worth's face. "I gather we must be quite different from your Christian
'nuns.' But you know _devadasis _are honored in the south. Many are
granted lands by the men they know, and though they can never marry,
_devadasis _sometimes become attached to a man and bear his children.
But our children always take our name and are dedicated to the temple.
Our daughters become _devadasis _also, and our sons temple musicians.
Our dance gurus are part of a hereditary guild, and they are esteemed
above all men. They are the ones who preserve and pass down the sacred
Bharata Natyam dance. You may not believe me when I tell you we are
highly revered by the kings who reign in the south, lands where the
Moghuls fear to tread. They know we are special among women. We are
cultivated artists, and among the few Hindu women in India who teach
our daughters to read and write."
"I'll believe you." Hawksworth studied her, not quite sure it was true.
"But if you're dedicated to a temple in the south, why are you here in
Agra?"
Kamala's dark eyes grew lifeless, and then she turned away. "I'm no
longer a true _devadasi_. In truth, I have not danced at my temple for
many years. The first time the Moghul's army invaded the south, a
Rajput officer who had deserted came to our temple to hide. He fell in
love with me and forced me to come with him when he returned to Agra,
telling me I must dance for him only." Her voice hardened. "But I never
danced for him, not once. And three years later he was killed in a
campaign in Bengal. Since that time I have had to live by my own hand.
For many years now I've lived by teaching dance to the _tavaifs _in
Agra."
"Who?"
"_Tavaifs_. Muslim dancing girls. Courtesans who live in beautiful
houses here and entertain men. There are many in Agra and in the city
of Lucknow to the east." Kamala's tone grew vague. "And I teach them
other things as well."
"But why did you insult the Moghul tonight? Do you really believe all
the things you said?"
"What I said was not a 'belief.' I don't understand what you mean by
that. Things either are or they are not. What does it matter whether we
'believe' them? But what I did was foolish, I agree. Impulsive. I so
despise the Moghuls. You know, I told the Moghul's prime minister this
afternoon I would never dance for Arangbar, that nothing could make me,
but he forced me to come anyway."
Hawksworth's eyes narrowed, and he dropped the shank of lamb he was
holding. "What did you say! Nadir Sharif knew all along you would
refuse to dance for Arangbar?"
"Of course he knew. And I knew Arangbar would order me killed. That's
why I wore all my diamonds. I thought if I was to die, it must be my
dharma."' She paused. "And you know, it's strange but I felt nothing.
Except perhaps pity for my pretty little courtesans. Some of them are
only girls, and I wondered who would teach them after I was gone."
Hawksworth was no longer listening. He was trying to remember the exact
sequence of what had happened in the _Diwan-i-Khas_.
He arranged it, the bastard. Even the paintings. Nadir Sharif played
with me like a puppet. Just so he could send her here. He knew I'd try
to save her. But why would he do it, and in such a way I was never
supposed to know? Is this so--called dancer supposed to be another of
his spies?
"You said you worshipped a god named Shiva. I thought Hindus worshiped
Krishna."
Kamala looked at him with surprise. "You know of Krishna? Yes, he is
the god worshiped by the Rajputs of the north. But he is a young god.
Lord Shiva is the ancient god of south India. He presides over the
generation of life. His lingam symbolizes the male half of the force
that created the universe."
"And I suppose you're about to tell me that's the part of him you
worship." Hawksworth kept a straight face.
"He is revered in many aspects, including Nataraj, the God of the
Dance. But yes, his lingam is worshiped. Have you seen the round stone
pillars wreathed in garlands of flowers?"
"As a matter of fact . . ." Hawksworth paused, then looked at her
sharply. "There was something of that sort in the porters' lodge of the
customs house at Surat, where my men and I were kept the morning we
arrived."
"Those pillars symbolize Shiva's lingam. Let me tell you about it.
Once, back in the time of the gods, Lord Shiva was burdened with
unhappiness. He was bereaved of his consort and weary with his being.
And he wandered into a forest, where there were sages and their wives.
