His embrace was soft. His palms were light and clammy. His interest lasted for what seemed to her was two seconds before crumbling between his legs like an acrobat with a broken back, sending her thoughts careering back to Karna’s muscular silhouette.
As he hurriedly pulled his trousers back on, she felt as if she was part of a triangle with two half men, each one fading at the opposite end into a background of fuzziness which confused her. Her fiancé desired her but was too embarrassed to take his clothes off. Her lover was a renunciant monk. She felt dissatifaction gnaw at her abundance, as if she was shut out of a room filled with riches. The sky, which looked as if it was bursting with stars, was as lifeless as a studio set.
The moon shone down on the cherry tree. Vik lay exhausted while she stood at her window, wondering if she should tell Karna that she was disappointed with her prince. She imagined him skulking under the cherry tree, a troubadour singing for her to open her window and let him in, so he could show her what it really meant to be lovers.
‘ Sorry, a little out of practice,’ Vik coughed. ‘Long hours. Travel.’
‘ Not to worry,’ she said. ‘I love you. I do.’ This is not the time for doubt. This is the time for laughter, for my mother’s wedding, for me, for my mother’s jewels, for packing, for goodbyes and for new beginnings. The rest will come with time.
After our world’s been built, his broken acrobat will be infinitesimal compared to what lies ahead.
The time, Tiger announced, was at last auspicious. The galaxy had arranged itself into a moment of marriage. The vibrations between continents had become sweet. From Hong Kong to New Jersey to London to Leeds, the beautiful and the successful were being led into excellent unions. Long-dead ancestors would awaken from the smell of frankincense and hot-foot it down from the other dimension to bless this party.
A stream of goodwill wound its way towards her. Emails arrived announcing the flight timings of aunts. The oil-paint-and-turpentine flat filled with wedding gifts.
The Newark aunt and uncle arrived, as did the Californian side of the family, declaring that they supposed this meant a lifetime’s free supply of Moksha Herbals even though the stuff was probably manufactured by child labour. Every meal became a feast, a metaphor of cultural fusion. Chicken in onion curry, trout in coconut milk, barbecued vegetables, pumpkin tart. And kheer, with gulabjamun on the side. The table was a gastronomic United Nations. Civilizations didn’t clash here, they simply flowed discreetly into the common waters of the tastebuds so that when a wedge of lasagne quivered up between mountains of lemon rice, it was as if the mountains that divided people were just so much cheese.
There was an ashirwaad ceremony followed by a turmeric bath. Some of the rituals were forgotten, but thank god his family wasn’t there to notice. Where were they?
He had told her in great detail about his home in Delhi – the pistachio-marble flooring he had recently put in, the leather sofas, the emerald grass of the lawn, the two huge trees in the garden, the jamun or java plum and the semal or silk cotton, and underneath the trees, the flowerbeds lined with triangular brick patterns that his grandfather had made. He said he would take Mia to meet his mother in Alqueria as soon as they arrived in India.
Mithu was in far too much of a hurry to ask questions – too grateful for the opportunity to say goodbye, too caught up in the horoscopic precision of the time to admit to any deficiencies in the proceedings. It was impossible to tell Mithu that it was Karna and not Vik who had begun to dominate her thoughts. That her fiancé’s desires were flaccid; that sometime in the future she was convinced Karna would love her far more passionately than her husband ever could. But then Mithu came running to her in a flurry of fabric, in a tremulously blissful state, and it would have been unforgivable to rebuff her with grim tales of disappointment.
The front door of the flat was hung with garlands and the floor decorated with rangoli. Mithu’s sari was the dressiest as she was not only Mother-of-the-Bride but also, herself, Bride-and-New-Yorker-to-be. She rocked back and forth to the drumbeat of ‘I am the most fortunate of mothers, the most fortunate.’ She sang: ‘First my daughter, then me.’
Aunts daubed each others’ foreheads with sandalwood paste. They lit lamps and agarbattis and prayed with the combined power of their L’Oreal and Gucci. Then they switched to Ketchup and swung around in their heavy silks. The SkyVision gang came with champagne and eagerly joined in the dancing. Tiger had managed permission for a shamiana. The fire altar was created in the garden at the back. Vik and Mia walked around the fire seven times while the priest’s voice rose, shrilly invoking the gods, the elements, all plant life and many minerals and ores to bear witness.
