The Mark of Danteshwari

"You are the blessed of Danteshwari!" Ramita stares at me now silently with an expression somewhere between horror and awe.

"How did you know?" I whisper. My voice rises and cracks as I say, "Tell me what's happening, Ramita!"

My good friend opens her mouth and then closes it. She lowers her head and I can see that she is shaking. "This cannot be. How can you..." Ramita lifts her head, her dark eyes now ablaze. "How is this possible, Christine. You are American. This should not be happening. These dreams -- they are not for you."

I reach out and take hold of her wrists, gripping them tightly. I can barely keep myself under control as I whisper to her, "How did you know those words? How can you know what I've been dreaming?"

Ramita stares at me for a long time. Finally she whispers back, "Because, Christine. I too am having those dreams."

I shake my head in disbelief. "That is not possible. No one shares their dreams."

Ramita gives me a tentative smile. "They do, my dear, if the dreams are of a divine origin. Danteshwari sends us these dreams."

"Danteshwari?" I again shake my head. It doesn't make sense. I recognized the name from the time of my first dream, it is a local deity. Many miles outside the district capital, Jagdalpur, there is a famous temple dedicated to Danteshwari and there is an annual celebration of her -- she is a female and motherly aspect of the Hindu Gods. Despite of my love of this place and my acknowledgement and acceptance of their faith, I find myself suddenly confronted with the truth that I never really accepted that there could be other gods within the world.

Ramita puts a finger to my lips and shushes me. "Hush now, Christine. We must not speak of it further. I must consult Naija, she will know what to do."

Naija is an old woman in the village -- perhaps the oldest woman in the village, although nobody knew her true age. She is the local midwife and is considered a wise woman, maybe even a holy woman. In truth, she might be the most influential person in the village, maybe within the whole region. She has an incredible amount of influence. It was only when she brought her great, great granddaughter to my school that others in the village warmed to it and made it a success. Every Sunday, she sits on the front row in our little church and listens intently to Joseph's sermons, a slightly perplexed expression on her face as she strives to make sense of our faith. I cannot blame her, it doesn't always make sense to me.

Standing up, Ramita reaches out and squeezes my shoulder. "Do not worry, Christine. I am sure Naija will know what to do. I will come see you later this evening. Everything will be alright."

I am still dumbfounded, but just hearing my good friend speak those words gives me comfort. I watch her walk away and I gather up my things and walk home. As I step into the house, I can smell the aroma of a casserole. Following the smell, I see that the dining room table is set for two. In the kitchen, I find Jeff busy washing dishes.

"Mother! I wanted to surprise you!" he says, bounding over to hug me. He tells me his Dad has gone to the next village over to lead a prayer group meeting this evening and won't be back till late, so he decided to make me dinner as a surprise.

"Well, I guess you did, honey!" I reply. I shiver a little as my son wraps his strong arms around me and pulls me to him. I feel my breasts pillow out against his bare chest and I imagine I am blushing as I feel my thick nipples harden, the long bumps pressing against my bra and blouse, aching to touch male skin. For a moment I struggle with the urge to press my lips against his as my vagina begins to burn with lust. I control myself and peck him on the check, content for the moment of just being in a handsome young man's embrace.

Jeff helps me with my bags and tells me of his day. I sit at the table and listen to my son ramble on about things, especially about his and Bimal's plans for starting a farm. As he talks, I can't help but admire his young body. He is tall and well muscled and beautiful and again I can't help but compare his body to that of my dream lover. My panties become sodden and I am appalled to find myself unconsciously dropping my hands into my lap to rub against my slacks.

Jeff and I eat and then he is off to run about with Bimal, no doubt to flirt with the many pretty young girls of our village. I sit on the living room and try and read scripture, seeking comfort in God's words, but not finding them tonight. I pray for help and deliverance for my evil thoughts. I am on my knees when there is a knock at the front door and I hear Ramita call out, "Christine, are you here. May we visit please, with you?"

I struggle to my feet and at the door am surprised to see Ramita and the old holy woman with her. In all the years, we have been here, Naija has never visited us. "Please come in," I say. The woman has the history of countless decades etched on her face. Her eyes are a brilliant green and as she enters she studies me with an uncomfortable intensity.

