The Moghul Read online

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The moon was high, bathing the sleeping veranda in a wash ofglistening silver, and the air was deliciously moist, heavy withperfume from the garden below. From somewhere among the distantrooftops came the thread of a man's voice, intoning a high-pitchedmelody, trilling out wordless syllables like some intense poetry ofsound.

  Hawksworth leaned back against one of the carved juniper-wood postssupporting the canopy above his sleeping couch and explored Kali's bodywith his gaze, as a mariner might search a map for unknown islands andinlets. She lounged opposite him, resting against an oblong velvetbolster, examining him with half-shut eyes while she drew contentedlyon a hookah fired with black tobacco and a concentrated _bhang _theArabs called _hashish_.

  Her hair hung loose, in gleaming black strands reaching almost to herwaist, and her head was circled by a thin tiara of gold and pearls,supporting the large green emerald that always hung suspended in thecenter of her forehead--even when she made love. The gold she wore--longbracelets at her wrists and upper arms, swinging earrings, even tinybells at her ankles--seemed to excite her in a way Hawksworth couldnever understand. Her eyes and eyebrows were kohl-darkened and her lipscarefully painted a deep red, matching the color of her fingernails andtoenails. And as always she had dyed her palms and the soles of herfeet red with henna. Four different strands of pearls hung in perfectarray beneath her transparent blouse, glistening white against herdelicate, amber-tinted skin. He noticed, too, that her nipples had beenrouged, and told himself this was the only thing about her thatrecalled the women in London.

  "Tonight your thoughts were far away, my love. Do you weary of me sosoon?" She laid aside the _rome-chauri_, the rubber ring impregnatedwith powdered hair that she often asked him to wear for her, then tooka vial of rose attar from beside the couch and dabbed herself absentlyalong the arms. "Tell me the truth. Are you now beginning to recoilfrom women, like so many bragging and posturing men I've known, and tolong for a boy who fears to seek his own pleasure? Or a subservient_feringhi _woman whose parts are dry from lack of desire?"

  Hawksworth studied her for a moment without replying. In truth he didnot know what to say. Your nightly visits to this couch have been themost astonishing experience of my life. To imagine I once thought beingwith the same woman night after night would eventually grow monotonous.But you always come here as someone different, always with somethingnew. You play on my senses like an instrument--with touch, with scent,with tongue. Until they seem to merge with my mind. Or is it thereverse? But you're right when you say the mind must surrender itselffirst. When that's done, when the mind is given up to the body, thenyou somehow forget your own self and think only of the other. Andeventually there grows a union of pleasure, a bond that's intense,overwhelming.

  But tonight he could not repress his vagrant mind. His feeling offailure churned too deep. It had stolen his spirit.

  Day after tomorrow the _Discovery_ weighs anchor, he told himself, withhalf the cargo we'd planned and twice the men she needs, while the_Resolve_ slowly breaks apart on a sandbar. I've failed the Company . .. and myself. And there's nothing that can be done. Kali, dear Kali.The woman I really want to be with tonight is Shirin. Why can't I driveher from my mind? Half the time when you're in my arms, I pretendyou're her. Do you sense that too?

  "I'm sorry. I'm not myself tonight." You're right as always,he marveled, the mind and the body are one. As he paused, the singer'svoice cut the stillness between them. "How did you know?"

  "It's my duty as your courtesan to feel your moods. And to tryto lift the weight of the world from your heart."

  "You do it very well. It's just that sometimes there's too muchto lift." He studied her, wondering what she was really thinking, thenleaned back and looked at the stars. "Tell me, what do you do when theworld weighs on you!"

  "That's never your worry, my love. I'm here to think of you,not you of me."

  "Tell me anyway. Say it's a _feringhi's_ curiosity."

  "What do I do?" She smiled wistfully and drew again on thehookah, sending a tiny gurgle into the quiet. "I escape with _bhang_.And I remember when I was in Agra, in the _zenana_."

  She lay aside the mouthpiece of the hookah and began to rollbetel leaves for them both, carefully measuring in a portion of nutmeg,her favorite aphrodisiac.

