The Mattressable.
He found another excitement in Manali besides the natural scenery.
One he had not dreamt of.
At a friend’s villa in Manali he saw her.
It was at a family-supper that he attended.
He was not keen to go but his friends dragged him.
The place was the Military Cantonment Bungalows.
The host was the captain of the army.
She was the hostess.
There were no other women present except her.
The three trio were made to sit in the patio for drinks.
Then they entered the dining room.
She was slender, silken hair, the hair plucked back from
the natural hairline of the eye-brow as the fashion goes.
She moved with a delicate sensuousness, every slight rhythm of the
arm and shoulder and the leg as smoothly as music.
It was pleasurable. She appeared to be one of those rare
creatures whose every breath was made for love.
Sketching her frame in her mind, he found a wholeness in her.
There was an undulant softness of manner, voice gesture, motion.
From the beauty of neck and shoulder and bosom, she was an
artist’s imagination of painting her as the female-nude; not to love,
but to paint. She had much of her loveliness resembling a
Fairy lost her way from Heaven. Her face was rarest of rare.
She was unlike any woman he had ever seen.
He was all through out the dinner aware of her not merely
through his eyes but through every pore and part of his body.
Her presence in the room before she moved or said a word of mouth,
sent his blood pounding through his veins, shot his back and the
shoulders upwards, thrust his pelvic structure alive with new life.
In short, she was love in its ultimate form.
Her welcoming smile for him had encouraged him.
In fact she liked company of men-not any one in particular.
Her movements had a captivating grace and it was a delight to see.
Though an inner drum was pounding in his ears, he heard
the soft music of her voice that shocked him to intense awareness.
After dinner while the two others were involved in some serious talk,
his legs involuntarily moved in the inner room.
In spite of his protestations that he had no interest in the female form,
that he found no excitement worthy of painting, he could not tear
his eyes away from her bodice clothed in a fine woven silk which
accomplished the harrowing miracle of seeming to expose her breasts
while at the same time keeping them under cover.
The harder he looked, the less he could actually see, for he was confronted by
a masterpiece of the dressmaker’s art, designed to excite and intrigue,
yet reveal nothing beyond a suspicion of white doves nestling.
She was amused at his interest in her.
She: “Are you an artist? “You look like one.” “A music-man?”
He: “ I am a painter.” “I do off-hand land-scaping.”
She: “Will you paint me in your style?”
He: “You are already a painted picture of natural beauty.”
He: “I have not the ability to reproduce your grace charm
and beauty by my brush.”
They laughed together. They leaned towards each other.
He: “Will I see you again?”
She: “If the Captain invites you.”
He: “Not otherwise?”
Her lips parted in a smile.
She: “Is it that you wish me to pose for you?”
She laughed heartily.
Her movements tightened the net over her bosom. Once again,
he found himself watching the lovely shapes beneath her bodice.
It was a nice evening.
