"That's hardly an answer, Ambassador. It wasn't, by any chance,
traveling with you from Surat to Burhanpur? You know, His Majesty has
demanded a full investigation. I think he may just summon Mirza
Nuruddin to Agra for an explanation."
"Then let him ask Mirza Nuruddin what happened. I'm sure he'll get the
truth." Hawksworth turned toward the large gate at the far end of the
square.
"Very well, Ambassador." Nadir Sharif smiled warmly. "By the way, I
understand Mirza Nuruddin has suggested you may have smuggled it out of
Surat yourself, leaving a worthless letter of credit, in order to
swindle your merchants."
"The bastard."
"The truth will surely come out, Ambassador, as you say. So I wish you
good night and a restful sleep." Nadir Sharif turned and in moments had
melted into the darkness.
Hawksworth slowly worked his way down the cobblestone roadway, past the
guards at the Amar Singh Gate, and into the Agra night. He turned left
and headed toward the banks of the Jamuna, hoping the smells and sounds
of water would soothe his mind. When he reached the riverbank, he found
himself looking back at the massive walls of the Red Fort, wondering
again where Shirin was being kept, wanting to be with her. To hold her
one last time. But the high stone walls stood dark and mute as his own
despair.
"You are home, Sahib." The servants were waiting, beaming and
immaculate in fresh muslin _dhotis_, as Hawksworth pushed open the
doors of his compound. It was nearing midnight. "Your house is honored
tonight with a special evening."
"What are you planning? My farewell?"
The servants examined him uncomprehending as he pushed past the
portiere of the doorway.
The room was heavy with sandalwood incense. In the lamplight he
recognized Kamala's musicians: the gray-haired flautist in a long
_lungi _wrap and bare to the waist, the drummer smiling widely in a
plain white shirt and brown _dhoti_. Although he had not seen them for
days, they paused only briefly to acknowledge him. The drummer was
absorbed in tuning his instrument, using a small hammer to tap blocks
of wood wedged beneath the leather thongs securing the drumhead. As he
adjusted the tension on the thongs, he periodically tested the drum's
pitch against a note from the flute.
Kamala was nowhere to be seen. Hawksworth stared about the room
quizzically, then turned to the musicians. They responded with a
puzzled shrug and motioned toward a rear door.
"She summoned them here tonight, Sahib. She did not tell them why. No
one has seen her all day. It is very worrying." The servant shuffled
uneasily. "Has the Sahib heard the stories in the bazaar?"
"What stories?"
From behind the curtains came the sudden tinkling of tiny bells. The
musicians smiled in recognition.
As the servants edged toward the curtained doorway to look, Hawksworth
extracted a half-empty bottle of brandy from his chest and threw
himself down against a bolster.
What's this all about? Why can't I be alone for once? Tonight of all
nights she does this.
He puzzled a moment over Kamala, her erratic and powerful moods, then
his thoughts returned gloomily to the _Diwan-i-Khas _and to Shirin. He
could not give up hope. Never. He never gave up hope.
There was another tinkling of bells and the curtain at the doorway was
swept aside. Standing there, jewels afire in the lamplight, was Kamala.
He noticed the two musicians stare at her for an instant, then exchange
quick, disturbed glances.
She was, it seemed, more striking than he had ever seen her. Her eyes
were seductively lined with _kohl _and her lips were an inviting red,
matching the large dot on her forehead. In one side of her nose she
wore a small ring studded with diamonds. Her hair was swept back and
secured with rows of rubies and her throat and arms were circled with
bands of gold imbedded with small green emeralds. She wore a silken
wrap folded in pleats about each leg in a way that enhanced the full
curve of her hips. Her waist was circled by a belt of beaten gold, and
her palms and the soles of her feet had been reddened with henna. As
she came toward him, the bands of tiny bells at her ankles punctuated
the sensuous sway of her breasts beneath her silk halter.
"You've returned early. I'm glad." As she moved into the light, he
thought he caught a glimpse of some profound melancholy in her eyes. He
also noted her voice was strangely frail.
"Is there supposed to be a ceremony tonight I didn't know about?" As
Hawksworth studied her, he took another long swallow of brandy, its
heat burning away at his anguish.
"This is a special evening. I have decided to dance Bharata Natyam one
last time, for Lord Shiva."
"What do you mean, one last time?"
She seemed to stare past him for a moment, then she slowly turned. "I'm
truly glad you've come. To be here tonight. I would have waited for
you, but there was no time. And I wondered if you would really
understand. Perhaps I was wrong. Bharata Natyam is never only for the
dancer. So it is good you are here. Perhaps it was meant to be. Perhaps
you can understand something of what I feel tonight."
"I haven't understood much that's happened tonight so far." Hawksworth
settled his brandy bottle awkwardly onto the carpet and forced himself
to bring her into focus.
"You do not seem yourself, my _feringhi _Sahib." She studied him for a
moment. "Did you hear sad news of your Persian woman?"
"Nothing. But I'm afraid I've just lost my best chance to save her."
"I don't understand."
"It's not your trouble." He examined her wistfully. "It seems I'll be
leaving Agra sooner than I thought. So dance if you want, and then I'll
wish you well."
"Your trouble is always my trouble." She frowned as she studied him.
"But you are leaving? So soon?" She seemed not to wait for an answer as
she went on. "Never mind, I've never understood the affairs of
ambassadors and kings. But our parting must not be sad. Let my dance to
Shiva be my farewell to you."
She turned and signaled to the flautist, who began a low- pitched,
poignant melody. "Have you ever seen the Bharata Natyam?"
"Never." Hawksworth sipped more brandy from the bottle and found
himself wishing he could send them all away and play a suite on his
lute, the one he had played for Shirin that day at the observatory.
"Then it may be difficult for you to comprehend at first. With my body
and my song I will tell Lord Shiva of my longing for him. Do you think
you can understand it?"
"I'll try." Hawksworth looked up at her and again sensed some great
sadness in her eyes.
She examined him silently for a moment. "But I want you to understand.
Not the words I sing, they're in ancient Sanskrit, but if you watch my
hands, they will also speak. I will sing to Lord Shiva, but I give life
to his song with my eyes, my hands, my body. I will re-create the poem
with my dance. My eyes will speak the desire of my heart. The language
of my hands will tell my longing for Lord Shiva. My feet will show the
rhythms by which he brings order to the world. If you will try to feel
what I feel, perhaps Lord Shiva will touch you and lighten your
burden."
"And this is called Bharata Natyam? What does that mean?" Hawksworth
slipped off his mud-smeared boots and wearily tossed them next to the
carpet.
"The ancient temple dance of India is Bharata Natyam: bhava means mood,
raga means song, tala means rhythm. All these are brought together in
the dance. Natyam means the merging of dance and story. The true
Bharata Natyam has seven movements: some are called pure dance and
these are only rhythms, but some also tell a story. If I were to dance
them all, as I would in the temple, I would have to dance all night."
She tried wanly to smile. "But not now. Tonight I am not so strong.
Tonight I will dance only the Varnam, the most important movement. In
it I will tell the story of how the goddess Parvati, Shiva's beloved
consort, longs for her lord. If I dance well I will become Parvati, and
through the story of her love for Shiva, I will tell my own."
"So it's really just a love song?"
"It is Parvati's song of longing for her lord. The words are very
simple.
_"Great with love for you this night.
Am I, oh Lord.
Do not avert yourself from me.
Do not tease me, do not scorn me,