  "Tell me how you came to be here, away from Agra."

  "Is it really me you wish to hear about?" She looked at himsquarely, her voice quiet. "Or is it Shirin?"

  "You," Hawksworth lied, and absently stroked the edge of herfoot, where the henna line began. Then he looked into her dark eyes andhe knew she knew.

  "Will we make love again if I tell you?"

  "Possibly."

  "I know how to make you keep your promise." She took his toe inher mouth and brushed it playfully with her tongue before biting it,ever so lightly. "So I will tell you anything you want to know."

  He scarcely knew where to start.

  "What was it about the harem, the _zenana_, that you liked so much?"

  She sighed. "We had everything there. Wine and sweet

  _bhang_. And we bribed the eunuchs to bring us opium and nutmeg andtobacco. We could wear tight trousers, which none of the women here inSurat dare for fear the mullahs will condemn them." As she spoke, hereyes grew distant. "We wore jewels the way women in Surat wear scarves.And silks from China the way they wear their dreary cotton here. Therewas always music, dance, pigeon-flying. And we had all the perfumes--musk, scented oil, attar of rose--we could want. The Moghul had melonsbrought by runner from Kabul, pomegranates and pears from Samarkand,apples from Kashmir, pineapples from Goa." She remembered herself andreached to place a rolled betel leaf in his mouth. "About theonly thing we weren't supposed to have was cucumbers . . ." She giggledand took a betel leaf for herself. "I think His Majesty was afraid hemight suffer in comparison. But we bribed the eunuchs and got themanyway. And we also pleasured each other."

  Hawksworth studied her, not quite sure whether to believe it all. "I'veheard the harems of the Turks in the Levant are said to be like somesort of prison. Was it like that?"

  "Not at all." She smiled easily. A bit too easily, he thought. "We usedto take trips to the countryside, or even go with His Majesty when hewent to Kashmir in the hot summer. In a way we were freer than the poorthird wife of some stingy merchant."

  "But weren't you always under guard?"

  "Of course. You know the word 'harem' is actually Arabic for 'forbiddensanctuary.' Here we call it by the Persian name _zenana_, but it'sstill the same. It's really a city of women. All cities must haveguards. But we each received a salary and were like governmentofficials, with our own servants. We each had our own apartment,immense and decorated with paintings and bubbling fountains at thedoor. Except there were no doors, since we were always supposed to beopen to receive His Majesty."

  "Wasn't there anything about it you didn't like?" He examined herskeptically. "It seems to me I could list a few drawbacks."

  "A few things. I didn't like the intrigues. All the women

  scheming how to lure His Majesty to their apartment, and giving himaphrodisiacs to try to prolong his time there. The beautiful ones wereconstantly afraid of being poisoned, or spied on by the older women andthe female slaves. And some of the women were always trying to bribeeunuchs to bring in young men disguised as serving-women." She took thestem of a flower and began to weave it between his toes. "But there arealways intrigues anywhere. It's the price we pay for life."

  "You've never told me how you came to be in the _zenana _in the firstplace. Were you bought, the way women are in the Levant?"

  Kali burst into laughter. "_Feringhis_ can be such simpletonssometimes. What wonderful legends must be told in this place calledEurope." Then she sobered. "I was there because my mother was veryclever. The _zenana_ is powerful, and she did everything she could toget me there. She knew if His Majesty liked me, there could be a goodpost for my father. She planned it for years. And when I finallyreached fifteen she t
ook me to the annual mina bazaar that Arangbaralways holds on the Persian New Year, just like his father Akman did."

  "What's that?"

  "It's a mock 'bazaar' held on the grounds of the palace, and only womencan go. Anyone who wants to be seen by His Majesty sets up a stall,made of silk and gauze, and pretends to sell handiwork, things likelace and perfume. But no woman can get in who isn't beautiful."

  "Was that where the Moghul first saw you?"

