As she leaned over and reached out for another chapatti, multiple things happened – her banyan folded, just enough for me to get my first glimpse of teenage breasts. Then, as if that weren’t enough, the casserole that had the chapattis in it was on my side and Rohinididi had to roll over on her tummy to reach over the food spread, drawing up her frock till it was fighting to cover her butt.
She could easily have asked me for a chapatti and I’d have handed her one, but she didn’t and with every chapatti, the hem lifted a bit further up, never quite returning to it’s previously held coordinates. I was sure physics had something to with it. If my last name had been Newton, I would have seen an entirely new fundamental law in this. The fundamental law of frocks. Instead, I had to settle for simply wishing that that casserole was a magic casserole with an unending supply of chapattis in it and that Rohini would keep eating them for eternity.
There was a certain innocence in the spectacle, given that she was oblivious of the effect she was having on my pubescent senses. All this was…forget it, I would like to take the fifth and not testify on the specific details of the terrain any further. I am getting too worked up. I am taking medication for BP and cholesterol and the doctor has started me on an aspirin every night. You know what that means. If I suddenly died, I wouldn’t want to go just thinking of sex, but while actually having it. Like Oscar Wilde’s Dad did……..