But the sages scorned Lord Shiva, because he was haggard, and they
forsook him in his time of sadness. So he had to make his way through
the forest begging alms. However, the women of these sages felt love
for him, and they left the beds of their men and followed him. When the
sages saw their wives leaving to follow Shiva, they set a curse on him.
Their curse was that his lingam would fall to the ground. Then one day
Shiva did shed his lingam. And he was gone. Only his lingam remained,
emerging upright from the earth. It had become stone, and it was of
infinite length. All the other gods came to worship it, and told
mankind to do likewise. They said that if it was worshiped, Shiva's
consort, the goddess Parvati, would come to receive the lingam in her
_yoni_, and the earth would be made fertile. And even now we worship
the stone lingam, set erect with a stone _yoni _as its base. We honor
them with flowers and fire and incense. Shiva and Parvati are a symbol
of the creation of life." She looked at him, puzzling. "Don't
Christians have such a symbol?"
"Not quite like that one." Hawksworth suppressed a grin. "I guess the
main symbol for Christians is the cross."
"What do you mean?"
"Christians believe the Son of the Christian God came down to earth and
sacrificed Himself on a cross. So the cross became a symbol for that
act."
"Yes, I've seen that symbol. Jesuits wear them, covered with jewels.
But I never knew its meaning." Kamala paused, seeming to ponder the
idea. "Somehow though it seems very static. Surely there are other
symbols the Christians have, symbols more dynamic and powerful."
"I suppose Christians think it's pretty powerful."
"But don't Christians have any symbols like our bronze statues of the
Dancing Shiva? Lord Shiva, in his aspect as Nataraj, the God of the
Dance, embodies everything in the world."
"That's what you said to Arangbar." Hawksworth examined her and tried
to clear his mind of the wine. "But I don't understand why you think
symbols are so important, whatever their meaning."
"Symbols are a visible sign of things we know but can't actually see,
like an idea." Kamala's voice was soft and warm.
"All right. But it's hard to imagine how one symbol could contain
everything, no matter what it is."
"But the Dancing Shiva does, my handsome _feringhi_. Perhaps you have
not seen it. It came out of the great civilization of the south. Let me
explain it for you, and then perhaps you will understand why dance is
the deepest form of worship." Kamala rose, bells tinkling, and assumed
a dance posture, arms outstretched, one foot raised across the other.
Nadir Sharifs Muslim servants paused to stare in amazement. "The bronze
statues of Dancing Shiva have four arms, so you will have to imagine
the other two. One leg is crossed over the other and raised, as you see
now. And the figure stands inside a great circle of bronze." She made a
momentary sweep around her body with her hands. "On this circle are
flame tips everywhere pointing outward. The circle signifies the world
as we know it, the world of time and of things, and the flame tips are
the limitless energy of the universe. Lord Shiva dances within this
great circle, because he is everywhere. In fact, the universe itself
was created through his dance. And our world here is merely his _lila_,
his sport"
"You mean he created both good and bad? Christians believe there's evil
only because woman tempted man into sin somewhere along the way."
"Sin? What do you mean by that?" Kamala stared at him blankly for a
moment. "Whatever it is, Shiva created it. His dance created everything
in nature."
"What does he look like, besides having four arms?"
"First, he has long hair, which represents the hair of the yogi, the
contemplative one, and this long hair streams out from his head, to the
very ends of the universe, since he has all knowledge. And each of his
four arms has a different meaning. In this one, the upper right arm, he
holds a small drum, signifying sound, music and words, the first thing
that appeared in the universe. And in his left hand he holds a burning
fire, his symbol of destruction. He creates and he also destroys. His
lower right hand is held up in a sign." She held up her hand, palm out
as though in a blessing. "This is a _mudra_, part of the hand language
we use in the dance, and it means 'fear not'; it is his benediction of
peace. The fourth hand points down toward his feet. One foot is
crushing a repugnant, powerful dwarf, who represents man's willfulness,
and the other is held up against the forces of the earth, signifying
man's spiritual freedom." Kamala paused and looked at Hawksworth
hopefully. "Do you understand? Do you see how the Dancing Shiva
symbolizes everything--space, time, creation, destruction? And also
hope."
