"A profound unmitigated loneliness is the only truth of life"
- R.K. Narayan

It was a desolate afternoon. She sat on a pedestal under the tree, and I stood in the sun across the street. She didn't seem to notice me, as she opened the hooks of her blouse. I couldn't help but notice her... doing it. She was preoccupied with the sack resting on her lap; while I was burning, not just due to the hot sun above, but from something within.

Half a blouse opened and a breast was unleashed.. to play with beams of light pouring from the leaves above. It seemed like the Sun was competing with me in peeping at her naked chest. Or was the Sun helping me by throwing light on the breast that was shyly but surely exposing itself?
I choked on my breath. The Adam's apple moved up my throat as if to go up and knock at my brain to wake the rest of my senses up.
She left the blouse titillatingly open and started fiddling with the sack. Half her breast hung out in the open, while the other half wobbled briefly and slid back into the covered half. How nonchalant, I thought? Was she so perverted to expose herself out of nowhere or was she trying to indicate something to me? I clutched one hand harder at my briefcase, and slid the other down my pant pocket. I intended to feel a response down there, but there was none.
A moment ago, I thought I didn't understand what she was doing, but now, strangely, I didn't understand what was happening to me.
I am a normal guy, and I have always responded just like other men did, at the sight of female breasts. But today there was nothing to note. I looked at the scene like I was watching a game of cricket or a political speech. Only feelings awakened, but not sensual arousal.
I focused ever so keenly on her chest, as she kept fiddling away with her sack. The wheatish brown skin and its tiny golden hairs glistened in the sun-beams, reminding me of the time I had woken up in a field with blades of grass dancing to the morning sun. The wind blew ever so gently upon her, sometimes pushing her pallu and sometimes her hairs to caress the breast that was so boldly staring at me now. At a moment when she bent over, I watched her breast follow her every motion, ever so gentle, ever so supple. It wouldn't hurt a fold or bend an edge. It just took the shape of whatever it rested against. One moment it reminded me of the gentleness of the night breeze and then another moment, of the svelteness of water. During my childhood days, I played a lot with water-balloons. I would fill them with just enough water to keep them fluffy and soft, and then fondle them gently and passionately. I would press them against my cheeks and lips and feel a strange warmth. Did these breasts remind me of those childhood days? Or was it a feeling of a more adult kind? I was not sure. But what I was really confused was that the usual reaction was not forthcoming within me.
For the next few moments, I watched the breasts perform their dance inside her loose blouse until she straightened up and exposed one nipple. At that point, seeing the complete picture of a naked breast, I felt an urgency within me. I sensed it was not any kind of arousal, rather I wanted to celebrate this view. Those curves, that suppleness, that softness, the rounded nipple, so inviting, so gentle. I realized the work of a divine artist behind this creation. I felt a need to worship the miracle called breasts. Yes, I wanted to worship it, but how? Should I start singing laurels to it? Should I call her out and ask her to cover it before the other bastards start ogling at it? Or should I just cross the street and go start fondling it with love? What would be the right thing to do? 
And right that moment, she pulled a baby out of her sack and pressed it towards her chest. For a moment the breast and the baby seemed like dance partners - their softness, gentleness and smoothness in perfect harmony with each other. Neither was the breast bending to accommodate the baby, nor was the baby forcing itself. Both so naturally merged into one another. The way the baby instinctively grasped the breast and moved towards the nipple, was very much like how I would have done too, but their union was so different. I couldn't help but instantly bow my head down, partly in shyness, partly with shame.

And then came the realization that, maybe today, I had seen the right worship of a female breast. Whoever imagined the story of manna falling from heaven, was surely a baby that sucked the breast of his (her) mother while dreaming of the heavens.
Categories: ,