  "Of course. Arangbar came to visit all the stalls, riding around on alitter that some Tartar women from the _zenana _carried, surrounded byhis eunuchs. He would pretend to bargain for the handiwork, calling thewomen pretty thieves, but he was really inspecting them, and thedaughters they'd brought. I was there with my mother, and I wore a thinsilk blouse because my breasts were lovely." She paused and looked athim hopefully, brushing a red-tipped finger across one nipple. "Don'tyou think they still are? A little?"

  "Everything about you is beautiful." It was all too true. As

  he looked at her, he told himself he much preferred her now to how shemust have looked at fifteen.

  "Well, I suppose Arangbar must have thought so too, because the nextday he sent a broker to pay my mother to let me come to the _zenana_."

  Hawksworth paused, then forced nonchalance into his voice. "Did Shirin,or her mother, do the same?"

  "Of course not." Kali seemed appalled at the absurdity of the idea."She's Persian. Her father was already some kind of official. He wasfar too dignified to allow his women to go to the mina bazaar. TheMoghul must have seen her somewhere else. But if he wanted her, herfather could not refuse."

  "What eventually happened to you . . . and to her?"

  "She became his favorite." Kali took out her betel leaf and tossed itaside. "That's always very dangerous. She was in great trouble afterthe queen came to Agra."

  "I've heard something about that." He found himself wanting to hear alot more about it, but he held back. "And what happened to you afteryou entered the _zenana_?"

  "His Majesty only came to me once, as was his duty." She laughed butthere was no mirth in her voice. "Remember I was only fifteen then. Iknew nothing about lovemaking, though I tried very hard to please him.But by that time he was already entranced with Shirin. He began to callfor her almost every afternoon."

  "So what did you do after that?"

  "I began to make love to the other women there. I suppose it soundsstrange to you, but I found I actually enjoyed other women's bodiesvery much."

  "Weren't you ever lonely?"

  "A little. But I'm lonely here sometimes too." She paused and lookedaway. "A courtesan is always lonely. No man will ever truly love her.He'll listen to her sing to him and joke with him, but his heart willnever be hers, regardless of all the sweet promises he'll think to makeher."

  Hawksworth watched her quickly mask the sadness in her eyes as shereached for the hookah. At that moment he wanted more than anything inthe world to tell her it wasn't always true, but he knew she would hatethe lie. Instead he took out his own betel leaf and cleared his throatawkwardly.

  "You've never told me how you came to be called Kali. Mukarrab Khansaid that's not your real name."

  She looked at him and her eyes became ice. "He's a truly vicious man.What did he say?"

  "That you would tell me." He paused, bewildered. "Don't you want to?"

  She wiped her eyes with a quick motion. "Why not? You may as well know.Before someone else tells you. But please try to understand I was verylonely. You can't know how lonely it becomes in the _zenana_. How youlong for a man to touch you, just once. You can't imagine. After awhile you become . . . sort of mad. It becomes your obsession. Can youunderstand? Even a little?"

  "I've seen men at sea for months at a time. I could tell you a fewstories about that that might shock you."

  She laughed. "Nothing, absolutely nothing, shocks me any more. But nowI'll shock you. There was this beautiful eunuch who guarded the_zenana_ at night. He was Abyssinian, very tall and striking, and hewas named Abnus because he was the color of ebony. He was trulyexquisite."

  "A eunuch?" Hawksworth stared at her, disbelieving. "I always thought .. ."

  She stopped him. "I probably know what you always thought. But eunuchsare not all the same. The Bengali eunuchs like Mukarrab Khan has weresold by their parents when they were very young, and they've hadeverything cut away with a razor. Muslim merchants buy boys in Bengaland take them to Egypt, where Coptic monks specialize in the operation.That's the type called _sandali_. They even have to pass water througha straw. But the operation is so dangerous few of the boys live, sothey're very expensive. Abnus had been sent to His Majesty as a giftfrom some Arab merchant, who was so stingy he simply crushed thetesticles of one of his grown slaves instead of buying a Bengali boy.No one realized Abnus could still do almost everything any man can do.It was our secret."

  "So you made love to a eunuch?" Hawksworth found

  himself incredulous.

