Jewels for Vishnu (Siren Publishing Allure ManLove)

by Roland Graeme

  On his bare brown feet, Thevar wore brown leather sandals, which obviously had been chosen in the first place for comfort rather than for style, and were in fact rather the worse for wear. By contrast, the man’s feet showed every sign of being regularly and carefully pedicured. He had the toes and nails of a professional foot model—and here in Los Angeles, it was indeed possible for a man to make a living as a foot model. What was a bit startling was that each of Thevar’s bare ankles was encircled by an anklet, a delicate gold chain with tiny ornaments dangling from the links, resembling a charm bracelet. Corey would have found this particular jewelry choice effeminate on most other men, but this dude somehow brought it off. He was also wearing three rings, two on his left hand, one on his right.

  Corey realized that Kaustav was observing him in return, in a frank, friendly manner, making no secret of the fact.

  “It was good of you to come on a Sunday, especially on such short notice,” Kaustav said.

  “I usually have my Sundays free.”

  “Is this the only appointment you have scheduled today?” Kaustav asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I hope you didn’t feel that you had to get all dressed up for my sake.”

  “I wanted to make a good impression on you.”

  “And you have. But now that you’re here, feel free to take off your jacket and loosen your tie, if you want to.”

  “Maybe I will, if you don’t mind.”

  “Please do. I want you to be comfortable while you are here. I don’t think there’s any need for any great degree of formality between us. I hope we will become good friends. I’ll have Renesh hang up your jacket.”

  “Don’t bother. I can just put it over the back of this chair, if I may.”

  “Go right ahead.”

  “I’ve got some photos of pieces of custom jewelry I’ve made, here in a file on my laptop. And in this portfolio, if you’d like to see them.”

  “I would like to. Let me see them while we’re waiting for our tea. And, while I’m looking at them, tell me something about yourself.”

  “What would you like to know?”

  Thevar was already flipping through the portfolio. “Do you come from a family of jewelers?”

  “No.”

  “In India, you see, men often go into the family trade as a matter of course, and from a very early age.”

  “My father is a college teacher, and my mother plays the violin—in an orchestra. I’m afraid that neither teaching nor performing ever held much interest for me. I’ve always enjoyed working with my hands, though—making things, tinkering. I started getting interested in metalworking while I was still in high school.” Corey had opened the laptop and turned it on. “Here’s the file. All you have to do is hit this arrow to page through the photos.”

  As Kaustav leaned forward in his chair and began to look at the laptop’s screen, Corey thought he heard a faint, delicate ringing sound. He couldn’t identify its source and almost began to think he had imagined it.

  “I like some of these pieces very much. They have a sculptural quality.”

  “They’re all one of a kind. I don’t like to repeat myself too much. Of course, if a customer sees something there that he or she likes, I’ll duplicate it. Although I may suggest varying the design a bit.”

  “Ah, here is Renesh, with the tea.”

  It was served on a large silver tray set on a wheeled cart. The tea service itself was unlike anything Corey had ever seen. It looked antique. All of the pieces were cloisonné porcelain in an elaborate, multicolored stylized floral and scroll pattern, with silver rims on the cups and saucers, and silver mounts and accents on the creamer and sugar, and on the pots themselves. There were two pots, one large one set on a matching caddy, which contained a lit tea candle to keep the water in the pot warm. The other, smaller pot was used for the actual brewing, as Corey discovered when the smiling Renesh poured out the tea and handed the filled cups, first to Corey, then to his employer.

  One small plate, also part of the service, held slices of lemon. Another contained a tempting-looking assortment of bite-sized cakes and pastries.

  “That will be all, Renesh.” As the houseboy left the room, Kaustav sat back in his chair, tucked one ankle under the knee of the other leg, and stirred his tea with the tiny silver spoon provided on the saucer for that purpose. He looked very much at his ease. Corey heard that curious, faint chiming sound again. Belatedly, he realized that it came from his host’s anklets. Some of the tiny ornaments dangling from each of the two ankle chains were in fact miniature bells.

