Part 1
My name is Divya. Even though I haven’t lived in India for years, I still have fond memories of my time there. This story is about something that happened in the 1990s, a year after my marriage.
My husband had just left for the USA, where he had found a job, and I was going to join him in a few months. I had quit my job and was living with my parents in Bangalore, and often visited my in-laws, who were also nearby. I was 25 years old then.
My older sister, four years my senior, and her husband, who lived in Delhi, kept pushing me to visit them for a vacation. “Divya, you really should come,” my sister would say, “It’s been too long!” After they kept bugging me about it, my conservative parents finally gave in.
I was thrilled, as this would mean a break from my parents and in-laws and their usual restrictions. I really enjoyed myself at my sister’s place, located in Chittaranjan Park, South Delhi. I did a lot of sightseeing, some shopping, and watched a lot of movies with my sister.
After a couple of weeks, my sister suggested, “Divya, you should learn to drive. You’ll definitely need it when you move to America.” I liked the idea and agreed right away.
My brother-in-law spoke with a driving school nearby called “Happy Driving School.” The next morning, the driving instructor came in an old, rickety Ambassador car, and my sister and I went for our first lesson. My sister came along more for my comfort and confidence, but also because I suspect she didn’t trust North Indian men.
The driving school was run mainly by two instructors, Harpal and Jasbir. They were both former truck and taxi drivers in their mid-forties — typical North Indian men, well-built and rustic. They had a raw, masculine energy that was a little intimidating, a sense of rugged confidence that came from a life lived outdoors, so different from the men I knew. It was a little scary, but if I’m being honest, it was also a turn-on.
They didn’t speak much English, and I only knew some basic Hindi, so my sister would occasionally translate for me. Otherwise, I hardly spoke to them directly.
Usually, one of them would come, either in the morning at 7 or in the afternoon at 2, when the roads were quieter, to avoid the office rush. We would practice on quiet stretches of road for about an hour every day. The instructor would sit close to me in the front seat, while my sister would sit behind.
The first few days went smoothly. I think it made my sister feel comfortable, because she stopped joining me for my lessons. The instructors then began speaking to me more in Hindi, and I was compelled to respond in my limited Hindi.
Normally, the afternoons were more comfortable for me, and Harpal would usually be the instructor then. Now that it was just the two of us, I couldn’t help but notice a shift in Harpal. He sat closer, his instructions turning into opportunities to guide my hands on the steering wheel, his fingers brushing mine on the gearshift.
“Hold it firmly,” he’d instruct in Hindi, guiding my hands. The front seat of a vintage Ambassador car is basically a bench, so he sat right next to me, our shoulders and sometimes even our legs brushing against each other. I was very aware of this, and the casual intimacy was a new experience for me. But he acted like it was nothing. Part of me, the good, married girl I was supposed to be, wanted to shift away, but another, more curious part, wanted to see what would happen if I didn’t.
He would also place his hands on mine casually while holding the steering wheel and gearshift. His hands were big and calloused — a working man’s hands — and feeling their roughness against my softer skin was a stark, exciting contrast. As a modern girl, I told myself there was no harm in a little touch. So I didn’t make a fuss about his touching, something that I think encouraged him.
We would go on long, deserted stretches of road for me to practice. On the third day without my sister, after I had gotten into the driver’s side of the car a short distance from the house, I realized I hadn’t closed the car door hard enough.
“Let me get that for you,” he said smoothly, reaching over and closing the door. I felt the deliberate pressure of his arm as it brushed firmly against my breasts. There was no mistaking it. My breath caught, but a smile touched my lips. It was a bold and clever move, and I found myself more impressed with him than offended.
Later, while he was helping me with the steering wheel at a turn, he casually rubbed his elbow on my breasts. I was surprised but didn’t say anything, my heart giving a delicious little flutter. Was it an accident? Or was he testing my boundaries, seeing how far he could push?
Again, after a few minutes, the same thing happened: his elbow brushed my breasts while trying to help me a bit too eagerly with the steering. He was sitting so close to me that there was no space for me to move. I told myself that since we were seated so close, a little contact was bound to happen.
It happened another three or four times, with Harpal becoming a very eager instructor, constantly “helping” me. It felt intentional, a secret game just between us, and I didn’t stop him.
The next day, Harpal was there on time, and we set out with him sitting very close to me. We moved to a quieter road, where his repeated attempts to guide me meant his arms kept brushing mine. I was wearing a salwar kameez, and he kept rubbing his elbow on the front of my kameez, onto my breasts.
“Look straight,” he’d say in a low voice, reminding me to keep my eyes on the road, even as his elbow pressed harder.
He started with his elbow resting against my breasts, but then he slowly and clearly began to apply pressure to them. It was obvious he had done it deliberately, and I could tell from his quickened breathing that he was pretty turned on.
I tried to act cool and pretended to be focused on learning to drive, not reacting to what he was doing, though I was very aware of his elbow on my breast. It was exciting in a way, and I remember holding my breath, my heart pounding, wondering what he would do next. A delicious warmth spread through my stomach, a secret, illicit thrill in the hot, still air of the car.
That night, I even dreamed about Harpal and the way he kept touching me. It was a hazy dream full of rough hands and a deep voice murmuring in Hindi. I woke up flushed, my body aching with a need I hadn’t felt in weeks. I’d missed sex with my husband for the last few weeks, after getting used to it in our first year of marriage.
