. She stood motionless, unresisting, only her breasts rising and falling. Her lips yielded softly beneath his and he crushed them beneath his own. Greedily, he sucked at them, nibbling, taking her tongue into his mouth. Desire rose in a tide. Roughly, he pulled her close. Her sari fell from her shoulder and he pulled it off. The short blouse she wore beneath showed the shadow of her dark nipples like hard, round pebbles. Bending, he put his mouth to a nipple and chewed at it through the material. She shuddered. He moved to the other breast, caught the nipple between his teeth and tugged. She gave a low cry and sagged. Abhy laid her gently among the leaves. Her petticoat rode up. He ran feverish hands up and down her long, slim thighs, pulled the petticoat higher. She wore nothing underneath and her mound of curly dark hair was open to his gaze. He knotted his fingers into the tangle and pulled at it. She did not resist, rather lifted her pubis into his hand. The smell of musk rose strongly from her pussy, and bending down, he pushed his face into the curls to savor it. She was soaking wet and he rubbed his face in the moisture, pushing his mouth into her tender, secret place. Her thighs moved farther apart, and at the movement, he rose to undo his clothes. Opening his trousers, he looked at her. She lay with total abandon. Her blouse showed two dark wet patches where he had bitten her nipples.

Her thighs glistened damply. He pulled out his cock and found her looking at it, mouth parted, breath coming quickly. Staring into her eyes, he moved the foreskin back and the tip throbbed crimson and eager. She moaned. He knelt between her legs and she opened them wider, displaying her inner lips to his gaze. The gesture maddened him. Without finesse, he drove into her, hands squeezing her breasts. Her legs came up around his hips and he felt her cupping his buttocks, pulling him deeper. He hammered into her, fast and urgent. He felt her muscles tighten around his cock, the tension building, and then she began shuddering and heaving convulsively. Her teeth sank into his neck as she peaked, and he joined her in a great wave of explosive release. He had barely moved off her when he heard the sound of voices in the distance. There were men approaching. She leapt to her feet, picked up her sari and vanished. Abhy stood, arranged his clothes, and leaned against a tree. The voices grew closer, and after a moment, Veeru and Pundit, the girl's father, stepped into view. On seeing him they looked taken aback. Pundit stared at Abhy with suspicious eyes. "Is something wrong? Why are you here?" Abhy asked. "My daughter, Viji, comes here to eat lunch and we came to find her." "Oh, does she? I thought I'd take a walk myself, explore the woods . . . ." Even to his own ears, the explanation sounded weak. No one in their right mind walked at this time of day. He straightened and said firmly, "Well, she doesn't seem to be here. Let's go."

***** Abhy spent that night reliving every second of his encounter with Viji. The feel of her arms around him, her firm small breasts, her musky odor. He

wished he'd had the chance to talk with her, to arrange for another meeting. He knew now that she was carefully watched, that another opportunity to get her alone might never arise. The next morning, when Veeru came with his tea, Abhy was standing on the balcony, his gaze locked on the cottage across the way. "What are you looking at, Master?" Abhy hurried back into the room. Accepting the cup, he noticed the servant's eyes on his neck. He looked questioningly at the man, but Veeru left without a word. While shaving, Abhy realized what the man had been staring at. The side of his neck bore the clear marks of teeth. That afternoon, he learned Viji was being sent away. No one could tell him where. Abhy realized that he would have to act fast. Once they sent her away, he would never be able to trace her. In India, with its small villages, remote hamlets and hills, one could vanish for eternity. And if anyone suspected his intention of marrying her, they would do everything to thwart him. Even his parents would not allow him to antagonize the servants or the villagers. He had to somehow find her and talk to her. But he couldn't do it alone. He needed help and the only person he could think of was Jay. He had not seen him since that evening and he wondered if he would find him at the ghats. Abhy shrugged. If not, he was prepared to scour the village for him. Jay was there, silent and very pale. Abhy wondered if the young man had been coming there daily, waiting for him. But he was in no mood now to consider the younger man's feelings. He said at once, "I need your help, Jay. I met Viji. A-and her father found out about it. They are sending her away. I have to get to her." Jay was silent. "Please, Jay. You know how much I long for her. I have to get her away. You must help." "You want her as your mistress?"