They spent their wedding night in his room at St James Court Hotel where Vik fell asleep almost immediately, apologizing: ‘The wedding was such a laugh, baby. I’ve got to make one last trip to Berlin before we go home. After that, life will be one long party.’
He apologized again the next morning. He simply must make another quick trip to his German clients in Berlin. There was a possibility of a new order from a film studio specializing in cross-cultural cinema.
Once Moksha Herbals was truly on course, once the supply chains were well established, once supervisors in India and buyers in Europe could interface independently, his travelling would slow down.
She went in search of the Purification Journey as soon as she had seen him off at Gatwick. The Brothers had disappeared, there were no banners to be seen. But the red-haired man who had been making speeches was standing on the pavement talking to what looked like a group of new recruits.
‘ Hello,’ she called.
The red-haired man waved back. ‘The Almighty Presence bless you, Sister. How are you?’
‘ Karna’s gone, right?’
‘ Who?’
‘ Karna,’ she said. ‘I interviewed him. I’m a TV journalist, remember? I’ve been coming to talk to him. Don’t you remember? We used to sit on the park bench. He said he had to go on a mission. He spoke about a mission. That’s why he’s gone.’
‘ Sorry. I don’t know any Karna. Probably just someone in the crowd.’
‘ You don’t know him?’
The red-haired man looked straight at Mia. He had a pink and orange face in which the colours merged and shone. Behind him, tall buildings rose like horns in a Viking’s helmet. Mia blinked.
‘ There is no one here by that name who is part of our group, Sister,’ he said again in a loud clear voice. ‘You must be mistaken.’
‘ But I met him here!’ Mia cried. ‘I’ve been meeting him here. You’ve seen me. You said you had seen me. The bearded guy with glasses. He was dressed like you, except he had a toy on his back. He said it was the dress of a novitiate, someone who hasn’t yet become a Brother.’
‘ Yes, I’ve seen you but I’m very sorry, I have never heard that name.’
‘ But he was here. Standing right by you. He was right here.’
‘ Sorry, Sister. I can’t help you. I don’t know any Karna.’
She looked down at the folded bit of paper in her hand. ‘I came here to leave my address. In Delhi. I’m going there.’
‘ Excuse me, Sister,’ his voice was fervent. ‘But I really don’t know who Karna is.’
‘ Just keep this,’ Mia thrust the paper at him. ‘In case he comes for it, okay? I’m sure,’ she paused, ‘he will.’
The red-haired man nodded. ‘By the way,’ he held out his hand, ‘my name is Sanatkumara. I’m the leader of the Purification Journey here.’
‘ You sound German,’ she said curiously.
‘ We’re a very international group,’ he smiled. ‘We have pianists from Argentina. Architects from New York. Tour operators from England. So many of us have felt the emptiness of this industry-dominated world. So many of us are seeking other ways to find peace. Many of us want to return to an old world and establish a universal brotherhood. I wish I knew about your friend, but I don’t. I’m sorry.’
‘ I’m sorry too. The name was very clear. He said Karna. I have it on tape.’
‘ There’s no Karna in the Purification Journey, Sister, but I’ll ask some of the Brothers. They may know.’ Sanatkumara handed her a card. ‘When you’re in Delhi come to our ashram for a 15-day retreat. We will teach you about ourselves. We have daily prayers and meditation. A simple life. How to serve others. How to achieve true love. This is the war of our times, Sister. The war between our worst and our best selves…here,’ he pointed, ‘it has our address. Come and purify your love. Don’t turn your back on us, Sister. It will be the experience of your life, I promise you.’
Mia nodded, putting the card in her pocket. She went back to the flat to pack her suitcases, feeling remarkably calm. Karna would find her, she was certain of that. She had no idea what Sanatkumara was playing at. But she would see Karna again. As surely as a painting could come to life.
