Little Washedup with Veena Chachi
When I first discovered that breasts held me captive, I was a mere lad of 7. Veena Chachi , my paternal aunt from Delhi, was visiting us in Bangalore. My mother, a harassed, young looking army wife, much raved and ranted of Veena Chachi's impending visit. After all, she was never pleased easily with orange squash from the army canteen or the regular samosas and talked too much. The fact that her two children were a little hazardous to my Mom’s dinner wagon of precious Siliguri crystals dint thaw my Mother much either. Veena Chachi belonged to a rich "South Daali" business family that traded in jewellery. She personified Dillipan so well : Lazy, loud, be-jewelled, shrewd and totally humongous that she almost looked like a beached whale. My petite, cotton sari clad, pearl string donned mother almost looked like a severe school matron in comparison to Veena Chachi . My two cousins, her two children , were little “Dilli-bubbas”: whining, competitive and destructive.. Veena Chachi had ample breasts that bordered more on being “obscenely generous” than on being “well endowed”. I am not too sure if I ogled at them too much, but I surely got to feel them a lot. Oh no. Not what you think. Back then the Pervert Quotient was very low in me, and I could not even imagine cupping, or should I say , arming them. It’s just that Veena Chachi petted me a lot, hugged me a lot and always clutched on to me. She would pluck me from my study table, tell her two impossible kids to “simmer down” and make me sit on her lap and talk for hours. That would ensure two things, first, her not having to help Ma in the kitchen and second, worm out dirty family secrets like if Pa drunk a lot or if Ma partied a lot or in any “Uncle” came about in Pa’s absence. She would drag me to the guest room, would lie on the bed talking, rest on one hand, turn on one side, keep telling her kids to simmer down like they were a rabbit stew and pretty soon snore away to oblivion.
And as she would sleep, I would cuddle up next to her to avoid her two bratty children. They always beat me up. Also this tactic worked well for me because Ma could not bulldoze me into stupid home work. And while she slept, Veena Chachi's big bosom would heave up and down, like gigantic water lions hobbling on the beaches. I would lie next to her, very close and would try not to look at the bright magenta brassiere that peeked out of her yellow top. I would wonder why Ma would wear those boring white ones. Occasional black ones but generally tame white ones. Sighing at the wonderment heaving up and down in front of me and confused at the difference between Ma's choice of lingerie and Veena Chachi’s, I would drift away to la-la-land as well