Inside, we all sit and there is an uncomfortable silence. Finally, Ramita begins, "I have spoken to Naija about your dreams and how I cannot imagine how this has happened. This thing that is happening, should not be happening to you, it is..."

Naija holds up a hand for silence and in a raspy, ancient voice, says, "Hush, daughter. You are smart and educated in the matters of the world, but of the province of the divine, you should not speak." Naija stands up and shuffles over to me. She holds out her hands and I give her mine. Her grip is incredibly firm for someone so old.

"Since times so ancient, they have fallen out of memory, there has been a pact between our goddess, Danteshwari and this village. Once every generation, she marks the worthy women who have lost their husbands to receive her blessings. That holy time has come again." The old woman glances over at Ramita. "Ramita is one who is so blessed. Ten years she has been a widow, her husband tragically lost."

I nod. I know this. Ramita's husband had been killed in a train wreck several years ago, leaving Ramita a widow with two children, her oldest Bimal and a younger daughter.

"And so it is with the blessing of Danteshwari. Those bereft of marriage and who prove worthy are offered a blessing from the mother Danteshwari, in remembrance of service long ago. Ramita's dreams are the mark of Danteshwari. She does not dream alone. Others in the village have also been so blessed." Naija names other women of the village. I recognize a few; Nilaya whose husband abandoned her and their four children and disappeared into the vast population of New Delhi, and Mamata, another widower, her husband killed in military service.

"But, Naija, why me?" I implore her. "I am not Hindu, I am an American and I am married. My husband is here, he's alive."

The old woman shrugs. "One does not question the wisdom of Danteshwari. You are of our village now -- who cares where you come from." She pauses and looks deep into my eyes. "And as to your marriage, tell me now the truth, daughter Christina. Tell me your marriage is alive. Tell me your marriage has not died of your husband's neglect."

I feel my face burn with shame and with anger. Naija leaned in so close, I can feel her warm breath. "Is your marriage dead, Christine Matthews?"

I feel tears running down my face, leaving searing tracks on my skin. "Yes," I whisper. "It's been dead for a long time." I begin to cry and am surprised to feel the arms of the old woman close around me. Her arms are strong and she pulls me against her and lets me cry myself out.

When I am done, she looks down at me, her eyes blazing with a holy light. She turns to Ramita and nods. "She has the Mark of Danteshwari. The holy mother has decreed it."

"What does that mean," I ask, still sniffling. "What do these dreams mean? Are they going to stop? How can we all be sharing the same fucking dream?" I stop suddenly. I am shouting and I did not mean to curse in front of this old woman.

Naija smiles and pats my cheek. "Stop asking questions. Simply accept what is to come. In a fortnight, all answers that you seek will be yours. There is a...rite that must be observed and that you must participate in. Once it is completed, your dreams will end. At dusk the first night of the full moon, Ramita will come for you and you will have your answers."

The old woman turns and hobbles towards the door. "Walk me home, Ramita. I am old and tired and there is so much to do." I try and say more, but she turns and puts an old gnarled finger to her lips. "Shhhhh, Christine. Be patient. For now, it must suffice for you to know that you are not insane." She gives me a big, mostly toothless smile and says, "Have joy, daughter. You are blessed of Danteshwari. It is a most wondrous thing!"

BEHOLD -- YOU ARE THE CHOSEN OF DANTESHWARI. EMBRACE THE BLESSINGS AND THE REBIRTH SHE OFFERS YOU NOW. OPEN YOUR HEART AND NOW LOVE FOR ALL ETERNITY. ACCEPT THE SACRED GIFTS OF LOVE AND FAMILY AND BE AS ONE. YOU ARE THE BLESSED OF DANTESHWARI!

My need is so great it hurts as I hear those words. There is carnality now in the voice. Each syllable ratchets up my desire as I writhe on my back, the strands of material that make up my robe, parting to reveal my feverish, aching, needing sex. My dream lover approaches. He is naked, his cock swollen and long. His beautifully sculpted body is entrancing. I need him. I cannot move except to spread my legs wide and fling my pelvis upwards, offering myself, begging for relief in body language.

My dream lover climbs between my legs, his head still shrouded -- first in mist and then in shadow. My blood engorged nerves can sense his cock almost touching my wet, hot flesh. My labia can almost clasp him. I ache to draw him inside me. He is almost there, sooo close. I look up. I can see his eyes -- they are a reflection of my own blue eyes. I know that there is less than the length of a hair's distance between his hard cock and my wet pussy. Its time -- it's finally time...

