The Other Language

by Francesca Marciano

  “Yes, it’s me,” the message said. “When can we talk?”

  In the meantime, he’d learned quite a lot about Ushma Das. Once the older guests had retired for the night, the two of them had lingered at the candlelit table in the courtyard and then moved onto the terrace to watch the moonlight over the river. He had had a couple of more drinks to oil his conversational skills, whereas she’d stuck to tea. He asked her about Odissi dance, wasn’t it one of the oldest forms of dance? Yes, she said, dancers are found depicted in bas-reliefs dating from the first century BC, and the Natya Shastra, the oldest surviving text on stagecraft in the world, speaks of this dance style. He told her he had seen the temple sculptures of the dancers in Puri only a week earlier, as if it had been his idea and not his wife’s. He also said he’d been moved by the gracefulness of the postures depicted on the bas-reliefs, although he only vaguely remembered them. Ushma seemed pleased by his enthusiasm. She explained how the devadasis, or temple girls, at the time of those sculptures were highly educated courtesans who lived with kings and held an elevated social status. They had to learn music and singing, study poetry and scriptures. Under the moonlight, now that she had changed into a maroon sari and had combed her hair in a tight bun, she did look like an ancient courtesan from some rhapsodic Indian tale. She moved slowly, with extreme awareness, and he was completely engulfed by her beauty and her seriousness.

  “Where do you live?” he asked her.

  “In the countryside outside Bhubaneswar. I have a school there where I teach and live with my students. Dance is all we do. We wake up at dawn and dance all day. It’s what I’ve done every day of my life for the last twenty years.”

  He showed surprise. Twenty years of monastic life? That seemed like a waste to him, for a woman this beautiful.

  “You are not married?”

  She gave a little laugh and turned her face away from him, as though the question had embarrassed her.

  “No, how could I? I’ve been married to my guru and my students are now married to me. Ours is a never-ending chain, we have no time to devote to anything else. This has always been the way knowledge and artistic expression has been taught by our gurus for centuries.”

  “It sounds extremely demanding.”

  “It has been my choice. Of course it is hard. But we are rewarded when we dance.”

  She relaxed her face into a softer expression and smiled, as if letting him in on a secret.

  “There is nothing like it.”

  “I am sure. It must be”—he searched for an appropriate word and then said—“pure ecstasy?”

  Her face remained neutral, almost grave. “Not exactly. It’s more like a feeling of oneness.”

  Oneness. What a beautiful thing to feel, he thought.

  There was a moment of suspension, as if she were going to add something, but then she looked away.

  “I am afraid I have to leave you now,” she said. “Tomorrow we have a long rehearsal and I must go and get my sleep.”

  He had had way too much to drink, that was clear the minute he opened his eyes the next day. However, despite the hangover, he stirred in his bed, pleasantly excited. No trace of his daily dose of mortality awareness to greet him today. He got up, full of resolve and expectation.

  His wife lay in bed, still asleep, which was unusual, but he took the opportunity to take a quick shower and sneak out of the room before she got up. He was hoping to run into Ushma Das at breakfast and be alone with her again, so they could continue the conversation they’d had the previous night. Actually, he realized, it was more than just hope—he was dying to see her again. She was nowhere to be found, but the faint sounds of a tabla and a bansuri flute wafted through the Fort’s numerous courtyards and reached him as he walked into the terrace garden.

  He sat at the empty breakfast table. He saw the prince cross-legged on a chair at the end of the terrace, facing the pale sun rising above the Narmada. He was taking his usual morning shave in front of an old-fashioned portable mirror. They said hello to each other but didn’t engage in a conversation. Men, he thought, had far less need to affect unnecessary familiarity between themselves than women did.

  He was restless, so he had only a cup of coffee and didn’t bother to eat his fruit salad, but got up and began to walk around the labyrinthine courtyards of the Fort, following the sound of the music till he could make out Ushma’s voice; it sounded as if she was giving sharp instructions to someone. He stumbled into a small open space he hadn’t seen before, with a shiny red cement floor and wooden pillars. The musicians sat on a long pillow and three young girls, in the same shorter sari and pants he’d seen Usha wearing the day before, moved around the space with their hands entwined over their heads, their torsos tilted in a diagonal line. Usha was sitting next to the drummer, clapping her hands to the rhythm while giving the dancers the tempo in quick staccato spurts.

