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U3A Writing: The Indian - A Matchless Beauty

…It was a fatal attraction from the very first moment that he caught sight of her. She was learning against the wall, the spring sunlight illuminating her sinuous lines and dark, matchless, exotic beauty….

Vera Sanderson tells of a torrid love affair.

It was a fatal attraction from the very first moment that he caught sight of her. She was learning against the wall, the spring sunlight illuminating her sinuous lines and dark, matchless, exotic beauty.

He just had a to have her, to make her his own, no matter what it cost.

For months now he had been missing his lunch to sneak away and see her, making the excuse to his wife that he was just going up to see old Fred and Elsie to give them a few magazines and check if they wanted a lift to do their shopping. It would only take about an hour.

Oh, what bliss. What an hour. If only he could catch her on her own, but each time he peered over the wall the man was there, jealously eyeing him uip and down and guarding her like she belonged to him.

He knew exactly how the man felt, for long ago he had left his beloved in India when his tour of duty came to an end. They would not let him bring her back, and he was shipped home.

How desperately he had missed her. They had travelled the length and breadth of the Asian continent together and he had spend so many happy hours with her sinuous, throbbing form pressed close to his body. All those years together, and there had never been a breakdown in their close relationship.

It would, he felt sure, be just a wonderful with this new love.

Fred said that he had heard that the man was thinking of moving on. The man was also short of ready cash and could probably be bribed into leaving her behind. She might just be available and could be ready to be transferred to someone who would really appreciate her fine qualities and not leave her standing waiting by the gate in all sorts of weather.

He was in a torment of passion, lusting for her with all his body and mind. It was now or never, and it had to be now.

His wife had warned him about his ‘infidelities’, as she called them, and she swore that it would be the final straw if he did it again. But he just did not care. He had to claim his heart’s desire today.

After all, he had never really loved his wife. He was in his late twenties when he came back home to North Yorkshire, ad his old clique had moved away, and so did he – down to the West Riding.
He had married his wife because he felt it was ‘the right thing to do’, and the prospect of grandchildren pleased his mother.

His wife, compared to the exotic Asian women he had grown used to, was desperately plain. She was big and hefty with short-sighted pale eyes, hair and skin to match. Her podgy face resembled an underdone Yorkshire pudding. Although she did make wonderful Yorkshire puddings, even if she was half Lancashire, and with a voice so piercing it could be heard at the other end of the street without a telephone. Not at all like the soft, gentle purr of his ‘gorgeous Indian’, for that was how he thought of the sublime beauty.

No, he definitely was not double crossing his wife. There never had been and never could be the thrill he felt at the sight of the Indian, and he was prepared to make any sacrifice to be with her. That was all there was to it.

His wife presented a good bargain – a table he could get his feet under and some promise of a sound financial prospect in later life, but that was all past. He was frantic with longing for his loved one, so he would make the break today.

Silently he slipped on his coat and walked out of the door for what, he hoped, would be the last time. Their joint bank book hung heavy in his breast pocket. He would need that when the final reckoning came.

He would squander every last penny on his dark beauty. Every pound would be for her adornment. They would look wonderful. He would be dressed in his new leathers, and the Indian in her bright red ‘war paint’.

At the very thought of this his feet took wings. Up the hill, straight past Fred’s house, round the corner, and there was the Indian standing waiting for him in all her glory. He felt his stomach turn over with excitement, and he was at once bewitched and utterly consumed by a fierce, passionate longing.

He ran forward and leapt over the wall to be by her side. For the first time he touched her with his hands. He drew her close to his throbbing body, his arms akimbo, and with a deep sigh of satisfaction he gripped the clutch, revved her up and off they went.

Twenty, 30, 50, 70, 90 miles per hour. Twisting, turning, in a wild, racing tumult of delight. Up and down the hill, round the double S bend at the bottom.

Well, almost. In his wild expression of freedom and bliss he did not see the lorry hurtling round the other side of the bend on the narrow country road.

It was all over in seconds. There he lay, silent, still and crumpled at the side of the road, a serene smile on his pale, white face and his hands still gripping the handlebars. Happy at last entwined in the still embrace of all that was left of his beautiful, beloved ‘Indian’ motorbike.

Author’s Note: This is a true tale of a man’s obsession and a jealous, suspicious woman. It has been fictionalised and is not all it seems to be.

The wife was myself when young, and the man was, and still is, my own husband. He is a North Yorkshire man of strong character. He served during the war in the Far East with the 17th Indian Brigade (known as ‘The Forgotten Army’) and travelled the length and breadth of the Asian continent – especially India.

In 1990 I began to write a biography just for my children. It is entitled ‘Tales from the Tapestry of Life’. This is one of them.


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