The Moghul

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  "Many years ago I was a devadasi." Kamala sat, pillowless, on the carpet, watching as Hawksworth ate. Her musicians, the flautist and the drummer, knelt silently behind her. Nadir Sharif’s servants stood by, nervously attentive, pretending to ignore everyone but Hawksworth. The white plaster walls of the lamp-lit room fairly flashed with Kamala's diamonds. "Do you know what that is?"

  Hawksworth shook his head, his mouth gorged with roast lamb. The room was filled with its aroma. It was his first lamb since Burhanpur, and he was ravenous.

  "Does that mean yes?" Kamala's Turki was surprisingly good.

  Hawksworth suddenly remembered the curious Indian convention of swinging the head from side to side to signify concurrence. He had meant to say no, which in Indian body language was an almost un-reproducible twist of the neck. He swallowed the lamb and reached for another shank.

  "No. I meant no. Is that a kind of dancer?"

  "It means 'a servant of the gods.' In South India there's a special caste of women who serve in the great stone temples, who are married to the god of the temple. When we are very young we have a marriage ceremony, like any wedding. Except we are a bride of the temple. And then we serve its god with music and with our dance."

  Hawksworth examined her quizzically. "You mean you were like a nun?"

  "What is that?"

  "They're something like Papist priests. Women who give themselves to God, or at least to the pope's Church." Hawksworth paused awkwardly. "And claim to be married to Christ, so they never lie with a man."

  Kamala looked at him with surprise.

  "Not even the high-caste men who come to the temple? But how, then, do they serve this Christian God? By dance only?"

  "Nuns aren't known to do much dancing. They mainly . . . well, I don't really know what they do, except claim to be virgins."

  "Virgins!" Kamala exploded in laughter. "This Christian God must be a eunuch. We devadasis serve the temple with our bodies, not with empty words."

  "Then what exactly did you do?" Hawksworth looked up and examined her.

  "I was at the famous Shiva temple of Brihadishwari in Tanjore, the great fountainhead of Bharata Natyam dance in India. There we danced for the god of the temple, and we danced too at the courts of the Dravidian kings of the south." She hesitated, then continued. "Devadasis there also honor the temple god by lying with men of high caste who come to worship, and by wearing the jewels they give us. It's all part of our sacred tradition."

  She laughed as she watched the disbelief flood Hawks-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?"

&nbs
p; "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 gentlene
ss 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?"