Motti didi’s bhatti, which was in the north corner of Lagankhel buspark, had quite a reputation. After around 1 pm everyday, microbus drivers and khalasis would crowd in her bhatti to gobble momo, choyala, thukpa, chowmein, fish fry and a very special soup. Usually, her customers would hang around till 11 at night drinking tongba, eating momo and gulping down her soup.
Motti didi’s soup was to die for, and so was her fifteen year old daughter. Drivers and khalais would slurp the soup while drooling over the daughter. She was ripening and she was glowing. The drivers would try to flirt with her, cautiously though, because they were a bit afraid of Motti didi.
Man Bahadur had been driving a microbus for around three years now. Full of hopes and dreams, he and his wife had come to Kathmandu five years ago. He worked in a garage for some time, then worked as a khalasi in a bus, and a lucky break gave him a chance to work as a microbus driver. He loved the work. He loved driving his microbus from Lagankhel to Ratnapark and back to Lagenkhel. He also loved Motti didi’s daughter.
He would dream about her while driving. He would hum along the dohori songs that blared out from the Chinese speakers on his dashboard. Every second, he fantasized about her. A feeble guilt would pinch his heart but she was so ripe, and he had to be first to taste her. He would enter the bhatti after each round, just to see her, just to smell her. She would serve him the soup, a bit shyly, a bit flirtingly. Man Bahadur was sure that she was giving him ‘the lift’. Motti didi too didn’t mind Man Bahadur frequently coming to her place.
That evening, it had been raining like hell. “Aaja yetai basnu na ta – why don’t you stay over tonight?” Motti didi insisted. He took a swig of the soup and smacked his lips. He couldn’t say no. He took another slurp and phoned his wife casually, “eh budi, tyre puncture became. ani, raining very heavy. I will stay in the garage tonight.” He then switched his mobile off. The daughter served him a plate of bhutun and a jug of tongba. Outside, the rain was ruthlessly relentless.
When all the customers finally left around 11.30 pm, Motti didi signaled Man Bahadur to go into the next room. It was behind the dirty green curtain. Man Bahadur felt a little hesitation but the daughter grabbed his hand and gently dragged him away. “You must be tired and sleepy,” she said with a ravishing smile. She sat him down on a rickety bed and started to stroke his head; and massaged his shoulder and neck from behind.
Man Bahadur had never felt this godly before. He felt her gentle hands passionately squeezing his shoulder muscles. He remembered the time he smoked Poland but this was far better than that. Way too better. “Close your eyes and just relax,” into his ear she whispered, unzipping his jacket and unbuttoning his shirt. He was Indra. She was Apsaraa. With every caress of her hands through his back, he felt tiny electric shocks tickle his belly. He was swimming deep in the elixir. She started rubbing his neck. He was floating high in the heaven. She was ripe and ready. Man Bahadur would taste her tonight.
He was hallucinating.
The daughter was nibbling his neck and he felt his blood gashing out.
He was dreaming.
Motti didi was in front of him, biting chunks off his right arm.
He was dying.
Severe pain and terror paralyzed his body He wobbled, convulsed and rattled on the floor. His heart twitched occasionally.
When Motti didi and her daughter finished chewing off the muscles, they stashed away the bones under the bed. They would need it for the soup.