  Kali smiled and nodded. "Then one day our Kashmiri ward servant enteredmy apartment unannounced. She had suspected us. I didn't know untilthat moment she was a spy for the palace." She stopped and a smallshiver seemed to pass through her. "We were both condemned to death. Ididn't care. I didn't want to live anyway. He was killed the next day,left on a pike to die in the sun."

  Kali paused and her lips quivered slightly. Then she continued. "I wasburied up to the neck in the courtyard. To watch him die. Then, in lateafternoon some Imperial guards came and uncovered me. And they took meback into the palace. I was delirious. They took me into this room, andthere she was."

  "Who?"

  "Queen Janahara. She offered me a chance to live. I didn't know what Iwas doing, where I was, anything. Before I thought I'd already agreed."At last a tear came. "And I've never told anyone. I'm so ashamed." Shewiped her eyes and stiffened. "But I've never done what I told her Iwould do. Not once."

  "What was that?"

  Kali looked at him and laughed. "To come here with Mukarrab Khan. Andspy on Shirin. So now and then I just send some silly nonsense to HerMajesty. I know what Shirin is doing . . . and I admire her for it."

  Hawksworth tried to keep his voice even. "What exactly is it she'sdoing?"

  Kali stopped abruptly and stared at him. "That's the one thing I can'ttell you. But I will tell you that I'm now also supposed to be spyingon you too, for Khan Sahib." She laughed again. "But you never sayanything for me to report."

  Hawksworth found himself stunned. Before he could speak, she continued.

  "But you asked about my name. It's probably the real reason I despiseJanahara so much. Before, I was named Mira. My father was Hakim Ali,and he came to India from Arabia back when Akman was Moghul. But thequeen said I could never use those names again. She said that becauseI'd caused Abnus' death, she was renaming me Kali, the name the Hindushave for their bloodthirsty goddess of death and destruction. She saidit would remind me always of what I'd done. I hate the name."

  "Then I'll call you Mira."

  She took his hand and brushed it against her cheek. "It doesn't matternow. Besides, I'll probably never see you again after tonight. Tomorrowyou'll be getting ready to leave for Agra. Khan Sahib told me I'm notto come to you any more after this. I think he's very upset aboutsomething that happened with your ships."

  "I'm very upset about it too." Hawksworth studied her. "What exactlydid he say?"

  "No, I've told you enough already. Too much." She pinched his toe."Now. You will keep your promise, my love. And then after tonight youcan forget me."

  Hawksworth was watching her, entranced. "I'll never forget you."

  She tried to smile. "Oh yes you will. I know men better than that. ButI'll always remember you. When a man and a woman share their bodieswith each other, a bond is made between them. It's never entirelyforgotten, at least by me. So tonight, our last night, I want you tolet me give you something of mine to keep."

  She reached under the couch and withdrew a box, teakwood and trimmed ing
old. She placed it on the velvet tapestry between them.

  "I've never shown this to a _feringhi_ before, but I want you to haveit. To make you remember me, at least for a while."

  "I've never had a present from an Indian woman before." Hawksworthcarefully opened the box's gold latch. Inside was a book, bound inleather and gilded, with exquisite calligraphy on its cover.

  "It's called the Ananga-Ranga, the Pleasures of Women. It was writtenover a hundred years ago by a Brahmin poet who called himself KalyanaMai. He wrote it in Sanskrit for his patron, the Viceroy of Gujarat,the same province where you are now."

  "But why are you giving it to me?" Hawksworth looked into her eyes."I'll remember you without a book. I promise."

  "And I'll remember you. You've given me much pleasure. But there arethose in India who believe the union of man and woman should be morethan pleasure. The Hindus believe this union is an expression of allthe sacred forces of life. You know I'm not a Hindu. I'm a Muslimcourtesan. So for me lovemaking is only to give you pleasure. But Iwant you to know there's still more, beyond what we've had together,beyond my skills and knowledge. According to the Hindu teachings, theunion of male and female is a way to reach the divine nature. That'swhy I want you to have this book. It describes the many differentorders of women, and tells how to share pleasure with each. It tells ofmany things beyond what I know."

  She took the leatherbound copy of the Ananga-Ranga and opened it to thefirst page. The calligraphy was bold and sensuous.