Hawksworth scratched his head in silent confoundment. Kamala watched
him, then sighed and resumed her seat on the floor.
"Then just try to feel what I am saying. Words really cannot express
these ideas as well as dance. When we dance we invoke the energy, and
the life force, that moves through the world, outside its great cycles
of time."
Hawksworth picked up his wineglass and drew on it. "To tell the truth,
I find your Hindu symbols a trifle abstract."
"But they're not, really. They merely embody truths already within us.
Like the life force. We do not have to think about it. It's simply
there. And we can reach out and experience this force when woman and
man join together in union. That is our _lila_, our play. That's why we
worship Lord Shiva with dance, and with _kama_."
As Hawksworth watched, sipping his wine and scarcely understanding her
words, he realized he had begun to desire this bizarre woman intensely.
"You haven't told me what _kama _is."
"That's because I'm not sure you can understand." She scrutinized him
professionally. "How old are you?"
"I'm closer to forty than thirty."
"Time, I think, has treated you harshly. Or is it the spirits you
drink?"
"What's wrong with a bit of grog now and then?"
"I think you should not drink so much. I drink nothing. Look at me."
She pushed back the hair from both sides of her forehead. Her face was
flawless. "You know most Muslims despise their women after thirty,
usually before, but many young officers still ask to visit me. Can you
guess how old I am?"
"A woman only asks that if she thinks she looks younger than she is."
"I'm over fifty." She examined him directly, invitingly. "How much over
you must only speculate."
"I don't want to. I'm still trying to figure out what exactly happened
tonight." He studied her. "But whatever it was, I'm not sure I care
anymore."
Hawksworth shoved aside his plates of lamb and rice pilaf and watched
as the servants began hastily clearing the carpet.
In the quiet that followed he reached behind him to his chest, opened
the latch, and took out his lute. Kamala watched with curiosity.
"What instrument is that?"
"Someone in Surat once called it an English sitar."
Kamala laughed. "It's far too plain for that. But it does have a simple
beauty. Will you play it for me?"
"For you, and for me." Hawksworth strummed a chord. The white plaster
walls echoed back the wave of notes, a choir of thin voices. "It brings
back my sea legs when I'm ashore."
"Now I do not understand you. But I will listen."
He began a short, plaintive galliard. Suddenly his heart was in London,
with honest English faces, clear English air. And he felt an
overwhelming ache of separation. He played through to the end, then
wistfully laid the lute aside. After a moment Kamala reached for his
wineglass and held it for him, waiting.
"The music of your English sitar is simple, young Ambassador. Like the
instrument itself. But I think it moves you. Perhaps I felt something
of your loneliness in the notes." She paused and studied him quietly.
"But you yourself are not simple. Nothing about you comes easily. I
sense you are filled with something you cannot express." She looked at
him a moment longer, and then her voice came again, soft as the wine.
"Why did you say what you did to Arangbar tonight? I was nothing to
you. You violated my _dharma_. Perhaps it is true, as many tell me,
that I have mastered the arts of _kama _more fully than any woman in
Agra, but still there is less and less pleasure in my life. What will
you do now? Perhaps you think I belong to you, like some courtesan you
have bought. But you are wrong. I belong to no man."
"You're here because someone wanted you here." Hawksworth glanced
around them. The room was empty now save for Kamala's two musicians. "I
don't know why, but I do know you're the first person I've met in a
long time who was not afraid of Arangbar. The last one was a woman in
Surat." Hawksworth paused suddenly. "I'm starting to wonder if you know
her."
"I don't know anyone in Surat." She swept him with her eyes. "But what
does some woman in Surat have to do with me?'
"Perhaps someone thought I should meet you."
"Who? Someone in Surat? But why?"
"Perhaps she thought I needed . . . I don't know exactly."
"Then tell me what you mean by 'need'? That's an odd phrase, a
_feringhi _expression. Perhaps you mean our meeting is part of your
_dharma_?"
