The Moghul Part 40

"Who?"

"Queen Janahara. She offered me a chance to live. I didn't know what I was doing, where I was, anything. Before I thought I'd already agreed."

At last a tear came. "And I've never told anyone. I'm so ashamed." She wiped her eyes and stiffened. "But I've never done what I told her I would do. Not once."

"What was that?"

Kali looked at him and laughed. "To come here with Mukarrab Khan. And spy on Shirin. So now and then I just send some silly nonsense to Her Majesty. I know what Shirin is doing . . . and I admire her for it."

Hawksworth tried to keep his voice even. "What exactly is it she's doing?"

Kali stopped abruptly and stared at him. "That's the one thing I can't tell you. But I will tell you that I'm now also supposed to be spying on you too, for Khan Sahib." She laughed again. "But you never say anything for me to report."

Hawksworth found himself stunned. Before he could speak, she continued.

"But you asked about my name. It's probably the real reason I despise Janahara so much. Before, I was named Mira. My father was Hakim Ali, and he came to India from Arabia back when Akman was Moghul. But the queen said I could never use those names again. She said that because I'd caused Abnus' death, she was renaming me Kali, the name the Hindus have for their bloodthirsty G.o.ddess of death and destruction. She said it would remind me always of what I'd done. I hate the name."

"Then I'll call you Mira."

She took his hand and brushed it against her cheek. "It doesn't matter now. Besides, I'll probably never see you again after tonight. Tomorrow you'll be getting ready to leave for Agra. Khan Sahib told me I'm not to come to you any more after this. I think he's very upset about something that happened with your ships."

"I'm very upset about it too." Hawksworth studied her. "What exactly did he say?"

"No, I've told you enough already. Too much." She pinched his toe.

"Now. You will keep your promise, my love. And then after tonight you can forget me."

Hawksworth was watching her, entranced. "I'll never forget you."

She tried to smile. "Oh yes you will. I know men better than that. But I'll always remember you. When a man and a woman share their bodies with each other, a bond is made between them. It's never entirely forgotten, at least by me. So tonight, our last night, I want you to let me give you something of mine to keep."

She reached under the couch and withdrew a box, teakwood and trimmed in gold. She placed it on the velvet tapestry between them.

"I've never shown this to a _feringhi_ before, but I want you to have it. To make you remember me, at least for a while."

"I've never had a present from an Indian woman before." Hawksworth carefully opened the box's gold latch. Inside was a book, bound in leather and gilded, with exquisite calligraphy on its cover.

"It's called the Ananga-Ranga, the Pleasures of Women. It was written over a hundred years ago by a Brahmin poet who called himself Kalyana Mai. He wrote it in Sanskrit for his patron, the Viceroy of Gujarat, the same province where you are now."

"But why are you giving it to me?" Hawksworth looked into her eyes.

"I'll remember you without a book. I promise."

"And I'll remember you. You've given me much pleasure. But there are those in India who believe the union of man and woman should be more than pleasure. The Hindus believe this union is an expression of all the sacred forces of life. You know I'm not a Hindu. I'm a Muslim courtesan. So for me lovemaking is only to give you pleasure. But I want you to know there's still more, beyond what we've had together, beyond my skills and knowledge. According to the Hindu teachings, the union of male and female is a way to reach the divine nature. That's why I want you to have this book. It describes the many different orders of women, and tells how to share pleasure with each. It tells of many things beyond what I know."

She took the leatherbound copy of the Ananga-Ranga and opened it to the first page. The calligraphy was bold and sensuous.

"In this book Kalyana Mai explains that there are four orders of women.

The three highest orders he calls the Lotus Woman, the Art Woman, and the Conch Woman. The rest he dismisses as Elephant Women."

Hawksworth took the book and examined its pages for a time. There were many paintings, small colored miniatures of couples pleasuring one another in postures that seemed astounding. Finally he mounted his courage.

"Which 'order' of woman are you?"

"I think I must be the third order, the Conch Woman. The book says that the Conch Woman delights in clothes, flowers, red ornaments. That she is given to fits of amorous pa.s.sion, which make her head and mind confused, and at the moment of exquisite pleasure, she thrusts her nails into the man's flesh. Have you ever noticed me do that?"

Hawksworth felt the scratches along his chest and smiled. Only in India, he thought, could you make love so many ways, all kneeling before a woman rather than lying with her. So she scratches you on the chest.

"So far it sounds a bit like you."

"And it says the Conch Woman's love cleft, what the

Hindus call her yoni, is always moist with _kama salila_, the woman's love seed. And its taste is salt. Does that also remind you of me?"

Hawksworth was startled with wry delight when he realized he actually knew the answer. Something he'd never had the slightest desire to know about a woman in England.

In England. Where baths were limited to the face, neck, hands, and feet--and those only once every few weeks. Where women wore unwashed petticoats and stays until they literally fell off. Where a member of the peerage was recently quoted as complaining "the n.o.bler parts are never in this island washed by the women; they are left to be lathered by the men."

But Kali was scrubbed and perfumed each day like a flower. And she had taught him the pleasure in the taste of all her body.

"I guess that makes you a Conch Woman. But what are the others supposed to be like?"

"Let me tell you what it says." She reached and took back the book.

"The next one, the Art Woman, has a voice like a peac.o.c.k, and she delights in singing and poetry. Her carnal desire may be less strong than the Conch Woman, at least until she's properly aroused, but then her _kama salila _is hot, with a perfume like honey. And it's abundant, producing a sound with the act of union. She is sensuous, but for her lovemaking is always a kind of art."

"Who would be an Art Woman?"

She looked at him and smiled wryly. "I think Shirin, the one who fascinates you so much, may well be an Art Woman. But I don't know her body well."

But I will, Hawksworth told himself. I'll know all of her. Somehow. I swear it.

"And what about the Lotus Woman?"

"According to Kalyana Mai she's actually the highest order of woman.

She's a spiritual being, who loves to converse with teachers and Hindu priests. She's always very beautiful, never dark, and her b.r.e.a.s.t.s are full and high. Her _yoni _is like an opening lotus bud and her _kama salila _is perfumed like a lily newly burst."

"And who would be a Lotus Woman?"

"The only one I've ever known for sure is in Agra now. She's a cla.s.sical dancer, a Hindu temple dancer. Her name is Kamala."

"I saw a few dancers recently. At the Shahbandar's estate house. In my _feringhi_ opinion they weren't of a very high order."

"Those were _nautch_ girls, common wh.o.r.es. They degrade and debase the cla.s.sical dance of India for the purpose of enticing customers. Kamala is nothing like them. She's a great artist. For her the dance, and lovemaking, are a kind of worship of the Hindu G.o.ds. I don't entirely understand it, but I could sense her power the one time I saw her dance. When I saw her I began to believe what people say, that she embodies the female principle, the divine female principle that defines India for the Hindu people. Believe me when I tell you she's very different from anyone here in Surat. She knows things that no one else knows. People say they're explained in a very old book she has."

"How can there possibly be any more to know?" Hawksworth thought of the hundreds of pleasure tricks Kali had taught him, delights unknown in Europe. "What's left to put in this other book?"

"Her book is one I've never actually seen. I've only heard about it.

It's a sacred text of the Hindus', an ancient sutra, in which the union of man and woman are shown to be a way of finding your own divine natures, the G.o.d within you both. I'm told it's called the Kama Sutra, the Scripture of Love and Pleasure."

Hawksworth found himself beginning to be overwhelmed. "Maybe we'd better start with this book. What exactly does it say?"