  “Taka-taka-taka-tee-takatee-takatee-taa-taaa!”

  He slid quietly inside the space and sat in a corner, attempting a semilotus position, though his knees hurt.

  “Takateeta deena, takateeta deena, takateeta deen!”

  He beckoned her, tilting his head in what he thought would be an appropriate gesture.

  “Stooop!”

  The music ceased, the dancers’ poses came undone.

  She rose quickly and came over to him.

  How lovely she looked! A strand of fresh jasmine was tied to her braid, and she was wearing a green kurta and purple pants with a scarf around her tiny waist. Her cheeks were flushed, she exuded heat from the exertion and a subtle scent of musk.

  “I’m sorry but you cannot watch the rehearsal.”

  He rose unsteadily and dusted his trousers. How foolish of him.

  “I am so sorry … I had no idea. I am really sorry.”

  Then he saw that she was smiling.

  “I don’t want you to see any of this before tonight,” she said quietly. “I want you to see it the way it is meant to be seen. With proper lighting and costumes.”

  There was a glow in her eyes, and an excitement. For a split second he saw she could even perhaps be insecure.

  “Of course, of course. You are absolutely right.”

  “I want it to be a surprise for you,” she added.

  “Absolutely. Well, goodbye then. I’ll see you tonight,” he said quietly.

  She nodded with her enigmatic smile. He moved away and turned to look at her one last time. She was standing by the pillar, watching him go, a foot curled on its toes crossing over the other ankle, in a pose similar to one of those miniatures he’d seen somewhere, in one of the museums—or was it on a bas-relief?—he couldn’t remember which.

  He spent the day aimlessly, waiting for the evening to come, elated and restless. Elated because of what Ushma Das had unexpectedly stirred in him. True, his body had responded to attractive women before; he’d had his random secret affairs, his brief sexual encounters, like all men his age who’d been in a marriage for more than ten years. It didn’t make a difference, that’s what all of them said the rare times the subject of extramarital affairs surfaced. They all agreed on one point: what really mattered was conjugal solidarity. That’s what they’d invested in and were counting on. By rating their solid marriage as priority number one, they’d automatically given themselves permission to fuck around without thinking much of it. But this was a different sort of thing, it wasn’t even carnal, or just carnal. This had a tinge of emotion, an undercurrent of real feeling. He didn’t see Ushma Das just as an attractive woman, no, she was more like a goddess who had stepped down from those temple sculptures he had snubbed, which he now so regretted. She was quintessential, archetypal, inspiring. Yes, this was exactly what his life had been lacking for too long: inspiration, and, why not, an unexpected bout of romanticism. On the other hand, he felt a rising anxiety at the thought of what was going to happen that evening. He wasn’t sure that Ushma Das was even aware he had a wife. He had almost forgotten it, too.

 
His wife made her appearance at lunch in one of those ridiculous new ensembles that so embarrassed him. The choreographer was kind enough to compliment her on her harem-style pants and she seemed pleased.

  He asked, in a casual tone, whether Ushma was going to join them.

  “Oh no, Ushma never eats before a show,” the diamond-studded lady said. “She’s such a perfectionist. She will rehearse till one hour before going onstage, even for a small performance such as tonight.”

  “Dance is a devotional act,” said the playwright. “It doesn’t really matter to her how many people are in the audience.”

  “Indeed. Shouldn’t that be true for every form of art?” he asked, more forcefully than rhetorically. “Of course, now its original purpose has been lost. But for millennia artistic expression has been a means to reach the divine within us!”

  His wife lifted her eyes from her plate. She wasn’t used to hearing such earnest talk coming from him about art’s divine power.

  Later in the day, after their usual postprandial nap, he woke up and found her sitting at the desk, in front of his laptop. She quickly closed the screen.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “You don’t feel well?”

  “No. I feel a little dizzy, I think.”

  “Is it the heat?”

  “Maybe. I’m not sure. I don’t feel a hundred percent myself,” she said, massaging her stomach.

  “Could it be something you ate?”

