Darah: His


Darah is Indonesian for "Blood".
The word darah is very close to Dara, Indonesian for Maiden.
Arabic for "to circle" دارَ , or the noun "circle" دائرة.

 Bananas for dessert?

We chuckled at the hostess' sense of humor when a massively meaty meal was followed with fat, yellowy, ripe bananas.

Since the husband was appointed head of prophets, the wife's behaviors just seemed to be getting weirder and weirder. First, she gave an out-of-the-blue invitation for a "married ladies only" lunch. Then this lavish meal followed with bananas.

We wink to each other and keep our peace – at least as long that we're still in their home. It's not the first time that our faith in Abe and Sara is tested. It's not the first time that their apparent insanity unfolds more wisdom than most of us would comprehend.

Besides, we love bananas. They're never too sweet or too sour, and no matter how enshrouded is the edible part of the fruit under so thick layers of skin, you can always judge a banana from its skin, making it a reliable and trustworthy fruit.

I was about to take my first banana bite, when the blacksmith's wife came to greet and boisterously hug me. We watched the banana to slip and fall from my hand. She smiled apologetically and offered me another from the table, and walked away to shock the Mayor's wife with yet another one of her earsplitting greetings.

I repeated the ritual of unpeeling another banana. And when I was about to take my first bite, the carpenter's wife nudged my elbow and dropped the fruit from my hand.

The third time's the charm. This time Sara, the hostess herself who shook my elbow until the banana fell from my hand. This time I got mad. Prophets or not, this is crazy.

"Look here, Madam, that was my third. Is there a reason why I should NOT skip dessert and leave? "
She smiled. "Would you eat your bananas unpeeled?"
"I certainly would not!"
"Then neither should your husband." And she, Sara, walked away.

I lost my appetite and left the gathering banana-craved and confused. At home, I found my husband, the soft spoken librarian, and immediately filled him with details of that strange lunch with the married ladies.

He gave me one of his 'you-women-I-can-never-thoroughly-understand!' laughs, took me in his embrace and gently guided my hand to the warmest crook between his legs, "I have something that might curb all and every one of your cravings."

He quickly grew in my hand. From a shy fruit under sheaths of wrinkled skin, to a fat stub that is bloated with desire.

And it struck me clear.

"I think I need to sharpen the kitchen knife."
"What?!" He shrunk. Entirely.
"I think Sara was implying on this," I squeezed my husband's shriveled shaft, oblivious to his yelp. "You men need to be unpeeled before enjoyed."
"Woman, are you out of your mind? Unpeel my manhood with a knife and scar me for life?"
"Well, why didn't Abe just tell me so himself?"
"You think you have the balls to do it yourself, husband?" I dropped to my knees and kissed him there, "Be my guest, but I wouldn't bet on your balls if I were you,"

The women were the ones given the order, the men to comply.
This was how men, not only women, began to bleed from between their legs. How circumcision began.

How enjoyment between man and woman had a blood clotted between the sheets, from the days of Abraham and his wife Sara.
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