Jewels for Vishnu (Siren Publishing Allure ManLove)

by Roland Graeme

  “Bring your party clothes with you so you can freshen up and change into them here,” Kaustav suggested. “Along with anything else you might need for overnight. You can use the downstairs guest bedroom.”

  “The big bedroom, the one that’s practically an aviary? To sleep in?”

  “To put your things in. You will be sleeping with me in my bedroom—I assume.”

  “You assume correctly, assuming such an invitation is forthcoming.”

  “You have a standing invitation. You don’t need an engraved one, do you?”

  “No. Well, then, I don’t think the bed in the guest bedroom—even though I’m sure it’s very comfortable—will get much use that night,” Corey said.

  Kaustav grinned at him. “I am counting on it being totally neglected.”

  Two days before the party, Corey delivered Vishnu’s crown to Kaustav’s house. He had provided the crown with its own storage box, and he couldn’t suppress a certain feeling of justifiable pride as he opened the box, showed its contents to Kaustav, and then demonstrated how the crown fitted around the headgear the statue was already wearing. It was a perfect fit. The largest of yellow diamonds, one of the ones that had once belonged to the maharajah, occupied a prominent place in the front of the crown. Like its smaller counterparts on the other pieces of jewelry, it seemed to sparkle with shifting hues as it reflected the light, seeming first yellow, then amber, then a white tinged with orange.

  “How extraordinarily beautiful,” Kaustav said. “You’ve done well. Surely, Vishnu will reward you.”

  “You raise an interesting theological question, Kaustav. Namely, how Vishnu might feel about a guy who was raised as a Southern Baptist.”

  “The god extends his blessings to everyone. Even to those who are unaware of his existence.”

  Kaustav spoke so seriously that Corey didn’t want to make a joke. “Let’s hope so,” was all that he said by way of reply.

  “And now I’m going to have the pleasure of paying you the balance of what I owe you.”

  “Most of my customers probably don’t think if it as exactly a pleasure.”

  “But I do. Shall I tell you why?”

  “Please do.”

  “Because once our business dealings have been concluded, to our mutual satisfaction, we can concentrate, I hope, on being friends.”

  “We already are friends, Kaustav, at least as far as I’m concerned. And surely a little more than that.”

  “That’s good for me to hear.” Kaustav had seated himself at his desk and was filling out a check. “Here is the amount we agreed on.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Now tell me, what is your favorite charity?”

  “I don’t know. AIDS research, I suppose.”

  “A good choice.” Kaustav began filling out a second check. “Here’s a donation for AIDS research, in the same amount as what I have spend on the statue. I’ll make the donation in your name, if you like.”

  “That’s awfully good of you, Kaustav.”

  “It’s all part of the fulfillment of my vow.” Kaustav put his checkbook away. “Now, let’s be less serious. Let’s talk about the party. Are you looking forward to it?”

  “Very much so. You’ve piqued my curiosity. I’m going to be interested in exactly how Diwali is celebrated.”

  “Despite all of the exotic trappings, the main point is for everyone to have a good time.”

  Corey learned that, in most parts of India, the celebration of Diwali was spread out over several days. This gave Kaustav some flexibility when it came to planning his event. This year, he had scheduled it on a Saturday night.

  As the two men talked, Corey noticed a stack of cardboard shipping boxes on the floor beside Kaustav’s desk. The paper labels glued to the sides of the boxes had strange squiggly lines printed on them.

  “What are all those symbols on these boxes?”

  “They are writing. In Tamil script.”

  “Oh. You have your own language, back home?”

  “And our own way of writing it. Tamil Nadu is essentially a bilingual region. Most of the people in the cities and larger towns speak English as well as Tamil. And road and business signs are in both languages.”

  “So it’s like Quebec, where they speak both French and English, or Belgium, where they speak both French and Flemish.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So…what’s in all these boxes?”

  “Firecrackers.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Not at all. What makes you think I’m joking?”

