So,
As a Tree Grows
by
D. V. Zomba
Copyright 2000
Chapters
I. A Seed is Planted 1 II. The Seedling 12 III. The Sapling 21 IV. Budding 31 V. Blooming 44 VI. First Fruits 57 VII. Postlude (Harvest) 68
I A Seed is Planted
One year ago - - - -
It was Saturday night, Harish stood in the lobby leading to the Philharmonic Hall, and marveled at the lavish appointments of the interior--polished granite and marble, luxurious hard woods, stainless steel and glass. The foyer and the Philharmonic Hall were nestled between the towering, twin, stainless steel and glass shafts of K. L. C. C.--piercing deep into the humid, tropical, night sky.
"Really impressive!" he reflected. He thought how much Kuala Lumpur had changed in the six years that he had been away to school--from a growing city, straining at its seams to a bustling, modern, cosmopolitan metropolis. It had come of age. Yet, there was still something of the old city, some ineffable ethos that lay just under the glamor of the new. The exterior had changed, but the soul remained essentially the same.
Self assured--although a bit reserved and immaculately attired in his maroon silk shirt, black slacks and black loafers--Harish walked across the foyer and mounted the staircase to the tiered hall above. He handed his ticket to the usher, followed her, and took the aisle seat that she indicated. The interior of the Philharmonic Hall was spectacular! Where the exterior had been all stone and steel, the interior was wood, comfortably upholstered seats and a dramatic ceiling. Harish opened his program and lightly perused the pages. The program was light this evening. He had purchased his ticket because he particularly loved Saint-Säens Organ Symphony, third on the night's program.
The musicians were slowly strolling onto the stage, taking their seats and tuning their instruments. The sounds were a bit discordant. "That was always the case," he thought as he watched the remaining musicians file in.
An usher stopped at his row and indicated the second seat to a patron. Harish looked up, shifted his knees to the right as a well dressed young man excused himself and slipped into the seat next to Harish. He glanced to at the man, who also looked at Harish. Both smiled and nodded a polite greeting, nothing more. "Handsome 'matsaleh,'" Harish thought. He seemed vaguely familiar, but, his attention was diverted by applause as the concertmaster took his place.
Harish settled back and politely applauded the conductor who gave a perfunctory bow, and awaited the opening selection--a Berlioz Overture.
The Saint-Säens had been acceptable, not great, but not bad either. He applauded and stood up.
"Not too bad," the man to his right said.
Harish smiled, "No, not too bad, although I have heard better," he admitted. The 'matsaleh' was as tall as Harish, dark brown hair, blue eyes, strong nose and chin. He wore a black shirt, gray slacks and possessed a flashing smile.
"Handsome," again crossed Harish's mind.
Harish joined the retreating concertgoers that left the hall and he proceeded into the humid night air. He noticed the 'matsaleh,' who had been sitting next to him, get into a taxi and drive off. Again he thought that there was something vaguely familiar about the man, but Harish dismissed the thought as he hailed his own taxi. He had lived in the States too long to fall back on the old saying, "All 'matsaleh' look alike!"
He had thought that he would go to one of the coffee houses that populated the upscale Bangsar area, have a latté, a bite to eat and then go to his apartment. Suddenly, he changed his mind and directed the driver to take him to one of the coffee houses on Bukit Bintang. He took a seat on the outside terrace, ordered, sat back, waited and thought. It had been several months since he had returned home after graduation and with a position in hand.
He reflected, "Kuala Lumpur had changed, but, the same could also be said of me--I'm still the son of a plantation worker, I'm still a 'kampung' boy, who through the sacrifice of my parents and the help of the church had lifted me above the stultifying position of my birth, I still have an undying love of family, I'm still Tamil, I'm still Malaysian." Yet, there was a change! His demeanor, his appearance had changed since he had left Kuala Lumpur for school in the States. Not only had he physically matured, he had developed a quiet self confidence, rare among Malaysiana.
"What did you think of the Hall?" came a question which shook him from his reverie.
