The Book

There were too many of them and she was only one.

When all said yes, how could she say no? When they all said go, how could she remain? Things were moving too fast, too soon and everything seemed spinning out of control. Her Samsonite suitcases stood upright in the hall, packed with her silk saris, lingerie, some trousers, woollens socks, a copy of the Gita, her hurried notes. On an overnight bag were the passport, visa, a copy of the Rotary club letter, a German-English phrase book, a pull-out map, her compact, lipstick, tranquilizers and Otrivin, her Parker pen. Everyone was simply delighted. For three glorious weeks she would be in Germany on a Rotary Exchange programme, leaving behind Anurag, her husband, Anisha and Raghav, her children, freed from all responsibilities, travelling with three other Indians to Germany and lecturing on India-ancient land, young nation, its delicate balance between tradition and change, the exciting fusion of culture, bounty and man­made poverty ... passion in stone-Khajuraho, Ajanta and Ellora. And of course the Kamasutra. That's what they always wanted to know, didn't they?

There's a first time for everything, Anurag had been so reassuring, so firm and so positive about it all. So what if she had never travelled by air, so what if she had never gone abroad? So what if she had never left her children alone, even for a day? It was a fine chance for her growth, for the expansion of her experience, for meeting interesting people. No buts, he had smiled, putting a finger to her lips.

But why me? She had asked him pleadingly. I'm a nobody, a teacher of history at a suburoan college who sometimes writes poetry, mostly unpublished. Is it because

my name is Bharti? Did my name qualify me to speak on Bharat? Somebody must be really crazy to think so .

It's you who are crazy! he exclaimed. Willing to pass up a chance like this. You know what's wrong with you? Low self-esteem. Pure and simple. Why me? You asked when I proposed to you. Snap out of it, Bharti.

Amma had been equally adamant. You must go. I will push you up the stairs to the plane if! have to. Are you going to be me all over again, just grinding masala and washing your man's shirts and gossiping with the neighbours? I will run your household. Anisha and Raghav are my grandchildren, remember? And here, take this prasad from Laxminarayan temple. Carry it with you. And don't let all those white men touch you ....

So that had been that. PJld on the dawn of the departure Anisha clung to her at the airport and Raghav enquired glumly if Hitler was still alive. As she walked across the tarmac to the huge Airbus waiting at the far end, the wind whipped her sari and it danced and billowed like flames. Everything's going to be alright. She told herself again and again, her eyes glassy, her stomach churning.

But it was far from alright. Everything was horribly wrong and ahead of her loomed a crisis so huge, so unfamiliar that she would simply be swallowed up in the heart of that darkness. It was the damned telephone call, ten minutes before they left for the airport. She had picked it up, certain it was a friend wishing her bon voyage. Instead, it had been that honey and velvet vcoice, emerging from the depths of a slender throat, teasing, laced with bubbles of laughter. Vaishali Deshmukh, her first cousin, the celebrated Bharatnatyam dansuese who moved as if in response to some secret music, whose kohl-lined eyes switched effortlessly from one rasa to another, and whose voluptuous body undulated in the sheer joy of movement. Vaishali was everywhere, an ubiquitous presence on television chat shows, dance recitals, the week-end pull-outs. And yet she was as elusive as quicksilver, a temptress who seduced by denying dazed men entry into her arms and her heart.

Over the years Bharti had excelled in concealing her envy of Vaishali's beauty and accomplishments. But it had

threatened to spill over the day Anurag sat through an entire recital, hypnotized by the shimmering figure on stage while Bharti raged within. It was so demeaning that Anurag too should be like the others, a bird mesmerised by a snake when she had throught he would be immune to the snake's chroIDs.

Vaishali knew perfectly well that she was not welcome at Bharti's house. And perversely, Vaishali made it a point to drop in unexpectedly, gorgeous in Tanjore silks and gold jewellery, sweeping in like a goddess just when she, Bharti, was washing the dishes, wrapped in her old dressing-gown, her hair undone, soap suds allover her hands. Anurag was always the gracious host, making her feel comfortable, switching on the music system and asking-Tea or coffee?

