Tea and Spices (An Erotic Novel of Colonial India)

by Lane, Nina

  Devora walked him out to his car, then returned to finish her tea. She glanced up when Rohan entered the sitting room.

  “Memsahib, I must tell you that it is not wise for you to lunch with the maharaja without your husband present.”

  Devora rolled her eyes. “Oh, Rohan. Don’t tell me you believe all those rumors about him.”

  “It is not a good idea.”

  “Other people will be there,” Devora said. “He’s just gone to invite others, so I won’t be alone. For heaven’s sake, Rohan, you’re not my keeper. Please don’t tell me what to do.”

  “I apologize.” Rohan bowed slightly. “I am only telling you my opinion, as your husband entrusted you to my care.”

  “I’m not a child!” Devora said in exasperation, suddenly weary of everyone thinking they knew what was best for her. “I don’t care what my husband told you. You’re a servant, not my nanny. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, memsahib.” Rohan turned and left.

  Devora glowered at his retreating back. Regardless of their nationality or class, men seemed to always think they had to protect women. Between that and the prejudices of the British community, Devora decided she’d had more than enough of convention.

  She went into her bedroom and began examining her dresses, finally deciding on an elegant, beige dress. After ringing for Kalindi, Devora thought briefly about calling Mrs. Thompson for her opinion, but decided not to in case Mrs. Thompson wasn’t invited.

  “Kalindi, would you iron this, please?” Devora asked. “I’ll be wearing it for lunch tomorrow.”

  “Oh, yes, Rohan told me that you are going to lunch with the maharaja!” Kalindi’s eyes were bright with excitement as she took the dress. “How exciting.”

  “Yes, it is rather,” Devora agreed.

  “I am hearing that he has a harem of fifty women,” Kalindi said eagerly.

  Devora looked at her. “Where on earth did you hear such a thing?”

  “Oh, everyone around here has heard that. He has his pick of the most beautiful women in the land, and he keeps them in one of the palace rooms so that he can choose whichever woman pleases him.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Devora said, even though her mind swam with images of Eastern harems saturated with beautiful women and the scent of perfume. “Those are old stories and rumors. This is the twentieth century, Kalindi. People don’t do that sort of thing anymore.”

  “Yes, but money can buy a man anything,” Kalindi said. “Including a harem of fifty women.”

  “Kalindi, go and do your work,” Devora ordered, shooing the younger woman away. “I have a great deal to do before tomorrow. Now hurry along and don’t go spreading gossip.”

  Kalindi dashed off with the dress. Devora spent the evening washing her hair and filing her fingernails, her thoughts constantly drifting back to the maharaja and his vast palace. She wondered what he did during the day, not to mention how he entertained himself at night. What if he really did have a harem of women to choose from?

  Her nervousness grew the following morning as she waited for the maharaja’s car to pick her up. She checked and rechecked her hair, then paced the sitting room until she heard the sound of the car engine.

  “Memsahib, I do wish you would let me accompany you,” Rohan said.

  “There is no need, Rohan. I’ll return before dark.” Devora hurried out to the car, where the driver was already holding the door open for her.

  Settling against the plush seats, Devora had to smile. Finally, something exciting was happening! She was lunching with a maharaja, and without Gerald around to prevent her from asking questions about Indian erotic art and philosophy. Now perhaps she could get some questions answered.

  The sandstone palace gleamed red in the hot sun, with the lake appearing like a sparkling mirror before it. Unlike the other night, there were no other cars or carriages parked beside the lake. Realizing she was the first one here, Devora approached the entrance with a small amount of trepidation.

  “Mrs. Hawthorne, I’m so glad you’ve arrived.” Smiling, the maharaja bent to kiss her hand gallantly. He wore no turban today, and his dark hair was shot through with threads of gray. “What a pleasure to welcome you to my home once again.”

  “I’m the first one to arrive, am I?” Devora asked.

  The maharaja’s dark eyebrows lifted. “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought I made it clear that you were to be my only guest.”

  “No, I hadn’t realized that.”