"You mean like it's a Rajput's _dharma _to be a warrior and kill?"
"_Dharma_ can be many things. It's what each of us must do, our
purpose."
"That's something I've heard before."
"But do you know what your _dharma_ is?"
"I'm still trying to find it. Maybe it's to be here . . ."
"And then what?"
"I'm . . . I guess I'm still working out the rest."
"Well, for Hindus there's a second aim in life besides our honoring our
dharma. We call it _artha_. That aim is to have things. Knowledge,
wealth, friends. Is that part of why you're here?" Kamala smiled
scornfully. "Some merchants seem to believe _artha _is their primary
aim."
"It can't be for me. I somehow always manage to lose whatever I have."
"Hindus also believe there's a third aim in life, my handsome
_feringhi_. And that's _kama_. It's to take pleasure in the senses."
"I think I like the sound of that better than the other two."
"Do not speak of it lightly. For Hindus it is just as essential as the
other two aims. _Kama _is taught by Lord Shiva and his consort Parvati.
It means love, pleasure, the primal force of desire." She stared at
Hawksworth for a long moment, and then at the lute standing in the
corner. "Music is part of _kama_. It's one way we experience beauty and
pleasure. That's the _kama _of the heart. But there's also _kama _of
the body, and I do not think you yet know it. Your music betrays you.
You are a man of sensuality." Kamala looked at him regretfully. "But
not of the sensuous. Do you even understand the difference?"
"How do you know what I am?"
"Remember I was once a _devadasi_. It's my _dharma _to know the hearts
of men. Who they are and what gives them pleasure." She fell silent for
a moment, then continued. "The sensualist is one who only knows his own
feelings; the one who is sensuous knows also how to give."
Hawksworth shifted uncomfortably, uncertain how to reply.
"Do you, Ambassador _Feringhi_, touch a woman with the same feeling you
touch the strings of your English sitar?"
"I don't see any connection."
"The arts of _kama _are not unlike the mastery of your sitar. You can
spend a lifetime learning to sound its notes, but you do not create
music unless your hand is in touch with your heart, with _prahna_, the
breath of life. It's the same with _kama_." She paused discreetly.
"Have you ever known it with a woman in India?"
"Well . . . I knew a courtesan in Surat who . . ."
Kamala's eyes hardened, but her voice remained dulcet. "Is this the
woman you spoke of?"
"No, this was a different woman. Her name was Kali and she was thrown
out of Arangbar's _zenana_."
"Ah, she was probably badly trained. But still. Did you feel the force
of _kama_ with this Surat courtesan?"
Hawksworth shifted again, uneasily. "That's not the type of thing we
normally talk about in England."
"Don't be foolish. You judge the skill of a musician. Why not of a
courtesan?" She turned and said something Hawksworth did not
understand. Both musicians immediately rose and moved a screen across
the corner of the room where they were sitting. Then, from behind the
screen came the first notes of a simple, poignant melody, the soft
tones of the bamboo swelling slowly to envelop the room in their
gentleness. "I have asked him to play the _alap_, the opening section,
of a south Indian raga for you. To help you understand. His music has
the life breath of _prahna_. He speaks to Lord Shiva with his music.
_Kama_ too must come from the heart. If we are worthy, we evoke the
life-giving power within us." Her eyes snapped back to Hawksworth. "But
tell me more about this Surat courtesan."
"Perhaps I'm not entirely qualified to judge. She certainly knew more
tricks than most women in England."
"That's not surprising. It's well known _feringhi _women know nothing
of pleasure." Kamala paused and studied Hawksworth carefully with her
dark eyes. "But I've never known a _feringhi _who could move my senses
with music. You did that just now, even though I don't understand how.
I cannot dance for you; that is for Shiva. But I want to touch you."
She shifted on the carpet until she was at Hawksworth's feet. With a
gentle motion she removed a boot and quickly ran a finger across one
toe. Nerves throughout his body tingled unexpectedly.
"What did you do just then?"
"The secret of _kama _is touch. To touch and be touched by one we
desire always gives pleasure. Do you understand what I mean?"
