by Lane, Nina
After they made their way through the town, Rohan drove for another hour before they finally arrived at the palace, which rose above the landscape like a sudden hallucination.
Magnificent in its simplicity and splendor, the palace was situated on the west bank of a large lake, alongside of which numerous cars and carriages were parked. The palace was reddish in color with three towers topped by domes, and dozens of bracketed windows, ornate balconies and balustrades. Palm trees sprouted around the grounds like sentries guarding their station, and the gardens seemed to radiate out for miles.
Devora glanced at Gerald. “When was this palace built?” she asked.
“Sixteenth century, I think,” Gerald replied.
“Seventeenth,” Rohan corrected from the driver’s seat. “It was built of red sandstone by the maharaja Ramit Singh. It is a perfect example of Rajput architecture and consists of five stories and over two hundred rooms, with imported Italian marble and stained glass.”
“How wonderful,” Devora breathed, leaning forward in her seat to get a closer look at the sight before them.
“Apparently, Rohan is also a historian as well as a servant,” Gerald muttered.
“My apologies, sahib.”
Devora glanced at Rohan, meeting his gaze in the rearview mirror. To her surprise, she could have sworn that a twinkle of amusement appeared within the fathomless depths of his black eyes, but then it was gone so quickly that she was certain she had imagined it. She doubted Rohan had a humorous bone in his body.
Rohan stopped the car at the entrance and got out to hold the door open for them.
“I will go and park the car, but I will be here when you are ready to return home,” he said.
“Thank you, Rohan.” Gerald took Devora’s arm as they walked towards the palace entrance.
Devora felt as if she had been transported back to the seventeenth century as they walked past guards dressed in white uniforms, sashes, and silken turbans. A multitude of voices emerged from the reception room to the left of the entrance.
Devora gave her wrap to a servant, her heart pounding hard as they entered a vast room of glittering silk, spicy scents, and lilting music. About forty guests meandered about the hall like slow-moving ships, British men and women in gowns and tuxedos contrasting with Indian saris and turbans.
At the far end of the room, several people flanked a man dressed in a beautifully embroidered kurta and black trousers. He appeared to be in his mid-fifties, and he carried himself with such a regal bearing that Devora knew instantly this was the maharaja.
“Oh, good, you’re here!” Mrs. Thompson, dressed in a long, sequined gown, floated over to them. “Have you met the maharaja yet?”
An image of Mrs. Thompson spread out indecently against the wall appeared in Devora’s mind like a moving picture. She smiled, hoping that her amusement would be mistaken for friendliness. “Not yet. We’ve just arrived. I expected there would be many more people.”
“The maharaja always plans sit-down dinners, so there is a limited seating arrangement,” Mrs. Thompson explained. “It makes it rather nice, I think.”
“We’ll go and introduce ourselves to him,” Gerald said. “Nice seeing you, Mrs. Thompson.”
Taking Devora’s arm again, Gerald led her over to the maharaja and his court officials. Devora gazed at the man curiously, intrigued by his bearing and history. He wasn’t an extraordinarily handsome man. Nor was he particularly slim, no doubt due to a constant array of wonderful foods. He did, however, have an air of command and control about him that made him rather fascinating.
“Sir, I don’t know if you remember me, but my name is Gerald Hawthorne,” Gerald said. “Assistant Collector. This is my wife, Devora. She arrived from England the week before last.”
“Of course, Mr. Hawthorne, I do remember you.” The maharaja shook Gerald’s hand heartily before turning to Devora. “And your charming wife, how lovely to meet you. Welcome to my home.”
“Thank you for inviting us. It’s beautiful.”
“You may look around, if you like. Dinner will be served shortly.” With that, the maharaja moved on to greet another guest.
“I’m going to speak to John Fields,” Gerald said. “You’ll be all right on your own?”
“Of course.”
Gerald headed off in the direction of a man dressed in a British military uniform. Devora glanced up and saw Louise heading towards her, her eyes bright with excitement.
