His name is Keshavan Sadasivam. He has taken an early retirement, very early. He was given that on a platter. People call him K. Short and sweet, so unlike him. K is tall, dark and bald. He lives in Dharamshala, and for a monk, K knows way too much about fighter planes and bothers too much about his mustache.
Nobody can tell that K is a south Indian until they know his real name. Very few people know his real name, mostly those who keep changing theirs.
Her name is Usha. She is a cook. K calls her Ushi. She calls him Kushi-Kushi, she used to at least. Then one day while she was cooking, she told him of a particularly troubling backache. K said to her, he gives great massages. She shyly laughed him off.
The next day onwards she started teasing him every day about her back. So much aching, she would say rubbing her hands over her waist so much that her maxi would swing about cupping her buttocks. So like a good man that K was known to be, one day he simply got up and started massaging her back as she kept peeling the eggs and boiling the milk.
She did not ask him to move away. And he did not ask her where the pain was, progressing slowly as if he’d cover each inch of her body. One thing led to another, and before Ushi could say anything, K had pulled up her maxi and pulled down his pants. She quickly shut the stove and quietly waited for him to finish, Kushi-Kushi, moaning slowly until he was done.
She also cooks for Dudeji and tells him stories of K, not the massage one, that one is told only by K, who sometimes misses her and says that he should stop massaging his maids. The writer reminds him that after all he is a monk, but then again twirling his mustache, K starts talking about the fighter planes.
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Nobody can tell that K is a south Indian until they know his real name. Very few people know his real name, mostly those who keep changing theirs.
Her name is Usha. She is a cook. K calls her Ushi. She calls him Kushi-Kushi, she used to at least. Then one day while she was cooking, she told him of a particularly troubling backache. K said to her, he gives great massages. She shyly laughed him off.
The next day onwards she started teasing him every day about her back. So much aching, she would say rubbing her hands over her waist so much that her maxi would swing about cupping her buttocks. So like a good man that K was known to be, one day he simply got up and started massaging her back as she kept peeling the eggs and boiling the milk.
She did not ask him to move away. And he did not ask her where the pain was, progressing slowly as if he’d cover each inch of her body. One thing led to another, and before Ushi could say anything, K had pulled up her maxi and pulled down his pants. She quickly shut the stove and quietly waited for him to finish, Kushi-Kushi, moaning slowly until he was done.
She also cooks for Dudeji and tells him stories of K, not the massage one, that one is told only by K, who sometimes misses her and says that he should stop massaging his maids. The writer reminds him that after all he is a monk, but then again twirling his mustache, K starts talking about the fighter planes.
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