Posted in fiction


Ralia’s problem began with the baby. Everybody might think otherwise, but Ralia knew this to be true. It all started with a bawl. The baby liked to cry a lot. He cried when feeding. He cried while playing. He cried when he was picked up by someone other his mother. And he cried some more before falling asleep, his poor little lungs exhausted. Ralia was so vexed by his constant tears she’d wondered if madam, the baby’s mother, had brought her simply for the purpose of wiping them off. It was not that he was such a bad natured kid; he was simply a bored kid. No siblings, boring toys, busy parents and a house so big the fence could block out the sun. The boy needed help and Ralia could not help him. Or so she’d thought.

One day, faced with his supercharged tear duct, Ralia had flung her hands out in exasperation and accidentally emptied a bowl of water on his head. She’d expected more bawling but surprisingly the baby quieted. He lifted one chubby palm to wipe off the water flowing down his face, perplexed and then broke out in a smile. Ralia felt like she’d won a jackpot… the baby liked water. Good, she’d give him a bath every time he let out the waterworks.

The new arrangement worked. Whenever madam left the house for work Ralia would bring out the mini-tub, fill it with water and let the baby dabble around in it until he was ready to eat or sleep. It gave her time to do other things like daydream and read her next installment of Mills and Boons without interference, till necessary. It was on one such necessities that Ralia’s problem began.

She had walked over to lift the baby out of the tub when she noticed something unusual about his anatomy. The baby’s eyes held hers glowing, his lips curved in an adorable smile. As her eyes travelled further down his torso, she discovered he had an erection. The knowledge both scared and excited her. Scared because she didn’t think little boys of three should sustain an erection; excited because she could finally see what those books talked about. Ralia reached out a finger and poked the baby’s peepee, watching his face to check for reactions. He only smiled some more. She let herself rub gently, feeling the smooth, soft expanse of skin. Madam never let her bath the baby, so this felt nice. She’d been thinking about the fine Comanche savage from her books when she heard a car door slam shut.

The next time Ralia was alone with the baby three months had passed. Madam had beaten her black and blue the other time for bathing him and made sure to register the baby at crèche the next day. She dropped him off on her way out and picked him on her way in. Ralia didn’t so much as get more than a cursory peek at the baby. It had been frustrating. Her time would come someday, she’d console herself. And soon enough it happened.

Madam received one of those urgent night calls that required her presence outside the state. So early the next morning, she’d charged Ralia with bathing the baby before dashing off to catch her flight. Ralia got the baby into the tub after he woke up and meticulously began to scrub him down. No sooner had she gotten to his legs than she noticed another erection. She flicked her finger on it and the baby chuckled. He probably thought it was playtime… maybe his mother did the same too. She flicked again and could feel him brimming with excitement. His excitement only served to fuel her excitement.
That night, alone in her room, Ralia would think of that chuckle as her fingers snuck its way under her nightgown. She decided to push the boundary the next day.

The baby remained cheerful as she gave him his bath. Today she closed her mouth over his peepee and blew on it. The baby erupted in laughter, tickled. Good, Ralia thought to herself. That night in the cover of darkness she stroked herself to sleep again. It became a daily routine with Ralia pushing the boundary a little more, until Madam returned and resumed her bathing duties. Ralia missed the baby, but now she had something to look forward to. If madam let her stay long enough, when he was older, she’d see what kind of man she could make of him.

P>S (This is largely unedited. Will do some work, possibly a rewrite later)

Posted in fiction, Writing

The Portrait Of A Woman


Today is the first day of the rest of my life. Mother is happy that after six sons she has a girl to mold in her own image. Father has the look of a boy gifted with his first bicycle. He picks up the phone and calls his friends, home and abroad, and then he has the crazy idea to call random numbers off his head to declare his new status. He will throw a party for my naming because in this new land it is conventional practice after eight days. Mother will buy a whole market for the party, Father will beam like a strobe, the guests will open their palms to take some powder for good fortune and people will long to hold me and breathe in fresh baby scent. I look like a baby rat—wrinkly, shriveled; if I wasn’t so small I will pass for an old woman. But everyone calls me cute anyway. Continue reading “The Portrait Of A Woman”