Ashes for the Elephant God

by Vijaya Schartz

  Mukunda seemed to relax at the professional question. "We can repair the damage. We'll get the funds. But the reservoir won't be filled to full capacity until next year's monsoon. In the meantime, we still can irrigate."

  "Acha! So, you'll be with us another year?"

  Mukunda beamed. "Yes, it seems that way."

  Switching on the microphone, Baba then addressed the small crowd assembled in the courtyard.

  "The bride in red represents Shakti, the divine energy set in motion when you seek the spiritual path. The groom, in white, represents Shiva, purity and fecundity. Through divine energy, purity and fecundity, new life is engendered to offer a fitting vessel for a worthy soul."

  After publicly congratulating us, Baba concluded, "Always see God in each other, love and respect that part of you which is God, and your love will never die. Now, Go to the temple in Ganeshpur to pay your respects to the samadhi shrine of our village saint. Honoring traditions brings good luck."

  We left the courtyard, followed by Amit who took us to the getaway car. The Mahindra Jeep looked like a parade float under a heap of flower garlands strung everywhere, barely leaving the center of the windshield clear for driving.

  "Sadgurunath Maharaj Ki Jay!" The villagers greeted us, throwing flowers, then followed the slow-moving car around while Amit had a great time honking the horn. I threw candy from the back seat to the many children who sprinted after the sweets then came back for more. As tradition required, we went to the village temple and walked around the tomb of the great saint three times. Afterward, Amit drove us back to his house.

  The propensity of Indian people for festive occasions never ceased to amaze me. The food surpassed in quantity and quality the celebration of the week before. Mukunda was given a garland made of rupee notes for prosperity, and the women counted and recounted the red glass bangles on my wrists with many wags of the head, little cries, and clucking sounds of appreciation.

  "I couldn't understand a word I was saying in the ritual," I told Mukunda during a lull in the entertainment. "Did you?"

  "I certainly did." His smug expression taunted me.

  "So, what did it mean?" I bit into a deep fried cheese ball.

  Mukunda gave me a triumphant smile. "Roughly, you vowed unconditional obedience and total submission to the authority of your husband, whom you must treat and regard from now on as God Himself. Fabienne, you just vowed yourself into slavery." He raised his glass of mango juice.

  "I did?" I laughed. "I might have been better off shaving my head after all!"

  "In exchange, however," Mukunda said, all mirth now gone from his face, "I agreed to treat you like a goddess in my home and always respect your wishes."

  "Fair enough, then..." I dabbed at a dribble of butter on my lips with a pink linen napkin. "And what exactly happened at that bachelor party last night?" I was curious to learn what such a reserved culture would consider rowdy behavior.

  "We raised bloody hell," Mukunda said emphatically, then took a sip of juice.

  He had piqued my curiosity. "And how did you manage that?"

  Mukunda set the glass back on his tray. "Well, we ran yelling, screaming, and yodeling through the village, waving torches like demons."

  "In the middle of the night?" I laughed. "Must've been a sight."

  "It's supposed to scare the evil spirits away."

  "Did you scare any?" I held my glass to be refilled by the serving woman.

  "I don't know." Mukunda made a sour face. "But we did wake up a few dogs who chased us in return."

  I couldn't help laughing, imagining the lot of them running before a pack of mangy canines. "Didn't the villagers complain?"

  "Oh, some came out at the commotion. But then, they saw our white clothes, the torches, the flowers, so they just laughed and helped us make more noise."

  "That's it?" I answered the polite bow of one of Amit's uncles paying his respects to the bride.

  "Basically." Mukunda also bowed in turn. "Of course, we had a lot of food, coconut milk, and entertainment before and after, late into the night..."

  "Of course." I could see a group of dancers getting ready to perform.

  "And what did the bride do last night?" Mukunda raised a blond eyebrow. "The results are stunning. Fabienne, you are more beautiful than I could ever imagine... I see you had your hands painted, too."

  I opened my hands to display the intricate russet designs on my palms. "Yes, I had a private mehndi ceremony... To ward off the demons."

  "What a coincidence!" Mukunda laughed. "And who did the artwork?"