"No," Abhy said quietly. "I want to marry her." Jay's eyes filled with tears. Seeing his emotion, Abhy felt a pang of guilt. "I'm sorry, Jay, but I just don't feel that way about you." Jay drew a deep breath. "Run away with her. Take her away to Bombay and marry her there. I have heard that widows are allowed to marry there. In India, marriage is a sacred tie that no one can undo. Once she is your wife, no one can harm her or you." "Yes, I'd thought of that," Abhy replied eagerly. "And I have an aunt in Bombay who would surely help. But how am I going to get her to come with me? She hardly knows me. For all I know, she's cursing me for being the cause of her troubles. If I could only speak to her, convince her that my intentions are true . . . but there's no way to get near her now." Jay said, "I could do that for you. I'll talk to her, convince her of your intentions and bring her to you." Abhy hugged Jay fervently. "Yes, please, Jay." Jay moved away. "But you will have to hurry. It must be done at once. If she's sent away I cannot help you. Can you be ready tomorrow?" "Tomorrow? Do you think she will be sent away so soon?" "Yes. The entire village knows about your encounter with her." Abhy said firmly, "Right then, we'll do it tomorrow. Bring her here in the evening and I'll take her away in the car." Jay rose to go. "Wait," said Abhy urgently. "Promise me you will bring her. I depend on you. Do you promise?" Jay said quietly, "She'll be here, if I have to die to do it." Chapter Six

The day dawned cool, and Abhy, who had not slept at all, welcomed the break from the intense heat. The previous night he had told his parents he was going to attend a friend's wedding but had not mentioned he would be going to Bombay. He did not want them questioning him or mentioning his trip in front of the servants. Veeru had begun insisting he would go along, and Abhy wondered if he suspected something. He spent the entire morning waiting for Viji to appear, but she did not. He'd hoped to see Jay going to the cottage, but there was no sign of him either. Abhy felt a twinge of uneasiness. Would Jay fulfill his promise? Around noon, a sudden clamor came from the kitchens and Abhy heard his mother's voice remonstrating, and then his father saying sternly," What's going on here?" Abhy's stomach clenched. He knew without doubt that the commotion had something to do with Viji. She was in trouble. He ran downstairs. The servants were in a huddle in the dining room. Abhy gave his mother an anxious look. Pundit's daughter is missing," she said. "Hasn't been seen since dawn. Said she was going to the temple and isn't back yet. I'm trying to convince them she must have decided to visit someone." Gone since dawn? Abhy's heart plummeted. He and Jay had parted late last evening; too late for Jay to visit the cottage. Jay had not yet had a chance to speak to her. Where then had Viji gone? Or were the servants lying and had she already been sent away? At lunch, Abhy asked Veeru, "Is she back?" "No," said Veeru shortly, and turned to leave the room. At the door, he stopped to ask, "What time are you leaving, Master?" His tone of voice, so elaborately casual, set alarm bells clanging in Abhy's mind. The man seemed suspicious about Abhy's sudden trip. "I'm not sure," he said equally casually.

The afternoon crawled past. Abhy wished he could do something rather than just sit and wait. Finally, evening came, and with it Abhy's time to leave. He went downstairs to say goodbye to his parents. Veeru stood waiting at the door. "Shall I come as far as the village outskirts to see you off," the man said, loading the bags in the car. "No," Abhy said shortly, "no need for that." He started the car and drove away so quickly, Veeru had to leap out of the vehicle's path. On the way to the ghats, Abhy found himself praying every prayer he knew that she would be there. Veeru's behavior seemed to suggest she had not been sent off yet and was really missing. Had Jay somehow spoken to her? If not, he would go looking for her. No matter how long it took, he would find her. He found himself veering from hope to abysmal despair. Reaching the path leading to the river, he parked the car. The trail was too narrow to drive on. He would have to walk the rest of the way. The sun sat low on the horizon, and there was not a soul in sight, except for a dozen cows returning with heavy udders back to their owners. Abhy forced himself to walk slowly in case someone was watching. But when he came within sight of the ghats, he threw caution to the wind and ran. No one sat beneath the tree, awaiting him. He felt the blood leave his head in a rush. Then, from behind a babul tree, a figure appeared. Abhy started forward. It was Jay and he was alone. "Where is she?" Abhy cried, his heart beating so hard he could barely speak. "She will meet us once we're out of the village." "What? Where? How did she get there? Did you manage to get her there?" "Yes, yes." Jay said impatiently. "Hurry. We must go. Pundit and the villagers are out looking for her."