"Pardon?" He glanced towards the source of the voice and saw the 'matsaleh.'
"What did you think of the Hall? Quite beautiful, I think," the young man said with a smile.
"Yes, very impressive and the acoustics are quite good," Harish replied also smiling.
"If you're not waiting for some one . . . can I join you? I'm sort of new in town."
Years before - - - -
Harish had been born on a palm oil plantation in Selangor. He was the youngest of six children born to Lalita and Kumar--three older boys, then there was his two sisters, and finally Harish. At first, he was sickly, but soon grew into a robust, active child. His father worked on a palm oil plantation as had his grandfather and his great-grandfather before him. There wasn't much else that was available for an uneducated person. Besides the Tamils were at the bottom of the socio-economic ladder in British Malaya having been "imported" by the British to do menial labor. This position social remained in the later Malaysia. Kumar worked long hard hours as did his older children. Yet there never seemed to be enough! The future for Harish boded the same.
Lalita, Harish's mother was a devout Methodist, his father a Hindu. Yet, the marriage was relatively placid and productive. Every Sunday, Lalita would walk the three miles the the small church at the border of the plantation, taking her two daughters and Harish. The older boys didn't attend. Harish looked forward to the Sundays. They were a break in the monotony of the rest of the week and he loved the music of the service.
Pastor Johnson and his wife, Diane, had taken a particular liking to Harish. They had no children of their own--it was "God's will." They persuaded Lalita to allow Harish to attend the local elementary school. At least he would get a rudimentary education. At first he rebelled at being separated from his mother and family. But, Lalita was strong and quietly insisted that he remain at school.
Soon, the challenge of acquiring knowledge took hold and Harish attacked each new subject and problem voraciously. It soon became apparent to the teacher that this young Tamil's mental ability was above average and that he had a particularly inquisitive nature. "He should go on to high school!" his parents were told.
This was communicated to Lalita. Although she, herself, had learned to read and write, her education stopped there. This would not be the case with Harish! At least one of her children would be given the opportunity to raise above the harsh life to which she had become accustomed. She had expressed her desire to Kumar who scoffed, saying, "Don't try to get above your station."
Nonetheless, her quiet insistence and inherent tenacity prevailed. Kumar knew better than to object further. He had marveled, in his own way, at the way his wife could get things done--things that she really wanted. He deferred to her judgment in this matter. After all, she was a good wife!
Lalita went to Pastor Johnson and his wife with her problem. They said that they would see what could be done, but first he would have to take the national examinations which would rank him. If he did well enough, he would be allowed to enter secondary education.
Harish took he exams, passed with flying colors, and, with the aid and influences of the Johnsons, was accepted into a good school in nearby Klang, The Klang School for Boys--one which earlier had been run by the Methodist Church. He was boarded there, in turn for working in the kitchen, "A minor consideration," his mother had said, and added, "At least you'll be clean and not covered with dirt from the plantation."
At first Harish hated being separated from his family. His meager allowance given to him, from time to time, by his mother, did not allow him the luxury of returning home on the weekends. He spent that time reading--a practice that he loved as it opened up new worlds for him, if only in his mind--and playing soccer in the neighboring park with the local boys--he loved physical exercise and the competitiveness of the game.
His love of soccer was soon recognized by the school and he was invited to try out for the school's team. This he did, and he was soon a member of the team.
Klang School was composed of Malaysians for the most part--mostly Malays, a few local Chinese and one other Tamil--as well as a few sons of "matsaleh." The school's reputation was good and was noted for its strict discipline. A number of foreigners had enrolled their sons at the Klang School for Boys since they had presented a discipline problem at other, more prestigious schools and were politely asked to leave. The school possessed an "asrama" for the boarding students. Many students came from the Klang area and were considered "day students." The asrama consisted of two floors. The top floor had two large dormitory rooms separated by two smaller rooms for two student proctors and their assistant proctors, and on the ground floor the toilets and showers. The proctor and the assistant proctor were assigned one of the dormitory spaces and acted as student leaders, monitors and liaised with the dorm master. On the ground floor, also, was a suite for the
dorm master. The two large dorm rooms had two ranks of twenty cots--hardly comfortable--with foot lockers and a narrow aisle down the middle. The students were responsible for keeping the room clean--immaculate--supplying their own linen as well as keeping it clean. Laundry became a Saturday morning "chore" for Harish. How he hated it! He didn't mind washing his uniform, a gift from the Johnsons, but the washing of the sheets, pillow case and his underwear was particularly loathsome. The other boarding students usually took their dirty linen home where it was washed by their mothers or servants. Harish did not have that luxury!
