I remembered then that Auparishtaka involves a rite of conversational disputation, as well as the physical steps. According to the Kama Sutra, after each of the eight actions, the one performing them must refuse to go on and “will only finally consent to do so after she has been begged and bribed." I played the game. “Don't stop," I moaned. “Please go on. Please! Please!"
Samantha smiled slightly in acknowledgment of my sportsmanship and, simulating reluctance, allowed herself to be "forced" to go on to the second phase which is called baharadantakarma. This literally translates as “biting the sides," and it involves exterior nibbling and kissing while the lingam is grasped by the tips of the fingers and thumb at its base.
It was stimulating as hell, and when Samantha stopped with the called-for feigned recalcitrance to go on to the third step, my urgings to her to continue were more genuine than they had been before. In the same fashion of pretended indifference and coolness on her part and ardor-filled pleading on mine, she continued on through baharatipa (a close-lipped sipping at the head of the lingam), bhitaratipa (literally "inside pressing" of the same area with the lips forming a loose O so that the tongue-tip may press it), and chuma (a series of long, drawn-out kisses which cover the entire exterior surface of the lingam with great suction as it rests in the palm of the oparishtaka’s hand) .
Samantha had embarked on the sixth step, chata (prolonged licking with the flat of the tongue over the entire surface of the lingam), when she interrupted herself with an annoyance that wasn't a part of the process of Auparishtaka. The cause of the annoyance was the loud voice of Cunningham sounding through the open windows of my bedroom from the terrace just below.
“The whole bloody country would still be running around in breech-cloths if we English hadn't shown you beggars how to be civilized," he was pontificating.
“India,” Samantha's father pointed out quietly, “was possessed of an ancient and honorable civilization when the British were still painting their bodies blue and living in tribal savagery."
I lost Cunningham's retort in the explosion of Samantha's indignation. "Do you wonder that the Sikhs slaughtered the English with feelings of such inspired righteousness?" she asked. “That man down there is typical of the incredibly blind snobbery which Englishmen brought to their imperialist rule over my country. If you've ever wondered why we stay so determinedly neutral in the face of Communism, there is your answer. To us, Western democracy has historically consisted of that sort of insufferable and insulting paternalism.”
“And do you think Communism has anything better to offer?" I asked.
"Of course not. But why should we subject ourselves to either?"
Answers occurred to me, but I must admit that my patriotism faltered at the idea of sacrificing the completion of Auparishtaka to the argument. Instead, I merely pressed down gently at the back of Samantha's head, urging her to continue what she had started. From chata, she proceeded to the seventh step so effectively that the pounding of my heart was audible in my ears and I had diffficulty in breathing.
This seventh step is called amvarchusa. The word means “sucking a mango fruit.” It involves a sort of halfway enveloprnent by the mouth which proves both teasing and frustrating at the same time since the pressure always stops and the lips retreat as soon as the throbbing response shows signs of becoming so uncontrollable as to thrust towards ultimate fruition.
It's followed—after a peak of reluctance has been eaten away by a torrent of pleading—by the final step, lingabhakosa. This step is defined by the Kama Sutra as “devouring the lingam" and is also known by the Sanskrit word for “absorption.” The poetic truth in both descriptions lies in the complete oral envelopment of the lingam to its base (and further to include the sac beneath it if the oparishtaka is expert enough, which Samantha was) and the eager swallowing to the last drop of the “juice of the mango."
We were deeply involved in lingabhakosa when Cunningham’s booming voice once again distracted Samantha. “You had the resources, but the English had the brains to develop them for you," he boasted. “Ind-ja would still be starving to death if it wasn't for us."
“India still is starving," Samantha stopped to tell me angrily. “If that fool knew anything at all, he would know that most of our economic problems today stem from the fact that the English have been milking our country of its resources for a hundred years and more.”
“Yes. Yes, of course," I agreed soothingly. "The man is a prejudiced boor. But he's not worth our attention. Come now, let's go on with what we were doing." Thus I gently urged her face back to my lap.
In the grip of those suction-valve lips, caressed by that expert tongue, I forgot about Cunningham and gave myself up to pure sensation. But not Samantha! Cunningham had aroused her ire and she couldn't forget about him.
“British imperialist!" she lifted her head to mutter.
I pushed it back down.
But a moment later it sprang up again. “Superior colonialist!"
This time I grabbed her by the ears and held on for a moment after she resumed the lingabhakosa.
However, as soon as I let go, up it came again. “Anglo-Saxon barbarian! How dare he—?"
This time I held it firmly in place until I felt her body moving up and down against my shin. When I was sure she was as erotically involved as I was, I eased up on the pressure against the back of her neck. This time she stayed with it.
My eruption was ecstatic and lasted for a long, draining moment during which I truly felt "devoured." Towards the end of that moment, I felt the hot, sweet flow which told me that Samantha too had crossed into a temporary Nirvana. Exhausted, she fell away from me, crumpling to the floor. I lay back on the bed, wondering if my "mango" would ever be the same.
We stayed that way a long time until, at last, Samantha spoke. “Not only are they barbaric boots," she said bitterly, “but also the English-—male and female alike-— are a frigid people!”
I thought fleetingly of Victoria Winters. I wondered if Samantha was right. And then I was struck by another thought, one which formulated the lesson which Calcutta taught me, the lesson I mentioned at the beginning of this chapter:
Indeed, politics do make bedfellows strange!
011
Auparishtaka, as dictated by the Kama Sutra, had spiced up my first night with Samantha Jayasana. The spice of the second night turned out to be a quite different kettle of curry. It was a dish that damn near finished me for good.
I got my first taste of it in the morning when Mustafa intercepted an intimate look between Samantha and me at the breakfast table. The cloud of Egyptian wrath which swept over his face stayed there throughout the day. He also seemed preoccupied that day, but I laid that also to his jealousy.
I was wrong. There was another reason. I got my first hint of it after dinner.
Samantha and Mustafa had gone for a stroll after coffee while I remained behind to chat with Abhira Jayasana and Wilfred Cunningham. When they returned, Mustafa was obviously distraught. After a few moments he excused himself and went to his room. Shortly, Samantha motioned to me to follow her out to the terrace where we might be alone.