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  ‘So you went home to bring this beast here? Now I see things clearly. This is what you said was urgent and for this urgency you ran away, leaving the school unattended for days.’ She hit herself with a spatula and cried out loud.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Apoi came hurrying, followed by Fila. ‘Is everything okay?’ Rita felt her nerves crashing. She hurled the spatula at the children, shouting, ‘Bastards, go back to your classes!’

  Andrews’s hands were virtually trembling, burning in shame and remorse. The bundle he held close to his bosom started laughing, throwing out her arms and legs. Holding the baby girl in her pink, snuggly flannel with three yellow butterflies sewn in the corner, he realized that he had been experiencing the purest moments of his life.

  ‘She is an orphan. Father Jacob has given her to me,’ he said, in a humble voice choked with tears. ‘Let us call her Shaly.’

  11

  A breeze, a wave or a tsunami sometimes brings back the sealed kiss that has been thrown into the depths of the sea. It will come back for certain, to caress your fringes, to enliven the setting rays of the sun with a smile. Sometimes it will come and sit next to you in a bus.

  Though Kamala felt fettered by responsibilities thinking of her children and her office, she was determined to take a vacation which she felt she needed badly. Thus she opened up her heart to welcome the day and its splendid scents. She was on a package tour to see temples. The bus was full of pilgrims, mostly women, who had been dying to bribe the gods for aeons and who spent their time like chat rooms open 24x7. Kamala opened her book, The Mind without Measure, and tried to concentrate on reading. It was a difficult task as the bus was moving but she wanted to avoid the gossipmongers at any cost. Books enable a lot of things in life. She had noticed foreigners reading books in coffee shops, on beaches, on wayside park benches, like this. Whenever she looked up from the book and noticed the activities going on around her, she gave synthetic nods or yes–no answers to put an end to artificial queries.

  Kamala was overwhelmed by the idea of travel through historic relics and temples. When she saw the advertisement online the first time, she shouted with excitement. History was her subject, plus she had an additional doctorate in philosophy, a combination not so rare but enough to drive one crazy. On the day she booked online for her travel, Madhavan was furious. He said he had no idea what to do with the children while she went on her tour. She said she would make ample arrangements in advance for the days she would be gone. They quarrelled all night, and she shut herself in her room for hours on the following day. She couldn’t wait to take herself away from the most chaotic place on earth, which they called home. She said she was born free. The throttling bonds of love sicken you at times and you need freedom, freedom from the known.

  This girl has an aura, thought Kamala, looking at the beautiful slim figure who shared the left front seat with a middle-aged man, she on the aisle seat. When she got up from her seat to take something from the rack above, Kamala observed her closely. The girl was lovelier than she had realized, with pretty curls, soft and beautifully curved lips and a splendid behind. She had smudges of lipstick on her mouth and a shade of blue on her eyelids. She had on a yellow top in a floral print and her nails were adorned with a matte coat of red nail polish. A real knockout, enough to set one’s heart on fire, thought Kamala. The girl sat listening to music with her eyes closed, two thin white wires dangling from her ears and going all the way down to her lap.

  As soon as the bus came to a halt in a temple town, she hurried out and walked ahead of everyone else. Kamala followed her, not knowing how to begin. She was afraid that she would be wasting her time but she wanted to compliment the girl, wanted to tell her that she looked beautiful. Beauty is a rare thing—one may come across hundreds of made-up faces, slim and happy figures on high heels every day, but this was different. Kamala felt she had no more excuses not to talk. The street was packed with flower vendors, their baskets full of purple lotuses and golden marigolds. The girl walked straight to the temple. She didn’t stop to buy flowers or sweets. She didn’t stop to say hello to the woman who was following her.