“Oh, Devora, isn’t this fun?” she said. “Imagine, us at the palace of a maharaja.”
“What’s his name, do you know?” Devora asked.
“I’ve no idea. Can you imagine what this place must be worth?”
“He gave me permission to look around,” Devora said. “Will you come with me?”
“Will I! Let me tell my husband that I’ll meet him before we go in to dinner.” Louise scurried off, reminding Devora of a jittery rabbit.
Devora wandered around the reception room, which was lined with paintings of maharajas in history. She wondered what, exactly, the current maharaja’s role was, given the fact that most of the country was under British control. It seemed to her that he would be rather ineffectual, even if he was the ruler of a free state.
“All right, I’m ready.” Louise returned, clutching her pocketbook.
The two women headed off along a mezzanine that overlooked an inner courtyard. The courtyard was lovely, filled with flowering plants and decorated with a stone fountain.
“Is he married, do you know?” Louise asked.
“Not that I’m aware of.” Devora thought briefly of repeating the gossip she had heard about the maharaja’s wife, but decided against it. “I’m surprised he’s not, though. I imagine that all these rulers want sons and heirs.”
“Look at the workmanship of this!” Louise paused to touch an intricately carved marble screen separating a room from the mezzanine. “This is the wall between the rooms.”
“Probably because it’s always so hot here,” Devora said. “I wouldn’t think they need to block out the cold like we do in England. What kind of room is it?”
She peered around the corner of the screen at a room filled with embroidered, silk pillows and morahs. The faint scent of incense clung to the air. “It looks like a lounging…oh my.”
She caught sight of a stone sculpture against the wall. A full-breasted woman straddled a standing man, her legs spread wide as he supported her and thrust his penis into her. Devora’s eyes widened. “Some sort of lounging room, indeed.”
Stepping into the room, she started towards the sculpture to get a closer look.
“Devora, should you be going in there?” A thread of worry ran through Louise’s voice. “I mean, we’re in his private residence.”
“He said I could look around.” Devora peered at the sculpture, fascinated by the voluptuous curves of the woman and the outright lasciviousness of the couple.
Her gaze went to some framed paintings on the walls, each of which contained another explicit, erotic scene of couples in a multitude of positions. She stared at one of a richly outfitted man and five women, one of whom was straddling him, his penis inside her. Two other women sat near each of his feet, their legs spread as the man penetrated their vulvas with his toes, while he used his hands to finger two other women. One of the women by his feet even held up a mirror so the man could watch himself.
“Goodness,” Devora said. “I knew the Indians had a tradition of erotic art, but I didn’t know it was this erotic.”
“Isn’t eroticism one of the greatest pleasures of life, though?”
The sudden, male voice caused Devora to look up with a start. Louise gave a gasp of dismay as they both turned and saw the maharaja standing in the doorway.
“Oh, we didn’t mean to be snooping,” Louise said quickly. “We’re terribly sorry.”
“No need for apologies,” the maharaja replied. “I appreciate your interest.”
“Do all palaces have a ro
om dedicated to erotic art?” Devora asked.
Louise gasped again. “Devora!”
The maharaja chuckled. “No, no, that’s quite all right. The answer, Mrs. Hawthorne, is probably not. I, however, rather enjoy it and so—” he spread a hand out to encompass the room, “—I decided to put some of my collection in this room.”
Devora’s eyebrows lifted. “You mean you have more?”
“But of course. I have an extensive collection of art, both erotic and non-erotic. Perhaps you would like to see the rest of my collection one day.”
“I would,” Devora agreed. She and the maharaja gazed at each other for a moment before Devora turned away. She noticed a simple, stone pillar with a circular base standing in one corner of the room. “That’s erotic, too?”
“Of course. That is the lingam, the phallus. It’s used for religious purposes.”
Devora gave him a skeptical look. “Religious?”