  I lowered my voice as the noise of conversation stopped and the musicians tuned their instruments. "That, you'll never guess."

  *****

  We made our escape into the night as soon as was appropriate, leaving the guests to their noisy feasting. During the ride home in the fragrantly decorated Mahindra Jeep, Mukunda looked at me and smiled with infinite tenderness. He looked as if a great weight had been lifted from him. I laid my hand on his thigh and returned the smile, remembering the same ride, just a week earlier, when I had anticipated our joining and feared the consequences. Tonight I relaxed, reveling in Mukunda's proximity, in the knowledge that we had realized our impossible dream.

  When Mukunda turned off the engine in front of his house, the locusts in a nearby tree resumed their happy chirrup. He helped me out of the car, then lifted me to cross the threshold. I wrapped my arms around his neck. His spicy aftershave mingled with the fragrance of the flowers I was crushing on his chest, and the soft stubble on his jaw brushed my cheek.

  Mukunda ducked to allow the turban under the low lintel, then flipped the light switch with one elbow. "Welcome to your new home, Mrs. Springfield."

  "Oh!" I laughed in surprise. In the short time we had known each other, I had never asked his last name.

  Still carrying me, Mukunda dropped onto the sofa, and I found myself sitting on his lap.

  "Springfield?" I rolled the name on my tongue. "Fabienne Springfield. I like the sound of it. And what was your first name before Baba renamed you?" I could feel the warmth of his body through the layers of silk.

  "Alex." He smiled then lifted over my head the heavy flower garland I had worn all day. "But please call me Mukunda. I’ll legalize the name. That's who I am now, and it means a lot to me." He set the flower mala on the back of the sofa before kissing me softly.

  I slipped his flower garland over the white turban. "You'll always be Mukunda in my eyes, no matter what people call you."

  Pale blue eyes gazed into mine. "I'm glad. To me, Lakshmi was never more than a marvelous dream, but Fabienne is everything in the dream and much more. She is real." He smiled. "And I love the French accent."

  "Thank you." I kissed his forehead. "As for the Mukunda I knew a long time ago, although he was dark, he could have been your twin. You have the same enthusiasm, same tone of voice and smile, even the mannerism and the muscular frame. The smell and feel of your skin are the same. It's as if we had never been apart."

  Mukunda smiled in approval. "Would you like something to drink or eat, or anything else I could offer?"

  "I can think of a thing or two." I eased myself against his chest in a rustling of silk and leaned my head on his shoulder, nibbling his ear.

  Taking it as a signal, Mukunda carried me to the bedroom and deposited me on the bed. "You shouldn't be wearing these in the house." He smiled as he slipped the sandals off my feet.

  "And you don't really need a turban in bed, do you?"

  Mukunda smiled as he unwrapped the wide ribbon of silk. I watched him in fascination. He moved with the grace of a great cat. Mukunda shook his head and mussed his hair, letting the blond strands fly free. After removing the scarf, he pulled the shirt over his head, keeping on the white silk pants.

  "Do you know that in ancient India women didn't wear a choli?" He joined me on the bed and started removing the silk top, fumbling with the pins that held the end of the sari covering my right shoulder.


  "The blue goddesses on the temple walls don’t wear any either," I chimed in, helping him with the pins. "Actually, they hardly wear any clothes at all."

  "Neither should you, as the goddess of this house." Once the choli fell out of the way, Mukunda kissed my breasts gently, then reached under the many layers of silk brocade and, in a swift motion, removed my panties. "Goddesses don't wear these either," he explained in apology, sending the bit of lingerie flying through the air.

  I removed Baba's gold necklace out of deference, but as I started to slip off the bangles, Mukunda stopped me with a touch and a shake of the head. "Not yet," he said, then loosened the sari at my waist. Freeing the loose end, he held it firmly in both hands. To my astonishment, he stepped off the bed to the side, then pulled up, rolling me like a spool while the material unwound.

  Reeling and naked, I lay on top of the starched sheets. "An interesting technique." I laughed. "You are full of surprises."

  Mukunda's eyes twinkled mischievously. "I always wanted to do that."

