‘Baby!’ I leapt from my bed and wrapped myself around her. Jane was shaking all over and still crying silently. I kissed her tears off her eyes and cheeks. She clung to me and then she made love to me, flaming love - desperate, exhausting.
‘Now what?’ we said simultaneously after a long sigh.
We couldn’t live without each other. We decided to be sensible about it - meet elsewhere without her mother knowing.
‘Raavi, why don’t you take a room somewhere else? Or rent a little flat?’
I looked around and soon found a place, a one-bedroom attic flat in nearby Belsize Park. Tariq and Walia both had cars now. They moved my stuff in Tariq’s second-hand Volkswagen.
My attic had a large front window and a flight of pinewood stairs leading to the roof. Half of the roof was flat, overlooked by a row of very tall, redbrick houses behind us. When the sun shone, that was the only place in London to be - a handkerchief of a seafront without the sea. The flat had everything - a kitchenette, a tiny bathroom, even a telephone. The first call I received on it was from guess who?
‘Monday is a Bank Holiday. I’m coming to stay the night. Is that all right?’
‘What do you think?’
‘What will you do with me?’
‘Take you for your first Indian meal at the White Peacock.’
‘That would be nice. Can we do so next week? First, I want to see your new place. I know I’m going to love it. Then I want to sleep with you.’
‘What a coincidence.’
‘You don’t understand. I mean sleep with you. All night.’
‘What, just sleep? What an extravagant waste.’
‘You know what I like best of all in the world is to be with you. You know that, don’t you?’
‘Another coincidence.’
‘I’ll come in the morning in mum’s Mini so that we have the day to ourselves. At night, all I want to do is sleep in your arms. But if a bright idea comes to you.’
‘Actually, bright ideas do come to me from time to time.’
‘Can’t wait to see your new place. I’m going to love it.’ Jane did love my new place. She looked with her lips on mine.
‘Buggery. Bad news,’ she said when I tried to undo her bra. I had mastered doing that just with a flick of my fingers.
‘Oh?’ Alarm bells – had her father found out?
‘I’ve got the curse. Sorry.’
‘It’s normal. What’s wrong about it?’
‘It means we can’t make love.’
‘This is the time of the month when a woman can be transformed into a living deity according to sacred India.’
‘But how?’
‘An ancient cult says that if the moon be full as it will be tonight, and the right things are done to a woman in rosewater, it’s sheer ecstasy for hours.’
‘Well, do them to me then. What are you waiting for?’
‘I have to worship you like a goddess. Every part of you.’
‘Beginning with which part?’
‘Your yoni.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Your THAT. It’s the font of life. The Life Force is made up of male and female Shakti. We believe that the female Shakti is superior to male force. We worship her.’
‘I don’t want a bloody lecture on your philosophy, smartarse Indian know-all. I want you to start worshipping - what did you call my cunt?’
‘Yoni.’
‘I like the sound of it. And what’s your cock called?’
‘Lingam.’
‘Like Bingham?’ Jane laughed. ‘It’s the name of our Chief Matron. Mrs Bingham. A right old prick she is.’ Jane laughed her head off. ‘Well, start then.’ She bent down and kissed my fly.
‘I need a few things, certain ingredients for the ceremony.’
‘What ingredients? What ceremony?’
‘Lady, you are going to be worshipped like a goddess. We need incenses, coconut oil, ghee, flowers, samagri.’
‘And what else?’
‘A burning fire.’
‘Won’t your little gas cooker do?’ It was my turn to laugh.
‘Where will you get these things from? Sainsbury’s?’
‘Little India - Southall. A long way.’
‘No problem. I’ll drive us there.’
We went all the way to Little India for our shopping. Then we waited anxiously for the night. Her eyes were sparkling like a child’s who was being taken to Disneyland in California.
‘Boy Oh boy. My yoni is going to be worshipped tonight. Tonight, I’ll become a goddess. Boy Oh boy.’