  “I do hope that doesn’t cause you discomfort.”

  “No, not particularly.” In truth, Devora was rather flattered that the maharaja had invited only her to lunch with him. “Is there a reason you’ve only invited me?”

  The maharaja spread his hands out in a gesture of supplication. “You are alone, are you not? I thought surely an intelligent woman such as yourself must be bored with nothing to do and no husband to take you anywhere. Am I correct?”

  Devora gave him a rueful smile. “Yes, you are correct.”

  “Come and sit.” The maharaja led her inside the palace, which was no less splendid during the day. “I sometimes dine out on the terrace, but I’m afraid the sun hits it directly during this time of day. I thought you would be much more comfortable in the courtyard.”

  They walked into the plant-filled inner courtyard. The air brushed against Devora’s skin, feeling deliciously cool due to the shade and the light mist from the fountain. A musician sat on a carpet in a corner of the courtyard, his delicate sitar music accompanied by the noise of the water.

  “Please, sit down.” The maharaja pulled a chair away from the round table that had been set up near the fountain. “I’ve had the cooks prepare a delicious lamb curry and dahl. I hope you enjoy Indian food.”

  “I do. I love it.”

  The maharaja took his seat and waved for the servants to bring out the food and wine. “So, my dear Mrs. Hawthorne, tell me about yourself.”

  Devora looked at him in surprise. “About myself?”

  “Yes. What you like to do, that kind of thing.”

  “I enjoy painting and drawing,” Devora said. She delved into her food, delighted by the spicy flavors. “I was hoping to be able to sketch some of the temples around here, but so far I’ve only been able to see one of them.”

  “You have not been to Khajuraho?”

  Devora shook her head, aware of a slight flush coloring her cheeks. “My husband says it wouldn’t befit a lady to go there.”

  “Nonsense!” the maharaja said emphatically. “Complete nonsense. The temples there are beautiful, and they are part of India’s complex history. You cannot leave India without seeing the Khajuraho temples.”

  “Yes, but I’ve heard they’re quite…explicit.”

  “But of course!” the maharaja replied. “Such is The Kamasutra, is it not?”

  “So I’ve heard.” Devora suspected it wouldn’t be wise to confess her own interest in The Kamasutra. “Still, I have little hope that I’ll see the Khajuraho temples.”

  “Well, you must allow me to escort you there,” the maharaja insisted. He waved a hand at a servant, who hurried to refill Devora’s plate with curry and rice. “It will be our little secret, yes?”

  “Oh, I don’t know if that’s a very good idea.”

  The maharaja shrugged as if to say what does it matter? “Your husband is not here, and you’ve told me yourself that you want to visit the temples. Why not take advantage of my hospitality?”

  “I really don’t want to inconvenience you.” In truth, Devora would have dearly loved to see the temples. The maharaja’s offer was difficult to reject. She spooned some mango chutney into her mouth, nearly groaning aloud at the splendor of its taste. Everything about India seemed to seethe with sensual pleasure. “And I know my husband would not approve.”

  “Ah, but your husband would disapprove of you dining alone with me, would he not?”

  “Probably,” Devora admitted.

  “And yet, here you are,”
the maharaja said, as if that settled everything.

  Devora couldn’t argue with that point. “Well, maybe just a quick trip wouldn’t hurt,” she said. “Are the temples far from here?”

  “Approximately two hours by car. If we left in the early morning, we could return by nightfall.”

  “I appreciate the offer,” Devora said. “I’ll have to think about it, of course.”

  “Of course,” the maharaja replied smoothly. “Think about a day next week that suits you. Before your husband returns, of course. Now tell me about your life in England. I was educated at Oxford, you know, and I do miss the country.”

  Devora was only too happy to return the conversation to familiar grounds. She told him about the house she and Gerald had rented before moving to India, her family, and her previous job as a bookkeeper. The maharaja seemed to be very interested in everything she had to tell him, as he listened intently and asked questions. Devora ate until she couldn’t eat anymore, a situation that seemed to please the maharaja greatly.