  “This is very good tea,” Corey said after he’d taken a first cautious sip of the hot brew.

  “I’m glad you like it. I prefer it very strong. If I may say so, Corey, you are more handsome than you look in your photos on your website.”

  There was nothing overtly flirtatious about the way Kaustav made the statement. Nevertheless, it caught Corey off guard.

  “Am I?” he asked. “Maybe I should have some new ones made.”

  “Yes, perhaps you should. I suspect we both know how important presentation is in the business world. May I ask you what your ancestry is?”

  “I’m afraid I really have no idea. My family came from South Carolina, originally. We’re what we call ‘rednecks,’ here in the United States.”

  “Isn’t that usually used as a derogatory term?”

  “That depends on who’s using it. Some of us rednecks take a certain pride in it. Our way of compensating, maybe.”

  “You have only a hint of a Southern accent.”

  “And you speak very good American English. What part of India do you come from?”

  “The Tamil Nadu region, in the southeastern part of the country. The city of Madurai, to be precise.”

  “Near Sri Lanka?”

  “Yes. But I’ve lived here in California for several years.” As he spoke, Kaustav shifted the position of his legs and his anklets tinkled. Corey couldn’t help glancing at them.

  Kaustav smiled. “I can see you’re looking at my anklets.”

  “They’re interesting. And unusual. In addition to being rather musical.”

  “Don’t feel you have to be diplomatic, for fear of offending me. You’re probably thinking that only a drag queen would wear such things.”

  “I was thinking the exact opposite, as a matter of fact. They’re oddly masculine—in an unconventional way.”

  “It’s customary, where I come from, for the men—as well as the women—to adorn themselves with such trinkets. These are antiques—family heirlooms, believe it or not. I like to wear them when I’m here at home, for sentimental reasons. I can assure you that, when I venture outside the house, especially on business, I tone my accessories down a bit.”

  “That’s a pity, actually. I think you could set a new style.”

  “Or be chased down the street, in some parts of this town.”

  Renesh reappeared.

  “Lunch is served, Mr. Thevar,” the houseboy announced, as formally as though he was addressing a delegation of dignitaries.

  “Oh, excellent. Come along, Corey. I hope you’re hungry?”

  “I’m not embarrassed to admit I am.”

  “Good.” Kaustav led Corey through a doorway, down a hall, and into another room.

  “This is quite an impressive house,” Corey said.

  “It’s comfortable,” Kaustav said, almost dismissingly. “I have to admit I don’t have much use for showplaces—to live in, I mean, as opposed to looking at. I thought we’d have lunch here, instead of in the dining room.”

  Here was a small room with French windows overlooking what Corey realized must be the back of the house. Through the windows, there was a view of a terrace with an enormous swimming pool, with the landscaped grounds stretching out behind it. The walls of the room were painted a sunny color, halfway between yellow and orange. A round table with four chairs occupied the center of the space. The table was draped in a white cloth, and
the chairs were upholstered in a yellow-and-white striped fabric. Two places were set, with a red miniature rosebush in a blue-and-white cachepot between them.

  “This is the so-called breakfast room,” Kaustav explained. “But I often take my meals in here.”

  “It’s charming.”

  As he sat down opposite his host, Corey was almost relieved to see that the place settings, the silverware, and the glasses were of good quality but more utilitarian than ostentatious. He was beginning to feel a bit paranoid about the possibility, however remote, of accidentally breaking something valuable in this allegedly merely “comfortable” house.

  “For our lunch menu, I’ve hedged my bets,” Kaustav said. “The fare will be half familiar American food and half exotic. It didn’t occur to me to ask you, when we spoke on the phone, whether you have any dietary restrictions or preferences. So many people here in California are vegetarians and so forth.”

  “Not me. I’ll eat just about anything that’s put in front of me.”

  “Ah. A man after my own heart.”