Mithu was more content than she had been in years. Anand’s flat was to be abandoned! Mithu would move with Tiger to New York. The oil-paint-and-turpentine flat would be locked up. Or rented. Or allowed to rot. Oh, I don’t care anymore, sang Mithu. These exposed wires, the grimacing faces of damp, that deadly tree. Bye bye, flat. Bye bye, Goldie. Mithu threw her clothes around. She sipped wine while cooking. She barely noticed Mia. Rose and lily garlands still hung from the doorways and a wayward coconut lay forlornly behind the sofa. The refrigerator was still full of half drunk bottles of wine and boxes of food.
‘ Best wishes,’ Mithu sang distantly. ‘Best wishes for your future.’
How happy my mother must have been before I was born, thought Mia. Before I arrived and displaced her as Papa’s only treasure.
Vik called to ask if she was packed and ready. His meetings had gone well, they were almost over. Yes, she was packed and looking forward. She took down the Kumbh Mela painting from her wall, wrapped it carefully in bubble wrap and cardboard and slid it under her clothes in her suitcase. Wherever in the world she was, as long as this was up on her wall, Karna would come to her, summoned to it like a spirit to a planchette.
The sceptic takes a holy bath. The unbeliever admits the power of coincidence. The atheist struggles against her own better judgement but falls prey to an ordinary miracle. The believer in the intellect recognizes the power of the intuitive. Damn! Too many well-trodden paths there. She wasn’t in any danger of being drained away towards the divine. She, the seeker of vision and the purveyor of vision, the daughter with the dead father, was simply widening the arc of her being, so that it included the intangible and the unseen, because she needed to find out why her father had given up on life.
ALQUERIA, GOA
Justin’s voice pierced Indi’s blindness. She felt his hand tremble as it touched her shoulder.
‘ Another disaster!’ he cried. ‘Let’s go.’
‘ Oh heavens,’ she whispered, a magenta cloud leaping at her in the blackness. She reached for her cane. ‘Now what?’
‘ The restaurant is flooded,’ said Justin. ‘Somebody turned on the pipe and pushed it through the door!’
‘ So turn the pipe off!’ she shouted, trying to get to her feet.
‘ I did!’ he shouted back. ‘They’re working on it. But how to drain the water out? The sand’s getting in.’
He held her by the elbow as they hurried along the zigzag. The restaurant of Sharkey’s Hotel was swimming with water. The brick floor was ankle-deep in it. Waiters were running in and out of the kitchen. Others were scooping up water in buckets and splashing it over the low wall that separated the restaurant from the beach. Justin led Indi to the banyan tree, away from the mess, and sat her down under it.
‘ Water!’ shouted Francis Xavier. ‘So much water everywhere. The floor will stay wet for days.’
‘ Turn the main taps off,’ Justin cried. ‘Turn the main taps off.’
‘ Swabs! Get some swabs and mop it up, and use brooms to push the water into the drains,’ instructed Indi.
‘ Hey you!’ cried Francis Xavier to the other waiters. ‘Come on, Madam is saying get swabs and brooms!’
‘ Justin, see if there’s someone near the water tank,’ Indi called suddenly from her perch under the banyan. ‘I think they may be lurking around there still. Sometimes they stay behind to see the action.’
‘ They? Who’s they?’ he asked.
‘ These madmen. The good-for-nothings. The Phantom Listeners, enemies of society, enemies of those who don’t share their constant need.’
‘ Justin, sir,’ shouted Francis Xavier plaintively insistent. ‘Please see this way now…’
He appeared before Indi. As the waiters ran about and the guests tried to help and Justin cursed, a man came to stand in front of Indi, as if daring her to see him. She turned her head towards him, smelling that same, strange, chemical smell. The ocean storm light in her eyes was so blinding and assaulted him so sharply that he turned his back to its glare. As Indi reached out in front of her, her fingertips grazed his back, feeling something sharp and wooden. He was here. The Phantom Listener was here. ‘Who is that? Who are you?’
‘ No,’ he whispered, turning on his heel to go. ‘There’s nobody here.’
‘ Wait!’ she tried to stumble to her feet. ‘Where are you from? What do you want?’