At first he found the cots unnatural. He had until then slept on a thin mat on the wooden floor at home. Only his mother and father possessed a "mattress," but no bed. Soon he became comfortable sleeping on the cot, but he still hated laundry!
He envied Brad Forsythe, a student who occupied the cot next to him, when he arrived late Sunday afternoon from home with a neatly wrapped package containing his sheets and fresh clothes. Brad was one of the students who left every Friday afternoon to spend the weekend with his parents in K. L. His father worked in the U. S. Embassy.
Yet, life at the Klang School for Boys, after the initial time of adjustment, was basically pleasant for Harish. There were times of tension and stress. That was only natural.
He was often embarrassed with his threadbare underwear, but he quickly learned to dress and undress under a sarong. Most boys slept in a sarong. Brad, he noticed, slept in his white briefs!
He was often embarrassed upon waking in early in the morning with an erection. He learned to will it away before he got up and went to the toilets. Not so with Brad! He would bound out of bed and saunter down the aisle with his erection tenting his briefs, without embarrassment. "'Matsalehs' are so brazen," Harish would say to himself.
He was often embarrassed and angered while in the shower cubical when the curtain was unceremoniously flung back, revealing his dripping nakedness. Frequently it was Brad who was the culprit. "My, my, what do we have here?" Brad would say sneering at him. Harish tried to cover his nudity, but never in time. Then Brad would laugh and stroll off. It soon became apparent that Brad did this on a regular basis. Then there was the time, while he was changing, had put on a worn pair of briefs.
Brad said, laughing, "Be careful Har (the name Brad called him, much to his dislike) . . . if you get a hard on it will pop right out of your underwear." Harish was mortified.
He was really taken back early in his last year, when, after finishing his supper chores, he returned the broom and mop to the closet in the hall off the dining room. Opening the door and was greeted with an incredible sight. There was Brad gripping the hair of a kneeling freshman whose mouth was filled with Brad's considerable and erect cock. Brad was fucking the boys face! He would never forget that brief image of a thick, veined, glistening, pink shaft sliding in and out of those encircling lips.
Slightly startled, Brad glanced at Harish, instantly recognizing him and snarled, "Close the damned door unless you want some!"
Harish quickly closed the door, leaving the broom and mop leaning against the wall and left.
Later, in the asrama, while sitting on his cot, trying to go over some notes, Brad came in and sat down facing Harish. Harish pretended not to notice, but his dark skin flushed unnaturally. What he had seen was indelibly locked in his mind.
"Hey, Har, you should be more careful. You left the broom and the mop outside the closet door." Then he added, "But, don't worry, I put them away for you. We don't want our token Tamil to get any demerits! Do we?" He laughed and playfully punched Harish's shoulder.
"Thanks," was all Harish could say.
Harish took a long time to fall asleep--that image kept insinuating itself across his mind's screen. The next morning, while in the shower, the curtain was again flung back. Luckily Harish was facing the shower head.
"Oh, Har! didn't know anyone was in here," came Brads voice, then he added, "Sorry."
Saying that he pated Harish's ass and walked away. The touch of Brad's hands on his ass sent galvanic shock waves through Harish. Brad had never touched him before! Never in the shower during those innumerably 'accidental openings.' He finished toweling off, wrapped the towel around his waist and left the cubicle. Brad was characteristically standing in the common area, toweling himself off and heedless of his nakedness. Harish glanced at Brad who shot him a wry smile and knowing wink. Again Harish flushed.
