by Lane, Nina
“Never mind.” Devora turned towards the door. “I’ll leave you alone.”
“Wait!” Kalindi had a sick feeling that if the memsahib left now, she would have far too much time to think about what she had just witnessed. Additionally, Kalindi had to find out why the British woman had come here in the first place, if only to be able to give her what she wanted. Then, perhaps she would think twice about dismissing the two women. “What was it you came for?”
“Oh, nothing. It’s rather silly.”
“I can make you tea,” Kalindi said desperately, making a sharp gesture at Lota.
Lota scrambled to put on a shift, then went to light the stove. Devora looked at Kalindi and lifted her shoulders in a shrug.
“I was just speaking with Rohan,” she explained. “I was wondering what you knew about him.”
“Rohan?” Kalindi was startled. The last thing she had expected Devora Hawthorne to ask her about was the head servant. “I do not understand.” She hurried to take some clothing off a chair. “Please, sit down.”
Devora hesitated, but moved to sit down. “I really should leave. This isn’t necessary.”
“No, please stay. Please excuse the state of my home. I was not expecting you.” Kalindi grabbed a hairclip and clasped her long hair at the nape of her neck, trying to pat the flyaway strands into order. “You ask about Rohan?”
“Yes, well, he was telling me about how he came to work for the British,” Devora said. “Having lived in an orphanage.”
“Yes, that is true. He told me that once.”
Devora looked down at her hands, twisting her fingers together. With a start, Kalindi realized the British woman was nervous.
“I suppose I was just wondering if you knew anything else about him,” Devora said. “He’s very…um, stoic.”
“Stoic? What is that word?”
“I mean that he doesn’t display his emotions,” Devora said. “At all.”
“No, memsahib, he is a very cold man,” Lota agreed. She brought Devora a cup of tea and sat down on the bed. “Very cold.”
“Do you know why?” Devora asked.
“I know he was engaged to be married perhaps ten years ago,” Kalindi said, wondering why the memsahib was so interested in Rohan. She hoped Devora Hawthorne wasn’t looking for a reason to dismiss him. “There was a rumor the woman could not provide the dowry, but I do not think that is what happened. I am thinking her family did not want her to marry a servant.”
Devora looked somewhat thoughtful. “I see. He was in love with her, then?”
Both Kalindi and Lota chuckled.
“Oh, we do not marry for love,” Lota explained. “Our marriages are arranged marriages. Our parents seek people from suitable families for us.”
“But if Rohan came from an orphanage, his parents couldn’t have found a possible bride for him,” Devora pointed out.
Such a thought had never occurred to Kalindi. She looked at Lota, who appeared equally surprised.
“Perhaps it was the orphanage,” Lota suggested.
Devora arched an eyebrow wryly. “When he was twenty-five years old, the orphanage sought to find a bride for him?”
“No, I am not convinced of that,” Kalindi said. “An orphanage arranged a marriage for his sister, but she was fifteen years old. Maybe Rohan was in love with his fiancee. That would be unusual, though.”
“Or maybe it was the British family he was working for,” Lota said.
Kalindi laughed. “Lota, really. The British would never think to get involved with the Indians, and certainly not in their personal lives and marriages. They are too interested in themselves.” She looked at Devora in horror, cursing her characteristic of speaking before she thought. “Memsahib, I am apologizing.”
Devora smiled and shook her head. “Actually, you’re correct, Kalindi. The British do not want to mix with the Indians. I seriously doubt that a British family would be concerned with the marital status of one of their servants.”
“That is all I know of Rohan,” Kalindi said. “He is a good man, but as Lota has said, a cold one. He does not like to talk, and he takes his duties with great seriousness.”
“Yes, I’ve discovered that,” Devora murmured. She stood, placing her teacup on the windowsill. “Thank you for the tea. I shall take leave of you now.”
“I’m sorry again for not being prepared for your visit,” Kalindi said.
“Quite all right.” Devora glanced from Lota to Kalindi. “What you do in your own time is your business. Good evening to you both.”
She turned and left. Kalindi pushed aside the curtain to look out at the street, where Devora Hawthorne was climbing into a tonga pulled by a bicycle-riding driver.
“Goodness.” Lota flopped back onto the bed with a sigh of relief. “That was unexpected. I wonder why she was asking about Rohan.”
“I think she wants to get rid of him,” Kalindi replied. “She doesn’t like him, and I have heard them arguing.”
“Why doesn’t she just tell the sahib?”
“She has,” Kalindi said. “I’ve heard them arguing as well. The sahib refuses to dismiss Rohan.”
“Do you think the memsahib will succeed if she wants Rohan to leave?” Lota asked.
Kalindi watched the tonga wallah bicycle away. “I think she will. She is a woman who gets what she wants.”
***
CHAPTER NINE
“You see, my dear, sexuality is innately divine in Indian philosophy,” the maharaja said. “In The Upanishads, the woman becomes transformed into a Vedic site of sacrifice so that the act of intercourse is also a great, sacrificial performance.”
“It’s very complicated, isn’t it?” Devora propped her head on her hand as she stretched out on the picnic blanket. The maharaja spared no expense when it came to picnicking. The servants had arranged a number of silk pillows for their comfort and set out the food on fine crystal and china.