But Bharti had always known intuitively that Vaishali had not come to drink coffee or tea but to let him drink her with his eyes, slowly eroding his iron will day after day, ever so slowly, until the moment he would grovel at her feet like an abject devotee ...

Congratulations! Bharti had purred on the phone, I must say though, it came as a surprise to me ... you, of all people.

Vaishali, thanks. She had said hurriedly. But I have to rush. The plane's at nine ...

Oh come, come, Vaishali laughed. Anurag drives like the devil himself, doesn't he? I didn't call up just to congratulate you--I am offering my services ...

What services? She did not attempt to control her sharp tone.

Bharti, we're family, right? We have to stick together. I know you're worried sick about leaving the kids. Just leave it to me. I'm moving into your house tomorrow. l'make macaroni and tuna every evening-they'll love it ... I'll take them to the zoo, to swimming lessons. Your Amma? Oh, that's settled. Uncle has just recovered from a stroke, hasn't he? I've told her it's not wise to leave him with servants. Anurag? Oh, I haven't told him. It'll be a surprise, won't it? Ok bye-make a dash for the plane, old girl. Then the line went dead.

After fumbling clumsily, she had managed to put on her seat belt. The NO SMOKING sign was blinking. The plane

began to taxi along the runway. In a trice the departure lounge vanished from her sight. With a frisson of shock she realized, as she looked out of the window, that the ground had dropped away and they were soaring to the great white emptiness of the sky above. The air seemed to rush out of her lungs and there was a sick emptiness in her belly. She closed her eyes, furiously blinking back her tears, fighting the urge to scream, to clutch at the nearest passenger for help, to vomit all over her sari.

Then the motion of the plane became smooth and level.

She could see the stewardess trundling the drinks trolley down the aisle. Weakly, she asked for a beer. She drank it greedily, desperately, straight from the small squat bottle. Wearily she sank back and closed her eyes. Soon she was fast asleep and her troubled dreams flitted across her brow like clouds over water. She slept most of the way, except for the three hour stopover and when they touched down at Frankfurt at midnight, she was still groggy from the effects of the two tranquilizers she had taken five hours earlier ...

Bremen. A childhood story came to life. The musicans of Bremen-a donkey, a dog, a cat and a cock-the heroes of an old folk tale. She sat on a white wooden chair on the flagstoned Market Square under a candy striped umbrella as Mohini recounted the story. It felt so unreal. She and Mohini were two brown dots in a sea of white faces. Bharti felt incongruous in her sari as tourists lounged around in shorts and T-shirts.

She gazed at the giant statue of Roland, his eyes unseeing, the mouth pensive, holding aloft the sword and the shield decorated with a winged falcon-a symbol of freedom. To her left was the Town Hall with its magnificent Renaissance facade. Fraulein Greta sat to her right, plump and pink as a lobster, always cheerful and smiling, pointing to the landmarks and speaking English in her guttural accent.

Bharti bit into a piece of cheese and sighed. She loved everything that was old-old houses, old books, old customs, stories. Yet it was she who now felt old and unloved. The night before she had rung up Anurag at the office. He wasn't there. The phone at home was out of order. Amma didn't

have a phorie. He could have been in another planet. He and Vaishali. She felt a tremor pass through her. Had all this, her visit abroad, been an elaborate conspiracy hatched by Anurag? He did know some Rotarians. She hated herself for doubting him. And yet could not entirely dismiss the possibility.

She looked at Mohini, Mohini had just imitated the Bremen Musicians and was now convulsed 'with laughter.

Mohini was twenty one, a sociology student, unmarried, untroubled by jealousy, suspicion or the fear ofloss ...

Meersburg. A place unfolding like a miracle on the edge of dreams .... It nestled on the banks of Lake Constance. Lake Constance, a stretch of rippled silk so perfectly still that i£ caught her breath. Who had thought up this beautiful name-Lake Constance? There was no constancy in her life now, everything dear and familiar, everything taken so long for granted seemed to crumble away in the twinkling of an eye. Anurag, dear, cheerful Anurag had become a dark stranger caught up in a web of deceit and lust. Her children, bom from her womb, found Vaishali fun as she let them do all the things she forbade-watching TV, staying up late, having meals in bed ...

