Veils of Silk

by Mary Jo Putney

  "The situation solved itself in the most unexpected way." Ian ran his hand down Laura's arm, momentarily distracted by the feel of firm, smooth flesh beneath the light fabric. "No one had mentioned that Kasturi had a wife already, and I was wondering what the devil to do when Rithu went up to the older woman and hugged her, saying that they would be as sisters. Rithu will care for Tetri and share Kasturi's gifts equally.

  "But the strangest twist was still to come. Manoj stood and said that since Kasturi now had two women to care for, he would return the fifty rupees for Kasturi would need the money."

  A catch in her voice, Laura said, "What can one say about such generosity?"

  "As a judge, I gave my heartiest approval. As a man, I decided there is hope for the human race." Ian got to his feet. "I'll wash up now. I assume that once again dinner will he an aged and leathery fowl rendered palatable by long stewing in a curried sauce?"

  Smiling, she also rose. "Yes. I'll be joining you, since I decided I'd rather eat with you than alone. Later I'll tell you about the sadhu I met.''

  "A paragon among women," he murmured. Without thinking he ran an appreciative hand over Laura's round backside. His wife gave him a surprised glance when he touched her, but didn't protest. She really had the most delectable curves imaginable.

  Whistling softly, he went off to the spartan washroom. The world was a fine place.

  * * *

  He began to rouse from sleep when Leela turned in his arms, her hand moving drowsily down his torso. He responded to her touch instantly, for it had been too long since they were together. But he took his time, knowing that traveling the road was as important as reaching the destination. Tenderly he ran his hand through her flowing black hair and inhaled the scent of jasmine. Leela was still half asleep, her bare knee tucked between his legs, her warm breath caressing his shoulder. The night air was heavy with sensual promise. As desire grew, he kissed her temple and moved his hand to her breast.

  The breast beneath his hand was not that of petite Leela but the lusher curve of a larger woman.

  The realization jarred Ian into wakefulness with a shock like ice water. There was an instant of violent disorientation when he thought that he was in prison, dreaming of happier times. But the hair that tickled his face was real, and when he saw that it was lustrous bronze rather than shining black, reality snapped into focus. He was in a village called Hirsar, and the woman in his arms was his wife, not his former mistress.

  Wakefulness included a stunning shock: his sexual arousal was genuine. The blood burned in his veins in a way he had almost forgotten, and had thought he would never know again. Incredulous, he slid a hand down his body and confirmed that he was not still dreaming. His erection was real; he was a whole man again.

  His first reaction was transcendent joy. Looking back, he realized that there had been subtle signs of improvement for some time. He had always enjoyed Laura's closeness, but what had at first been simple physical pleasure had gradually developed sexual overtones. The spice of desire was brightening the whole world. Today's evaluation of Rithu, the runaway wife, had included a distinct element of masculine admiration.

  Ian's first impulse was to bend over and kiss Laura with deep, sexual possessiveness. He wanted to share his joy with the woman who had had so much to do with his recovery, and express his gratitude with all the skill and passion at his command. His head was inclining to her when he stopped as abruptly as if he had run into a brick wall.

  Laura had married him precisely because he was incapable of physical intimacy. Time and again she had repeated that the situation was exactly what she wanted, and she would never have accepted him under any other conditions. The restored potency that was a source of exultation for him would mean fear and repugnance for her.

  A deep shudder passed through him. His whole body throbbed with desire, all of it focused on the lovely, warm woman by his side. But acting on that desire would betray his wife and destroy what few shreds of honor remained to him.

  Had passion always been so insistent, so irrational, so dangerously hard to control? Knowing that he must get away from Laura before he did something unforgivable, he rolled away and slid from the cot. The plank floor rough beneath his feet, he stumbled to the window, then stared into the night.

  He rubbed at his aching temples, his brief exhilaration turning bitter as bile when he tried to assess the implications of what had happened. On some deep, half-unconscious level, he had vaguely thought of his impotence as both punishment and symbol for the appalling cowardice he had shown in Bokhara. He had even grimly accepted that there was a certain fitness to the idea.