When the moon appeared over Belsize Park, I bathed her tenderly and dried her with utmost care. Then I rubbed coconut oil all over her maddeningly beautiful body. I made a garland of jasmine for her long neck. For her shapely breasts, strings of rose petals; to encase her hour-glass waist twice, a girdle of marigolds. I drew three horizontal lines of sandalwood paste on her forehead – on mine too – a mark of god Shiva, the Lord of Cosmic Dance. The incense was issuing curls of sweet-smelling smoke. I seated her, lotus-position in front of a steel bucket in which I had made a small fire of sandalwood sticks garnished with ghee and samagri.
‘Fuck. I can’t sit like this,’ Jane whispered.
‘Language, baby. You are a goddess.’
‘Sorry. But it is very uncomfortable. I’m getting a cramp.’ I made her shut her eyes, stretch out her arms and open her hands on the knees, her thumbs and forefingers touching softly.
‘Have you started worshipping me?’
‘Shhh.’ I held the saucer with the burning dhoop in my right hand and began chanting the gayatri mantra I had learned as a child, the only one I knew:
Om bhoor bhava
Tatsa veetar varai niyam
Bhrago dey vasya dhee mahi
Dhiyo yon am pracho dyat swaha
I chanted the mantra again and again and again. I worshipped her breasts, her hands, her feet. The moon was now right outside our window. I could have reached out and pulled it inside.
‘Hail to thee, my goddess. Hail to Thee. Thy kingdom has come. Thy will be done. Hail to Thee,’ my lips intoned to her yoni, her hands pressing my head. Her yoni was ready and yearning. ‘Hail to Thee.’
‘Come inside me, for Chrissake,’ commanded the goddess. It was more of a plea. The devotee obeyed. The golden gates of Heaven flew open. Suns blazed. Supernovas exploded.
‘Ohhh! I have come, but I keep coming!’ When I was about to, ‘Wait!’ my goddess cried. She jumped up and came back with a jug of cold water. She dipped my fella in it to cool it down. Minutes later, we were back in Outer Space.
‘Promise to worship me like this always,’ she murmured.
‘Promise. Till the end of time.’
‘But where did you learn to do all this?’
‘Nowhere.’
‘Who taught you all this?’
‘No one.’
‘Then how did you know what to do?’
‘I didn’t.’
‘You mean you made it all up?’
‘Yep. But it worked,’ I said and she fell asleep in my arms.
It was a Simla summer evening made to order, half-drunk and half in love with itself. I stood outside Hampstead tube waiting for Jane. A parcel had come from home in the morning containing two silk shirts, one white and the other flowery. I was wearing the flowery one. Passers-by were giving me looks, especially ladies. I was dying to be seen - but only by her. I was taking her out for her first Indian meal. She arrived on time at six, looking a dream, and wrapped herself around me. She wore something I had not seen on her before – a pair of gold earrings. They made her look exquisite and tasty.
‘Beautiful earrings. Are they new?’
‘No, old. They’re Nan’s. She just gave them to me today. For keeps.’
‘Sweet Nan. You look out of this world.’
‘So do you. What a lovely shirt.’
‘It came from home today.’
‘Suits you. Now, where is thi
s White Peacock of yours then? It’s a bit early to eat, isn’t it? And peacocks are blue.’ A wicked thought crossed my mind. I clicked my fingers. ‘Would you like to see a white peacock or two?’
‘Are you trying to be funny? Peacocks are blue.’
‘Let’s go and see them. They’ve just arrived.’
‘You are pulling my leg,’ she said.
‘Come on, then. It’s a little walk. Do you mind?’
‘No. But,’ Jane wore high heels. I hailed a passing cab and we were there in minutes, at the entrance to Golders Hill Park so well known to us.
‘But this is our own local park, Raavi. What’s the matter with you. I’ve never seen a peacock here – white, yellow or blue.’