  “It looks like you’ve got enough of them here to wage a small war. Or, more to the point, to start a forest or a brush fire. Are you sure they’re even legal?”

  “I obtain a permit each year. I do have my connections, after all, and occasionally they prove useful. Don’t worry, Corey. I have no intention of setting the canyon ablaze. We always confine the firecrackers to the area immediately around the pool, for safety reasons. And we have a garden hose and the outdoor sprinkler system ready to turn on, just in case.”

  “That’s reassuring. What do firecrackers have to do with Diwali, anyway?”

  “They drive away any evil spirits who might be lurking about, ready to make nuisances of themselves and interfere with the festivities.”

  “Oh, such as tourists from out of town,” Corey joked. “The kind who come to Mr. Rosenthal’s store to look, with no intention of buying anything.”

  “Anyway, these are small firecrackers. What the local regulations here would call the ‘safe and sane’ type. There’s a lot of packing material in each of these boxes, so the bulk is deceptive.”

  “Were these firecrackers really imported all the way from India?”

  “From Sivakasi, to be precise. That’s a city in Tamil Nadu, which has many fireworks factories. Something like ninety percent of the fireworks used in India are manufactured there, in fact.”

  “At the risk of sounding chauvinistic, our American Fourth of July style fireworks aren’t good enough for you?”

  Kaustav laughed. “I’m sure they’re of excellent quality. However, as it happens, I have money invested in the factory that makes these. So I’d feel disloyal if I didn’t use its products. Quite apart from the fact that I get a discount.”

  “Which must’ve been cancelled out by the cost of shipping them here?”

  “Maybe. But some things are a question of sentiment, not of money.”

  As the date of the party approached, Corey also found himself spending a lot of time in Renesh’s company. The houseboy was very much in his element, taking charge of the preparations, organizing everything. He was obviously excited as he anticipated the upcoming holiday.

  “You guys look forward to this celebration every year, don’t you?” Corey remarked. He and Renesh happened to be alone at the moment. Corey had volunteered to help him move some furniture, the better to accommodate the anticipated flow of guests in and out of the various main rooms of the house.

  “Yes, we do. It is an important holiday for us.”

  “I feel honored that you and Kaustav want me to be a part of it.”

  “Mr. Thevar would have been very disappointed if you were not.”

  “Oh? Has he said as much, to you?”

  “He did not have to say anything. I understand him.”

  “A man has no secrets from his houseboy, is that it?”

  Corey meant this rhetorical question as a joke, but Renesh suddenly seemed in a pensive mood.

  “Because I think you are my friend, Corey, I will speak frankly,” he said. “If I may.”

  “Please do. Because we are friends.”

  “My master is handsome. He is rich and generous. He is considerate toward others. Why should you not love him? And what can I offer you, as an alternative, except my body? But whenever you want me, you can have me. Kaustav will not mind. He wants you to be happy.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “You need say nothing. B
ut I have one more thing to tell you. Something which I am sure will not surprise you. Kaustav has had many other lovers. Some have stayed here for only one night, some for longer. Some of these love affairs he has taken more seriously than others. But you are different. He likes you. He does not think of you as a passing fling. Why, I am not sure. Perhaps because you have your own career and your own life and you have no interest in becoming dependent upon him. You are certainly no fortune hunter. He respects you for that. And I think he loves you.”

  “Does he? What makes you think so?”

  “I know him too well. I know his moods. The way his face lights up and his voice changes whenever he talks about you—that tells me all I need to know. Someday I would like to meet a man who will look like that and talk like that when he is thinking of me.”

  “And you will, Renesh. Someday. You deserve it.”

  Corey felt strangely humbled by the turn their conversation had taken, but his young Tamil friend immediately lightened the mood.

  “Until then, my dear Corey,” Renesh said, flashing an impish grin, “you will have to let me love you, too, in my own way. As one loves a brother, perhaps, or a cousin. In fact, I think that would be an excellent idea—for you to become my cousin. My big, handsome, blond American cousin.”

