She tried to smile. "Oh yes you will. I know men better than that. But
I'll always remember you. When a man and a woman share their bodies
with each other, a bond is made between them. It's never entirely
forgotten, at least by me. So tonight, our last night, I want you to
let me give you something of mine to keep."
She reached under the couch and withdrew a box, teakwood and trimmed in
gold. She placed it on the velvet tapestry between them.
"I've never shown this to a _feringhi_ before, but I want you to have
it. To make you remember me, at least for a while."
"I've never had a present from an Indian woman before." Hawksworth
carefully opened the box's gold latch. Inside was a book, bound in
leather and gilded, with exquisite calligraphy on its cover.
"It's called the Ananga-Ranga, the Pleasures of Women. It was written
over a hundred years ago by a Brahmin poet who called himself Kalyana
Mai. He wrote it in Sanskrit for his patron, the Viceroy of Gujarat,
the same province where you are now."
"But why are you giving it to me?" Hawksworth looked into her eyes.
"I'll remember you without a book. I promise."
"And I'll remember you. You've given me much pleasure. But there are
those in India who believe the union of man and woman should be more
than pleasure. The Hindus believe this union is an expression of all
the sacred forces of life. You know I'm not a Hindu. I'm a Muslim
courtesan. So for me lovemaking is only to give you pleasure. But I
want you to know there's still more, beyond what we've had together,
beyond my skills and knowledge. According to the Hindu teachings, the
union of male and female is a way to reach the divine nature. That's
why I want you to have this book. It describes the many different
orders of women, and tells how to share pleasure with each. It tells of
many things beyond what I know."
She took the leatherbound copy of the Ananga-Ranga and opened it to the
first page. The calligraphy was bold and sensuous.
"In this book Kalyana Mai explains that there are four orders of women.
The three highest orders he calls the Lotus Woman, the Art Woman, and
the Conch Woman. The rest he dismisses as Elephant Women."
Hawksworth took the book and examined its pages for a time. There were
many paintings, small colored miniatures of couples pleasuring one
another in postures that seemed astounding. Finally he mounted his
courage.
"Which 'order' of woman are you?"
"I think I must be the third order, the Conch Woman. The book says that
the Conch Woman delights in clothes, flowers, red ornaments. That she
is given to fits of amorous passion, which make her head and mind
confused, and at the moment of exquisite pleasure, she thrusts her
nails into the man's flesh. Have you ever noticed me do that?"
Hawksworth felt the scratches along his chest and smiled. Only in
India, he thought, could you make love so many ways, all kneeling
before a woman rather than lying with her. So she scratches you on the
chest.
"So far it sounds a bit like you."
"And it says the Conch Woman's love cleft, what the
Hindus call her yoni, is always moist with _kama salila_, the woman's
love seed. And its taste is salt. Does that also remind you of me?"
Hawksworth was startled with wry delight when he realized he actually
knew the answer. Something he'd never had the slightest desire to know
about a woman in England.
In England. Where baths were limited to the face, neck, hands, and
feet--and those only once every few weeks. Where women wore unwashed
petticoats and stays until they literally fell off. Where a member of
the peerage was recently quoted as complaining "the nobler parts are
never in this island washed by the women; they are left to be lathered
by the men."
But Kali was scrubbed and perfumed each day like a flower. And she had
taught him the pleasure in the taste of all her body.
"I guess that makes you a Conch Woman. But what are the others supposed
to be like?"
"Let me tell you what it says." She reached and took back the book.
"The next one, the Art Woman, has a voice like a peacock, and she
delights in singing and poetry. Her carnal desire may be less strong
than the Conch Woman, at least until she's properly aroused, but then
her _kama salila _is hot, with a perfume like honey. And it's abundant,
producing a sound with the act of union. She is sensuous, but for her
lovemaking is always a kind of art."
"Who would be an Art Woman?"
She looked at him and smiled wryly. "I think Shirin, the one who
fascinates you so much, may well be an Art Woman. But I don't know her
body well."
But I will, Hawksworth told himself. I'll know all of her. Somehow. I
swear it.