  Kamala felt humiliated. The girl who didn’t turn her head or look in Kamala’s direction was visibly dancing on the road. Was she not ashamed, wondered Kamala. What would people think of her? People were already looking at her, their eyes, mouth, nose, cheekbones, everything about them giving out invisible spittle, cold and scornful. Kamala felt responsible. ‘That’s enough, I said that’s enough,’ she whispered and tried to pull the girl towards her with endless coughs, till, at a certain point, all the gaping mouths—the sickly, chronically delicate minds—turned to stare at her, not the chick who walked in front, definitely not her. For a moment, Kamala thought, her curiosity about history, her interest in the temples of India was all going to end up in the girl’s splendid behind; for it was so shamelessly compelling she couldn’t help but follow her, wait till she turned back, till she smiled. She had no idea what she would do if the girl turned around and smiled at her.

  The streets, the white and purple flowers in the baskets of the roadside vendors, the invigorating fragrance of incense sticks, the sound of chants, and the distant rings of the temple bells. The girl, on the other hand, had her own soundtrack, like a thick white vein permanently attached to her body. Travelling from her ears it ended up somewhere deep inside the pocket of her tight jeans, or it might have travelled the other way around. It cut her short and restrained her from the world around her, the world that was in motion. Thus she walked light-heartedly, dancing to the rhythms of the travelling wires, stopped occasionally by what Kamala imagined were sopranos to raise her fingers in the air and draw some patterns there, unmindful of the anxiety stretched tight four or five feet behind her.

  Something must have surprised her, for she stopped abruptly and Kamala saw her mouth opening, making the dark hole within the circle of her teeth clearly visible, and her fingers moving cautiously over her brows. Kamala looked in the same direction as the girl; she couldn’t help suppress a smile, she noticed her cheeks flaring up with shame. The girl was looking at the enormous outer stone walls of the temple decorated with erotic figures carved in stone, a beauty capable of tickling the senses; it was hard to pretend not to notice. But nobody stared like the way she did, no Indian woman for sure. The figures were vulgar, obscenity veiled in aesthetic heights beyond which no mind would travel. Huge, erect penises which it seemed no vagina could ever slake or offer solace to, impudent dicks of fantasy. Some women lay supine and animals licked their cunts, some other women squeezed their nipples. Over the stone walls the scenes extended in tension; people mating with animals, gigantic breasts, orgies, elephants, chariots, horses, soldiers.

  Kamala looked at her fellow pilgrims, especially the women and, as she had expected, found them walking with their eyes fixed on their feet, chanting prayers, munching an occasional joke, swallowing something they didn’t wish to share; sometimes their throats choked, they felt an aching deep in their bodies, and they walked more cautiously, more dramatically. They didn’t dare to look at the pornographic sculptures; they disappeared inside the temples with their heads bowed. This was not sex tourism. This was a pilgrimage; nothing rotten should enter the soul, no temptations should ever stop them; no visions should blur their eyes which were now filled with momentary tears. They folded their hands before the idol and prayed aloud, ‘O Lord, please save us, please don’t let us be misunderstood, please save us.’

  The girl was now staring at a particular statue. Two princes were screwing a wild horse, one from the front and one from behind. Next to it, a girl was standing on her head in a yoga posture and three other girls touched her genitals and nipples, trying to dig into her flesh, their faces serene, calm, devoid of expression. They stood as if they were born to be like that, to maintain that glorious posture throughout the years and days to come, without the spiteful looks of the porn world. The walls licked and sucked, celebrated the cocks and the cunts; it
seemed the world circled around in a fucking motion, invigorating the senses with the flavours of bodily juices. The girl turned around and saw Kamala and she smiled.

  ‘Excuse me, could you please take a picture against this background,’ she pointed at the sculpted walls. Kamala took her cell phone and while focusing she said apologetically, ‘I am not very good with photos.’

  The girl posed in front of the princes fucking the horse and in front of the four naked girls. Two candid photographs and a third one that came out blurred and was taken just for the pleasure of clicking.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Shaly, and yours?’

  ‘Kamala.’

  ‘Beautiful name, it means lotus, isn’t it?’

  Kamala nodded and glanced at the small flower basket in a woman’s hands. There was a half-blackened purple lotus ready to wither away along with the other offerings.

  ‘My name has no special meanings,’ the girl said timidly.

  ‘Are you from Bangalore?’