  “I find you very appealing,” he said, as the servants cleared their plates and brought out cups of tea.

  “Me?” Devora said in surprise. “Appealing?”

  “Yes. You have a great deal of life in you. Energy.”

  Devora had never thought of herself in that way before. “I’m quite ordinary, actually.”

  “No, you’re not. No one with such interests as you have could possibly be ordinary.” The maharaja sipped some tea and pushed his chair back. “Come. We will have dessert later. I want to show you the rest of my art collection.”

  Devora followed him into an open room separated from the courtyard only by a lattice screen. She stopped in the doorway at the sight of the numerous sculptures and paintings. Stone and bronze sculptures of all sizes sat upon specially designed pedestals, while framed paintings lined the walls.

  “It’s like a museum,” Devora breathed.

  “It is indeed my own private museum,” the maharaja said with evident pride. “My father was not an art collector, but I started this collection when I was in my early twenties. Over the years, I have acquired some wonderful pieces.”

  Devora reached out and rubbed the corpulent belly of Ganesha, the elephant god. She gave the maharaja a smile. “I’ve heard it’s good luck to rub his belly.”

  “It is, indeed,” he agreed.

  “How old are the sculptures?”

  “Oh, they date from almost every period of India’s history. This one is from the fifth century.” The maharaja led her around the room, explaining the styles and the content of the sculptures, which consisted of every subject from the god Shiva poised in a posture of dance to the goddess Durga slaying the buffalo demon. There were three large sculptures of Shiva and his consort Parvati, who seemed always to be depicted as an incredibly voluptuous woman with large breasts and rounded hips. Devora paused in front of one sculpture in which Parvati was seated on Shiva’s knee.

  “All of the women in Indian art appear to be very seductive,” she remarked.

  “You mean their naked bodies?” the maharaja said. “These are signs of fertility, you know. Large breasts and hips means that a woman is very fertile, which connects her with the earth and the mother goddess.”

  Devora gave him a skeptical look. “That’s it? You mean they’re not considered…physical?”

  The maharaja laughed, a deep, rich laugh that resounded off the walls. “Oh, my dear Mrs. Hawthorne, they are considered physical indeed. Sexual union is necessary not only for procreation, but for pleasure as well. The Hindu Tantric philosophy relies heavily on the notion of divine union.”

  “As does The Kamasutra.”

  “Ah, a scholar of ancient erotic texts, are you?” The maharaja’s eyes twinkled as they stopped in front of a series of erotic paintings. “Many of these paintings are illustrations of The Kamasutra.”

  Devora’s heart leapt as she gazed at the small, finely-detailed paintings. Men and women, often still partially clothed in exotic saris and kurtas, lay sprawled in a multitude of positions. Their legs were often spread wide, giving the spectator a clear image of the man’s penis penetrating the woman. The women all had large, beautiful breasts and curved hips, their bodies ornately decorated with gold jewelry. Devora gazed at the paintings with fascination, aware of the growing warmth collecting in her lower body.

  She glanced at the maharaja, unnerved to find him looking at her rather than the paintings.

  “Um, perhaps I should leave now,” she suggested.

  He looked dismayed. “Mrs. Hawthorne, please tell me I haven’t offended you. Come, we will sit and have some tea and sweets. You know, it is considered rude in Indian custom to visit a person’s home and not partake of sweets.”

  Devora didn’t know whether or not to believe him, but she went with him up the stairs to the balcony. They entered the same sitting room Devora had discovered with Louise, the one with large, cushy throw pillows scattered around the room and more erotic sculptures and paintings. The cloying scent of incense still clung to the air.

  “Please, sit down,” the maharaja invited. “You will not be uncomfortable on the floor, I hope?”

  “No, not at all.” Devora sank down into a nest of pillows, unable to help herself from relaxing against their softness. She felt utterly replete from their delicious lunch, not to mention somewhat stimulated from viewing the maharaja’s art collection.

  She turned her head to look at him as he settled beside her.

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  He looked at her in surprise. “My name?”