“Yes. The lingam symbolizes the god Shiva and the potency of the divine. In some areas, the sacred lingam is still used to deflower a bride before her wedding night. She belongs first to the deity.”
“You must be joking.” Louise sounded appalled. “That’s disgusting.”
“Not really,” the maharaja replied. “Do not your Christian nuns take a vow to belong to their god? The principle is much the same.”
“Yes, but they don’t deflower themselves with a phallus!” Two bright spots of color appeared on Louise’s cheeks as her agitation increased.
“Oh, Louise, don’t be so puritanical,” Devora admonished.
“I deeply regret having offended you, Mrs. Moore,” the maharaja said, bowing slightly in Louise’s direction. “Please forgive me. Won’t you both come in to dinner?”
He stepped aside, allowing the two women to precede him along the mezzanine and back to the reception room. The guests were all making their way into the dining room, which was dominated by a vast, carved table topped with flower arrangements and settings of fine china.
Devora found Gerald and sat beside him.
“Where have you been?” he asked.
“I was just looking around,” Devora explained, spreading her napkin out on her lap. “This palace is just beautiful.”
“Well, please tell me if you’re planning to go off again,” Gerald said. “I dislike not knowing where you are.”
“Yes, darling,” Devora murmured.
The maharaja stood from his place at the head of the table and lifted his wine glass. “Ladies and gentlemen, I welcome you to my home. And I toast to the continuing good relations between the British and Indians.”
Everyone stood and lifted their own glasses, the men murmuring “hear, hear.” Devora sipped the rich, red wine and glanced at the maharaja. To her surprise, he was looking directly at her. He lifted his glass again in a silent toast, drank, and resumed his seat.
Somewhat unnerved, Devora sat down. She tried not to look in the maharaja’s direction again as the servers brought out plate after plate of pakora, curries, dahl, and chutney, with mint-flavored yogurt to cool the heat of the spices.
“Darling, it’s not too spicy for you, is it?” Gerald asked.
“No, I’m fine.” Devora thoroughly enjoyed the food, the flavor of which burst onto her tongue with a multitude of sensations. The meal finished with sweet, milky desserts of gulab jamun and sandesh that counteracted the spicy meal. Devora thought it was quite ingenious of the Indians to create foods that both complemented and contrasted each other so very deliciously.
After dinner, the warmth of the evening air drew everyone outside onto the terrace overlooking the lake. A group of five men from the maharaja’s court were seated on a small platform at the end of the terrace, playing sitar and zither music that floated like raindrops on the night air.
Devora leaned against the marble railing and gazed out at the black, velvet circle of the lake. She could see the cars parked alongside the lake, and the shadowy figures of the drivers as they lounged around the banks and ate food brought to them by the maharaja’s servants. For a brief instant, Devora imagined that she could make out the figure of Rohan, but of course that was ridiculous given that they were at such a distance.
“You are welcome back here at any time, Mrs. Hawthorne.”
Devora looked up to find the maharaja standing next to her at the railing.
“I appreciate your interest in Indian culture,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“Devora, I think we should be going now.” Gerald approached them, carrying Devora’s wrap. “Sir, thank you for your hospitality.”
“Yes, thank you,” Devora echoed. “We had a lovely time.”
“Then I am very happy.”
To Devora’s surprise, the maharaja bent to kiss her hand in farewell. She murmured her good-byes and took Gerald’s arm as they walked back out to their cars.
“He’s an interesting man,” she remarked.
“Yes, well, it’s best to be a bit cautious of the Indians, as I’ve said to you. Whether they are servants or maharajas.”
“Gerald, I think the British are much too cautious,” Devora said. They approached their car, where Rohan was waiting for them.
“You had a good evening?” he asked.
“Very nice,” Gerald replied.
“I mean, it’s not as if they’re animals,” Devora continued as she and Gerald got into the car. “They just have different philosophies and a different culture. For example, this whole idea of erotic art.”