  ‘Now, yes, I am searching for a job there.’

  ‘Your family?’

  ‘No, no family, I am alone.’

  For a moment, Kamala felt ashamed. She carried those heavy books in her backpack just to ward off inquisitive glances, and now look at her, she had ended up asking the same questions she dreaded most. She shuddered and decided not to ask anything else. There was her scent in the wind, and that was enough.

  They looked at the hedonistic stone carvings in detail, took as many photographs as possible, discussed the latest bricolage trends at length, found their smiles intervening, their fingers interlacing with happiness.

  ‘By birth I am a Christian. I hope they won’t mind if I enter,’ said Shaly.

  ‘Even if there is a problem, no one is going to identify you here.’

  ‘Do you mind if I ask you something?’

  Kamala shrugged and said reassuringly, ‘Please.’

  ‘You are a Hindu, right?’

  ‘I don’t think I belong to any religion or caste, but of course, I was born into a conservative, upper-middle-class Hindu family.’

  ‘Then you won’t feel bad if I ask?’

  ‘Ah come on, no hurt feelings,’ Kamala opened her arms wide and smiled.

  ‘This is a temple, a spiritual place—it is supposed to be holy and pure. But look at all this erotic abundance; I can’t make out anything except that they are wonderful. I mean artistically carved, deprived of emotions but sexually tense and exciting. The deity must be somewhere inside the temple, but may I know why this excess of obscenity on the walls outside?’

  ‘It is easy to define, but I don’t really know how easy it is to understand.’

  ‘I am not a girl in her teens, I can understand.’

  ‘Have you heard of Ramana Maharshi?

  Shaly said no and for a second Kamala pondered on what she was about to tell the girl. She wanted to say something with precision, something that would unveil Hindu philosophy, but it was, she was afraid, a hard nut to crack.

  ‘Maharshi used to tell a story from our epics. The story goes thus: When we close our eyes with our little fingers, the big, vast universe disappears, even if for just a second. Likewise, the little minds are obscuring the universe, the ultimate truth, or rather, the Brahma,’ Kamala said. ‘We should search for what these erotic images are hiding.’

  Shaly folded her hands as if to pray and said, ‘I don’t understand a word you say.’

  ‘Well, look at those pictures; can the carnal desires of the body, the sensuality and sexuality of human beings, ever cross beyond the stories of these images?’

  ‘It would be difficult,’ Shaly smiled at the penetrating symbols of lust. ‘I don’t think people could fantasize that much.’

  ‘They may think, they may not, but those who give undue importance to the fantasies of the flesh can only walk around the outer walls of the temple. Whether they enter the temple or not, whether they see the deity inside or not, they can never reach the deity. They will simply go over the same paths, repeatedly, through the intricate passages and labyrinths of mind. This is just an outer layer, the hollow surface where the self walks, indulging in pleasures unknown; you are grazing there, all day long, you are exerting in bed, all night, and you find yourself buried under the six feet of earth one day. The man who thus enters the sanctum will cry out, to be forgiven, to be rescued from what he knows not. Who knows who can save whom? Do you think the deity inside is capable of saving you?’

  ‘What are you trying to convince me about? Are you implying that only celibates have the right to enter this place? Do you think that sex is a bad thing?’

  ‘No, sex is beautiful,’ Kamala said discreetly. ‘This is not a question of lust and fuck. Temples are symbols, places where people can find themselves, a place that helps people pierce the surface of things, and delve deep into the heart of matter. The outer walls are lessons we learn. We learn that excessive sexual fantasies and temptations of the inner folds of flesh are no more than moments of fleeting happiness, or sometimes a permanent impression of happiness, but that they will definitely not help us find ourselves. The insides of the temple, the sanctum, represents the mind. It is maya, the hallucinogenic notion, that prevents us from stepping within. Maya is in constant motion, a game where the levels are too high to achieve lust, anger, displeasure, resentment, appetite and more. This is why people are waddling like aimless ducks in the mighty folds of duality.’