  “I do feel a little nauseous, you know …”

  This seemed an unexpected opportunity.

  “Maybe you should stay in tonight and rest,” he suggested.

  She smiled, thankful.

  “Actually I was just thinking that.”

  “Well then, by all means, stay put.”

  He stood up, relieved. She also seemed content.

  “Are you going to see the performance anyway?” she asked with a hint of anxiety.

  “I guess I’ll have to. I believe the prince has already arranged everything counting us in. I’m afraid it’s going to be rude if we both cancel, don’t you think?”

  “Probably. Yeah.”

  “Unless you want me to stay with you.”

  He held his breath, hoping it hadn’t been a mistake to offer.

  “No, no, of course not,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Okay then. I’ll let the prince know you’re not coming.”

  “Are you sure you don’t mind going without me, love?”

  “No, darling, I don’t mind at all. They are nice people, and as you say I’m sure it’s going to be interesting to see this performance.”

  “I’m sorry to be missing it, but I really don’t feel like getting on a boat at night, you know? It gets so chilly out on the river.”

  “Yes, it does get quite damp at a certain time of the night, doesn’t it?”

  “I’d much rather cuddle up in bed with a mug of hot tea.”

  “You can watch a movie on my computer. That sounds blissful. In a way I wish I could do the same.”

  They smiled at each other, as if contemplating the possibility of that happening, and neither one said another word.

  Tyler had moved to Paris and had been working for a human rights organization that monitored the International Criminal Court. When they’d finally managed to speak on Skype he was about to catch a flight to The Hague so he had to be brief. Only a few hours before, the ICC had issued a guilty verdict against an African warlord for using child soldiers in the bloody ethnic conflict in the north of the Democratic Republic of the Congo. This was apparently great news since the trial against him had lasted a decade and it was going to hit the headlines in a major way. Tyler said he was literally on his way to a press conference that was scheduled that same afternoon.

  There’d been no mention of a wife or children.

  “That’s wonderful, Tyler. You must be so excited,” she said, though she had no idea who this particular warlord was.

  “I am. But I’m very excited to hear from you,” he said, in his husky, velvety voice, a voice she had nearly forgotten, which was coming back like a landslide.

  “Me, too,” she said, almost breathless.

  “What took you so long to find me?”

  “You didn’t work too hard at finding me either,” she said, grinning.

  “True. But that doesn’t mean I haven’t been thinking of you.”

  She swallowed hard.

  “Turn on the camera,” he said.

  She gave a light laugh.

  “No way. I look awful. I’m not ready yet.”

  “I’m dying to see you. When can I see you? In person, I mean.”

  “I … I don’t know,” she said. She felt a slight panic, and made herself laugh. “Wow, Tyler, maybe we’ve got to slow it down.”

  She heard a loud buzz in the background of his place.

  “Shit, I really have to go now,” he said. “Can we speak later? I can call you after the press conference.”

  “Yes … but not too late. There’s a time difference here.”

  “Okay, just hold on a sec.”

  She heard the sound of a chair screeching, then footsteps, then his voice saying “J’arrive” on what she assumed was the intercom.

  “I’ve got to go, the taxi is here. What were you saying?”

  “I said, there’s a time difference …”

  “Where are you?”

  She was reluctant to say. Holidaying in a maharaja’s fort sounded frivolous compared to where he was headed. And if she said she was on some sort of holiday, he’d know she must be with someone.

  “I am in India, but I’ll be back in Rome next week.”

  “Great. Come to Paris.”

  She laughed.

  “Maybe I will.”

  “You must. How late can I call you back? I want to talk to you.”

  “My ten thirty? They turn off the generator after eleven,” she lied.

  “Va bene, mia bella,” he said. He used to call her that when they were together, in that soft, rolling American accent she used to find so seductive.

