Fiction Banu Mushtaq ,tranny fleshlight sex videos November 22, 2024 Translated by  Deepa Bhasthi

Be a Woman Once, Oh Lord!

? E S Kibele Yarman

After creating crores and crores of tiny organisms like me over lakhs and lakhs of years, after establishing heaven for our good deeds and hell for our sins, oh Lord who sits waiting for us: Prabhu, you must be on your way now to enjoy the sweet fragrance of the garden in heaven. Or perhaps you are issuing orders to the angels, who stand there with hands folded, radiant faces aglow. I may be a mere tiny fragment of your soul, but I do have the right to make a request, don’t I? Because . . .

This is about a period when I was particularly fragile and vulnerable, though I didn’t really have many problems then. There were four walls around me at all times, and freedom, in the form of a breeze, that marvelous product of your pure imagination, touched my face only when I opened the window. The only time I stroked the jasmine plant that infused the air with a heady fragrance was at night. The white cottony clouds, embroidered at their edges by flamelike rays of the setting sun and, glimpsed through the branches of the lone curry leaf tree in the backyard, the view of roaring black-black clouds that looked like elephants in heat—these I saw from the window in the middle room of the house. It was only in my heart that I saw the ferociousness of the rain like strung pearls. My feet never touched the front yard and stepped only on the floor inside the threshold of the house. My seragu never once slipped from my head. My eyelids were filled to the brim with shyness. Laughter did not cross my lips, and neither did my eyes wander round like bees. This was why Amma did not keep a strict eye on me. Don’t do this, don’t do that, don’t stand like this, don’t look like that . . . she did not need to tell me such things. I did not have the habit of thinking of many things either.

But still, I have one small question! All of these—that is, these sparkling, green-colored crickets, these colors everywhere, shining stones, the fragrant mud, the breeze, this sweet smell, these plants and trees and fields and forests, the roaring ocean, this rain, a paper boat in the rain—these are not things I can touch or immerse myself in, cannot smell, cannot see, up to which I cannot raise my face. You have given all these for him, for your supreme creation, isn’t it? This is the only truth I know. That is why I did not cause much trouble because this is your order, it seems. Poor Amma! What could she do, after all?

So I never talked back and I listened to everything Amma said. Let me say it: you should be obedient, she said, he is god to you, you should do whatever he tells you to, you should serve him loyally. These things were carved very deeply into my heart.

As for Appa? Let it be. When I had to leave Amma and go, it felt like my heart had been ripped out, placed on a palm and squeezed hard. Amma was also suffering. Even so, she said nothing. A saw was running wildly over her innards. But still her eyes gleamed; only the edges were wet. Perhaps you will understand. They say you carry the love of hundreds of mothers for us; the burning in one mother’s heart must have touched the hundreds of other hearts within you. But I did not see you anywhere. I was very scared. Amma hugged me to her chest, her cold hands stroking my burning cheeks. But then he pulled me away from my mother’s embrace and carried me away. I was a precious jewel wrapped in gold- and silver-embroidered cloth.

I knew Amma was sobbing. No matter how far we went, I could still hear her sobs. Here, too, one small question: What would have happened if he came and set down roots with us? When you so leisurely created the animal kingdom, the delicate threadlike parts inside flowers with gold coating, these marvelous ponds and lakes, rivers and streams, did you not have the time to peep into my heart and see my fears, my wishes, dreams, and disappointments?

I had nothing left that was just my own. I had to set down roots in another’s front yard, grow new shoots there, bloom there. He was getting attached, while my identity was melting away. Even my name got lost. Do you know what my new name was? His wife. My body, my mind were not my own. To my surprise, he desired my body, whose power to bounce back even I was unaware of. He devoured me. Except in those moments, the scepter of power you had bestowed on him shone in his hands.

From where all his cunning sprang and in what ways, I don’t know. In an instant he could break my heart into pieces and would scatter each piece to different corners. My body was his playground, my heart a toy in his hand. This way, like this, I used to apply balm, to attempt to repair my heart, but he continued to break it at whim. Prabhu, why did I have to become a toy? I do not hate him, nor do I wish for him to be my plaything either. If only I had been his backbone and he the hands that would wipe my tears away . . .

He had been using me for less than a week when he screamed like a madman. What am I? What is my status, there are people who willgive me lakhs of rupees, but I ended up bringing home a beggar like you! How was I supposed to answer? As per Amma’s advice, I remained silent. He ordered, “You must bring fifty thousand rupees from your parents’ house immediately. If not, you can never set foot there ever again.” I went back to Amma like costume jewelry wrapped in a dirty cloth.

Amma’s face lit up. Hundreds of suns and moons shone in her eyes in an instant. They immediately dimmed when she saw that he had not come with me. She gently took me in. The demand for fifty thousand rupees had disturbed the happiness on my face. That night when I slept next to Amma, I felt at peace, but soon he came to mind. A hole opened up in the fortress of Amma’s loving heart. He had crept in. By the time three days had passed, even I waited eagerly on my tiptoes. When he inquired if I’d got the money and saw my withered face, he said: “This is the last time we will come here. You cannot return from now on; nor should your parents come to our house.”