  The smile on his face waned as his fingers traced my hips, sketched the shape of my thighs, ran over the hollow of my throat, the curve of my breasts, my flat belly and the length of my legs, as if to memorize through touch. Then Mukunda kissed me long and hard, molding his body upon mine. Responding to the embrace, I arched and melted into him, letting desire flood over me, surrendering to the will of this wonderful man I could now call my husband.

  Feeling the strain of his erection through the silk of his pants, I reached to caress his stiff member, but Mukunda took my hand away. Holding both my hands in one of his, he then proceeded to lave every square centimeter of my body with wet kisses and an exploring tongue.

  I cried and struggled in his grip when his ministrations overwhelmed my senses, at the fringe of the unbearable. With a lascivious kiss, he extinguished my weak protests.

  "Patience, my love," he murmured in my hair as I moved my hips to engulf him.

  Mukunda took me gently, slowly, driving me to the brink of ecstasy, then holding back. His powerful hands pinned me down, forcing me to endure the delicious torture of his slow thrusting. I barely heard the cries of pleasure escaping my lips, as my mind floated in an ocean of infinite joy.

  I felt the tension in his grip on my hips as Mukunda drove faster and harder. I rose and fell to the tide of his unleashed passion until he brought about a powerful release in a tremulous shudder. As I held on to him, I felt his body relaxing in my arms.

  "I love you so much," Mukunda mumbled in a ragged breath against my cheek. He rolled off and sighed, grinning, then reached for one of the red bangles tinkling on my wrists.

  Intrigued, I watched him slide it off my arm gently, then aim, and forcefully throw the bauble on a bare patch of tile floor where it shattered in a shower of glass shards. I laughed in surprise and bewilderment at this savage behavior. Mukunda smiled devilishly, winked, and started kissing the base of my neck up. When his mouth reached my ear he said, "One down, eleven to go. It's going to be a long night..."

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Destiny

  Amit came in the morning to give us a ride to Mumbai. Looking at the four bangles I still wore on my wrists, he wagged his head in approval. "I see you were being busy last night, Sahib," he told Mukunda with a timid laugh, as color flushed his dark cheeks.

  Mukunda smiled and looked at me. "I could have never gone that far without Fabienne's exceptional skills."

  It was my turn to blush. The Kama Sutra tricks Kora had volunteered in a rare moment of generosity had worked wonders. As a result, however, we both looked a little frazzled, but so did Amit, who had feasted all night.

  We huddled in the Jeep, dressed in jeans and sweaters against the chilly dawn. Driving at reckless speed on the deserted road, Amit took us to Mumbai in record time. After leaving us at the hotel with the luggage, Amit returned to the dam.

  I gaped in awe upon entering the white marble lobby with stone statues, brass rails, glass furnishings, oriental rugs, and gold chandeliers. Mukunda had insisted we stay at the Taj Mahal hotel, a decadent palace fit for a Maharajah.

  We followed the bellboy into the green marble and glass elevator to the penthouse honeymoon suite. Inside, blue velvet chairs and sofa graced thick turquoise carpet and pink marble floors. I smelled one rose from the fresh flower arrangement dominating the antique chest, then brushed one hand on the bottle of champagne chilling in a silver bucket on the coffee table, next to two long-stemmed glasses.

  Heavily curtained windows opened on a balcony overlooking BlackBay, beyond the skyscrapers of Nariman Point. In the distance on Chowpatty beach, I could see white-crested waves breaking on the sandy shore.

  Mukunda tipped the bellboy and looked at me, smiling. "How do you like it?" He gestured to encompass the room.

  "Like it? Are you kidding? I love it. This is incredible." I laughed, flushed with excitement.

  "I'm glad. Now let's get ready." Mukunda opened one suitcase on the bed and fished for clothes.

  I changed from jeans into a white summer dress, while Mukunda donned a white shirt and slacks. Picking a flower from the arrangement on the chest, he pinned it onto the left strap of my dress, like a corsage.

  "I can't believe after such a long religious ceremony yesterday that we aren't officially married yet." I slipped on white high-heeled shoes.