  "In this book Kalyana Mai explains that there are four orders of women.The three highest orders he calls the Lotus Woman, the Art Woman, andthe Conch Woman. The rest he dismisses as Elephant Women."

  Hawksworth took the book and examined its pages for a time. There weremany paintings, small colored miniatures of couples pleasuring oneanother in postures that seemed astounding. Finally he mounted hiscourage.

  "Which 'order' of woman are you?"

  "I think I must be the third order, the Conch Woman. The book says thatthe Conch Woman delights in clothes, flowers, red ornaments. That sheis given to fits of amorous passion, which make her head and mindconfused, and at the moment of exquisite pleasure, she thrusts hernails into the man's flesh. Have you ever noticed me do that?"

  Hawksworth felt the scratches along his chest and smiled. Only inIndia, he thought, could you make love so many ways, all kneelingbefore a woman rather than lying with her. So she scratches you on thechest.

  "So far it sounds a bit like you."

  "And it says the Conch Woman's love cleft, what the

  Hindus call her yoni, is always moist with _kama salila_, the woman'slove seed. And its taste is salt. Does that also remind you of me?"

  Hawksworth was startled with wry delight when he realized he actuallyknew the answer. Something he'd never had the slightest desire to knowabout a woman in England.

  In England. Where baths were limited to the face, neck, hands, andfeet--and those only once every few weeks. Where women wore unwashedpetticoats and stays until they literally fell off. Where a member ofthe peerage was recently quoted as complaining "the nobler parts arenever in this island washed by the women; they are left to be latheredby the men."

  But Kali was scrubbed and perfumed each day like a flower. And she hadtaught him the pleasure in the taste of all her body.

  "I guess that makes you a Conch Woman. But what are the others supposedto be like?"

  "Let me tell you what it says." She reached and took back the book."The next one, the Art Woman, has a voice like a peacock, and shedelights in singing and poetry. Her carnal desire may be less strongthan the Conch Woman, at least until she's properly aroused, but thenher _kama salila _is hot, with a perfume like honey. And it's abundant,producing a sound with the act of union. She is sensuous, but for herlovemaking is always a kind of art."

  "Who would be an Art Woman?"

  She looked at him and smiled wryly. "I think Shirin, the one whofascinates you so much, may well be an Art Woman. But I don't know herbody well."

  But I will, Hawksworth told himself. I'll know all of her. Somehow. Iswear it.

  "And what about the Lotus Woman?"

  "According to Kalyana Mai she's actually the highest order of woman.She's a spiritual being, who loves to converse with teachers and Hindupriests. She's always very beautiful, never dark, and her breasts arefull and high. Her _yoni _is like an opening lotus bud and her _kamasalila _is perfumed like a lily newly burst."

  "And who would be a Lotus Woman?"

  "The only one I've ever known for sure is in Agra now. She's aclassical dancer, a Hindu temple dancer. Her name is Kamala."

  "I saw a few dancers recently. At the Shahbandar's estate house. In my_feringhi_ opinion they weren't of a very high order."

  "Those were _nautch_ girls, common whores. They degrade and debase theclassical dance of India for the purpose of enticing customers. Kamalais nothing like them. She's a great artist. For her the dance, andlovemaking, are a kind of worship of the Hindu gods. I don't entirelyunderstand it, but I could sense her power the one time I saw herdance. When I saw her I began to believe what people say, that sheembodies the female principle, the divine female principle that definesIndia for the Hindu people. Believe me when I tell you she's verydifferent from anyone here in Surat. She knows things that no one elseknows. People say they're explained in a very old book she has."

  "How can there possibly be any more to know?" Hawksworth thought of thehundreds of pleasure tricks Kali had taught him, delights unknown inEurope. "What's left to put in this other book?"

  "Her book is one I've never actually seen. I've only heard about it.It's a sacred text of the Hindus', an ancient sutra, in which the unionof man and woman are shown to be a way of finding your own divinenatures, the God within you both. I'm told it's called the Kama Sutra,the Scripture of Love and Pleasure."