That wasn't the only time! A week later, after Harish had finished his kitchen duties, he was particularly sweaty. He noticed he was alone when he went to the showers and quickly entered one of the cubicles and began to cleanse his body. Suddenly she curtain was drawn back. Harish was startled, "There had been no one here," the thought.
Before he could characteristically cover himself, Brad's hand shot forth and cupped Harish's cock and balls.
"What a nice basket," he leered, squeezed them lightly and then abruptly dropped the curtain back into place.
Harish was nonplused. Still the touch had registered and his cock began to swell and lengthen imperceptibly. Harish did not notice the touch's reaction and the lengthening continued. He was still weighing in his mind what had just happened when the curtain was again flung back.
"Har, I think I gave you a 'hard on!'" Brad again reached for Harish's burgeoning cock with a leer. Harish instantly became aware of his "condition" and instinctively tried to covered his offending member with one hand and ward off Brad's hand with the other.
Uncharacteristically, Harish snarled, "Get the hell out of here! I'm not one of your . . . little toys!"
Brad was taken back by the vehemence of the invective. His eyes widened slightly, "Sorry," was all he could say. He left.
Quickly Harish dried himself and returned to the dorm room. Thankfully, Brad was not there.
It was nearly "lights off" when Brad returned. This time he was quiet, no bravado, no swagger. Harish had just gotten into bed. His back was towards Brad's bed and he feigned sleep. Brad quickly undressed and slipped under his sheet. The lights were turned off.
A few minutes later, Harish rolled onto his back, his preferred sleeping position. He glanced to his left and could see the covering sheet raising and falling in rhythmic succession as Brad masturbated. This was not new. Many of the boys participated in this 'sport,' particularly at night when they thought that no one would notice. But always some one did and the fact was announced the next morning, much to the offenders chagrin. But it was a harmless sport that all usually participated in from time to time.
Harish remembered the first time! He was fifteen then. He had began to grow with amazing speed, and so, he noticed with amazement, did his cock! No longer pencil thin with its puckered sheath and smaller extension, it began to lengthen, and thicken, even in a relaxed state. Especially, the head, it assumed major proportions. The foreskin no longer extended far beyond the head as it did when he was a child. This he marveled at. Then one night, just before he fell asleep, his cock began to grow into an adolescent erection. This surprised Harish, and he placed his hand under his sarong and grasped his cock. Rather than subsiding, it grew even harder. He moved his encircling hand, and that movement was indescribably delicious. He moved it again, this time downward and then upward. Without volition, he began the rhythmic movement up and down the hot, hard shaft of his adolescent cock. The pleasant sensations mounted until he thought that he could take no
more. Then there was an indescribable explosion and release that shook his whole body to its very core. He stopped his hand's pistoning movement and could feel hot, viscous fluid flowing over his fingers, being reflected back by his now wet, covering sarong.
"What!," he shouted to himself. All he could say was, "What!"
Yet the sensation was like nothing he had ever encountered.
That Saturday, he was alone in the asrama, everyone else had gone home for the weekend. In his evening shower, while he was soaping himself, his cock again began its inexorable progress towards erection. He was both slightly embarrassed and exceedingly interested in this transformation. He gazed down at his lengthening cock, at first with scientific dispassion. Slowly, with small jerks it began to arch outward from his body. The thin sprinkling of hair that had began to grow around the base of his cock and balls seemed a black halo. As his cock achieved full erection, it pointed straight outwards and slightly upwards.
The foreskin which had completely covered his cock head before was now stretched so that it barely covered his swollen glans. As if to cover the exposure of this sensitive knob, he grasped the tip of the foreskin between his thumb and forefinger, pulling it outwards as if to cover the nakedness of that enlarged knob--this he did frequently in the years to come.
