The leafy residential area of Lahore Cantonment was built during the British Raj as a base for their barracks after the turbulent War of Independence in 1857 established them as the de facto ruling power over the Indian subcontinent. The earlier barracks were located in Anarkali, too close to the walled city and prone to assault from the local populace.
Captain John Smith had been deputed as the officer tasked with ‘maintaining’ a semblance of civility as the day of departure loomed near in the summer of 1947. Contrary to popular perception, chaos didn’t loom large for the elite establishment. While the province of Punjab burned and retaliatory gangrapes against opposing religious sects were being conducted without any repercussions, the land owning gentry and the behemoth bureaucracy continued to enjoy evening tea at clubs and gymkhanas all over India. Typically, most of John Smith’s work entailed pondering over paperwork submitted by the upper class citizens to ensure safe transit for them to their chosen country, Pakistan or India.
His residence in the Cantonment, the palatial white washed bungalow, was maintained in top condition by a mini army of servants, who attended to every beck and call of the Memsaab, Catherine Smith, the young 20 year old pale Irish lady married to the Captain. She was an uptight firm woman, in contrast to the docile personality of John Smith. The pair of them complemented each other in the looks department and made for an attractive couple at the endless parties and galas.
Returning home after another night of booze and dancing, the drunk couple were escorted into the main bedroom by Govinda, the dark skinned, tall and lanky Hindu servant of the Smiths. It had now become a matter of routine for him to remove their clothes and get them ready for bed. In those early days of his employment, he was shocked in having to do the deed as requested by the masters after they had slept passed out on the drawing room floor one time too many. Now he barely fluttered as he maneuvered the party dress off Catherine’s body and slipped a night gown onto her firm and toned body. Govinda was always amazed looking at her marblesque physique, the shapely contours and curves. His own sister, a cleaner at the Barracks, was dusky in skin tone and had a more plump body despite undertaking grueling work as she swept floors in a squatting position for hours at a time.
The Smiths had only Govinda as the overnight servant these days as the maid, Shalini, slept in the adjacent bungalow’s servant quarter (where her husband worked as a cook) while the guard at the gate had disappeared 2 weeks back and a replacement had yet to be made. Govinda neatly folded the couple’s discarded clothing and made his way to sleep at the annex quarters. In normal times, Govinda would have a quick fondle of the breasts and a tantalizing whiff of the musky panties of Memsaab. But his mind was too occupied by other pressing matters.
Govinda’s sister, Geeta, had urgently pressed for the family of two to make a decision on whether to migrate or not. The consensus had been that they will stay in Lahore no matter what. Their humble abode in Anarkali was jointly occupied by their extended family and they lived in harmony with the Hindus and Muslims of the area. But the disturbing news of horrendous acts of violence being committed in the plains of Punjab was being received with increasing frequency. The communal harmony of Lahore was on the precipice of breaking apart. Yet to leave their domicile, their place of livelihood, was a preposterous idea. They were after all the employees of the Great British Empire, albeit as lowly servants and sweepers. Men of their kin had been deputed on the frontlines of Europe. The cries of ‘Hitler aa rha hai!’ (Hitler is coming!) was now being treated as a joke. The British would win at any cost and look after her subjects. There could possibly be no violence in the city of gardens, the jewel of British Punjab, Lahore.
Sunday arrived with the imminent signs of the impending Monsoon. The sky was overcast as the day time gardeners began their work on the lawn and hedges. Govinda served breakfast to the couple sitting in the veranda as they were engaged in a deep conversation. Govinda was about to go stand in a corner as he normally does when his right wrist was grasped by Catherine.
“Tum ne raat ko mujhe chehrna chor diya hai, kyun?” a remark made with flirtatious flair.
(“You have stopped touching me at night, why is that?”)
The British were well versed in the native tongue, something that amused Govinda as they always spoke it with a funny accent. Today, despite being dark colored, his cheeks were turning a crimson red.
“I am sorry Memsaab, it won’t happen again,” a frightened Govinda squeaked.
“You are not in trouble Govinda, relax. Catherine enjoys it very much, saying you are very gentle despite having rough hands. But why have you stopped?” reassured John.
“Sirjee, I am very disturbed these days. The question of where to go is a burden on my family.”
A brief recount of the situation at hand was narrated by a trembling Govinda. The possibility of being thrown out and being jobless was the safest possibility he could imagine.
“Well, if I were you, I would get out of that mohalla (locality) in Anarkali and get to a safe location. Trouble is brewing and there isn’t much the Sarkar (government) is willing to do,” a nonchalant monotone statement by John.
“Surely, not in Lahore!”
“My boy, there is much you don’t know. Your sister, she lives in the barracks?” John inquired.
“No sirjee, female sweepers are not allowed residence. Not since the incident-”
“Haha, don’t you remember John!”