  Hawksworth found himself beginning to be overwhelmed. "Maybe we'dbetter start with this book. What exactly does it say?"

  "The Ananga-Ranga explains that each order of woman must be aroused,must be awakened to her pleasure, in a different way. At differenttimes of day, with different caresses, different kinds of kisses andscratches and bites, different words, different embraces during union.It says if you learn to know women well, you will understand how togive and receive the greatest enjoyment with each."

  "Is it really so complicated?"

  "Now you're starting to sound like some Muslim men I know, who locktheir women away and make love to boys, claiming women are insatiable.With desires ten times stronger than those of a man. But they'reactually afraid of a woman, so they believe she's to be enjoyed quicklyand as little as possible. They care nothing for her own pleasure. Buta woman must be aroused to enjoy union to its fullest. That's why thisbook is so important. I happen to think you are one who cares about awoman's pleasure."

  Hawksworth stroked her smooth leg mischievously, then took the book andgently laid it aside. "Tell me what it says about a Conch Woman. Whathave I been doing that's right and wrong?"

  "The book says that the Conch Woman prefers union with a man in thethird _pahar_ of the night."

  "When is that?"

  "Time is counted in India by _pahar_. The day and the night are eachdivided into four _pahars_. The first _pahar _of the night would bebetween six and nine in the evening by _feringhi _time. The third_pahar _would be your hours between midnight and three in the morning.Is that not the very time I come to your couch?"

  "That's convenient."

  "It also says that on certain days of the moon, which it tells, theConch Woman particularly enjoys having her body pressed with the nailsof the man. Some days roughly, some days gently. And on certain daysthe embrace must be forceful, on certain days gentle. There are manyspecial ways to touch and embrace a Conch Woman, and they are explainedhere. Also there are certain ways of kissing her, of biting her, ofscratching her. For example, you may kiss her upper lip, or her lowerlip, or you may kiss her with your tongue only."

  "And
how am I supposed to be able to kiss you with my tongue only?"Hawksworth cast a skeptical glance at the book.

  "It's very easy." She smiled at him slyly. "Perhaps it's easier if Ishow you."

  She took his lower lip gently with the tips of her fingers, passed hertongue over it slowly and languorously, and then suddenly nipped itplayfully. He started in surprise.

  "There. You see there are many ways to please a woman, to kiss her, tobite her, to scratch her. When you have become a true lover of women,my strong _feringhi_, you will know them all."

  Hawksworth shifted uncomfortably. "What next?"

  "The book also tells of the bodies of women. Foolish men often do notknow these things, my love, but I think you are beginning to learn. Ittells that in the upper cleft of the _yoni _there's a small organ itlikens to a plantain-shoot sprouting from the ground. This is the seatof pleasure in a woman, and when it is excited, her_ kama salila _flowsin profusion."

  "And then?"

  "When the woman is ready, you may both enjoy the act of union to itsfullest. And there are many, many ways this may be done. The book tellsof thirty-two. It is the great wisdom of Kalyana Mai that a woman musthave variety in her love couch. If she does not find this with one man,she will seek others. It is the same with men, I think."

  Hawksworth nodded noncommittally, not wishing to appear overlyenthusiastic.

  "Finally, he tells the importance of a woman reaching her moment ofenjoyment. If she does not, she will be unsatisfied and may seekpleasure elsewhere. In India, a woman is taught to signify this momentby the _sitkrita_, the drawing in of breath between the closed teeth.There are many different ways a woman may do this, but you will know,my love."

  "Enough of the book." He took it and replaced it in the box. "Somehow Ithink I've already had a lot of its lessons."

  "That was merely my duty to you. To be a new woman for you each night.And I think you've learned well." She took the box and settled itbeside the couch. Then she laughed lightly. "But you still have a fewthings to learn. Tonight, for our last time together, I will show youthe most erotic embrace I know." She examined him with her half-closedeyes, and drew one last burst of smoke from the hookah. Then shecarefully positioned the large velvet bolster in the center of thecouch. "Are you capable of it?"

  "Try me."

  "Very well. But I must be deeply aroused to enjoy this fully. Come andlet me show you all the places you must bite."