Amma fed me to my stomach’s content. She blessed me with all her heart. She combed all the knots out and braided my hair as if threading all her loving kisses together. The string of jasmine she tied in my hair was, like her, fragrant. Kanakambara flowers played hide-and-seek with the jasmine. Looking back at Amma every other second, I peeled my reluctant footsteps off the ground and walked behind him.

He was not one to go back on his word. Shouldn’t there be a limit to his arrogance? I did not open my braid out for three days after I went back to his house. I was scared of Amma’s loving kisses slipping away. My heart was attached to her; his was attached to having the last word. I did not meet Amma after that. There is no need for me to bring this to your attention either. You know all this; your own bookkeepers bring you crores and crores of such reports every day, but they are all written with a pen, whereas this report was written from the heart, a woman’s heart, a string of letters written with the heart’s sharp nib and the red ink inside. Perhaps no such requests have reached you till now because you have no bookkeepers who have a heart like mine.

As always, I am a prisoner of a soul whose doors and windows are shut. I did not see Amma, or Appa, or my younger brother ever again. There was a distant hope that Amma would not remain quiet. I know that she tried to see me many times. But he had built such a strong fort that all her efforts were in vain. His greed for money swallowed all our attachments, love and affection. He was blind but strong about his stand.

Several neighbors used to advise me to be the way he thinks is right. Even you have preached the same thing, that he is my god, that it is my duty to obey him, that in this world he can meet anyone anywhere any time he wants. But me? It was you who said that mother, too, is equal to god, it was you who said that there was heaven under her feet, and yet I cannot meet her even once. Whether you have time for these small problems striking my limited thoughts, whether you feel my entire life is a three-hour play, whether I seem like an actor to you, keep one thing in mind: my happiness and sadness are not borrowed. They are not to be performed. They are to be experienced. You are just a detached director. When one of your own characters assaults my mind, have you no duties as a director? Grant me one solace at least. What is my fault in all this, tell me?

He never asked me if I had eaten or had something to drink. But he ploughed, he sowed; despite its shattered heart and fatigue-filled soul, the body was ripe, the womb ready, and his hunger was great too. I was on the road to becoming a mother myself, but I stood in a corner constantly looking back down the road to my maternal home. I could not see any form or shape no matter how far into the horizon I looked. All I could see were a few green memory trees as they shed their leaves and grew bare.

I later learned that Amma had somehow convinced Appa to sell everything they called their own, make a bundle of twenty thousand rupees, and come to our house. That day the crow had cawed, the right eye had fluttered, the fireplace had hummed. Perhaps Amma would come. Amma had started but did not arrive. There was an accident somewhere it seems. Everything is anthe-kanthe, hearsay. He didn’t let me go see Amma’s body. Instead, he took care to ensure I didn’t hear about what had happened.

Here, in the big hospital in our town, it seems they cut into her dead body. Perhaps they didn’t cut into her heart. They wouldn’t have found clotted blood if they had; instead, they would find a clotted soul, several uncrossable Lakshmana Rekha, several dozen signs of tests by fire. But one thing is true: even if her body was shattered into pieces when she was alive, when she was dead no one touched her heart. Or her soul. An eternal virgin, her eyes remained open. I wonder who she was expecting to see. Her unfortunate eyes had remained open in anticipation, awaiting someone’s arrival.

From here and from there. From the window. Although I had heard bits of news through the ventilator, he who had gone to see everything remained stubborn. It seems that Appa, sitting beside Amma’s dead body, removed the bundle of twenty thousand rupees tied around Amma’s waist and placed it in his hands. It seems he begged, “At least now bring her here.” He did not tell me about any of this. Neither did he take me there.

A daughter was born, her face just like Amma’s, her eyes deep ponds. Just like Amma, I held her up, cuddled her and played with her. Now my tears did not flow or make ponds and rivers. Instead, they would gleam at the edges of my eyes like mist. Thank you for your marvelous gift; you gave me the power and determination to forget. The cool breeze of old memories was peaceful over the desert of life. I became pregnant again even though I was still breastfeeding, and as I carried her in my arms, the soft kicks of another pair of legs and the beat of a little heart had taken root in me.

I was greatly agitated. He twirled his moustache and said, “I am the one raising them, what is your problem in bearing them?” Poor thing. What he is saying is right. If only you had told him, just once, about the difficulties of giving birth, he might not have uttered these words. As easily as clearing one’s throat, as easily as pissing to relieve pressure, you have created a simple being that is arrogant and happy, and now you are indifferent. Should he be made uncomfortable with blood and flesh? Should the salt of his bones be ground and fed to the womb? Should he live in-between not just the flesh and blood but also a pain so intense it breaks the ribs? If only he had had these experiences. No, I don’t have the opportunity to ask these things because you are the creator, and he is your beloved creation. Does that make me the creation unloved?

There was no limit to his happiness when, just as he wished, a boy was born. Although I was not happy, one thing gave me satisfaction. At least we had not created another helpless prisoner of life like me. Instead of someone who had to live pathetically, without stability, a son was born who could step ahead proudly, in full arrogance of being male!

I poured more love on my daughter.