With Gerald gone on another short trip, the maharaja had brought Devora to the Khajuraho temples accompanied by a veritable entourage of three cars and six servants. A number of British tourists, mostly men, wandered about the grounds of the six temples. Many of them were simply craning their necks to get a view of the sexually explicit sculptures.
“Very complicated,” the maharaja agreed.
“I find it fascinating there is such an emphasis on the phallus,” Devora mused. She looked at the sketches she had drawn of the temple sculptures, several of which involved various gods displaying full erections.
“Yes, but the goddess is also highly revered,” the maharaja reminded her. “Many legends relate to the concept of divine duality, as the gods all have a feminine side. There is even one type of sculpture called the Ardhanarishvara, which consist of a deity that is half male, often with an erect phallus, and half female.”
Devora pushed herself to a sitting position and examined her sketches. The temple sculptures were extraordinary, filled with men and women in every conceivable posture of intercourse. She had even drawn one of a standing man holding a woman’s legs over his shoulders, which wouldn’t have been particularly unusual were it not for the fact that the woman’s back was against his chest and her head twisted to suck his penis.
Devora couldn’t help but find the sculptures stimulating. She stood, brushing off her dress as she approached the temples again. Such intricate detail and creativity!
Some of the couples were simply entwined together and kissing, while others were contorted into impossible positions. There were also scenes involving three or more people, not to mention cunnilingus, masturbation, and fellatio. Devora glanced at the maharaja as he came to stand beside her.
“Some of these postures aren’t even possible,” she remarked.
“Well, the contortion indicates the flexibility and suppleness of the Devadasis, who are the women servants of the gods,” the maharaja explained. “They were dancers and acrobats, and certainly their extreme flexibility was greatly prized, as it enhanced
pleasure during coitus.”
“When were the temples built?”
“Most of the Khajuraho temples were built during the Chandela dynasty,” the maharaja replied. “That was perhaps 1000 A.D., I think.”
They walked around the temple grounds again, entering several of them to look at the sculpture of Shiva’s mount, the bull Nandi, as well as lingam and yoni sculptures. Devora still wasn’t certain she fully understood the concept of such explicitly erotic art, but she possessed a great admiration for a country that was not only so unashamed of sexuality, but also valued it highly.
She paused before a sculpture of two women entwined in lust, and her thoughts went back to her encounter with Kalindi and Lota a couple of nights ago. Devora was certain that the two women were lovers, even if she only had their guilty expressions to judge them by.
As it was, Devora had been more than a little stimulated by the notion of the two, lovely women together. Her arousal had been intensified by the sight of their disheveled figures and the scent of passion. Even now, her sex surged as she stared at the stone image of two women and imagined them to be warm flesh and blood.
“Come, we will wait in the car while the servants pack up,” the maharaja said. “I fear the sun might be getting too hot for you.”
Devora turned to him and nodded, patting her damp brow with a handkerchief.
“Thank you for bringing me here,” she said as they returned to their car. “I never would have seen this if it hadn’t been for you.”
“My dear Mrs. Hawthorne, you honor me with your presence.” The maharaja bowed his head slightly in her direction. “It is purely my pleasure.”
Devora had to smile at his continued use of the title “Mrs. Hawthorne” considering their own intimacy. She got into the car, leaning with a sigh against the plush seats. The maharaja did know how to travel well.
“So what are you going to do with your drawings?” the maharaja asked.
Devora shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it.”
“Perhaps you could publish them.”
“Believe me, no British publisher would be interested in publishing drawings of erotic, Indian art,” Devora said.
“Not even if they are written by a beautiful, British woman?”
Devora smiled again. “Not even then.”
“But you are not just any British woman, are you?” the maharaja asked. “You have your own mind.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“Does your husband tell you that?”
“Everyone seems to tell me that,” Devora replied wryly.
“Ah, then you must have your own opinions about the British presence in India, yes?”
“What about the British presence in India?”
“For example, how is it justified for the British to hold India?”
“I don’t know that it is,” Devora said. “It certainly seems to me that the Indians don’t want the British here. Mr. Gandhi’s movement is gaining force, from what I understand.”
“Yes, yes, that is what I hear as well.”
Devora shot him a glance. “Are you involved in it? The anti-British movement?”
The maharaja shrugged philosophically. “Aren’t all Indians involved in the movement in one manner or another?” He reached out and put his hand on her knee. “And you know well that the British always suppress the slightest hint of unrest.”
“I believe the British try,” Devora said. “I don’t know that they always succeed.”
The maharaja smiled. “You use the word ‘they,’“ he said. “I find that most intriguing. All other British use the word ‘we.’“
“I don’t like to put myself in with that lot.”
“But you are one of them,” the maharaja said. “It’s painfully obvious, Mrs. Hawthorne.”
Devora gave him an irritated look. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“No British woman in India is immune from the dreaded curse of the memsahib,” the maharaja said, his dark eyes glinting with amusement. “Rounds of gossiping, complaining, bigotry, and downright nastiness. Every British woman succumbs to it sooner or later.”
