A TALE OF TWO SEX CRIMES
by
Anindya Basu
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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PUBLISHED BY:
Anindya Basu on Smashwords
A Tale Of Two Sex Crimes
Copyright © 2012 by Anindya Basu
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this translation may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
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Writer’s Note
This is a selection from my book ‘The Final War – Version 3.0’.
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A TALE OF TWO SEX CRIMES
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The Rape Of Conscience: Why Vijay Was A Bachelor
Vijay was 10 years old at that time. A boy from a lower-middle-class background, he was roaming about the streets aimlessly. It was the summer vacation.
A boy with his background was not supposed to be in a prestigious institution like St. Michael Missionary School for Boys. It was merit that had got him there, one of the 5 annual scholarships for poor, needy students.
Well, if Vijay had been ranked something like 5 or 6 or maybe even 3 or 2, his wealthy classmates would not have envied him as much. They probably would not have envied him so much would not have envied him so much even if he had had the rank 1 with not much difference with ranks 2 or 3. But no, he had to come out first each year with record marks, with a whopping margin between him and number 2.
So much so, last year even the head of the institution had been present during announcement of the results. No, not for the results. As usual, Vijay had once again secured the first rank with record marks. After the boys had received their report cards, the principal had started. He had called up Vijay and with his right hand around Vijay’s shoulders — the class teacher by his other side — had announced, “I just received the information 15 minutes ago otherwise I would have announced it before the whole school, which I shall do next week at the annual prize distribution ceremony. But now you all listen to me carefully. Your friend Vijay Sharma has done the institute proud by standing first in the All India Science Talent Search Exam, junior level.”
Vijay’s envious classmates were clapping but they would not talk to him again except when needed. The beggar boy, as they disparagingly referred to him behind his back, had shitted on their faces.
Vijay’s two only real friends had gone away with their families to sea resorts. Strangely, this success on a national level had also succeeded in isolating Vijay from his lower-middle-class friends in his locality. “Oh, the great scholar will become a duffer if he plays with fools like us.”
That was the cause of Vijay’s loneliness.
Vijay was surprised to see Mr. M, a wealthy respectable businessman of the city going towards a ramshackle abandoned house, where some beggars took shelter during night-time, along with a little urchin girl aged about 5.
Vijay did not know her exact name but once that girl had come up to him. “Bhaiya, will you give me 50 paisa for a lozenge?” An amused Vijay taking pity on the sweet dirty little girl had given her a whole Rs. 2 coin. The surprised little girl had thanked him effusively before running off. The other times they had met, Vijay hadn’t given a single paisa to his Gudiya (doll). Taking 5 lozenges out of his pocket, he used to pop in her already open expectant mouth, and stuff two each in her hands. Before the joyous little girl ran off, Vijay had to put his head down so that the little urchin girl, sliding the lozenge to a corner of her mouth, could kiss him on both cheeks.
Vijay was afraid of Mr. M, otherwise he would have called Gudiya to him. Vijay followed them from a distance.
Gudiya and Mr. M were in the most clean, presentable room of the building with an almost whole door which could be pushed shut. A puzzled Vijay looked inside through a crack in the wall. Gudiya was standing in a tattered dirty red frock, an expectant smile on her face. The nice uncle had promised to give her a lot of nice things but she had to go with him and she must not tell anyone.
Mr. M placed his briefcase on the ground and then advanced towards Gudiya. He pulled off her dirty red frock and pulled down her dirtier blackish undy. Gudiya was surprised at first. Then she got it. Uncle had taken pity on her for her dirty clothes and was going to give her a new frock. Let it be a blue one, Gudiya had prayed. For long Gudiya had wanted a blue frock like little Miss G’s one.
Why was uncle taking off his shirt? He had taken off his pant too, undy too. A big thing was hanging between uncle’s legs. She knew what it was. Little boys used it to pee. Uncle’s was similar, only bigger. Oh, once again she had got it. Uncle had also got a new set of clothes for himself too. He would throw away his old clothes. Why, they were as good as new. Because uncle was a rich man, that was why. Rich people did not wear the same clothes for a long time. Both she and uncle would put on their new clothes together.
But uncle had not opened the black box where her new blue frock and uncle’s new clothes were. Instead he was coming towards her with a funny smile on his face, licking his lips.
Vijay could not understand what was happening. Were Mr. M and Gudiya going to the dirty pond to bathe? But then he could have taken Gudiya to his big two-storied house, where they could have taken a bath under the shower. Vijay knew rich people’s bathrooms had showers, the water dropped from above all around.
Why had Mr. M pushed Gudiya to the ground? Gudiya had cried out in pain.
Why was Mr. M on top of Gudiya? What was Mr. M doing to Gudiya?
Vijay ran to Gudiya. He stayed rooted to the spot. Vijay shouted. Not a word came out.