‘Just keep walking and you’ll see not one, but two.’ The evening was spread before us like a king peacock with its plumage unfolded in all its glory, radiating love. The epicentre of it was my puzzled companion. Being with her at that moment filled me with banknotes of excitement.
We went past that sweet little pond. Swans and ducks and drakes glided across its calm surface, indifferent to the motley crowd of people strolling by. The birds were used to human company.
‘There are no bloody peacocks here, Raavi. I think you are an idiot to bring me here. And in a taxi at that,’ Jane said, and kissed the idiot lustfully in full view of the world.
We walked past the familiar enclosures with deer, stags and the ill-mannered llama and we came to some chicken-wire houses containing a few exotic birds and some smaller animals. In one of these stood a pair of peacocks as white as swans, the plumage of one spread around it full circle in all its magnificence.
‘Jesus!’ Jane gasped, her mouth wide open. ‘They are white! I thought you were having me on. I really did, you know.’
‘I’m afraid I was.’
‘What do you mean, Raavi?’
‘The white is artificial. They bleached them,’ I whispered.
‘They did not.’
‘They did too. Women bleach their hair, don’t they?’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘You can ask the Park Keeper - the chap coming towards us.’ Jane stopped the man. He had a cigarette stuck in his lips and looked robustly earthy, with red cheeks.
‘Excuse me, are you the Keeper of this park?’
‘I am, miss,’ the man said without removing the cigarette from his mouth. I noticed that as he talked, the cigarette remained on the lower lip, glued to it by his spittle.
‘Can I ask a question?’
‘Of course you can, miss.’
‘How did these peacocks get white feathers?’
‘What?’
‘Did you have them bleached? My friend says you did.’ A strange look came over the fellow. He swivelled his lips in a circular motion, the cigarette revolving likewise, and thought of something appropriate to say. But nothing came. So he spat out the cigarette and simply walked away, muttering: ‘Irish and Paki! What a combination.’ The penny dropped and Jane exploded. With clenched fists, she beat the shit out of me in full view of the whole of NW11. ‘You made an ass of me. Idiot!’
‘Let’s go to the other White Peacock. I’m famished.’
‘Idiot.’
‘That all you can say?’
‘Yes.’
‘But what made him think you were Irish?’
‘I asked an Irish question. Didn’t I?’
Fair England had given me a gift so wondrous, it made me forget all it had done to India for two centuries. It had buggered it wholesale and left it divided in rivers of blood. That night when, Jane lay in my arms, her ivory-white body glowing in the moonlight from the window of my new flat, I felt I had avenged all. Even won England. And Jane knew not a single thing about India. Her curiosity, to begin with, did not go beyond wanting to know if we ate curry for breakfast. The only things she knew about were the Taj bloody Mahal, snake-charmers, and ‘Gandy’: ‘the man who wore nappies’.
‘Dad hated him. He called him a half-naked something.’
‘Fakir. Like Churchill.’
‘Dad’s still angry with Lord Mountbatten for giving India its Independence.’
‘He didn’t give it to us, we took it. Or rather, Gandhi did.’
‘Tell me about your home town.’
‘Oh, Simla? Simla is our Monte Naughty Carlo transported to Himalayan Heights. You’ll adore it.’
‘Tell me more.’
‘Used to be your very sexy summer capital before our Independence. A glamorous holiday mountain city of bewitching beauty overlooking snow-capped peaks. Kipling lived there.’
‘Did he? I loved The Jungle Book.’
‘Tell me about your home town, where you were born, I mean.’
‘Neasden is hardly a town. It’s dull and boring. You don’t want to know about it.’ I knew Neasden as a station on the Underground map.
‘Where did you go on holiday?’ I continued.
‘Bognor Regis.’
‘What a name. What does it mean?’
‘No idea. I think I look ridiculous in this sari. I love it, but I think I look silly in it.’
I had got her one, a beauty in sky-blue silk from Indiacraft by Marble Arch. I wanted to see how she looked in it. She did look silly a bit, but sweet. Delicious, in fact.