“Well, I won’t. I dislike the memsahibs entirely.”
“Do you now? Surely you must enjoy the gossiping.”
“No, I don’t. I don’t enjoy socializing with them, but it’s my duty to do so. Also, it’s important to keep abreast of the British affairs.”
“Ah, yes. Politics. No place for a lady, in my opinion, although I admire your interest in it. I expect you’ve heard the British are planning a raid on a local village.”
Devora looked at him in surprise. “No, I haven’t heard that. Why?”
“A villager was accused of stealing from a British woman. Of course, that provoked a outcry among the British. This is their method of revenge.”
“I’ve heard the British are attempting to suppress Indian gangs,” Devora said. “That might be the reason for a raid, not revenge.”
A slight hint of triumph flashed in the maharaja’s expression, giving Devora an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. She had never assumed the maharaja had romantic inclinations towards her, but she could easily believe his motives were political ones. She made a mental note not to reveal anything else about what the British might or might not be planning.
“Well, I don’t really know,” she replied. “As I said, I don’t enjoy gossiping.”
“And that, my dear, is why I appreciate your company so much.”
The maharaja picked up her hand, pressing a series of light kisses across her fingertips. He really did have a sensual touch, Devora thought as she watched him toying with her fingers. He lifted his hand to her face, caressing her cheek and sliding his thumb along her lower lip. Slowly, he pushed his thumb into her mouth in a suggestive movement that made Devora’s blood start to race. Without thinking, she slid her tongue over his thumb and sucked on it lightly. Then she grasped his wrist and pulled away from him.
“The servants,” she murmured.
“We have time,” the maharaja assured her, pulling her towards him for a heated kiss.
The interior of the car was hot and stuffy, but Devora didn’t care. She felt wholly submerged in the eroticism and history that this country had to offer.
She sank against the maharaja, letting her fingers find the increasing bulge beneath his trousers. She massaged him gently as his penis hardened underneath her fingertips. He grunted and pushed his hips up towards her. Devora’s mind still spun with the sheer carnality of the temple sculptures, and she suddenly wanted to attempt an act that the Devadasis performed with such finesse.
She glanced up at the maharaja from beneath her eyelashes, noting the dull flush beneath his dark skin and the increasing force of his breath. Slowly, she unlaced the drawstring of his trousers and pulled them down to his knees to expose his jutting member. The sight of his cock never failed to fascinate her, projecting from the abundant nest of dark curls like a living creature. She wrapped her hand around the shaft and stroked it from base to tip as she knelt on the seat beside him.
“Ahhh, you do excel at that, my dear,” the maharaja murmured, leaning his head against the back of the seat.
Devora cupped him in her hand as she bent her head to take him in her mouth. She and Gerald had done this before, although for some reason he always stopped her before he had an orgasm.
Devora slid her lips over the hard knob, flicking her tongue into the indentation at the tip. He tasted salty and spicy, the heat of his skin fairly throbbing against the surface of her tongue. With lush ease, Devora slackened her jaw muscles and began to take him in fully. His shaft slid easily into the warm wetness of her mouth.
The maharaja groaned and pressed his hand against the back of her neck, twining his fingers through her hair. Devora almost choked when his penis hit the back of her throat. She started to pull back. The maharaja’s grip on her neck tightened suddenly.
“Take it in,” he said, his voice
hoarse.
A flutter of fear went through Devora as she tried to pull away again and found herself unable to do so. She reached up to grab his hand and push him away from her, but he was stronger than she was. His grip became fairly inexorable, his fingers digging into her scalp until rays of tight tension began to spread across her head.
Devora gave a muffled cry of distress, feeling as if he were suffocating her. Her nostrils filled with his scent, and panic rose like a tidal wave. Without thinking, she bit down on his penis. The maharaja roared with outrage and yanked her away from his groin so hard that Devora banged her head against the car window.
“You bastard!” Gasping, Devora slammed her fist against the maharaja’s shoulder. An intense relief flooded through her, accompanied by a furious anger. “How dare you do that to me? How dare you treat me like that?”
The maharaja glowered at her and clutched his groin with one hand and his shoulder with the other.
“Bitch!” he spat. “What did you think you were doing?”
“I couldn’t breathe!” Devora snapped, swiping at lingering tears of panic. “Don’t you ever do something like that again, do you hear me? Ever!”
She very nearly stormed out of the car, but then a servant knocked on the front window. Cursing, the maharaja fixed his trousers and rolled down the side window.
“Drive!” he snapped. “We are ready to leave.”
Devora sat as far away from him as she could, crossing her arms angrily over her chest. The silence stretched between them, taut with fury, for the entire car trip. Humiliation descended on Devora’s shoulders like a heavy cloak.
When the driver pulled up to the steps of her bungalow, she gave the maharaja a haughty look.
“Thank you for taking me to see the temples,” she said icily. “I appreciated those, at least.”
He didn’t reply. Devora hurried out of the car and into her bungalow. She slammed the door closed, her chest heaving as she tried to collect her scattered thoughts.
“Memsahib?” Rohan appeared in the doorway leading to the kitchen. He frowned at the sight of her disheveled appearance. “You are all right?”
