_
Kamala paused to tighten the straps securing the bells around her
ankles. "The song goes on to say that she cannot bear even to hear the
voice of the nightingale now that she is separated from her Lord Shiva.
She cannot endure the dark night now that he has taken himself from
her."
"It's a very touching love song." Hawksworth found himself thinking
again of Shirin, and of the dark nights they had both endured.
"It is really much more. You see, Lord Shiva is her beloved, but he is
also her god. So her song also praises the beauty of the great Shiva in
all his many aspects: as her own consort, as one who has the Third Eye
of Knowledge, as the great God of the Dance, Nataraj. Through my dance
I will show all the many aspects of Shiva--as creator, as destroyer, as
lord of the cosmic rhythms of life."
Hawksworth watched in groggy fascination as she rose and, clasping her
hands above her head, bowed toward a small bronze statue of the Dancing
Shiva she had placed on a corner table. Then, as the drummer took up a
steady cadence and the flute began a searching, high-pitched lament,
she struck a statuesque pose of her own, feet crossed, arms above her
head. Gradually her eyes began to dart seductively from side to side,
growing in power until it seemed her entire body might explode.
Abruptly she assumed a second pose, reminiscent of the statue. As the
drummer's rhythms slowly increased, she began to follow them with her
body, next with her feet, slapping heel, then ball, fiercely against
the carpet. The drummer began to call out his bols, the strokes he was
sounding on the drum, and as he did she matched his rhythms with the
rows of tiny bells around her ankles.
Hawksworth found himself being drawn into her dance. Her rhythms were
not flamboyant like those of the Kathak style, but rather seemed to
duplicate some deep natural cadence, as she returned again and again to
the pose of the Dancing Shiva. It was pure dance, and he slowly began
to feel the power of her controlled sensuality.
Without warning she began a brief song to Shiva in a high- pitched,
repetitive refrain. As she sang, her hands formed the signs for woman,
for beauty, for desire, for dozens of other words and ideas Hawksworth
could not decipher. Yet her expressive eyes exquisitely translated many
of the hand signs, while her body left no mistaking the intensity of
their emotion.
When the song and its mime reached some climactic plateau, she suddenly
resumed the pure dance, with the drummer once more reciting the bols as
he sounded them. Again she matched his rhythms perfectly.
After a time she began another verse of the song. By her mime
Hawksworth concluded she was describing some aspect of Lord Shiva. When
the song concluded, the drummer called out more _bols _and again she
danced only his rhythms. Then she began yet another verse of the song,
followed by still more rhythmic dance. The aspects of Shiva that she
created all seemed different. Some wise, some fierce, some clearly of a
beauty surpassing words.
As Hawksworth watched, he began to sense some alien power growing
around him, enveloping him and his despair, just as she had said.
Kamala seemed to be gradually merging with an energy far beyond
herself, almost as though she had invoked some primal rhythm of life
into existence. And as he watched the growing intensity of her dance he
began to experience a deep, almost primitive sense of fear, a stark
knowledge of life and death beyond words.
He found himself fighting to resist the force of some malevolent evil
settling about the room, beginning to possess it and all it contained.
He felt its power begin to draw out his own life, hungry and insistent,
terrifying. And still she danced on, now only rhythms, her body dipping
and whirling, her arms everywhere at once, her smile frozen in an
ecstatic trance.
Forcing himself at last to turn away, he looked toward the musicians.
They seemed entranced by her as well, captured by the delirium of her
dance. He finally caught the eye of the drummer and weakly signaled him
to stop. But the man stared as though not comprehending, spellbound.
Her dance had now grown to a frenzy, surpassing human limits.
Summoning his last strength, he tried to pull himself up off the
bolster, but he discovered his legs were no longer his own. The room
had become a whirling pattern of color and sound, beyond all control.
Uncertainly he turned and began to feel about the carpet for his boots.
His grip closed about a sheath of soft leather and he probed inside.
There, strapped and still loaded, was his remaining pocket pistol.
Shakily he took it in his hand, checked the prime, and began trying to
aim at the long drum resting between the musicians. Now the drum seemed
to drift back and forth in his vision, while the players smiled at him
with glazed eyes.
He heard a hiss and felt his hand fly upward, as though unconnected to
his body. Then the world around erupted in smoke and flying splinters
of wood.
The shot had been timed perfectly with the end of a rhythm cycle, as
the drum exploded into fragments on the sum.
The smoky room was suddenly gripped in silence. The musicians stared
wildly for a moment, then threw themselves face down on the carpet,
pleading in unknown words needing no translation. Hawksworth looked in
confusion at the smoking pistol in his hand, not recognizing it. Then
he threw it onto the carpet and turned toward Kamala.
She was gazing at him with open, vacant eyes, as though awakened
suddenly from a powerful dream. Her breath was coming in short bursts,
and her skin seemed afire. She stood motionless for a moment, then
tried to move toward him, holding out her arms. After two hesitant
steps, she crumpled to the carpet.
When he bolted upward to reach for her, the servants were there,
holding him back.
"You must not touch her, Sahib."
"But she's . . ."
"No, Sahib." They gripped his arms tighter. "Can't you see? She has the
sickness."
"What are you talking about?"
"It began late today, in the bazaar. Perhaps they do not know of it yet
in the fort. At first no one realized what it was. But tonight, while
she was dancing, one of the slaves from Sharif Sahib's kitchen came to
tell us. Two of the eunuchs and five of his servants have become very
sick." He paused to look at Kamala. "I think she must have known. That
is why she wanted to dance tonight."
"Knew what? What did she know?"
"The plague, Sahib. The slave who came said that the plague has struck
all over Agra. It has never happened in India before." The servant
paused. "It is the will of Allah. The prophet Samad foretold it. Now it
has come."
Hawksworth turned again to Kamala. She was still watching him with
empty, expressionless eyes, as though her life had just poured out of
her. He looked down at her for a moment, then reached for a pillow and
carefully slipped it beneath her head. Her lips moved as she tried to
form words, but at first no sound came. Then, as though again finding
some strength beyond herself, her voice came in a whisper.
"Did you see?"
"What . . . ?"
"Did you see him? The Great God Shiva. He came tonight. And danced
beside me. Did you see his beauty?" She paused to breathe, then her
voice rose again, full and warm. "He was as I knew he would be.
Beautiful beyond telling. He danced in a ring of fire, with his hair
streaming out in burning strands. He came as Shiva the Destroyer. But
his dance was so beautiful. So very, very beautiful."