Jay caught Abhy's hand and began to run down the path. They were at the corner where the path forked, one branch diverging into the woods, when from the tree line a group of men armed with sticks came shouting and running toward them. Abhy halted. Jay cowered behind Abhy. Suddenly it came to Abhy what it would mean to Jay if they were found out. The young man risked his life for him. As the men approached, he recognized Pundit and Veeru. "What is it?" Abhy said, as coldly as he could. Hearing his tone, the villagers halted at some distance and only Pundit and Veeru came closer. Veeru looked perplexed on seeing just the two of them and said hesitantly, "Master, we-we did not recognize you. We wondered who was running." Then, peering at Jay, he asked, "Who is this man?" Abhy frowned. The village was a small one and surely Jay was known there. Jay came forward and salamed low. "Sires, I am a tailor from Neru. I am traveling to the next village. Lavanya, the daughter of the Brahmin there, is getting married next month and I am to stitch her trousseau. I meant to stay the night here and travel at dawn. But this kind Master says he will take me there." "What are you doing at the ghats?" The boy bent even lower. "Sires, I have very little money. And who will take in a stranger? So I thought I would sleep here in the trees. After all, the dead harm nobody." Pundit remained still, blocking the path and staring suspiciously at the two. Abhy drew a deep breath. There was only one way to convince him. He put his arm around Jay and looking levelly at the man said, "What is it to you who I travel with, anyway?" He hugged the young man closer.

At the unmistakably intimate gesture, the villagers gave a concerted gasp. Veeru and Pundit looked at each other and Veeru smiled slyly. Someone sniggered. Abhy felt his face grow hot but he gladly withstood the embarrassment, would have done much more in order to reach Viji. He walked forward, still holding Jay, and the villagers moved aside, letting them pass. They walked slowly toward the car and within minutes were on their way. Chapter Seven For a long while, neither Abhy nor Jay spoke. Abhy drove as swiftly as he could, for night had fallen and he kept thinking of her waiting somewhere for him, alone and frightened. The dim light in the car showed Jay's face pale and scared. "It's alright, Jay. They didn't suspect us of having anything to do with Viji's disappearance. You're safe. But tell me, why didn't they recognize you?" "I don't go out much." "But surely some of them must have seen you at some time or other?" Jay did not reply, and Abhy noticed him trembling. He put out his hand and patted Jay's arm. "Relax, my friend. It's over. As soon as we find her, I'll give you some money and drop you at the next village. You can return home tomorrow." The Ford chugged steadily on, its lights making an eerie pathway through the night. After some time, Abhy asked, "Where exactly is she, Jay? In someone's house? How far is it?" "We'll be there soon. Keep driving." Jay's voice sounded weak. Another half hour passed with Jay sitting huddled and giving no sign of them having reached their destination.

With sudden trepidation, Abhy asked him, "Jay, where is she?" Silence. Abhy turned to look at the young man, but he had his head turned away. Abhy stopped the car. He felt dread like a cold stone in his belly. "She isn't waiting anywhere, is she, Jay? You lied. You haven't brought her here. It's too far for you to have traveled in one day. Why, Jay? Why did you do this?" "You're right," said Jay with a sudden laugh. "I did not hide her anywhere." At the sound of his laugh, Abhy saw red. Raising his hand, he slapped Jay hard across the mouth. The young man's head slammed back against the seat of the car and he moaned, holding his hands to his face. Abhy caught his shoulders and shook him. Jay's thin body flopped back and forth like a rag doll. "How could you? I'll kill you, you little bastard." Jay's voice sounded thin with pain. "Even your blows are welcome, Abhy. I love you." Abhy smacked him again. "What have you done? I don't love you. I love her. Oh God! Where am I to find her?" Jay moved and held Abhy's head in both hands. Abhy felt the man's breath on his face. He pushed him away, but Jay moved closer, his lips moving softly over Abhy's mouth, his chin, his cheeks. Abhy felt the familiar hammering in his chest, the throbbing in his groin. Jay twined his arms around Abhy's neck. "I love you," he whispered. "Love me. Kiss me." Abhy thrust him away, opened the car door and stumbled out. The night air felt cold on his hot face. He drew in a ragged breath. Jay had done this out of love for him. He could forgive the man but where was his own love. His Viji? He jumped as a bat screeched overhead. The next moment, he felt Jay come up behind him and clasp him.