‘You look a crore of rupees,’ I told her.
‘How much is that?’ She liked to know these things.
‘Ten million. And you look like chum-chum.’
‘What’s that?’
‘My favourite sweet. You must try it one day.’
‘But how do Indian girls do it in a sari? I mean, it is one hell of a thing to get on.’ I showed her. One little tug and the silk lay around her feet in a rumpled circle.
‘Took half a bloody hour to tie it on.’
‘To tell you the truth, I much prefer you out of the sari than in it, baby.’ At that she undid the knot of the petticoat and let it fall to the floor as well. How did she look in a skimpy choli that barely covered her 35 inch heavens? An express gift from the gods. I told her so.
‘Honest Injun?’
For our mid-weekly afternoon meetings, Jane said we should do something cultural. I suggested my favourite - the V&A, to start with. She agreed because she had been there when aged twelve, on a school trip and had liked it. Then for some reason we began to talk about shopping – ‘a girl’s best friend’, as she put it. I had some shopping of my own to do. I needed to buy a birthday present for little Ushee, the jewel of the family, and presents for my mum and dad. I had been saving up, but had managed a mere fifteen pounds thus far to put aside in the post office.
‘What is your favourite shop, baby?’
‘Marks & Sparks, of course.’
‘Boring.’ I used her word. ‘Soaringly boring.’
‘I like that – soaringly boring. Can I use it? What do you call this sort of thing when you pinch someone else’s words?’
‘Plagiarism.’
‘You know every bloody thing, don’t you?’
‘I have a bloody MA in English, don’t I? So I better had.’
‘What’s your favourite shop?’ she asked me.
‘Harrods,’ I said
‘You have to be loaded to shop there, don’t you?’
‘But we are. Aren’t we?’
As Harrods and the V&A were near each other, we decided to do both the same afternoon. I wanted to buy her a little something. So we went to the Shop of Shops first.
‘Buy what you like,’ I said grandly as we stepped in.
‘Oh, really? I fancy a fur coat. That all right?’
‘Perfectly. And whatever else you fancy.’
‘A little Cartier watch perhaps. Any problems with that?’
‘Problems? We see no problems. No ships either.’
‘Cut it out, smartarse Nelson. Or it’s back to your Column.’
We did all the six floors. In a women’s boutique, Jane fell in love with a dress – a black beauty with pink flowers. It
was her size too, a 12. She took it off the hanger and held it in front of her before a tall mirror. My God, how she looked – an apparition.
‘Baby, go try it on.’ But she put the dress back.
‘Jane, try it on.’ She still wouldn’t. However hard I tried, I couldn’t persuade her – she had seen the price tag. It was prohibitively expensive at £11.19.11d.
‘No, no, no,’ Jane said. ‘Final.’
In the Men’s Department, I viewed with longing a red polo neck priced three guineas, which I simply couldn’t afford. We lingered a little longer in that house of wonders. By the time we came out, it was too late for the museum. We agreed to meet at the V&A at the same time next week. And this proved to be one of the most unbelievable moments of my life, leaving me speechless. I had read something like that happening in a short story by an American author whose name I had forgotten. But that was fiction, this real life, making me want to perform a somersault there and then.
I arrived first and stationed myself under the grand arch of the museum’s imposing entrance. I carried something which I didn’t want Jane to see straight away, so I held it behind my back in one hand as I scrutinised the multitude of passers-by. I was looking in the direction of the tube station. Naturally. Jane was never late whenever we met, but today she was. Five Minutes passed, then ten minutes, fifteen.
‘Waiting for someone?’ Jane arrived from directly the opposite side. She looked a bit different – she was not wearing her gold earrings.
She too held something behind her back. ‘A little prezzie for you.’ She gave me a kiss and handed me what she carried – a sap-green Harrods bag. It contained the red poloneck. Because I knew the student nurse was usually broke, a terrible thought crossed my mind. Did the absence of her earrings have anything to do with this?
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