Both the children were growing up. His status, superiority complex and arrogance all kept laying eggs and procreating. I had morphed into the most dutiful servant; it was the only available path. Giving nothing to the world, getting nothing from the world, with no awareness of social relationships, nameless, less than a person, I was only his wife, that is, free labor. At night if I imagined what would happen to me without his protection, I started shivering. I was nothing without him and that stark reality was constantly before my eyes. I was a mere shadow. I hadn’t been ready to accept this at first. There was a lot of conflict within me. At the slightest hint of a future without him, I would get frightened. I was scared to even imagine the situation. I was a slave; even so, the owner who gave me food, water and shelter in return for my labor seemed like a mahatma to me.

Perhaps this could have continued, and I would have eventually married off the children and then died, just like Amma. But one day he admitted me to hospital. Apparently there was a tumor growing in my stomach. The doctors conducted many tests and said that I needed surgery. His face screwed up like he was angry with me. He didn’t say anything in front of the doctors. Once my surgery was over, he returned and just stood there. “Give me the neck chain you are wearing,” he ordered. It is better to say a few things about this chain. Amma had this two-strand chain made when I got married. She had melted the gold her mother had given her for her own wedding in order to make it. I wore it always, in memory of Amma. This was why my heart was reluctant to hand it over. I asked, stammering, “Why do you want it now?” I think that was the first time I had ever questioned him in my life. Without an ounce of hesitation or mercy, he very casually replied, “I am getting married again. I want to give it to the new girl.” Darkness surrounded me. Do I rip off these glucose bottles and run away? Where do I run to? Do I give him a slap? Che! That is impossible. What will happen to the children? The possibility that even the four walls of my house could be closed to me became a truth that solidified before my eyes, and I was crushed.

I held on to the chain in my left hand as if it was my life and said, “I will not give it to you.” He was taken aback, perhaps because he had not expected it. He looked at me with hatred. My refusal insulted him more than not getting the chain. He burned, wanting revenge. “Oho! You think my wedding won’t happen if you don’t give me your chain?!” he shouted. In a timid voice I asked, “Why do you want to get married again now?”

“Should I give you an explanation also? OK, listen then. I do not wish to waste my life with a beggar like you. What is the use of a sick person? I am marrying a good girl from a good family.”

You gave me the strength to bear a lot of pain. But you should not have given him the cruelty to cause so much of it. What is the limit of patience? Even though patience was my life’s mantra, I collapsed, helpless. Before I could speak, he said, “Do you want to hear more? What pleasure have I got from you? Every time I touched you, you lay there like a corpse. That is why I am getting married again.”

I’d lost the ability to think straight. My words had become silence. My eyes had misted behind a veil of tears. I was being thrown on the street like trash and I was filled with anger. I wanted to get up from the bed, but I couldn’t. Slowly I started to think. Was it possible for me to stop him? In my time as his loyal servant, I had asked only three or four simple questions, to which I received thousands of answers in reply.

“Look, you are not well. Let him get married again.” If one voice said, “Arey, this is all very well, he is a man, not just one, he can marry four, what can you ask?” others advised with fake sympathy, smiling under their mustaches: “Look here, my dear, let him get married if he wants to. File a case demanding that he give you some money every month. It will take about four or five years for the judgement. Until then do some daily wage work or something.” That means society has accepted what he’s doing. They even say that you help with these things! It is in your name that he does this because I am your incomplete creation, hey Prabhu? Can you hear my grievances? Are my cries reaching you? What will I do . . . what will I do . . .

He has not come to the hospital in three days. My children and I have been sharing the free food given by the hospital people. That, too, has ended now that the doctors have discharged me. Taking the children along I walked toward my house with great difficulty. There is a fat lock on the front door. A green canopy of coconut fronds is in front of the house. There is no one at home. Neighbors peeped out and disappeared from view. The children sit huddled against me. The day was spent and night stepped in, even as I continued to sit in front of the house.

The door to hearts and houses had shut. The darkness was deepening. Seeing my helplessness, the children didn’t mention their hunger. Since my feet were stiff, I spread out my legs. The children stuck to me and laid down. I was half asleep, I didn’t know what time it was. When a scream loud enough to burn my heart opened my eyes, I saw that my son, who was sleeping next to me, had fallen into the ditch. In one leap I jumped down and hugged his slush-covered body. That was when I heard a tempo stopping under the canopy, the noise of people, excitement, the bustle of celebration. He got down. From the back door of the tempo with his too-strong hands he lifted a woman wearing red clothes, like a precious jewel wrapped in gold embroidered cloth. He walked ahead, taking purposeful steps. The front door of the house opened. Everyone was with him. My son shivered and hugged me. I looked at it all with wide eyes.

The nib of my red ink-filled heart has broken. My mouth can speak no more. No more letters to write. I do not know the meaning of patience. If you were to build the world again, to create males and females again, do not be like an inexperienced potter. Come to earth as a woman, Prabhu!

Be a woman once, oh Lord!

Excerpted from Heart Lamp: Selected Stories by Banu Mushtaqand translated by Deepa Bhasthi. Copyright ? 2025. Available from And Other Stories.