The tugging of his finger and thumb made his cock spasm and bounce of its own accord. Deliberately he encircled his cock with his fingers and slowly pulled them to the base of his cock. The glistening, bright pinkish-lavender head was exposed! He had always marveled at the difference in color between his dark brown shaft and enveloping foreskin and the almost fluorescent pink cock-head. He moved his hand upwards and the erotic knot was again covered. He noted the sensations--almost electric, coursing through his being, lascivious, delicious and demanding. He continued the hand-fucking motion with slow deliberation. The sensations mounted, exponentially.
He could feel his cock harden even more and he thought that it even became bigger than its original, erect five inches. Still he continued. As he arrived at the threshold of release, he realized that he could now not stop. Something deep inside his being expanded in atomic energy and exploded. He groaned uncontrollably as he watched a small amount of pearly liquid shoot from his cock slit, arch upward and spatter against the back of the shower wall. Again, and then once more, in lesser amounts the opalescent, viscous cum was launched from his cock to hit the wall and dribble downwards. There was a sense of incredible release. His tense muscles uncontrollably relaxed and he began to breath deeply.
He pumped his hand again 'til the head was covered. It was then that he was immediately aware of the hypersensitivity that the know had now achieved. He pulled the foreskin back and touched the swollen glans with his finger. He winced at the sensation his touch had engendered--it bordered on pain. He released his cock, still hard, still erect and let the cool water from the shower wash over its surface.
Several minutes later his dick was still hard, but the super sensitivity had subsided. He dried himself, wrapped the towel about his waist, taking care that the detumescent cock lay safely against his lower belly and went back to the dorm room, to bed and to a deep restful sleep.
The morning after "the groping," Harish got up at his usual time, showered and went to the dining room to start his chores. He ate his breakfast after the rest had been served. He sat at an empty table, as usual, and slowly ate his nasi lemak, the usual morning fare. Brad, was late in entering, quickly heaped his plate, looked around, saw the nearly empty table at which Harish sat, went over and nonchalantly sat down. Normally he sat with his other matsaleh friends, but most of them had finished and left.
"Hi," he said as he sat down.
"Hi," came the reply.
"Hey, man," Brad began, "I want to thank you for not telling about the closet thing last week."
"That's okay. No problem."
"Yeah, well some wouldn't understand."
"Oh?" was all Harish could answer.
"Ya' know, you need a little release, and besides, there isn't any pussy around."
"Pussy?" Harish hadn't heard the term before.
"You know . . . cunt!" he said soto voce with a leer and a knowing arch of his eye brows.
That term--i.e., "cunt"--Harish understood!
"Oh, yeah."
"And, about last night . . . " Brad continued, "nothing meant, Just kidding."
"No problem," Harish lied, and they ate the rest of their meal in silence.
Later, Harish had heard from a number of other Malaysian students, that Brad's little secret was not such a secret after all. Although, no one came right out and said anything. There were plenty of innuendoes of how Brad "relieved" himself with the lower class men.
It was a month later, late on a Saturday afternoon that another incident was branded into his mind. He had been playing soccer at the park. Saturday and Sunday there was no kitchen duty, so it was nearly 6:45 p. m. when he was returning to the school. He had decided to take a short-cut through a copse at the end of the field. As he was making his way through, he saw a figure ahead. Quietly he continued until he had an uninterrupted view over a shrub. It was Brad!
His shorts and briefs were around his ankles as were those of a younger student. The underclassman was bent over at the waist and Brad was shoving his hard swollen cock into the kids ass hole. Harish stopped, transfixed and watched as Brad fucked the boy. The younger student was apparently feeling no pain at what Harish thought would have been a painful, not to mention, and unnatural act.
He continued to watch as Brad tightly grasped the boys hips and rammed his cock into the soft, smooth ass--again and again and again! He was mesmerized as Brads buttocks tensed, were propelled forward, relaxed, withdrew, and tensed again for another assault. Brad's ass was firm, muscled, white and with a thin dusting of short silky hair. His ass mirrored the rest of Brad's muscled form. He had achieved most his growth by this time. That included, Harish noted, the considerable cock--at least all that Harish could see as it moved in and out.