  “I might look like the odd man out, at your family reunions,” Corey said.

  “Not at all. I have so many cousins back home in Madurai that one more or less can make no difference. And you are unlikely to be the worst of them.”

  Chapter Fifteen:

  The Festival of Lights

  Arriving at Kaustav’s house on Saturday night, Corey saw that Kaustav had gone to considerable trouble and expense. Kaustav had hired a parking valet to take care of the guests’ cars. Renesh, who met Corey at the front door, took him in hand and proudly showed him the preparations that had been made indoors. Near one wall of the vestibule, on the floor, a display was set up. It consisted of an elaborate multicolored abstract pattern. Looking closer, Corey realized that the design was made from differently colored powders, strewn on the floor tiles. The perimeters of the pattern were protected by small, shallow clay bowls, shaped like flowers, leaves, or stars, and painted in bright colors and patterns. These containers were filled with candle wax, and their wicks were lit, casting a soft light across the floor.

  “What’s this?” Corey asked.

  “We call these rangoli. They are traditional decorations, placed on the threshold of the house, in honor of the holiday.”

  “It’s very complicated. Who made it?”

  “I did, of course.”

  “You’re very talented.”

  “Thank you, Corey.”

  “And do the little candles have any significance?”

  “Other than to prevent someone from walking on the design?” Renesh asked with a smile. “Yes. The clay holders are called diyas. They’re used in all sorts of religious celebrations. Diwali is the Festival of Lights, after all. You will see, throughout the house, rows of them and also rows of oil lamps. The rows of oil lamps are called Agal vilakkus.”

  “I can see that if I hang around here with you and Kaustav long enough, I’m going to pick up quite a respectable Tamil vocabulary.”

  “Well, here’s a phrase which may come in handy this evening. ‘Deepavali Nalvazhthukkal,’ which means ‘Happy Diwali!’”

  Corey groaned. “What a language you guys have. It’s full of tongue-twisters.”

  Nevertheless, he made Renesh repeat the greeting, and he repeated it himself, until he felt confident he could utter a reasonable facsimile of it.

  Corey saw that the electric lights were turned down low in most of the rooms of the house and that the diyas, or the oil lamps, or both, which were set out on tables and shelves, supplied most of the light. The soft illumination created a slightly mysterious ambience, leaving the corners of rooms in deep shadow.

  Many of the vases throughout the house had been filled with fresh flower arrangements for the occasion. Kaustav, Corey learned from Renesh, had also availed himself of the services of a caterer, to assist with the food and to serve the guests. The dining room table, set up for a buffet, was lavishly decorated with more floral arrangements, diyas, and lamps.

  In the living room, a special bar was set up, manned by a bartender provided by the catering service. In the center of the room, in front of the fireplace, there was now placed a small round table. On this, the statue of Vishnu was set. But in order to create a little suspense, the statue was hidden from view, draped in a square of silk fabric, bright cherry red with designs worked on it in gold and green thread. All around the base of the veiled statue were placed more floral arrangements, interspersed with the inevitable flaming diyas.

  The logs in the fireplace were lit, for the first time in Corey’s experience, and they seemed to have been treated with some sort of resin, which sent a strong aroma wafting through the room.

  Kaustav appeared, in jeans and a sweatshirt, and greeted Corey with a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t here to greet you when you arrived,” Kaustav said. “I was in the kitchen, talking to the caterers. I think I can promise you an excellent meal.”

  “The house looks beautiful. What can I do to help?” Corey asked.

  “Nothing, except make yourself look beautiful, too,” Kaustav told him. “Which shouldn’t be difficult for you. I’ll take Corey to his room, Renesh, and get him settled. You had better go change into your party clothes.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  In the guest bedroom, Corey unpacked the clothes he planned to change into for the party and laid them out on the bed for Kaustav’s inspection and approval.

  “Very nice,” Kaustav said.

  “And what are you going to wear?” Corey asked.