  Now it appeared that his punishment was going to be far subtler and crueler. Laura had given her warmth and acceptance unstintingly when he had needed it. She trusted him, or she would not have become as relaxed with him as she was now.

  He turned and bleakly regarded his wife. To betray the covenant they had made would be despicable, yet there was no way in heaven or hell that he could spend the rest of his life sharing a bed with her chastely. If he tried, sooner or later—and, depressingly, he knew that it would be sooner— passion would overcome honor and shatter the foundations of the marriage they had made.

  For a moment he considered the possibility of seeking physical release elsewhere, then dismissed it. Such a solution might be less immoral than violating his wife's trust, but his Calvinist conscience rebelled at the thought of lying with another woman, and not only because he would be futilely pretending that the woman was Laura.

  Non-consummation was grounds for annulment, and perhaps ending the marriage would be the wisest course. But an annulment would be as much a betrayal of their agreement as physical intimacy. He had pledged to support and cherish his wife, and doing so was a pleasure as well as a duty.

  Laura lay curled on her side, one hand tucked under her husband's pillow. In the dim lamplight, she was all soft curves and mysterious shadows. His heart twisted as he studied her. He could never let her go, even if annulment was legally possible.

  Silently he crossed the room and stood over her, thinking how lovely she was. While sharing a bed had given him a general idea of what lay beneath her modest white gown, he would much prefer to slide the garment off and see for himself. Then he would press his lips...

  When he realized that his hand was reaching out to her, he spun away from the bed before he lost what sense he had left. After a spell of restless pacing, he concluded that his best hope was that, in time, he could help Laura overcome her aversion to the idea of marital relations. Though she might fear sex, she was not a cold woman; already she was far more at ease with him that she had been at first.

  In time, she might be willing to allow intimacy, if only for the hope of children. If that happened, he was confident that she would find lovemaking rewarding for its own sake. Perhaps a little gentle caressing when appropriate might interest her in further explorations.

  With grim humor, he realized that he was contemplating the seduction of his own wife. And that was something he dared not attempt, because once he began, he might not be able to stop. For the time being, he must keep his distance from Laura, for coercing her either physically or emotionally would be despicable.

  He couldn't possibly share a bed with her any longer. He would have to concoct some plausible reason for sleeping separately.

  The prospect did not enthrall him.

  Wearily he perched on the windowsill and looked out into the softly rustling trees. How many other dark nights of the soul had he endured since returning to India? It seemed like dozens.

  The Black Well had been appalling, but there had been a certain bleak simplicity to life there. Now he must deal with the dreadful irony of the fact that he was finally capable of making love to his wife, but honor prevented him as thoroughly as disability had earlier.

  Among all of his uncertainties, one thing was absolutely clear. He must find a solution to his dilemma within the bounds of the marriage they had made.

>   Chapter 18

  Ruefully Laura decided that it had been bad luck to congratulate herself on how well things were going, for the very morning that they left Hirsar, Ian had withdrawn into another dark silence. Though polite, he spoke scarcely a word all day to either of his companions. Laura regretted his remoteness, but philosophically accepted that life consisted of downs as well as ups. Soon his mood would lighten again.

  Philosophy vanished that night when Ian's state of mind turned out to have deplorable repercussions. They had been invited to stay in the home of a prosperous landowner and the room assigned to Laura and Ian was the most comfortable they had seen since leaving Cambay.

  She changed into her nightgown and slid under the covers, feeling an unseemly amount of eagerness as she waited for Ian. She loved the quiet intimacy of the night. To sleep with another person required trust, and the hours they spent in each other's arms were weaving a bond between them.

  But instead of joining her, Ian said, "I've been having trouble sleeping again, Laura. I'll make up a bed on the floor." He took a pillow and blanket and arranged them a few feet from the bed, then lay down.