"And what about the Lotus Woman?"
"According to Kalyana Mai she's actually the highest order of woman.
She's a spiritual being, who loves to converse with teachers and Hindu
priests. She's always very beautiful, never dark, and her breasts are
full and high. Her _yoni _is like an opening lotus bud and her _kama
salila _is perfumed like a lily newly burst."
"And who would be a Lotus Woman?"
"The only one I've ever known for sure is in Agra now. She's a
classical dancer, a Hindu temple dancer. Her name is Kamala."
"I saw a few dancers recently. At the Shahbandar's estate house. In my
_feringhi_ opinion they weren't of a very high order."
"Those were _nautch_ girls, common whores. They degrade and debase the
classical dance of India for the purpose of enticing customers. Kamala
is nothing like them. She's a great artist. For her the dance, and
lovemaking, are a kind of worship of the Hindu gods. I don't entirely
understand it, but I could sense her power the one time I saw her
dance. When I saw her I began to believe what people say, that she
embodies the female principle, the divine female principle that defines
India for the Hindu people. Believe me when I tell you she's very
different from anyone here in Surat. She knows things that no one else
knows. People say they're explained in a very old book she has."
"How can there possibly be any more to know?" Hawksworth thought of the
hundreds of pleasure tricks Kali had taught him, delights unknown in
Europe. "What's left to put in this other book?"
"Her book is one I've never actually seen. I've only heard about it.
It's a sacred text of the Hindus', an ancient sutra, in which the union
of man and woman are shown to be a way of finding your own divine
natures, the God within you both. I'm told it's called the Kama Sutra,
the Scripture of Love and Pleasure."
Hawksworth found himself beginning to be overwhelmed. "Maybe we'd
better start with this book. What exactly does it say?"
"The Ananga-Ranga explains that each order of woman must be aroused,
must be awakened to her pleasure, in a different way. At different
times of day, with different caresses, different kinds of kisses and
scratches and bites, different words, different embraces during union.
It says if you learn to know women well, you will understand how to
give and receive the greatest enjoyment with each."
"Is it really so complicated?"
"Now you're starting to sound like some Muslim men I know, who lock
their women away and make love to boys, claiming women are insatiable.
With desires ten times stronger than those of a man. But they're
actually afraid of a woman, so they believe she's to be enjoyed quickly
and as little as possible. They care nothing for her own pleasure. But
a woman must be aroused to enjoy union to its fullest. That's why this
book is so important. I happen to think you are one who cares about a
woman's pleasure."
Hawksworth stroked her smooth leg mischievously, then took the book and
gently laid it aside. "Tell me what it says about a Conch Woman. What
have I been doing that's right and wrong?"
"The book says that the Conch Woman prefers union with a man in the
third _pahar_ of the night."
"When is that?"
"Time is counted in India by _pahar_. The day and the night are each
divided into four _pahars_. The first _pahar _of the night would be
between six and nine in the evening by _feringhi _time. The third
_pahar _would be your hours between midnight and three in the morning.
Is that not the very time I come to your couch?"
"That's convenient."
"It also says that on certain days of the moon, which it tells, the
Conch Woman particularly enjoys having her body pressed with the nails
of the man. Some days roughly, some days gently. And on certain days
the embrace must be forceful, on certain days gentle. There are many
special ways to touch and embrace a Conch Woman, and they are explained
here. Also there are certain ways of kissing her, of biting her, of
scratching her. For example, you may kiss her upper lip, or her lower
lip, or you may kiss her with your tongue only."
"And how am I supposed to be able to kiss you with my tongue only?"
Hawksworth cast a skeptical glance at the book.
"It's very easy." She smiled at him slyly. "Perhaps it's easier if I
show you."
She took his lower lip gently with the tips of her fingers, passed her
tongue over it slowly and languorously, and then suddenly nipped it
playfully. He started in surprise.
"There. You see there are many ways to please a woman, to kiss her, to
bite her, to scratch her. When you have become a true lover of women,
my strong _feringhi_, you will know them all."