And I am upright and awake, tangled in my sheets, sobbing and whimpering, "Nooo! I need it," as my fingers are buried deep in my pussy. I have practically my whole right hand fucking my burning cunt as I try and seek relief. I arch my back as I make myself cum, knowing that it isn't enough -- that I need more -- I need the cock of my dream lover. I sob aloud as my orgasm washes over me. The relief I seek isn't there, even though I am overwhelmed with pleasure.

The only thing I am glad about is that Joseph isn't here. He has journeyed far, to New Delhi for a missionary conference. He left three days ago and will not be back for at least a week. I have masturbated at every free moment since he left, aching for the release that will not come. I am glad he is gone. I have begged him for sex many times since Naija talked to me and he has spurned me at every turn. Now with him away, I can't humiliate myself again by begging for his love.

"Mother? Are you okay?" Jeff is at the door. "I heard you cry out. Did you have another bad dream?" He opens it a little, and I pull the sheets around my nakedness. I cannot see him in the darkness. There is the rumble of thunder in the distance. We have had storms for two days.

I find my voice and rasp hoarsely, "Yes, another bad dream, Jeff. I'm sorry, darling. I didn't mean to wake you. Go back to bed, son."

"I was dreaming too, Mother." There is a long pause. "Are you sure there is nothing I can do for you?"

"You're sweet, honey, but no. I'm alright now. Go back to bed, darling."

"Yes, Mother," my son replies and I hear footsteps as he retreats. Then there is a flash of lighting and for a second, I can see my son's silhouette against the wall. I gasp. I see the shadow of his cock, hard and long and extending from the shadow of his body silhouetted against the wall. I know my son tends to sleep naked in hot weather, but I had no idea he had been at my door naked and hard.

Again for the countless time, my images of my dream lover become mixed up with images of my eighteen year old son. I know I'm going mad, despite what Ramita and Naija say. I cling to one hope. It's been a fortnight since I spoke to Naija. Tonight this must all end. I know that things cannot continue as they are. If the dreams do not end, I know I must leave. Return home to America and have myself committed.

I cannot continue this existence. I will leave my son and find some way to cleanse my mind of this mad, erotic desire. Find a way to erase that beautiful, hard cock from my mind. Even as I speak, again I discover my fingers have ventured forth on their own and are buried in my pussy, again attempting to scratch an itch I cannot seem to reach.

I fear what my state of mind is doing to my son as well. I have walked around in a constant state of arousal like a cat in heat. I can smell my desire constantly and I am changing panties several times a day as they become sodden with my juices. I've lost count of the times in the last several days that Jeff has been in the same room with me and has sniffed the air, brow furrowing in confusion and curiosity as he smells his mother's wet cunt advertising its need.

I've pitied my poor son as I watched him develop erections as he catches my scent, not realizing his body is simply responding to basic carnal instincts. And it has been a struggle not to touch myself in front of him. Like itches I cannot scratch, my hands are constantly moving of their own volition, touching the burning spot between my thighs or caressing a hard nipple through my blouse. I know he has caught me touching myself and I want to hang my head in shame, not wanting to think what he must think of his crazy mother.

The day crawls by, but at least I can suffer alone. Jeff and Bimal leave at noon for a weekend camping trip. Although the jungle is not tame, both boys are eighteen and competent. They have gone camping by themselves many times and I am not worried.

I shower and dress in the late afternoon. I wear a white blouse and khaki shorts. I sit on the porch, waiting for Ramita to arrive. I watch the sun travel slowly downward and try not to ignore the carnal fantasies running through my mind. I have to change my panties once, and then, oh thank God, and then Ramita comes down the street. It is almost sunset and she walks swiftly down the street, dressed in an orange and blue sari, her dark hair pulled back into a bun.

I meet her in the yard and see that she looks as tense and as tired as I do. It suddenly dawns on me that she too must be suffering from the desires that these dreams bring and I feel ashamed that I have not been more supportive of my friend.

"So, are you ready, my friend," she asks in a breathy voice. We look into each others eyes and I see the weariness and the yearning in her dark brown eyes that I see every time I look into a mirror. I nod slowly and then as one, we move together and embrace, hugging each other tightly. "It will all be over soon, Christine. Be strong a little longer, my dear," Ramita whispers in my ear.