Beads of sweat were rolling down Brads face. The underclassman's head bobbed violently with every thrust. Suddenly, Brad gasped and thrust forward with a force that made the boy nearly lost his footing. One more time he shoved his cock deep into the kids ass, held it there for a few seconds, then withdrew. He reached down into the pocket of his shorts and took out an paper napkin with which he wiped clean his glistening cock.
The underclassman pulled up his underwear and shorts and turned to face Brad. It was then that he became aware of Harish.
"Allah-mah," he breathed in shocked embarrassment, then he turn and ran like a wounded deer through the copse and up the incline towards the asrama.
Brad turned and faced Harish, while he adjusted his briefs and shorts. At first slightly frightened, then a little embarrassed, he said, "Didn't know you were standing there!"
"You should be more careful, Brad."
"Shit, who cares?"
"Plenty of people would care!"
Brad merely shrugged at the rebuke. "Did you like what you saw?" he asked brazenly.
Harish merely glared his disapproval at Brad, turned and walked off.
When he arrived back at the asrama, he encountered the underclassman returning from the shower. The young boy flushed considerably, changed and quickly left the dorm room. Harish noticed that tears filled his eyes.
"Poor kid," he said to himself.
The rest of the year, his last, went well. No more unexpected encounters. He had taken his examinations earlier in the year, passing with all "A's." That, of course made his mother extremely proud. His father, as well, welled up with pride, but he did not utter his approval. That was natural for Kumar who, like Harish, was naturally reticent.
Harish was not the only member of his class who had done so well in his exams. Klang School for Boys was noted for the number of all "A's" achieved by its students. Brad, however, was not one of them, he had gotten several "B's."
Brad made it a point to needle Harish regarding his grades. "Remember, Har, all work and no play makes you a dull boy!"
Harish retorted, "I do work hard, and I play hard . . . but not the kind of play that you engage in!"
"Touché!" came Brad Forsythe's reply.
Harish had distantly thought of University. But, the idea, the reality was worlds beyond his family's ability. So he reluctantly closed off that desire. The Johnson's, however, proud of their young protégé's accomplishments, were busy contacting the limited sources they had in the church.
The day of his graduation, Lalita and Kumar donned their finest clothes and took a bus to Klang. From the station they uncharacteristically hired a taxi to take them to Klang School. There they were met by the Johnsons. Diane Johnson took Lalita aside and excitedly conveyed a message to her. Lalita flushed, grabbed Diane's hand and repeatedly kissed it. Kumar looked on in wonderment. Then as the two ladies continued their conversation, Kumar noticed a dark cloud come over his wife's face. Soon they returned to where Kumar and pastor Johnson stood.
"Kumar, " Lalita began, began breathlessly, "The Johnsons have been able to get a scholarship for Harish at an American university!"
Kumar's eyes widened imperceptibly. He really wasn't aware of the import of the statement.
Lalita continued, "Free fees, free room and food."
Kumar could understand that. "But in America?" he asked.
"Yes," came the reply.
"Do they give him a free ticket too?" he asked.
"Kumar," Pastor Johnson, interrupted, "Harish gets free tuition, room and board. He has to supply the ticket."
"Humph!" snorted Kumar, "Might as well be on the moon. Where does he get the money for that. It must cost hundreds."
"2,500 ringgit," supplied Diane.
"2,500 ringgit! That's more than I make in four months. How are we to eat?"
"Now wait," Pastor Johnson said gently, understanding Kumar's agitation and putting his hand on Kumar's shoulders understandingly, "Diane and I have talked to the plantation owners, they're members of the church here, in Klang. We've asked them for help. I'm sure that they will give it . . . but we haven't heard yet."
"I'm not going to hold my breath," Kumar said, knowingly.
Harish was supplied a ticket. It was the least the owners could do after three generations had toiled on the plantation (that was the Johnson's argument). Harish boarded the plane at Subang Airport and flew to the United States, Iowa, to be exact, and entered Grinnell College.