  "I'll be with you in a minute." Laura sat up and pushed the covers away. The prospect of lying on the floor was no hardship, for other nights she'd rested very well on the cold earth. What mattered was having her husband next to her.

  Ian looked up, something taut and unreadable flickering in his eye before his face shuttered. "You stay where it's comfortable. I think I'll sleep better alone," he said expressionlessly. "Good night." Then he wrapped himself in the blanket and rolled on his side so that he faced away from her.

  At first she just stared at his uncommunicative back, feeling a ridiculous desire to whimper. Maybe he would sleep better alone, but she certainly wouldn't.

  Quietly she lay back on the bed, telling herself that she mustn't take Ian's defection personally. He had improved so much in the last few weeks that it was easy to forget that it hadn't been that long since he had been enduring unimaginable horrors. The road to full recovery was bound to be a lengthy one.

  When she thought about it, sleeping alone was more sensible than bumping elbows, and other things, in a crowded bed. Laura was a sound sleeper, but Ian wasn't. He probably found it disruptive to have her wrapped around him all night.

  It was all perfectly logical. That being the case, why did she feel so much like hurling her pillow across the room?

  * * *

  The old merchant Mohan was dying. As the end drew near, his ailing body was taken outside so that his spirit could wing freely away to heavenly spheres when the time came. He was a wealthy man and his household was large, so as morning dawned, many women were keening their grief at his approaching death.

  Yet the woman who had most reason to mourn was silent, for fear was greater than grief. Meera was Mohan's second wife, an expensive indulgence that the merchant had acquired to amuse his later years. She was of mixed caste and would never have been acceptable as Mohan's first wife, but she was beautiful, which was all that was required of a concubine. F

  or three years she had been a pampered bride. Now, at the tender age of seventeen, she must pay a dreadful price for the benefits she had received.

  Mohan gave a last, rattling sigh and then breathed no more. The chorus of female voices rose to a chilling, ear-shattering crescendo that announced the death of the master of the house. Meera began to weep for the loss of Mohan and his kindness, but even more she wept for herself, for within a few hours it was likely that she, too, would be dead.

  Though the odds were against her, Meera had been a stubborn child, the despair of her mother, and she fought for her life against those who wanted her to die. No sooner had the death wail subsided than Pushpa, wife of Mohan's eldest son, said with false solicitude, "Come, Meera, you must prepare for suttee."

  Voice wavering but determined, Meera replied, "I will not go to the pyre with my husband."

  There was a horrified intake of breath from those close enough to hear. Pushpa said sharply, "You must! Your death will bring honor to the family. Your sacrifice will spare Mohan from any burdens on his soul."

  "My husband was a good man and his soul does not need my sacrifice," Meera said rebelliously. "At this very moment, I'm sure he is in heaven with Ruppa, the mother of his sons."

  Voice hardening, Pushpa said, "Do you wish to spend the rest of your life living behind a curtain with a shaved head and eating only a handful of rice a day?"

  "Yes," Meera cried, "for at least I will still be living!"

  Voices muttered disapproval. Someone said that she valued life too much, while Pushpa's husband, Dhamo, growled that he'd not support a useless woman for the rest of her life.

  "A husband is as a god to his wife," the Brahmin priest said persuasively. "It is right that you join your soul to Mohan's so that the two of you can spend eons together in your own paradise."

  Stubbornly Meera said, "A widow must become suttee voluntarily, or it means nothing. I do not consent, nor would Mohan have expected me to." Her words were defiant, but as she looked at the angry eyes that surrounded her, she feared that her strength would not be enough to preserve her life.

  Throughout the day, the men made preparations for the cremation ceremony while the women of the household did everything they could to coerce Meera into consenting to become suttee. To Meera they seemed like crows, anxious to feast on her corpse. Yet in spite of her exhaustion, she steadfastly refused to give in until midafternoon, when finally she faltered.

  In a voice like poisoned honey, Pushpa said, "As Mohan's wife you have been treated like a high-caste woman, but if you refuse your sacred duty you will become an object of loathing. The very pariahs will avoid your shadow. You will choose such vile disgrace merely for the sake of a few miserable years of existence, when to become suttee will guarantee you bliss?"