"Yes," I whisper and we join hands and I let myself be led back up the street. We quickly make our way towards the edge of the village. As we walk I realize there are others walking with us as well. Ramita seems to be following a woman a hundred yards ahead. I soon sense someone behind us as well. I turn to see the widow Mamata following us, a look of weary anticipation on her face. Further behind her, comes Nilaya, hand in hand with another woman. I do not know her name, but I recognize her face. Her husband passed away a few years ago, a victim of lung cancer -- Joseph and I had called on them to pray over the poor dying man. Other than we women walking, the village seems deserted. No one is out and about. There is an almost eerie silence.

We walk and we walk as the sun begins to set. We reach the edge of the village and with some alarm, I realize we are stepping into the thick growth of the jungle as the sky slowly darkens. We follow others onto a narrow path and soon are deep in the gloom of the dark jungle, although it is not as dark as I would have thought. Moss hangs from tree branches and clings to trunks and as night comes on becomes luminescent, giving off a silvery glow that provides us plenty of light to follow the path.

As we make our way, the noises of the jungle seem muted as if the animals and insects have paused out of respect to our passage. We walk deep into the jungle. At one point, I sense movement at the edge of my vision and almost unable to believe my eyes, I see a Bengal Tiger's head emerge from the thick undergrowth. It watches us with avid interest, but I do not feel fear. It is aware of us and we are aware of it -- there is almost a sense of communion. I suddenly comprehend that it is a female and there is jolt of understanding, of oneness with the creature. As I pass it, the tiger nuzzles my hand as if to offer encouragement. I am filled with a sense of wonder and for the first time in weeks I believe that perhaps there is a resolution waiting for me at the end of our path.

We walk on, how long I'm not sure, time seems to have altered. Night has fallen, but how late it is, I have no idea. The land begins to rise, we are approaching hills and then the path emerges in a clearing. On the far side of the clearing, there is a rock face and I see a woman step to it and into an opening -- a cave.

Ramita guides me towards it. I do not hesitate. I follow my best friend into the cavern. A narrow passage awaits us. It takes us deep under the hill. Torches mounted in the cavern walls light our way. Then we are in a large chamber. It is warm and humid. As my eyes adjust to the dimly lit room, I see steam rising from a pool of water. There are a few women already in the pool, bathing. The woman we followed in is disrobing and for the first time since our journey began, I truly feel uncomfortable. My Protestant faith has instilled in me a terrible sense of modesty.

"Before the rite must begin, we must bathe and be purified in the holy waters that Danteshwari provides," Ramita says to me in a tone I'm sure she uses to mildly chastise Bimal. I look at her and she is already disrobing, her massive breasts exposed. I stare in surprise. Ramita smiles back at me, amused I think by my expression of embarrassment. She reaches out and strokes my cheek affectionately. "Come now, Christine. We are women. There are no secrets between us. Hurry now, we must bathe."

Ramita continues to disrobe. I watch her unable to tear my gaze away, even as I begin to unbutton my blouse. For the first time in my life, I openly stare and admire another woman's naked form. Ramita is a generously built woman. Slightly stocky, she is what we used to call Ruebenesque. She stands maybe five foot seven. Her breasts are incredibly large. I guess maybe by American measurements, her breasts are maybe 50EE, huge udders that lay upon her chest like giant gourds, her dark, almost black nipples are round like quarters and standing up almost half an inch. Ramita's skin is flawless, a beautiful brown. From below her round tummy rises a forest of thick, black pubic hair. Her arousal is evident, her thick labia lips slightly spread, a tropical orchid in a forest of black hair and as she moves, she offers hints of creamy, glistening pink flesh.

Ramita smiles again at my gaze, a little more shyly now as she looks at my body. I slip off my khaki shorts and panties and am aware that my own desire is evident with my flowered cunt lips and the hardness of my long, erect nipples. "My friend, Christine, you are beautiful!" Ramita whispers.

"So are you, Ramita. Your body is -- is um, glorious!" I reply, barely able to believe my own voice. Ramita shakes her hair out of the bun and it falls down her back and she is now incredibly beautiful -- truly the glory of Indian womanhood.