Gudiya was crying. “Uncle, I am hurting. Hurting. Hurting. Don’t hurt me. Please don’t hurt me. Uncle, uncle. Oh. Oh. Ohh…”
Mr. M got up with an evil satisfied grin in his face. Vijay wasn’t looking at Mr. M. His Gudiya. What had happened to her?
She was lying funnily. She was looking like a bedraggled doll.
Why was there so much blood between her legs? Where had the blood come from?
Mr. M had gone away. A dazed Vijay walked to the room.
“Gudiya. Gudiya. Why wasn’t she answering him?”
Mr. M had murdered her. But he had no knife in his hand. How had he murdered her? Why had he murdered her?
Vijay took one last chance. He knelt beside Gudiya and shook her. Gudiya’s head fell away to the other side. A bloody bedraggled dead doll. Vijay had fallen on the, raped to death, Gudiya’s little body and wept uncontrollably.
[Note: Mr. M had two beautiful daughters, 14 and 11. Once he saw his elder daughter having a good time with her cute boyfriend. When she reached home, Mr. M had slapped her resoundingly and assaulted her mother verbally. Another time, on a particularly hot day, he found his younger daughter lying with her back to the floor, dressed in only her undy. He had yanked her up by the ears, given her two resounding slaps and once again the mother had to face a verbal assault.]
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The Rape Of Innocence: Why Sumantro Was A Bachelor
Sumantro could still remember the day vividly. He could forget everything else but not that day, not that particular moment of shame and humiliation, so great that little 8-year-old Sumantro had wanted to die at that tender age, no not that day, it had had been the day after he had wanted to die, the first day he had been too dazed, too stupefied to think of dying.
The first day he had been raped for the first time. The second day he had been raped three times.
The first day was the day when the annual school function was to be held. Little Sumantro had been sitting in a half-shirt and trousers along with three girls in a bench. It would have been a strange sight to a casual observer, the classroom had had 7 boys and 33 girls. St. James Convent was a prestigious, 106-year-old Christian missionary school for girl students, run by Christian nuns, but the female teachers were all non-Christians or anyway most of them were; most of the teachers were non-Bengali Hindus with a few Bengali Hindus thrown in. It had been the policy, a strange policy, a funny policy, to allow a handful of boys per class up to class 4, a policy little Sumantro’s parents had not found funny.
Sumantro had landed a wee bit role in the English drama. It was to be a speechless part, the part of a monkey, a monkey dressed in a black suit with a black tail. For some strange unknown reason, the black monkey dresses had arrived late. The 33 girls and 2 of the boys had already changed into their costumes. There most likely had been a changing room for girls, Sumantro had not known. The 2 boys had probably changed in some secluded corner of a forlorn corridor, once again the shy Sumantro had not known. The black monkey dresses had arrived in a packet at long last. Sumantro’s 4 boy classmates had eagerly grabbed a suit each. A shy Sumantro had taken the one, the one that had been left. The boys had to change in the classroom itself in front of the girls. The stern looking teacher in charge, fat, be-spectacled, thick black spectacles, quite ugly, the ugliness exacerbated by the black unruly curly masses of hair, had in a firm cruel voice ordered the 5 boys to do so. The same person had slapped one of the 2 boys in their seats now, when he had tried to peek inside the room where the girls were changing. Sumantro’s 4 boy classmates had stripped to their underclothings, one above the waist, the other below the waist. They had quickly unzipped their black monkey-suits, got in and zipped up. The 4 boys had broken out into smiles, as had the 33 girls and 2 boys.
Sumantro had been the lone exception. He had been all the time trying to unzip the black monkey-suit. He had unzipped it almost and then the zipper had got stuck. Despite his best efforts, Sumantro had not succeeded in unzipping the black monkey-suit fully. He had given up and had decided to get inside the not fully unzipped black monkey-suit. He had taken off his half-shirt, revealing the upper undergarment. He had tried to get inside the black monkey-suit dressed in his upper undergarment and trousers. He had failed to do so. Maybe due to the stuck zipper. Maybe the black monkey-suit had been a size lower. Maybe the fact that Sumantro had been quite a plump little boy.
39 pairs of eyes had looked on at him quizzically, maybe indifferently. The 40th pair of eyes had at last turned towards him. The stern ugly be-spectacled non-Bengali Hindu teacher, clad in a saree with big red splotches of designs, had queried him sternly. A dazed Sumantro had only managed to nod his head slowly. He had been the only one in a class of 40 who had not till then changed into his costume, a black monkey-suit. The demoness had ordered little shy Sumantro to take off his trousers. At this Sumantro had found himself in a quandary. For beneath his trousers, he had only his little penis, unlike his 4 wealthier fellow black monkey-suit-clad boy classmates who had had lower undergarments in addition to their penises. A shy little frightened Sumantro had looked first at his classmates, then at the demoness with his eyes full of distress.