  The first course, served by a smiling Renesh, was indeed a very Californian salad, mixed greens with pecans, walnuts, and slices of orange, all topped by a light raspberry vinaigrette dressing.

  “This is delicious,” Corey declared.

  “My cook is very versatile. She’s a charming woman named Esmeralda, who mothers me and Renesh when she isn’t bossing us around and telling us what’s good for us. She’s introduced me to many Mexican dishes, and I’ve helped her to develop an interest in traditional Indian cuisine. Are you feeling adventurous?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good, because here comes Renesh, with our main course. I hope you like it.”

  The food, which looked and smelled tempting, turned out to be chicken cutlets, coated in a ginger-flavored breadcrumb crust. Corey couldn’t identify the side dishes, but his host came to his aid.

  “This is biryani, a rice dish with vegetables, highly spiced. Back home, it’s a staple, and we put all sorts of ingredients in it, depending on what’s available. And these are mashed amaranth greens.”

  “I can’t wait to try everything.”

  Corey found himself unapologetically cleaning his plate and treating himself to second helpings of all three dishes.

  “That’s what I like to see,” Kaustav said. “A man with a healthy appetite.”

  “I’m making a pig of myself.”

  “And so am I. Eating well is one of life’s pleasures, after all. And these dishes remind me of home.” Kaustav wiped his lips with his napkin. “While we’re waiting for our coffee and dessert, perhaps we can talk some business? I’m sure you’d like to have a better idea of the project I would like you to undertake for me.”

  “Yes, I would.”

  “What do you know about my religion, Hinduism?”

  “Very little, I’m embarrassed to say. I do know that it’s one of the world’s oldest religions and that you have a pantheon of gods and goddesses.”

  “Yes. And, although there are some famous and spectacular temples in India, one thing you might find interesting is that it’s possible to be a very devout Hindu without ever setting foot in a temple. A great deal of our religious observation takes place in private, in the home.”

  They were interrupted by Renesh, who served coffee and what looked like brownies, some sort of cake cut up into squares. Corey sampled one.

  “Is this another Tamil Nadu specialty?” he guessed.

  “Yes. It’s coconut burfi.”

  “There’s some flavor in it in addition to the coconut.”

  “I suspect what you taste is cardamom.”

  “These are really good. Please tell me they’re low calorie and low fat?”

  “Absolutely. I’m lying, of course. Have another.”

  “I intend to. But you were telling me about religious observation in the home?”

  “One of the most important elements in Hinduism is expressing reverence for the murtis,” Kaustav went on.

  “The murtis? I’m not familiar with that term.”

  “I’m sorry, you’ve caught me slipping into our own jargon. A murti is an image or representation of a divinity. What you would call an idol, I suppose. They can range from the very large and spectacular statues found in temples to small figurines. Even poor people have part of their living space set aside as a household shrine, with at least one image of a deity on display—a two-dimensional picture, if they can’t afford even a modest little statue. During daily ceremonies we call puja, we offer prayers to the murtis, along with other offerings—flowers, incense, foodstuffs. Contrary to what many outsiders assume, most Hindus are sophisticated enough to realize that it isn’t the idol itself which they are worshipping, but what it represents. Although I have to admit that this distinction can often seem blurred.”

  “Blurred?”

  “Especially devout Hindus traditionally treat their household murtis exactly as though they were members of the family or, perhaps more accurately, honored guests. They perform specific puja ceremonies, with appropriate prayers, to put the images of the gods to bed at night, to wake them up in the morning—they ritualistically bathe them, with water or milk, and dress them in clothes and ornaments made especially for them. They feel responsible for the deities and take the idea of caring for them very seriously.”

  “As though they were members of the family, as you said.”

  Kaustav smiled. “Perhaps you think it’s rather childish, for an adult to devote a great deal of time, energy, and money to dressing up an inanimate object?”

