12.4 Viveka
It was my bra that saved me. Thank God for modern technology, underwire frames and desi modesty.
I didn't scream when he tore my kurta off. I should have. But he did it so suddenly, I didn't have time to react. We civilized people aren't used to such things happening.
In one violent movement, he ripped the kurta off and tossed it aside. His eyes glinted like hard diamonds. Like the eyes of a cobra in sunlight. His teeth bared beneath the bushy moustache were yellowed and flecked with tobacco-paan.
He had grasped my left shoulder with one brutally strong fist, and with the other hand he had begun to reach for my salwar.
Then he paused, frowning, and stared at my chest.
"What manner of garment is this?" he asked, his voice thick with lust.
I didn't have to look down to know he was talking about my brassiere. Obviously, in this alternate world, bras hadn't been invented yet. He had expected me to be bare-breasted beneath the kurta, and was puzzled by the unfamiliar garment. That moment of confusion and lustful male curiosity was what saved me really. Imagine that: saved by a bra!
He took his right hand off the waistband of my salwar, and raised it to my bra. However unusual the garment was, it was only an impediment to him right now. In another second, he would grab the front of the bra and pull it off roughly. And being a front-opening bra, it would snap open without any resistance. And then I would be in serious trouble.
I made my move in that split second, knowing it was the only chance I was going to get.
Did I mention I've taken martial arts lessons? I can't have, because I haven't. But while living with Steve, my American boyfriend, I used to watch him doing his tai chi exercises every morning. And out of sheer curiosity, I began to pick up a few things from him.
One of those 'things' was a move called Wind Through Trees. I executed it now, hardening the flat of my hand into a knife-life edge. And thrusting it directly at Khanna's adam's apple as hard as I could manage.
The result was gratifying.
I felt the fleshy impact of my hand smashing into his throat. And he instantly let go my shoulder and staggered back, both hands clutching his throat.
He rasped hoarsely, eyes wide with shock at the unexpected move, and tried to speak but no words came from his bruised larynx.
That was when I picked up the brass candle-stand and hit him on the head with it, hard.
He went down like a ton of bricks.
And I turned and ran.
I didn't scream when he tore my kurta off. I should have. But he did it so suddenly, I didn't have time to react. We civilized people aren't used to such things happening.
In one violent movement, he ripped the kurta off and tossed it aside. His eyes glinted like hard diamonds. Like the eyes of a cobra in sunlight. His teeth bared beneath the bushy moustache were yellowed and flecked with tobacco-paan.
He had grasped my left shoulder with one brutally strong fist, and with the other hand he had begun to reach for my salwar.
Then he paused, frowning, and stared at my chest.
"What manner of garment is this?" he asked, his voice thick with lust.
I didn't have to look down to know he was talking about my brassiere. Obviously, in this alternate world, bras hadn't been invented yet. He had expected me to be bare-breasted beneath the kurta, and was puzzled by the unfamiliar garment. That moment of confusion and lustful male curiosity was what saved me really. Imagine that: saved by a bra!
He took his right hand off the waistband of my salwar, and raised it to my bra. However unusual the garment was, it was only an impediment to him right now. In another second, he would grab the front of the bra and pull it off roughly. And being a front-opening bra, it would snap open without any resistance. And then I would be in serious trouble.
I made my move in that split second, knowing it was the only chance I was going to get.
Did I mention I've taken martial arts lessons? I can't have, because I haven't. But while living with Steve, my American boyfriend, I used to watch him doing his tai chi exercises every morning. And out of sheer curiosity, I began to pick up a few things from him.
One of those 'things' was a move called Wind Through Trees. I executed it now, hardening the flat of my hand into a knife-life edge. And thrusting it directly at Khanna's adam's apple as hard as I could manage.
The result was gratifying.
I felt the fleshy impact of my hand smashing into his throat. And he instantly let go my shoulder and staggered back, both hands clutching his throat.
He rasped hoarsely, eyes wide with shock at the unexpected move, and tried to speak but no words came from his bruised larynx.
That was when I picked up the brass candle-stand and hit him on the head with it, hard.
He went down like a ton of bricks.
And I turned and ran.
posted by Ashok K. Banker at 12.10.05
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