CONFESSIONS OF KAMADEV - II

I’VE NEVER been much of Portnoy, though my earliest memories in this realm can be traced back to my lusty preteens.  I remember well the guilt and revelatory pleasure of it all.  I remember too the compulsiveness of it, a different temptress awaiting me each night. Those vicarious ecstasies gave way to flesh and blood reality soon enough. And, often, I’ve felt a certain regret in my later years for an inability to recapture the vivid pleasure of those enthusiastic times, especially when confronted with intransigent feminine wiles. But my concupiscence is besides the heart of the matter, though, to put it somewhat confusedly, the coercion of it is.

Even in my 24th year, despite a virtual seraglio at my disposal and a cherished standby at Falkland Road, I managed to accomplish an occasional Portnoy. Those rare occasions were merely ephemeral outlets for those indefinable depressions that beset even the healthiest of young men. It was during one such low period that my friend arrived.  He was much younger then, and had just qualified as an MBBS. He had set up a clinic in the suburbs, the paint still fresh on the board which advertised a blood-red cross; his name: Dr Mulidhar Thakkar; followed by BSc, MBBS, and a host of other abbreviations indicating some trivial diploma courses.

On that eventful day, ten years ago, Murli had barged into my bedroom, excitement on his cherubic face.

“Kamadev,’’ he said, ``you’re going to be a proud father!’’

I stared blankly at him, and then felt that sliver of ice down my spine. Had it happened at the New Year party when for a few tumultuous moments all my caution had fluttered like streamers in the wind? I thought of that frisky filly and her stomping, mulish father, and the shiver changed to a shudder. Or, perhaps, it was the quiet girl from the next building who crept stealthily up the stairs to my bedroom in the late, somnolent afternoons.

I asked Murli the blunt, logical question: “Who is the mother?’’

Murli replied mysteriously: “That, Kama, I am unable to disclose to you, I am duty-bound by my Hippocratic oath to keep mum.  Mum!  And the job you will perform for me is only a little less noble than my noble profession. Here, take this, and retire to the bathroom. But hurry, the woman is waiting.’’ He took out a test-tube from his pocket and thrust it into my hand. I gaped at it, and then at him. He looked on at me paternally, smiling, and nodding his head. Very dimly I began to understand what he wanted. My response, after the initial astonishment, was a flat refusal. But Murli persisted.

“Come, Kama,’’ he cajoled and pleaded. “You are a pastmaster at this, I know. Do not think I have not observed the ever-present starch stains on your bedsheets. Your dick, I know, is a marvel of free will.  Now you have this great opportunity to put this self-abuse to selfless use. And think of the great good you are doing to a beautiful, childless couple. This couple has been married for four full years now. They have everything - a big house, a big car, a big business - everything, except a bonny baby.  And it will cost you nothing, Kama, to fill in the empty gap in their lives. Think, you will never refuse to donate blood in an emergency, so why not this?  Consider this also an emergency.  And you are young and virile, your sperm count will be top-class.  Do not fritter it away on lifeless bedsheets, Kama, instead, donate it to the needy. Come, my comrade Kamadev, I know for me you will perform this good deed.’’

This moving appeal brooked no resistance. So I had done the good deed.  It was not easy, my sniggering reader. It took all the dormant forces of my imagination, awakened by two copies of Penthouse and a Playboy to, at last, accomplish the deed. Murli had then hurried away with his prize to a clinic nearby.  And that was not the end of it. He returned after three days, armed with the test-tube, the same conviction on the joys of remote-controlled fatherhood, and the trite joke that once was not enough.  It took more than Penthouse the third and fourth time round to breach the dam. It was ‘The Devil in Miss Jones’ and the memoirs of Fanny Hill that finally did the trick. By the end of it, I had all but shrivelled up. Regretfully, I had to cancel two promising assignations, drained as I was. But that was a small price to pay.  Besides, Murli had been awed by my fecundity, and I felt something like pride in the consummation of an altruistic deed.

I met Murli several times after that, and all my wily circlings to ferret out information on the result of the insemination were met with astute parries. The professional oath was indeed strong in the noble doctor, though he did reveal shamefacedly that his own fertility was somewhat sluggish compared to the hectic activity in the test-tube.  Finally, as the months passed into years, those four bouts of enforced ecstasy fell back in my mind. I moved to another part of the city and lost contact with Murli. If we met, it was only by chance in the streets. We then exchanged notes about old friends and old times and went about our ways. It had, in fact, been two years since I had last seen Murli, when, less than a month ago, I ran into him near Churchgate station. It was with genuine pleasure that we greeted each other. And since it was late evening and a holiday, we decided on drinks at my favourite bar, ‘Ankur’, in Tamarind Lane.

Murli was a commanding presence in any bar, a great snapper of fingers. “Two large DSPs!’’ he would bark, and a little later, with another thwack of middle finger on the Mount of Venus, he would bawl out: “Repeat!’’ There were many ‘repeats’ on this occasion, and Murli grew garrulous and sentimental, reminiscing about the old days, slapping his thigh with gusto as he recalled yet another satisfactory peccadillo.

“But now,’’ he said, “those days are all gone. Kama, you are a lucky bugger,   no wife, no family, no responsibilities.  But still, yaar, what is Life without a Wife? I’m also a lucky fellow.  I’ve got two kids, real mischievous fellows.’’ This piece of information surprised me a little as I recalled the confidence imparted to me ten years ago.  Perhaps he had repeatedly invoked his faith in the Holy Union of matrimony and it had paid off.  And this he confirmed with his piquant brand of humour. “You know Kama’ he said, ‘the bedsprings are broken but I have two handsome offsprings!’’. I confess that mention of his kids had aroused just that tiniest cloud of curiosity in me again, though till then I had lost interest in the outcome of the whole business. But it was Murli himself, a drooling, sentimental Murli, who intruded on forbidden ground, his oath of silence drowned in all the ‘repeats’.

(To be continued)

 Back