jeff tikari

Winter was a favourite season with the young: when the sugar-cane grew high; when one could be hidden from view within a few feet of entering a field; when lovers could meet clandestinely within the embrace of the thick curtaining cane.
Chandhu, tall, broad-shouldered, his facial fluff turning into a beard, met Rukhmoni clandestinely there. They made eye contact there; they made hand and lip contact there; they clasped each other and made full body contact there; and after their fifth or so contact, Rukhmoni emerged from there with a light step, a radiant smile, and deliciously pregnant, though still unaware of it.
Chandhu was horrified when, a month later, Rukhmoni coquettishly whispered the news into his ear. He was stricken. He was trapped. He desperately looked to escape. Rukhmoni standing close to him in their hide-out was shocked at his reaction – her hand flew to cover her mouth; her large clear, innocent eyes stared bewilderingly at his remonstrations. Tears pricked the inside of her eyelids and poured forth copiously. She was stunned; her brain was numbed. She emerged from the foliage this time with stumbling steps, her fingers quickly sweeping the tears from her cheeks. She pulled her sari over her head and proceeded quickly to the privacy of her room…face hidden, tears streaming down, and heart thudding in her heaving chest. She saw nobody in the house and was grateful to escape unobserved to her room.