  “Actually, I debated the question before making up my mind. On the one hand, I don’t believe it’s polite for a host to try to outshine his guests. But on the other hand, the feast of Diwali is a special occasion, and one is expected to dress up. So I decided to wear the outfit I had to buy to wear at one of my cousins’ wedding, in Madurai last year. At a Hindu wedding, you must understand, all the stops are pulled out. The women wear their best saris, often new ones purchased especially for the occasion, and the men are expected to play the peacock. You’re going to have to promise not to laugh when you see me in my getup.”

  “This sounds promising. I can’t wait.”

  “Then I’ll start getting myself ready. If you need anything, call out.”

  Kaustav excused himself. Left alone in the elegant bedroom, Corey stripped then went to investigate the adjoining bathroom.

  The guest bedroom’s bathroom shower stall, Corey discovered, was equipped with multiple shower heads, which attacked the bather’s body from various angles. The onslaught of the spray was, oddly, both stimulating and relaxing. It was—almost!—better than sex. Corey enjoyed the experience so much that he spent longer than was strictly necessary scrubbing himself and rinsing off.

  He had already noticed that one of the chests of drawers in the bedroom had displayed on top of it not only the inevitable pair of porcelain birds—preening cockatoos, in this case—but an assortment of men’s and women’s perfumes and colognes. Corey sniffed several of them before selecting one in a cut-glass bottle labeled “amber musk.” He applied it liberally before he got dressed.

  There was a knock on the door. “Are you decent?” Kaustav called from the other side of the door.

  “No, but I thought that’s what you like about me,” Corey retorted.

  “It’s among the many qualities in you that I find endearing. But what I meant was, have you changed?”

  “Yes. I’m ready.”

  “So am I. I’m in my full regalia. Are you ready to see it?”

  “I’m champing at the bit.”

  “Then prepare yourself for a ghastly shock.” Kaustav opened the door and came into the room.

  Corey hadn’t known quite
what to expect, although he’d assumed that Kaustav would be tricked out in some sort of traditional Indian formal attire. And so he was. He was resplendent. His trousers and kurta were in matching snow-white silk, embroidered in silver thread. On his feet were dark red embroidered slippers. He was wearing a good deal of jewelry, including the famous musical anklets. But what was most striking was that he was actually wearing a silk turban, also dark red, wrapped snugly around his head and adorned with a jeweled silver brooch in the front. A red sash, tied loosely around his hips, with dangling tasseled ends, carried through the contrasting color scheme and completed the outfit.

  “Oh, my God,” Corey exclaimed.

  Kaustav grimaced. “Is it too much?”

  “It’s stunning. You look like a fucking prince. Like a fucking maharajah.”

  “Well, that’s reassuring, because when I see myself in the mirror in this getup, I feel like an idiot. There’s one good thing about it. At the wedding, I had to dance wearing this. And videos exist of that exhibition. I can promise you there will be no dancing tonight.”

  “Too bad. I’d like to see you shaking your booty in that outfit.”

  “I’d like to see you shaking your booty, as you Americans so charmingly put it, with no clothes on at all,” Kaustav retorted. “But I suppose restraint is called for. For the time being,” he added with a decidedly seductive smile.

  Renesh appeared in the doorway. He was attired not unlike his master, but in pale apple-green silk and without a turban or sash. “The first guests have arrived,” he reported.

  “Good timing. Is everything ready?”

  “Of course.” Renesh’s tone of voice implied that the alternative would be unthinkable.

  “Come on, then, Corey. I can’t wait to introduce you to everybody.”

  Renesh had escorted the first arrivals into the living room, and they had already gotten drinks at the bar. Corey’s initial stage fright quickly evaporated once the first few rounds of introductions had been made. It was a sophisticated, high-income crowd, but a friendly one. And Kaustav was the kind of host who put everyone at ease. Corey soon found himself engaged in some lively conversations punctuated by jokes and laughter. As more and more guests arrived and were ushered into the room, he found himself actually looking forward to making new acquaintances.