  Meera knew that the bleak prospect described by her stepdaughter-in-law was horribly likely. Dizzy with exhaustion and confusion, she raised a hand to her head, trying to clear the cobwebs that clouded her thinking. "Perhaps," she said hoarsely, "perhaps I should..."

  Then she thought of the flames. Terror gripped her, but it was already too late. Her gesture and stumbling words had been taken as the consent needed.

  It was now the obligation of all good Hindus to ensure that she died at her husband's side.

  Eyes covetous, Pushpa brought Meera's jewel box and set it down by the new widow. "Tell us how you want to bequeath your jewelry. I shall see that your will is done."

  Meera lifted her numb gaze to her stepson's wife and saw that Pushpa was already wearing a pair of Meera's best earrings. A spark of angry defiance broke through Meera's resignation. She opened the box and began to remove the glittering contents. "I shall wear it all to the pyre."

  A horrified murmur rose from the surrounding women "But you can't!" one exclaimed while another mourned "Such a waste."

  Meera looked around and saw no sympathetic faces "None of you were my friend in life." She clipped an exquisite meenakari necklace around her throat, then slid on heavy silver cuff bracelets. As she reached for a lotus blossom chain, she said flatly, "If you want my gold and silver, you can dig through my charred bones for the melted fragments."

  Fury rippled through the room. Pushpa raised a hand as if tempted to rip the valuables away, but Meera snapped, "Touch anything I wear and I'll curse you with my dying breath." No one else dared dispute her decision.

  Passive as a doll, Meera allowed herself to be dressed in her best scarlet silk sari, the one she had been married in. All too soon, it was time to join the procession to the riverbank where the burning would take place.

  As she left her home forever, Meera dipped her hand in red paint and left a print on the lintel beside the faded marks of other hands. Dully she wondered if those long-forgotten women had become suttee willingly, or whether, like her, they had been forced.

  As the sun dropped toward the horizon, Meera walked in the middle of
the procession, surrounded so that she would be unable to flee if she chose to disgrace herself and the family. She would have run away if there had been any hope of escape, but there was no such hope. With her own eyes she had once seen a woman try to escape the pyre, only to be shoved back into the flames by her own son.

  No, there was no escape, and Meera was resigned to the fact that she must die. Who was she, a mere mixed-caste female, to rail against the unfairness of fate?

  The pyre was made of stacked sandalwood that had been packed with oily, ghee-soaked cotton. It would burn quickly, though not fast enough to kill Meera without agony. Numbly she endured the ceremonies, knowing that she should be praying or even desperately savoring these last moments of life.

  But all she could think of was the fire. If a man's wife must die at his side, why did it have to be so painfully?

  Then Dhamo was roughly pushing at her. Remembering that she must circle the pyre three times, Meera dutifully performed her part, though her feet dragged. The moment came for her to ascend the ladder to the top of the pyre. When she faltered, a hard hand shoved her upward. Curiously, Mohan's flower-decked corpse seemed welcoming as none of his family had. Perhaps it was right that she send her soul to join his.

  Trembling so hard that her jewelry jangled discordantly, Meera lay back on the piled wood and waited bleakly for the flames.

  * * *

  Laura would be glad to reach Manpur, the capital of Dharjistan, because traveling with a mute man was getting a little tedious. More than tedious; for the last several days, she'd had the uneasy feeling that something was wrong. Ian's gaze was brooding, almost angry, and he avoided even the most casual contact. Yet his courtesy was unflagging, and there was a kind of tenderness in his behavior, as if he were subtly apologizing for his difficult mood.

  Since it was getting late, Laura brought her horse alongside Ian's. "Will we stay in another dak bungalow tonight?"

  He shook his head. "No, we're almost out of British-controlled territory. There will be no more daks. Unless some dignitary in that town ahead insists that his life will be blighted if we don't honor him with our company, we'll camp out."