"Is that _kama_?"
"A very small part."
"You know, the courtesan in Surat actually told me about you. She said
you had a book . . . an ancient text."
Kamala laughed and began to remove the other boot. "And I've always
heard that _feringhi _think everything can be put in books. You
probably mean the _Kama Sutra_. Whoever told you about it has probably
never seen it. Of course I have it, and I can tell you it is one of the
great frauds of India. It was compiled by a musty scholar named
Vatsyayana, who obviously knew nothing about giving pleasure, and
simply copied things here and there from much older books. It's
amusing, perhaps, but it's also pedantic and ignorant. It's certainly
not sensuous, and the reason is he knew nothing about desire. He
probably had none. He only knew how to make lists of things, like ways
of biting and scratching during love play, but he had no idea why these
are exciting."
She stroked the other foot very lightly along the arch with her long
red fingernail, and again a bolt of sensation shot through him.
"I'm beginning to see your point."
"I don't think you understand anything yet. Did you know the pleasure,
the power, the beauty possible in your music on the very first day you
touched a string of this instrument?"
"I knew there was something in music that moved me, but I wasn't sure
what it was."
"And now, many years later, you know." She shifted next to him and
began unfastening the bells on her ankles. They chimed gently as she
carefully laid them aside. Then she opened a small silver box she had
brought and placed a red dot in the middle of her forehead, just below
the pendant jewel.
"I sense the first stirrings of _kama _inside me now. The awakening of
desire. And because I feel it, I know you must feel it too." She
loosened his doublet and pushed him gently against the bolster. The
notes of the flute wound through the dark air around them. Kamala
listened a moment in silence, then slowly rose off the bolster.
She stood before him, holding his gaze with her eyes, and pulled away
the heavy, jeweled belt at the waist of her dance sari. She dropped it
at his feet, never averting her eyes. Then she made a half turn and
twisted her hip gracefully into a voluptuous bulge. The silk clung even
tighter to the statuesque curve of her legs as she crossed her feet
with an almost ceremonial deliberation. Wordlessly she slowly drew the
silk end of the _sari _from across her shoulder and let it drop before
her, revealing the curve of a perfectly spherical breast. Seen from
behind her body was fixed in a perfect double curve, a sensuous "S"
whose top was the full line of her half-revealed breast and whose
bottom was the rounded edge of her hip.
In those few simple motions she had transmuted her body, as though
through some deep cultural memory, into an ancient fertility totem, a
prayer for the bounty of the human loins. It was, Hawksworth suddenly
realized, a pose identical to that of a statue he'd seen in a mossy
temple in Mandu, on the way north from Burhanpur. It was the essence of
the female principle, sharing with the earth itself the power of life.
That stone goddess had automatically stirred his desire, as it had the
desire of man thousands of years before, as it was meant to do. Now it
stood before him.
Before he could move, she turned again and swept up the pleats of silk
that comprised the front of her _sari_. She whipped the loose ends of
silk about her head once, twice, and magically it seemed to evaporate
from her body. All that remained was a small drape of silk about her
waist, held in place by a thin band of jade.
Her body was like ivory, perfect from the band at her neck to the small
rings on her toes, and her breasts billowed full and geometrically
round, a long necklace of pearls nestled between them. As Hawksworth
stared at her dumbfounded, the drummer commenced a finely metered
rhythm timed exactly with his heartbeat.
She moved to Hawksworth's side and slid her left hand beneath his open
doublet. "The very first note of a raga can contain everything if it is
sounded with _prahna_. And the first touch between a man and a woman
can become the OM, the syllable that carries the totality of creation."
Her hand glided over his body with the gentleness of a feather, and in
moments his ambassador's ensemble slipped away like some superfluous
ancient skin. He looked at her again, still overwhelmed by her physical
perfection, and reached to touch the curve of her breast.
Her hand stopped his in midair.
"Shiva, in his dance, had four hands. But he did not use them for
touch. Do you want to feel the touch of my breasts? Then feel them with
your body."