Bharti? Fraulein Greta looked inquiringly towards her. Do you see that lovely house-like a castle? The bishops of Constance lived there. Later the poet Annette Von Droste Hulshoff lived there till her death. It is lovely, isn't it?

Yes she said. Lovely. The house of a poetess. What had she looked like, this poetess? A delicate woman with flaming red hair and mournful blue eyes, sitting by the window, her quill poised, her thoughts as hazy as the mist over the still lake, the unbroken mirror ... but what turbulence must have been surging in her heart, such sweet yearnings and bitter regrets, straining to set herself free from hollow moral rules and restraints .... and yet lovely, gracious and dignified, penning her poems and finding in that act a sweet relief suffusing every fibre of her being even as she herself became as fragmented as the yellow moon, as scattered as the russet leaves of autumn whirled away by the winds ..

One afternoon she was in the old university town of Tubingen, by the river Neckar. They were in a hall next to a research centre. It was a narrow hall, high ceilinged, its pea green walls adorned with two large portrait of Johannes Keplar the astronomer and George Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel. Both of them had studied in the town. A huge chandelier glittered over them and men and women sat quietly in rows, dressed formally, as she read out her poems. She was almost dwarfed by the podium and her voice sounded unfamiliar and disembodied on the public address system. The pages fluttered on her trembling hands. She began to read

To the Yakshi

Frozen face, with standstone breasts

Did the muscles of dockworkers, lifting you to ship, Stir your desire?

Hardboard, straw and centuries Stand between you and them ...

Inert, you rode the crest of waves To the lights of New York

No glitter on your dreaming eyes Or sharp intake of breat Forever you bewitch, never Yourself fulfilled.

Break the menagerie of glass Yakshi, beloved dancing girl Sound your ancient anklets In the asphalt freeways. And in your moulded lap Gather a harvest of lust.

There was prolonged and enthusiastic applause and she could see some of them rising to take photographs, others adjusting their Handycams.

Everywhere they greeted her with unfailing politeness.

Was it because of the burden of guilt that was part of their inescapable legacy? The six million ghosts of Jews haunting them even on this bright afternoon? An attempt to show the world they were good human beings, connoisseurs of music,

art and poetry? An elaborate systematic cover-up? Would Anurag treat her like this when she returned? An endless ritual of gentle politeness, fetching and carrying for her, paying compliments, agreeing to everything she said because the goddess had lured him and wrapped him in the tresses of her hair, drawn him into the cave of her body, opening up a world of illicit delight he had never known existed?

Madam! A man stood up, his spectacles gleaming.

Permit me to ask you a question. I am not faniiliar with your vunderful Indian terms. What is a Yakshi?

Dh, I'm sorry. She blushed. I should have explained, Yakshi is a dancing girl, usually carved in temple frescoes ...

Temple , madam?'The man raised his brows. But surely, madam, your Yaksht, so erotic, is not suitable for temple .... ?

There was a ripple of laughter. The man stood embarrassed, shrugging his shoulders self-deprecatingly.

Actually, she said, smiling, the divine and the erotic, the sublime and the physical are always closely related in our culture. Sri Krishna is the eternal lover, surrounded by his gopis.

There followed an animated exchange of views. She answered questions, gave her address, shook hands, had wine, cheese and freshly baked rolls in the adjoining room. But the name Yakshi remained lodged in her mind, a sharp stinging thorn on the folds of tender flesh, hurting, hurting. Because, though she wrote the poem years ago, the name Yakshi seemed now to be inextricably linked with Vaishali. Vaishali was the dancing girl, poetry in motion, pulsating like a star, as wanton as an April shower, as maddening as the unfolding warmth of desire itself ..... in her presence the gods themselves would forget their search for the truth ...

She did not know when it happened but as the days merged and coalesced like a string of lights, she forgot to brood and fear and gave herself the pleasures of feasting on beautiful paintings, awesome cathedrals, gleaming plate glass shop windows, sailoats on the river, the endless stretches of the Black Forest. She began to enjoy her wine and the music of Schiller, the writings of Goethe, the vigorous

folk dances executed by apple cheeked girls in tight bodices and flaring skirts, even the cable car ride above the village of Stolberg.

