Nadir Sharif spoke quickly to the musicians in a language few in the
room seemed to understand. They nodded and immediately the flautist
began a haunting lyric line that bathed the room in a soft, echoing
melody. Hawksworth was startled that so simple an instrument could
produce such rich, warm tones.
The curtains parted and a tall, elaborately jeweled woman swept across
the carpet. She took command of the space around her, possessed it,
almost as though it were part of her being. Her long silk _sari _had
been gathered about each leg so that it seemed like trousers, and her
every step was announced by dense bracelets of bells at her ankles.
Most striking, however, was her carriage. Hawksworth had never before
seen such dignity of motion.
As he stared at her, he realized she was wearing an immense, diamond-
encrusted nose ring and long pendant earrings, also of diamonds. Not
even the Moghul wore stones to equal hers. Her face was heavily
painted, but still he suspected she might no longer be in the first
bloom of youth. Her self-assurance was too secure. She knew exactly who
she was.
She turned her back to Arangbar as she reverently gave an invocation,
both hands together and raised above her head, to some absent god. The
only sound was the slow, measured cadence of the drum. Suddenly it
seemed as though her body had captured some perfect moment of balance,
a feeling of timelessness within time.
Hawksworth glanced toward Arangbar, whose irritation was obvious.
How can she be so imprudent as to ignore him? Aren't Hindus afraid of
him? What was her name? Kamala?
His eyes shot back to the woman.
Kamala.
Can she be the woman Kali spoke of that last night in Surat? The Lotus
Woman? Nadir Sharif said she was famous.
"Just who are you?" Arangbar's voice cut through the carpeted room,
toward the woman's back. He was speaking Turki, and he was outraged.