“Devora, I told you to leave that alone,” Gerald said.
“It’s a religious philosophy, Gerald, not a perversion!” Devora was getting exasperated. She’d been in India for only two weeks and already she was tired of British prudery. “I’m sure there’s a very deep history involved.”
“No doubt,” Gerald replied. “However, I don’t want you to be running about researching this history. It’s not becoming of a lady.”
With a sigh, Devora crossed her arms and stared out the window.
“Now, Devora, don’t sulk.”
“Gerald, stop talking to me as if I were a child,” Devora snapped.
“Look, next week I have to leave on a trip to Delhi,” Gerald said. “Before I go, perhaps we can visit Agra and see the Taj Mahal. Also, we’ll buy more sketchpads and watercolors for you so that you’ll have something to keep yourself occupied.”
Devora didn’t respond. How was she going to last in India for years if she couldn’t even attempt to understand the country?
She continued staring out the window until the faint sound of Gerald snoring told her he had fallen asleep. She looked at the back of Rohan’s head for a moment, wondering suddenly what his thick, black hair would feel like under her fingertips. The thought caused a rush of heat mixed with mild embarrassment.
Shaking away the feeling, she leaned forward and braced her arms against the front seat. “Rohan, how long have you been working for Gerald?”
“Eight months.”
“And has he been having an affair with that woman Kalindi?”
A moment of silence filled the air between them. “I cannot answer that, memsahib.”
Devora snorted. “You mean you won’t.”
Rohan didn’t reply. Devora sat back in her seat, feeling both irritated and restless. She glanced at Rohan in the rearview mirror and wondered what it would take to provoke some sort of reaction from him.
“Well, maybe I should have an affair of my own, then,” she mused. “To find out if there really is something to this worship of the phallus.”
He didn’t reply.
“It doesn’t surprise me, really,” Devora went on. “The worship of the male member, that is. I wonder if anyone would think to worship the female part instead. After all, that’s where life begins.”
“Very true, memsahib. The female counterpart is called the yoni.”
Startled, Devora met his gaze in the mirror. “The yoni? Do Indians worship the yoni?”
> “I certainly do.”
***
CHAPTER FOUR
“You’re leaving for two entire weeks?” Devora disliked the petulant tone in her voice, but she couldn’t even fathom how bored she would be without Gerald. At least when he was home, they could talk, go out sightseeing and to parties. Without him, she would be stuck playing bridge and gossiping with a bunch of uptight British women.
“Darling, I’m sorry, but it’s unavoidable,” Gerald said. He tossed his shaving kit into his suitcase and zipped it up. “We have to go on tour to obtain a census of the Indians in this district. I can’t simply let the other men handle it alone.”
Devora flopped back onto the bed and looked out the window at the threads of dawn just beginning to weave through the sky. “Well, why can’t I go with you?”
“Devora, I’m working. And census-taking is no place for a woman.”
“No, the place for a woman is at the bridge table,” Devora muttered.
Gerald sighed and ran a hand down his face. “Are you going to be this difficult every time I leave?”
“I’m not being difficult, I’m just getting terribly bored,” Devora replied. “Every time I want to do something or explore something, you tell me it’s not appropriate. I can’t even be friends with any Indians.”
“You’ve got your sketchpads and pens,” Gerald said. “You’ll have plenty of time to do as many drawings as you like. And there’s needlepoint and bridge games, not to mention visiting the club. They have a library with a number of English books. You’ll enjoy that.”
“I suppose.”
“Oh, darling, you know I hate it when you’re unhappy.” Gerald sat on the side of the bed and reached out to run his fingers through Devora’s hair. A hint of dismay lit in his blue eyes, making Devora feel even guiltier for her behavior. “I was worried that you’d be bored in India, but I did so want you with me.”
Devora took her husband’s hand, trailing her fingertips over the lines in his palm. “I know. And I wanted to be with you, too.”