  Kamala spoke under her breath and Shaly thought the conversation was delightful, she felt the unknown creeping under her sole, throbbing under her skin, pulsing through her veins.

  ‘It is hard for a person to concentrate on thoughtlessness. When you enter, please observe, there should be mirrors on the walls—this is a moment when you should open your eyes to see yourself. There is no god, no deity ever born to save you. You are the saviour, the only one. You may be entangled in vicious circles of duality, but reality lies within all the while.’

  Kamala’s tone was getting even more complicated, but something compelled Shaly to follow her words. When they stepped inside, once again Kamala spoke under her breath. ‘Look at the deity, look at the lamp and flame, now close your eyes, let the flame fill you and let the meaning of everything penetrate your heart.’

  Shaly closed her eyes; Kamala whispered in her ears, ‘That is you.’

  But this was a symptom of happiness, thought Shaly. This woman, in her printed silk-cotton sari, metal necklace, silver jhumkas and embroidered cotton bag on her arm, looked like an exquisite piece of art work, but with something definitely wrong in the head. Had she just crossed her late twenties, or was she straddling her thirties?

  When the passengers were on board the bus again, Shaly gently asked the man who sat next to her, ‘Uncle, could you please move to the next seat, there is one vacant behind us. May I sit with this lady here?’

  12

  Clutching the edges of the bed, Kamala got to her feet. In the upstairs room, music stopped, the lights turned off, creepy darkness crawled down through the stairs. Kamala looked at Aadi who was sleeping with his mouth slightly open. A tender figure abandoned at a tender age, he worried her.

  Madhavan, you will have to answer for this. I became a useless woman because of you, because of the pain you inflicted, the wedding bonds you forced on me, whereas you still maintain your dignity in society, the dignity of a man whose wife knows no ethics, no values. It was your fault. I was your cousin, you had a girlfriend, how many times had I begged you not to drag me into a marriage? Where were you then? You didn’t listen to me; you didn’t even listen to your girlfriend. What about your sister who kept teasing me for kissing a girl? She made me the laughing stock of her playtime stories; sometimes you joined in too. But what happened to you and your sister when you came to know of the large legacy I possessed? It was your father, my wicked uncle, who plotted, and you were puppets in his hands. Were you not ashamed of turning your girl down for this crap called money
? That woman, my sister-in-law, was she not ashamed of coming to my house with sweets and making proposals to my mother whose only ambition was to give my hand in marriage to the first person who gave her a nod of consent? You certainly didn’t want me to deliver the children of others, the flesh of someone nowhere connected to our bloodlines. Thus I found myself in front of leaping marriage flames—they seemed almost like a funeral pyre to me then—tucked into a heavy silk sari, loaded with ornaments, gold and precious stones, each necklace and garland like a chain entangling me within myself, making my movements short and clumsy. And now, you don’t want my children. You abandoned them. Your family talks about them as ‘Kamala’s children’. Just wait and see, you will soon learn what lies in store.

  She hurled the glass vase with the Chinese bamboos that was on the table—pebbles and water flew everywhere, the sound of falling pebbles making explosions in the ear, the bamboo shoots scattering on the floor. Bamboos were auspicious, they had said. Kamala had had no intention of buying the green shoots, but the vendor had insisted, he said it would bring her luck. Here was her luck, strewn on the floor.

  The party at Purple Ocean was a festival of memories, a party of endless reminders; with each drink she saw the paths she had traversed so far. Kamala was a sapling uprooted from her ancestral ground and replanted amidst the steel rails of a metro life, no air, no water, no anything needed.

  Wild jasmines rained non-stop over the stone pathways, it was all Kamala had dreamed of and longed for when she was a girl, but now she didn’t want to step on the white petals, and so she hesitated, holding Aadi against her. They had to cross the pathway to reach the ashram. When Madhavan came after parking the car, he crushed the petals under his boots; it seemed he hadn’t even noticed the white shower, but she saw him brush off some petals from his shirt sleeves. Kamala and Aadi followed him uncertainly, and all the way, Aadi kept wondering at the falling flowers and the rising butterflies.