  “Yes, your real name. Everybody only calls you the maharaja.”

  He smiled, reaching out to trail his fingers down her bare arm. Startled, Devora jerked away from the sudden touch.

  “My apologies,” the maharaja said. “I do not mean to make you uncomfortable.”

  “No, that was just unexpected.”

  “You dislike me touching you?” He stroked his fingers over her arm again. This time, Devora didn’t pull away.

  “My name is Hastin Singh,” the maharaja said.

  “Hastin Singh,” Devora repeated. She leaned her head against the pillows, her head filling with the rich scent of sandalwood incense. The touch of his fingers was light and teasing. “That’s a nice name.”

  “Thank you.”

  Devora gazed from afar at the erotic painting she had seen the other night, the one consisting of one man and five women.

  “Are there other erotic temples in India besides Khajuraho?” she inquired.

  “Yes, there are, often based on The Kamasutra as well. The Kamasutra penetrates many areas of Indian life.”

  “I have a copy of it at home,” Devora confessed. “I’ll have to read it more thoroughly.”

  “You know, there is a section on how a virtuous wife should behave with her husband,” the maharaja said.

  Devora lifted an eyebrow. “Is that right? What does it say?”

  The maharaja lifted his hand and rapped out a few words in Hindi to a nearby servant. Within a few seconds, the man brought him a bound copy of the sacred text. The maharaja opened the book to the fourth chapter.

  “It says that you must act in accordance with your husband’s wishes as if he were a divine being,” he said. “And in his absence, you must wear auspicious jewelry and observe fasts.”

  Devora thought of the abundant meal she had just eaten and couldn’t help giggling. “Well, I don’t think my jewelry is auspicious, and I love Indian food too much to want to fast.”

  “You also should not leave your house unless you are accompanied by your husband’s servants.”

  Devora rolled her eyes. “Don’t show that to Rohan. He’ll hold it up as the divine law.”

  “And you are required to do everything for your husband’s welfare,” the maharaja said.

  “Well, heavens, I don’t think I’ve followed those rules at all.”

  The maharaja put the book aside and leaned back
against the pillows. “I suppose that means you’re not a virtuous wife then, doesn’t it?”

  Devora didn’t know whether he was being serious or joking, but she chuckled anyway. “I suppose it does. Oh, well. Virtue can be boring.”

  She closed her eyes, suddenly feeling very relaxed and even sleepy. “I know that book doesn’t completely make women the attendants of men,” she said with a yawn. “In fact, I distinctly remember that several of those details involve pleasuring a woman.”

  “Oh, indeed,” the maharaja said. “A man would be remiss if the woman did not obtain pleasure from their union.”

  Devora turned to look at him, realizing he was much closer to her than he had been before. Oddly enough, she didn’t find his proximity alarming. Instead, she merely gazed at him for a moment.

  “I don’t know how people do it, to be honest with you,” she said.

  “Do what?”

  “All those positions, even just for hugging and kissing. I can’t remember how many different types of kisses there are.”

  “There is the straight kiss.” The maharaja moved closer to her, and then his lips barely touched hers. He lifted his hands to the back of Devora’s neck, his fingers sliding into her hair as he tilted her head slightly. “Then the bent kiss.”

  Devora’s heart pulsed in her throat, but she didn’t pull away from him. He tasted like spices and curry, the touch of his mouth totally different from Gerald’s familiar kisses.

  “And this,” the maharaja murmured, as he captured her lips between his, “is called the clasping kiss.”

  Devora gasped inwardly, her fingers clenching around the edge of a pillow as the maharaja began to slowly plunder her mouth with his. A hundred thoughts splashed around in her mind, the most prominent one being that she should pull away from him. And yet, something inside her refused to obey.

  Instead, she fairly sank against him, parting her lips to allow him to enter her more thoroughly. So different from Gerald. This man exuded sensuality and lust as he stroked his tongue slowly over her teeth and licked the inside of her lips. Desire sparked in Devora’s blood, a desire kindled by painted visions of men and women engaging in acts of pure carnality.