  Hundreds of tiny lights advanced in the dark, floating on the river’s surface like a mirrored reflection of the starry sky. They had appeared all at once, past the river bend, dotting the Narmada like sequins on black velvet while they were having drinks on the top terrace. Everyone stopped talking and just looked in amazement at the clusters of lights flowing downstream. They were told by a waiter that the shikara was ready to take them, so the group descended the steps to the ghats, their spirits lifted by more cucumber martinis and the knowledge that they were under the flawless stage directions of the prince who left no detail unattended. The boat slid silently on the smooth river surface (no engines were allowed on that stretch of the sacred river), parting the clusters of lights that were coming toward them. Now they could see there were lotus flowers and coconuts floating alongside with the oil lamps—were these offerings to deities?—that someone upriver must have been instructed to release at the appointed hour, in order to make their short trip unforgettable. The tiny island glowed in the distance. There were torches burning and more lanterns that lent the scene a warming glow. As they approached he saw, waiting for them on the bank, a few attendants dressed in white, who helped them descend. A white padded carpet as wide as a room had been spread on the ground. They sat barefoot among the soft cushions and more scattered rose petals. In the darkness that surrounded the small circle of light he could make out the silhouettes of the musicians, who’d begun to tune their instruments, cross-legged on a wooden platform, right across from where they were sitting. For the first time since he had been in India, he wished he were wearing the same comfortable shirts and soft shawls as the other men in his company, which blended so well with the surroundings. Even the young translator had abandoned his jeans and T-shirt in favor of traditional clothes perfectly starched and ironed; now he too looked noble and sculpted. A light drumming starte
d, accompanied by the violin and then the flute. The prince walked over to the stage and introduced with a few words the piece they were going to see, then he ceremoniously lit the oil lamps under a small bronze sculpture of Shiva and his wheel. The glimmering flames lit and revealed the depth of the stage and the shapes of the musicians.

  He felt inebriated by the smells, the sounds of crickets in the trees, the quiet waves lapping in the distance. As the music began, a soft, beguiling tune, the dancers entered the stage in their elaborate silk costumes. Ushma was in the center, in a flaming orange sari, covered in rich golden jewelry. She moved across the stage in a slightly tilted stance, where head, bust and torso formed a curvaceous line in an S shape that made the temple sculptures come alive. She wore a sphinxlike smile, while her enormous black irises moved right and left in the blinding whites of her eyes, adding expression and movement to the dance; her fingers opened and closed, like petals of a lotus flower. Every part of her body flexed, creating opposing angles as she kept shifting her weight from right to left, in a geometric design that seemed impossible to accomplish other than in a drawing. It was a timeless image, as powerful and dense as only dreams can be. Ushma wasn’t looking at him. Her face, her smile and her glances were set in the carefully constructed mask the dance required. But underneath the composure of her face she was, he knew, dancing for him.

  Something softened inside and he realized he had tears in his eyes. What a relief and what a revelation, to be feeling something so deeply that it should bring tears. So there was something left in him that had been frozen and now was thawing. Might this be a case of Stendhal syndrome? he wondered as he dabbed away at his tears. It must be either that or the feeling of oneness with the universe that Ushma had described. Where else would this spellbinding emotion come from? This was exactly what he needed to reconnect with: the simple truth contained within a perfect act. If only he could tap into that source again, then he would be safe, as an artist and as a man.

  When the performance ended Ushma came forward, followed by the three younger dancers. With their long hennaed fingers they touched first their heads, then their eyes, then their hearts, and bowed. Not to the audience, he realized—they didn’t engage with them, or smile or come out of their composure—they were bowing to Shiva and to his cosmic dance. Then the three slender younger dancers, in one swift, deft move, knelt down in front of Ushma, placed their hands around her ankles and kissed her feet, touching their foreheads lightly to the floor. To each one Ushma gave a blessing, by touching their heads with her open palms. This exchange, performed with such delicacy, a daily ritual that didn’t seem to surprise his Indian companions, astounded him. To kiss your teacher’s feet. To be blessed by your guru. For a fleeting moment he thought that if he could only penetrate more deeply into this magnificent tradition and be part of it—no longer as a visitor or as part of an audience, but physically delve into it—then he might have hope to find a way back into his work. There was no longer any respect for serious writers in the West, only marketing. Appearances. Money. It was no wonder he was so disillusioned, no wonder his inspiration had waned. Now Ushma smiled, as the small audience kept clapping, and he was sure that she was looking directly at him. Yes, she had danced for him, and for him only. That he knew. How could he let go of such a miracle?