She guided him over, across the round bolster, then rose above him.
"Your body is hard and firm, like the stone lingam of Shiva. But your
skin still has a hidden softness, like a covering of raw silk."
He felt the hard touch of her nipple as it began to trace the crease of
his back. It moved slowly, tantalizingly, trailing just at the skin.
Now the musk of her perfume had begun to hover about his head, fogging
his mind even more. But the sensation of her touch, and the knowledge
it was the breast he wanted exquisitely to hold, attuned his starved
senses to everything around him, even the quiet rhythm of her breath.
Suddenly, without warning, she slid the tip of her long red fingernail
sharply down the same crease in his back, where his nerves strained for
sensation. He felt a delicious burst of pain, and whirled to meet her
smiling eyes.
"What . . .?"
"Do you see now how your sense of touch can be awakened? Now you may
touch my breasts, but only with the nails of your fingers. Here."
She drew him to his feet and twined one leg about his body, her heel in
the small of his back, enveloping him with her warmth as though it were
a cloak. Then she embraced him with her thighs and took his hands in
her own, forcing a pattern of scratches on each of her breasts with his
nails. Each was different, and each time she pressed his hand, she
named the shape of, the mark. Her breathing grew increasingly rapid
from the pain, and soon both her breasts were decorated with a garland
of hard red lines.
At last Hawksworth tried to speak, but she seized his lower lip between
her teeth while her nails quickly imprinted a pattern of identical
scratches across his own chest. He found the pain oddly exhilarating.
It seemed to flow between their bodies, attuning them deeply one to the
other. Instinctively he moved to take her, but she twined herself even
tighter about him, unattainable. Then, when he thought he could endure
it no longer, she lowered herself easily against the bolster.
He scarcely noticed as the pace of the drum intensified.
"Remember, you cannot touch with your hands. Anything else is allowed."
The wine had saturated his mind, but now he found the pleasure of
desiring of her body overwhelming. He moved across her lightly with the
tip of his tongue, first tasting her lips, then her dark nipples, then
the ivory-smooth arch beneath her arms. There her skin was soft as a
child's and so sensitive he caused her to shudder involuntarily. He
teased her slowly, languorously, until she erupted with cries of
pleasure. Then he moved his tongue slowly down her body, trailing the
circle of the navel lightly to find the few light wisps of down she had
failed to banish. These he teased lightly with his breath until he
sensed she could endure it no longer. Then he traced his sex along the
inside of her thighs, upward to the fringe of her silk wrap, until at
last they were both lost in desire.
With a quick motion she rose and drew astride his body, still scarcely
touching him. The silk at her waist came away in her hands and without
a sound she twined it into a moist rope. Kneeling above him now she
drew it slowly across the tips of her own nipples, then across his.
Then she pulled the binding of jewels from her hair and with a toss of
her head spread the dark strands across his chest. As he watched, she
seized the ends of her hair and began to draw them slowly, expertly,
against the sensitive underside of the phallus that stood beneath her.
Her breath came in short bursts as she drew close enough to tease her
own sex as well.
He knew he had lost when he felt his last attempts at restraint
dissolve. Then her breath told him she had lost as well. With their
eyes joined, each exquisitely aware of the other's imminent resolution,
she quickly slipped her left hand beneath her and caught the uppermost
tip of the phallus with her nails, holding it taut, the pain
intensifying his pleasure.
She had directed the pulse at the point of her own ecstasy, guiding the
warm seed exactly as she wanted, against her own hard bud. As it struck
her, she gave the _sitkrita _cry of release and with a hard shudder
fell across him, loin against loin, exquisitely replete.
As the drummer pounded the final _sum _of the raga, Hawksworth realized
she used his resolution to bring her own. Without their bodies
touching.
The room lay silent about them, as though enfolded in their content.
Only their hard breath remained.
"I never knew lovemaking could be so intense." He startled himself by
his own admission.
"Because I loved you with more than just with my body." She smiled at
him carefully and reached out to touch the marks on his chest. "But
that was merely the first stage of _kama_. Are you ready now for the
second?"