“Ah yes…”
*******************
That incident involved a young Sikh sweeper by the name of Baleen, the sultry petite headturner whose saree was always wrapped an inch above her pubic bone. That Baleen whose pallu was always dropping when she was sweeping and exposing her Bombay mangoes adorning her chest. Baleen, whose girlish charm and thick lips enticed everyone from the Havildar to the Warden.
That Baleen was gangraped a fortnight ago by the horny officers residing in Bachelor Officer Quarters (BOQs). Different versions abound as to what was the inciting event: some suggest a long stemming affair with a Scottish officer running afoul as Baleen started a fling with the artillery tailor, the knowledge of which enraged the Scotsman so much that he ripped apart her blouse after lunchtime in the Mess and slammed Baleen onto the long refectory table. Another version starts more innocuously where the officer and Baleen had a heavy petting session in the empty Mess Hall with the officer giving cunnilingus to Baleen laid out on the table top.
All versions attest to Baleen refusing to go for vaginal penetration, which was eventually forced upon her. Screams, howls and cries for help fell on deaf ears of the stone hearted waiters, who appeared from the kitchen to stand still. The sight of a white ass bobbing up and down onto a Baleen crushed under the weight of the officer was mesmerizing to the few present.
“Sahibji! Ahh… TOM! ,, Ruk jao…Aiiieeeee!!!”
Tom had clamped his teeth onto Baleen’s right nipple while continuing to impale the pussy with his thick rod covered with blood and whitish residue. The feeble attempts of punching had given way to arduous scratching of the vast white back which hardly created a dent in Tom’s resolve to pulverize Baleen’s virginal vaginal canal. The quick short thrusts had given way to long and forceful pumping of Tom’s pelvis onto Baleen’s groin. The pain of this renewed assault caused Baleen to bite Tom’s left shoulder resulting in a horrendous screech from the rapist.
“Haramzaadi!! You will pay for this!!”
Dismounting and then dragging her legs onto the mahogany floor with a dull thud of her almost lifeless body, Tom unbuckled his army belt hook and started pelting unabashedly onto Baleen with a maniacal fervour. Baleen’s hands covered her face where the metal hook end had struck on her left cheek, leaving the rest of her body exposed to the violent lashing. Soon enough, breasts, midriff, ass cheeks, thighs and everything in between were covered with blunt bleeding marks and bruises. Tom finally relented after eons from his psychotic outburst and sat down on the floor cross-legged, sweaty and spent. Baleen had assumed a fetal position and was whimpering from pain, emotional and physical.
A pat on Tom’s shoulder from the Commanding Officer (CO) jolted him asunder from his contemplation, twisting his neck to find a lecherous smile from his senior.
“Bloody Hell Chap! You really did a number there. Go to your quarters young man, you have had your fill.”
Tom looked further back to find many of his fellow officers standing in stunned silence. He was helped up and escorted outside by a couple of lieutenants, sneaking a quick glance to see the CO adjusting his stiff rod between Baleen’s spread legs held apart by a pair of horny young recruits on either side of Baleen’s physique, holding the adjoining limbs as Baleen gave a final feeble attempt to resist as the CO became one with Baleen.
Sodomized. Penetrated. Slapped. Covered in Ejaculate from Head to Toe. Hickeys intermixed with prior bruises, nipples sore from inconsiderate twisting and pinching. Pussy turned into a turquoise hue from various appendages making their entry. Even Nader Shah’s looting of the Punjabi Heartland in the 18th century paled in comparison to the torture bestowed upon Baleen. The sadistic officers ate their dinner with the night entertainment provided by the more than willing waiters who took out their sexual frustrations on Baleen as they were cheered on by their foreign overlords. A call was sent to the Military Doctor well past midnight to attend to Baleen, who was a whisker away from meeting Guru Nanak.
The inquiry board had to be begrudgingly set up as rumors began to swell and disperse, threatening to burst into the national political debate. Baleen and her closest relative were paid hush up money. No reprimand was given to the officers. The only outcome was that female workers had to be done with their work by 1pm and no longer allowed official residence within the compound. Which did little to dampen any willing officer looking to bed the native booty, spending the nights in the BOQs, fucked by one or two of Great Britain’s finest.
************************************
“Now Govinda, you have been a most loyal servant. Since Shalini doesn’t occupy her room at night, your sister is most welcome to stay with us. But there is something you must do for us.”
“Memsaab, I am most grateful. The commute is very tiring for Geeta and I am sure she would be delighted… there isn’t anything I won’t do for you, Mr and Mrs Smith!”
“Oh that we know Govinda!” remarked John heartily, ” Go clean our bedroom and stay there till we come.”
“Yes sirjee.”
As Govinda retreated into the house, a mighty impressed Catherine looked to her husband with a rare admiration.
“My my John, are we really going to go through with this?”
“Yes dear, the iron is hot. Let’s strike the hammer.”