The bitch demoness had guessed correctly that little Sumantro had had no undergarment beneath his trousers. It was one of the great puzzles of boyhood. A girl had her lower undergarment fitted on her from the age of 1, at most 2, most likely 0 and an upper undergarment from the age of 4 maybe 3. Whereas, a boy had his precious gift of a lower undergarment from the age of 7, maybe 8 maybe not, maybe 9, maybe 10. Sumantro’s parents, in their combined infinite wisdom, had not yet bestowed Sumantro with that precious gift.
The whore bitch demoness had ordered Sumantro to take off his trousers behind the big wooden almirah at the back of the classroom. When she easily could have asked him to go outside the classroom and change into the black monkey-suit in some secluded place or as a last resort in the boys’ toilet. Little Sumantro could have pushed himself in the space between the heavy wooden almirah and the bleak white wall if he had been 5 times thinner, could have not, 10 times thinner, could have not, 20 times thinner, could have not. For there had been no space between the big heavy wooden almirah and the bleak white wall.
Standing beside the almirah, facing the class, his back to the wall, he had started unbuttoning his trousers. The rapist whore bitch demoness, putting on a false mask of decency, had just for the sake of it, told little shy Sumantro’s 39 classmates not to look behind, not to look at little shy Sumantro taking off his trousers, albeit in a perfunctory, casual, unsympathetic tone suggesting she would not really care or mind if they disobeyed her and looked behind.
Little Sumantro had taken off his trousers. The black monkey-suit in one hand, the discarded trousers in the other hand, clad in an upper undergarment and a little penis. He had once again tried to get inside the black monkey-suit. His little penis had cried out in pain, agony, hurt. But he had been determined and had almost succeeded but the zipper had once again failed him. His little penis had been and had kept on dangling over the stuck part of the zipper. He had tried his best to push his little penis inside the zipper but had failed.
Most of the girls had been decent to look. But a few had stolen sly, surreptitious glances and at that moment had been sniggering. The rapist whore bitch demoness had looked up at last and had ordered little shy Sumantro to come up to his bench. Unable to sit down, little shy Sumantro had stood between the bench and the desk, the desk had had his half-shirt and trousers, he had had his upper undergarment, unzipped black monkey-suit and his little penis.
He had been standing at that position for an infinite period of time when a kind hearted teacher had taken pity on him, a female teacher who had had something to discuss with the rapist whore bitch demoness. A thin frail looking short-statured teacher, a non-Bengali Hindu dressed in a full shirt and trousers had rescued him. Showing infinite times more decency, kindness, sympathy she had asked Sumantro to go to the back of the classroom with her, his discarded trousers in her hand, and asked him to change into his trousers facing the white wall. With a sharp blade she had cut a line parallel to the stuck unzipped portion and asked Sumantro to get inside his black monkey-suit at last. She had asked him to put on his half-shirt and then had zipped up the black monkey-suit.
Little shy Sumantro’s extended stay in hell had at long last ended.
The second day, morning, Sumantro had found himself all alone in the classroom with two girls. A Bengali Christian and a Bengali Hindu. The two little rapist bitches had begun taunting little Sumantro alternately. “Oh Sumantro, we saw you naked.” “You know, totally naked.” With wide grins on their faces. But they had been really decent in not hinting at little Sumantro’s little penis. Little Sumantro had run out of the classroom to join the prayer assembly. His ears burning with shame and his mind at last beginning to realise the enormity of the crime committed on him the day before.
But no, it had not yet ended. Afternoon, Sumantro had been roaming in the corridor during lunch break. Then a Bengali Hindu girl had got hold of him. “You know, yesterday I saw your front, that thing between your legs,” she had said with an evil taunting smile. It must be said the little rapist whore had a meticulous eye to details. While little Sumantro had stuck to the spot, the little rapist whore had started drawing his little penis in thin air with her two index fingers, and had not forgotten to leave out the two little scrotums. The little rapist whore had asked confirmation from little Sumantro. “Isn’t your thing like that?” The evil taunting smile had spread all over her face, reaching the eyes.
Little Sumantro had walked in a stupor into the classroom and had sat down at a bench, his folded hands on the bench, his face hidden in his folded hands. His whole face, ears, eyes, mind, heart, penis were burning with shame. Tears had welled up in his eyes. But a single drop had refused to come out.
Poor little Sumantro had wanted to die. But he could not. He could have committed suicide. But poor little Sumantro hadn’t even heard of the word suicide, let alone known ways of committing it.
Poor little Sumantro’s stay in hell was just beginning.
[Note: Even after a year, little Sumantro’s parents had not yet bestowed him with that precious gift. A few days before that year’s annual function, little Sumantro, anticipating a repeat of last year’s shame and humiliation, had walked up in trepidation to his parents and declared shyly that he wanted to wear a lower undergarment. Sumantro’s parents, an upper-middle-class couple, had shown real magnanimity in granting his wish.]
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