  “Not at all. I used to know a guy who had a Divine Infant of Prague on display in his bedroom. He’d change its robe and its crown occasionally. The statue had its own wardrobe, you see. It made me kind of nervous, I remember, because it had these very realistic glass eyes. I always thought it was watching us, when we—” Corey hesitated.

  “When you were in the room?” Kaustav prompted him.

  Corey decided there was no need to be coy. “When we were on the bed.”

  Kaustav laughed, and there was a gleam of devilry in his black eyes as he met and held Corey’s gaze. “I’m envious—of the statue. It sounds as though it may have observed some interesting things.”

  “We have something here in the United States called ‘pleading the fifth,’ you know.”

  “I won’t press you for any details,” Kaustav said easily. “But to return to my little lecture. We even have a special term, shringar, which means ‘deity dressing.’ There are experts who teach courses of instruction in it. And there are businesses in India which specialize in the manufacture of outfits and ornaments for murtis. They export these products to Hindus who live abroad.”

  “Like you?”

  “Like me.”

  “I’m going to make an educated guess. You want me to make something for one of these murtis, something similar to what I did for the doll that Elinor Rossi bought at the charity fundraiser?”

  “Precisely. When Mrs. Rossi showed me the doll, I was very impressed. Something ‘clicked,’ as they say, in my mind. I immediately told myself, ‘I want something like that for my statue of Vishnu.’”

  “Vishnu is one of your major gods, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, along with Shiva and Brahma.”

  “I’m curious about one thing, Kaustav. If there are suppliers in India who carry such products, and export them worldwide, why do you want to commission something from me? Not that I’m trying to discourage you,” Corey added quickly, with a smile.

  “A good question. As you can imagine, the things made for the deity dressing market vary widely in quality and cost. Everything from very cheaply made mass-produced items to one-of-a-kind, handmade costumes which are really works of art. Since it’s of course possible, and cost-effective, for devotees to make their own deity outfits and accessories out of whatever materials happen to be available, the manufactured products do tend to be on the inexpensive side. They have to be, in orde
r to compete with homemade articles. But I want something truly exceptional. The statue of Vishnu is very dear to me. I hope, with your help, to honor the god and to continue to enjoy his favor.”

  “Now I’m curious to see this statue.”

  “It’s in my study. If you’re finished, shall we go there?”

  “By all means.”

  Following Kaustav into the study, Corey could see at once that the room was an inner sanctuary, a private retreat in which Kaustav probably spent a great deal of his time. It was a spacious room, with windows that opened out onto the terrace and the pool. Here, Corey noticed, the English country style of the other rooms he’d seen yielded to what might be described as British neo-colonial. The furniture, mostly oversized and in dark woods, included a massive desk, with computer equipment set on it, and bookcases. Not far away from the desk was a seating area with a leather sofa and matching armchairs grouped around a coffee table.

  Kaustav led Corey over to one wall, which was dominated by what Corey at first assumed was an armoire. It was a free-standing rosewood cabinet, intricately carved and inlaid, with double doors.

  “This is what we call a puja mandir,” Kaustav explained. “They are made in a variety of sizes, from small tabletop models to the large ones, such as this. Mandir means ‘temple,’ which for all practical purposes is what this is—a miniature place of worship. I suppose in English you would call it a household shrine.”

  He opened the doors. The interior of the cabinet, Corey now saw, was equipped with shelves and drawers, and the shelves were filled by a display of statues of varying sizes.

  “Here are some smaller murtis, cast in bronze. This is Lakshmi, the goddess of prosperity and wealth, who is Vishnu’s consort. This rotund little fellow with the elephant’s head is Ganesh, the so-called ‘Remover of Obstacles.’ And here is Shiva and his consort, Parvati.”

  “They’re all very beautifully detailed.”

  “Yes, they’re small, but they’re of excellent quality. Here, however, are examples of less expensive deities. These are made from brass, and because they’re meant to be dressed up, their bodies aren’t as detailed. These are Lord Chaitanya and Lord Nityananda. When they’re paired up like this, they’re also called the Gaura-Nitai.”