Then, all too soon, came her last evening. Fraulein Greta had been replaced at Cologne by Karl Von Weick. Karl was the youngest son of the distinguished Von Weick family which had steel mills in the Ruhr, vineyards in the Rhinegau and was also into real estate and shipping. Karl was the black sheep of the family, preferring to go horse-riding, play the piano or write lengthy articles on nature healing instead of looking after the business. Karl was over six-feet, loose limbed, easy-going, with a splendid disregard for money and social conventions. He was fascinated by Bharti because he had never talked to an Indian woman before. That whole day he had taken her around to see the enormous nineteenth century telescope at Treptow park, the grassy knoll by the Havel river where they had shared sandwiches and beer under the shade of a tree. She had read out her Yakshi poem. Then off again to see the ICC Congress centre and the time chart on the Alexanderplatz. Now they were back from the French Cathedral built for Huguenots at the behest of Frederik II, Kind of Prussia.

Karl lived with his mother in an apartment in a fashionable quarter of the city. As Bharti sank gratefully on the leatherette sofa on the L-shapped drawing room, her eyes swept over the morocco bound books lined on the walls, the painting of waterfowl above the fireplace and the faint sheen of the expensive draperies. There were Oriental vases mounted as lamps with silk shades-Ming, Han, Jacob Petit and other porcelain pottery were arranged on the low glass­topped tables.

She took off her slippers and undid the pins of her bun.

Her hair fell over her shoulders in a dark unruly mass. Karl prowled around the room, switching on the soft shaded lamps, slipping a CD on the players. The music began and caught her by the throat-light, playful, like the feet of a young woman tripping down the stairs towards her waiting lover. Karl came and sat down beside her. He knew the music pleased her. She was listening to it intently, her head raised, her eyes soft, a slender hand on her throat. She never even felt his

large hand rest ever so gently on the small of her back, on the bare flesh between her sari and blouse. Or did she know? Words, explanations seemed so unnecessary ... he drew her to him, his grey eyes solemn under the lock of pale gold hair that fell over his forehead. Then, she felt the taste of sweet wine and bitter nicotine on his lips, felt her breasts thrusting like frenzied birds against the warmth of his chest and felt the whole length of his body against her as he pulled her down on the couch. She heard him murmer against her throat. He had called her his little Yakshi ... forgotten melodies danced, drunken and swaying within her and waves of desire rose and fell, an exquisite glisade. Then, with a little cry, she pushed him away and he was full of remorse, holding her hands, offering to get her coffee. Then there was the sound of footsteps on the vestibule. Fraulein Von WeIck, his mother had arrived after ina.ugurating an art exhibition. Bharti would never get those moments back again and all at once even that beautiful room seemed drab, devoid of all colour and the music trailed into silence.

The long! flight home. Her suitcases stuffed with chocolates, postcards, Dresden curios, her mind filled with memories, and the future looming ahead, unknown, unpredictable.

And yet, there was Anurag on the arrival lounge, smiling at her. He looked handsome in his blue shirt and grey trousers .

. Yes, yes, everything's fine. Of course, we all missed you ... come on, lets get the luggage ... we'll talk at home.

Then they were in the car. Driving like the devil.

Vaishali's words.

I don't want surprises. She said in a low voice. I hate surprises, do you hear me? Then she began to cry, her tears leaving dark stains as the eyeliner melted, coursing down her cheeks and she clasped and unclasped her hands on her lap ..

Anurag was so surprised that he drove to the side of the highway and stopped.

Tell me, Bharti, he said slowly, patiently, like a parent talking to a difficult child. What's the matter?

I just don't want to face her ... Face who?

Vaishali.

Who's asking you to, for God's sake? She turned to him, uncertain.

So she didn't come?

Of course not, he said. I don't think Vaishali can fit into your role, even for a few weeks ... I brought Amma over the day you left.

Oh, Anurag. It was the nicest thing anybody had ever told her and she was suddenly so glad she had not betrayed him on her last evening at Berlin. She leaned back, feeling young, feeling loved and the music started in her heart, light, playful, like the feet of a young woman tripping down the stairs towards her waiting lover ...