  "I know." Mukunda adjusted his collar. "That's why I wanted to start our honeymoon in Mumbai. I want us to be lawfully wed before I introduce you to the Great Ladies. They are very conservative." When I stared questioningly, he added, “That’s what some call the Himalayan peaks…”

  “Is it a hard climb?" I started to worry about my modest abilities as an alpinist. Maybe a Himalayan honeymoon wasn't such a good idea.

  Mukunda smiled. "Hardly. Only a steep trek according to the travel agent, but well worth the trip."

  *****

  We took a pink cab to the Mantralaya Marriage Registrar office, hoping for a quick civil ceremony. No such luck.

  After filling out a detailed form, we spent half the day in a muggy waiting room, crowded with other couples of all ages. This must have been the VIP waiting room, though, for the crowd didn't look destitute or diseased. The fans on the high ceiling whooshed lazily but did little to ease the heat. Finally, we were respectfully shown into a private office with high windows letting in the noon sun.

  "I am having tremendous scruples," the registrar in a gray Nehru jacket declared, scratching thick silver hair under a pill‑box hat. "According to our religious laws, a Roman Catholic bride and a Baptist groom united in a Hindu ceremony is not seemingly being permissible." When he tapped the gold pen on the desk, I noticed the heavy gold watch at the edge of the gray silk sleeves. His dark gaze rested on me across the massive desk. "I am being dreadfully sorry, but my scruples are not permitting me to solemnize your marriage."

  "What!" Riveted to the hard chair, I felt as if I had been slapped.

  "Why not?" Under Mukunda's restrained tone, I could feel tension. His hands clasped and unclasped rhythmically in his lap.

  "You see…" the registrar explained patiently, "We must respect the rules of each particular religion very carefully. Mixing them is just not being done. There are too many conflicts."

  "What do you mean?" I was glad Mukunda asked, since I couldn't speak, shocked into silence.

  "As you probably know, Hindus and Moslems are polygamists while Christians are not. Some religions recognize divorce, others do not." The registrar turned to me. "What if your husband wants to take other wives? Are you ready for that? And in which faith will the children be raised? It can be getting very complicated."

  "What about all the westerners married in the ashram in May?" Mukunda held his ground in logical fashion and I admired his poise.

  "Maybe they had a civil wedding back home where such rules don't apply... Or maybe some unscrupulous registrar agreed to marry them despite the law... But I am wanting to do what is right." His eyes hooded over,
as if concentrating on some internal conflict, and I was reminded of a gray cat.

  "Isn't there any way we can get married in this country?" I sounded pathetic.

  "You seem like a very deserving couple," the man said in a conciliatory tone. "I would hate to be refusing your union. If you would care to come back tomorrow morning, I shall be seeing what I can do."

  This complicated matters somewhat. It never occurred to me that marriage could be refused. Shaken by the news, we thanked the registrar for his understanding and kindness, then took a pedicab through the busy streets. Back at the hotel, Mukunda called Amit at the dam and explained our situation, pacing in front of the open window.

  Curiously, Amit laughed at our predicament, his mirth echoing into the room through the receiver.

  "I don't find this funny at all." For the first time since I knew him, Mukunda spoke harshly. Then his features relaxed, an incredulous look spreading on his face as he listened to Amit. Mukunda sat on the bed, shaking his head. "Of course... What was I thinking? I should've known." Mukunda's smile became a laugh as I stared at him uncomprehendingly. "Thanks, Amit. You've been invaluable. See you in two weeks."

  "What's so funny?" Infected by his contagious good mood, I dared hope again.

  "I can't believe I didn't see this coming." Mukunda shook his head and slapped his thigh good-humouredly. "You are being exceedingly naive, Sahib," he said, in a perfect rendition of Amit's speech. "What the clerk was trying to tell us with his scruples is that he wants a bribe."

  "A bribe?" I felt lost in unknown territory.

  Mukunda grinned. "Yes. I should have remembered that. Although it's officially illegal, bribes are standard practice in all government offices. There's no escaping it as far as any kind of license is concerned."

  "Why didn't he state it plainly?" I dropped on the bed, next to him.

  "A registrar can't legally ask for it, so he conveniently has scruples until we offer him what he wants."