She knew the smell. An unmistakable wet smell, of something that had rotted, that was breaking down to its chemical components…She yelled for Justin. He bounded over the wall and ran to her, just in time to see a tall figure in white vanishing down the zigzag.
Justin began to run after him. He wasn’t a bad runner. Hadn’t he been a quarterback in days long gone? The man was way ahead though and as he ran, it seemed as if he was running on air, as if parts of his body were melting into the evening darkness. Justin squinted through the twilight. Was there something on his back? A wooden staff? Could it be a bow?
The man ran down the zigzag, up the red dust hill, towards the ridge between the Portuguese fort and Santa Ana. Justin chased after him all the way up the hill, but once he came to the top of the ridge, he had to sit down because he was no longer as young as he liked to think he was. His heart was beating far too fast and his breath was steaming out of his ears. The man had disappeared. Justin looked around. He saw only a contorted grin in the sky, a distorted cloud-face.
He thought he saw Mia everywhere. He had come here as part of his mission, but all he could think of was her. After having met her, having looked into her face, he felt suddenly as if there was hope in the world, that the world was not just full of evil spirits. He was accustomed to seeing the glint of a knife in the darkness; he was used to scanning the horizon for threats. But Mia’s innocence had calmed him. As had Alqueria. Nothing mattered in Alqueria but the gentle thud of coconuts falling to the ground. Or a monkey swinging from tree to sun-dappled tree. Or bursts of shining sea between the palms. The houses with their china mosaic floors were welcoming. The gardens crowded with abolim, hibiscus, palm and jackfruit trees were comfortingly untidy.
He had made it his mission to destroy Indi, to force Sharkey’s Hotel to close down, because such hotels were evil and it was people like Justin and Indi, old and wicked, who corrupted this land. They were not even married, yet the way they carried on. The way they sat out on the veranda and hugged and kissed in full public view. The way they felt each other up as they walked on the beach. They clearly fornicated in that house of hers and didn’t care whether anyone knew of it or not. They needed to be taught a lesson. The old woman should be taught about the Pure Love of the Mother Woman. She should be taught how to behave. She seemed to be someone who had pursued her own ego all her life, set bad examples. He had burgled the old woman’s house, made blank calls, sent an email virus, thrown dead rats into the hotel office and flooded the hotel dining room. But sometimes he wished he could forget it all and escape. Escape from himself. Because who was it who drove him on in his mission, if not himself?
Mia had charmed him. His voice roared out threats against fe
male immorality but as soon as her face appeared before him, his yells petered into doubt. She seemed hurt. Hurt by her father’s death and by the behaviour of her mother. He, who pretended to be the expert on love, would he ever even recognize it? He was a popular figure in the Purification Journey. The Brothers all liked him and took care of him. Sanatkumara was proud of him. Now she was weakening him with her readiness to give and receive love. Her yearning for something new, her fascination for the Kumbh Mela, had captivated him. She had made him doubt his mission.
She should run away with him. She should leave that ridiculous husband of hers and come here to Alqueria. Once they had driven away the sex-crazed fools dancing on the beach, they would find a new way to love.
To love, that was all he had ever wanted to do. To love with compassion. To love without expectation. That’s all he had ever wanted. This is what he was to tell Mia.
But by the time he finally told her, it was too late.
Vik came back from his second trip to Berlin looking tired. She was packed and ready. After one last night in the flat and a final hurried meal with Mithu and Tiger, they set off towards Heathrow.
6
NEW DELHI
Bahadur Shah Zafar was the last badshah of Delhi. He was eighty-two years old and drunk on romantic poetry when Captain Hodson and his British soldiers marched in and captured the city, almost two hundred years ago. The freedom rebels of 1857 had raised old Zafar up as their leader, but he had been no match for Hodson. When he surrendered to Hodson, Zafar was swollen-eyed and helpless with love for his wife. The poets whom he had gathered around him were all either dead or fled. Zafar didn’t care any more. He didn’t care that in his army the soldiers were so poor that they would have betrayed him for a meal and cared nothing about the complexion of the rulers who sat in Red Fort. His soldiers had starved while the king wrote love songs.
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