"Why are you running away, Master? You love me, I know it. Just as much as I do, you." Jay's arms came up around him. Abhy felt the young man's fingertips on his nipples, his belly pressing into his buttocks. "No. Jay, no. Leave me alone." But Jay was stroking him now, across his chest and along his belly, running his hands over his thighs then cupping his crotch. He laughed in triumph as he found Abhy's cock, hard and ready. "See, you love me. You want me. Why do you deny yourself?" "I don't love you." But Jay had already opened Abhy's trousers and taken hold of his thick shaft. "Look at this. How hard it is. It wants to enter me. Put it into me, Master. I want it. So, so much." Jay's voice was hoarse with passion. Abhy did not move. Jay knelt and took Abhy's hard cock into his mouth. Involuntarily, Abhy pressed himself into that warm, wet orifice. Jay's hot tongue rolled around his cockhead, teasing the tip, sucking, pulling, dragging. His mouth was like a vice, and Abhy, in sudden passion, caught the young man's head. Jay's turban fell off. Abhy caught the top knot of hair and gave a yank, pulling Jay up. Jay rose and put his arms around him. Abhy shoved at his chest, only to feel the unmistakable give of soft breasts beneath his palms. He gasped. Putting his hands to Jay's chest again, he probed. His fingers closed around small, round breasts, firm as melons. He squeezed them hard and Jay gasped. "Who are you?" Abhy whispered. "I am Vijaya. Or Jay. Or Viji." "Jay? You are Viji. Oh, heavens, that's why none of the villagers recognized you. And that's why you always felt so good in my arms. Oh, Viji! My love . . . ."

Her hair hung loose down her back, and Abhy pushed his hands into it, knotting his fingers as he kissed her passionately. She kissed him back, matching his passion with equally wild abandon. "I have loved you, Abhy, from the time I saw you. I came to you disguised as Jay because I wanted so badly to know you, talk to you. Forgive me." Her body in his arms had robbed Abhy of speech. He lowered her to the ground, opened her shirt and rubbed his face against her breasts. She arched, thrusting them upward into his mouth. He pulled down her trousers and his hand found the bush of hair that covered her mound. He opened her lower lips. They were wet, and he rolled his fingers in her moisture. Her cherry was hard and swollen. Putting his mouth to her breast, he pulled at her nipple and with the same rhythm, pulled at the tiny bud with his fingers. She cried out and opened her legs wide. Gripping his shoulders she sobbed, "I love you, Abhy. Take me. How I have longed for you. Come into me. I want your hardness in me. Take me now." Abhy pulled her trousers down and off. She spread her legs wide and he entered her solidly in one long thrust. She gave a triumphant cry and then they were both gripping each other, slamming and struggling, softness against hardness, arching toward and away, finding each other at last. ~The End~

About the Author Rosemary Ambale lives with her two daughters, in the heart of India in a house run over by books. Days are spent working as an attorney for a US law firm based in Pune, sister city to Mumbai, drafting complicated legal documents. She has published short stories and articles in India and began penning romantic fiction recently. She finds this to be a real stress buster and

besides, despite her legal background, she is a die-hard romantic. Apart from writing, she spends time biking and very recently got into paragliding. ***** If you liked The Widow, by Rosemary Ambale, you might also enjoy Little Japan, a male/male erotic romance by Reno MacLeod and Jaye Valentine. This second story in our Foreign Affairs Line will be released February 22nd.