The Book

Thirty year old Maura Brent was from Cedar Falls, Iowa. She had been five when Lee Harvey Oswald shot Kennedy and she had a vague memory of Jackie in a magazine photograph wearing a white cardigan with a black collar. At fifteen she dropped out of school and for the next two years hung around Haight Ashbury in an LSD induced daze. One day, at a sleazy cafe she met a truck-driver with the bluest eyes she had ever seen. They married and settled down to a life of happy domesticity. Then he lost his job and took it out on her. She was watching Donahue on T.V, curled up on the sofa, seven months pregnant, a bag of peanuts on her lap, when he walked out through the front door never to return. That fall she lost her baby. She drifted from job to job, waitressing, being an assistant at a drug store, even stripping at a Night club. The men she went out with made full use of her body but never bothered to know the person behind those grey, gold flecked eyes. She often felt like a boat adrift at sea, buffeted

by the waves and wind. Her life lacked direction and purpose. She hungered for love and companionship, a kindred meeting of souls. But this eluded her. Her analyst said she needed to get away, to see the world and feel good about herself. Men were not everything in a woman's life. But to her, men were important for bolstering up confidence in herself, her sense of her own worth. Her youth was tip-toeing out the way her married lover did at dawn as she lay among the rumpled bed­clothes in a Seconal induced stupor.

Fate intervened. She won ajackpot at the lottery and suddenly she was a local celebrity. She gave up her job, sold her flat, got her papers in order, packed sensible cotton clothes and sun screen lotion and within a week was on the New-Delhi bound flight to India. Why she chose India she was herself not sure. She had read a paper back on the libertine lifestyles of the Maharajas. A shaven-headed ochre robed Hare Krishna acolyte had once come to her for donations. She had a vague idea of Gandhi. If it was indeed a land of sprituality, she reckoned she would discover some answers for herself.

From the very beginning she avoided the package tours where tourists were herded like sheep to gawk at monuments. She bought guide books and phrase-books and struck out on her own. She went trekking from Rishikesh. She spent two nights camping under a jewelled sky on the edge of the Thar desert. She danced with the tribals in remote Bastar. She fed plantains to a temple elephant in a town in Kerala. She acquired a tan, lost some weight. She slept dreamlessly in anonymous hotel rooms. For the first time in many years she was getting along without Seconals.

There was another thing she was getting along without Men. She saw Indian youths nudge each other as she walked down the street. She felt their eyes on her swinging breasts, the narrow waist and the generous hips. She began to miss Joe, her married lover. She missed his beer belly, his hirsute chest and the shopworn endearments he whispered into her ear. Sweety pie. Even he was better than nothing.

Such gloomy thoughts settled heavily on her mind as she checked in at a hostel in Raibagh, a small town fifty kilometres east of Hyderabad. In the dying light of day she stood on the worn carpet in

the middle of the room and took off her blouse, her skirt, slip and panties and stood naked before the floor length mirror. She narrowed her eyes so that she could not see the fine lines arround her mouth, the faint beginnings of a double chin, the pad of ungainly flesh on the hips. She stood appraising her pert breasts with the honey co loured nipples, the long shapely legs and the downy blonde hair that fell profusely to her shoulders. She ran the tips of her fingers lightly over her body and shivered with desire. In two days time she would board the plane to New Yark. All of a sudden she did not want to go back to the predictable ministrations of Joe, though God knows he tried. Maura had at thirty eight, yet to feel the ground beneath her move. In this fabled land, she hungered for an encounter worth remembering about in the years to come.

There was a discreet knock on the door. Flustered, and shaken rudely out of her thoughts, she dressed hurriedly and opened the door.

"Murli. " A white smile on a brown face. "Murli Madam. First class Guide. You want, no?"

"Well." She looked at him doubtfully. "I like to go about on my own. What's there to see?"

He sidled into the room and sat down on the chair. Black hair parted to one side, copper skin. A white smile.

"Plenty to see Madam." He waved his hands expansively,

"Going boating on lake and feeding the fish. Having darshan at Shiva Temple. Darshan in very difficult but I am managing, not to worry.

Then of course going to Raibagh palace ............... "

"What's that?"

His eyebrows shot up in surprise. "You are not hearing of Raibagh palace? No? Only last week German tourists are going and filming the palace all day long. Special charge if you are having movie

camera ........ "

"How much do you charge? Maura asked.

A hurt expression crossed his face. "What is money?" he asked rhetorically "Money is the dirt of one's palms. If Madam is happy. Murli is happy. First you looking at palace, then paying me later"

"Alright," She said, "when can you come?"

"Tomorrow morning at eight Madam" he stood up a grin splitting his face.

Murli arrived on the dot the next morning dressed in a blue shirt, faultlessly creased trousers and a jaunty cap. He was an intense restless and talkative young man and over a leisurely breakfast of idlis and fresh brewed coffee confided that he was named after Lord Krishna, the eternal God of love. He was launching into a vivid and rather convoluted account of the young Krishna helping himself to curd on the sly when she stood up, looked pointedly at her watch and said "Shall we go?"

Gallantly offering to carry her tote" bag and being snubbed in the process, he led her to his rickety autorickshaw. As she settled herself in the back seat, he got in at the front, yanked the starter and they roared off, belching smoke. Maura pushed the sunglasses to her head and gazed interestedly. Mountains of clay pots dried in the sun. Crows pecked at squishy rotten mangoes. A man lazily flicked his whip at his ox from his cart. Men sat leaning in snow white bolsters in shops and spread out bales of cloth in rainbow hues. Houses leaned against each other. The welder's torch let out vivid blue sparks. Then they were on the outskirts of the town. Flaming golmohurs shed their blossoms on the road as it began to climb a hill. The engine groaned in protest as they struggled up the slope. She could now see Raibagh spread at their feet, the glinting tin roofs of the houses,the minarets of the mosques, the play field. Further afield were the brick kilns, letting loose thin columns of smoke though chimney stacks. Further beyond was the grey blue river. It was a clear day and Maura could even see the tiny fishing boats on the rivers bosom. Murli pointed out the sights, shouting excitedly above the roar of the engine,as ifhe too was seeing them for the first time.

Then,with a last bone rattling shudder,the auto rounded a bend and the Raibagh palace come into view Maura let out an involuntary gasp. It was the most beautiful building she had ever seen. A great white marble dome, supported by massive arches, stained glass windows winking in the sunlight,teak doors with brass studs on them .... in front ofthis was a shimmering fountain ringed by four marble benches. Men

thronged in front of the massive wrought iron gates, hawking postcards,candy, balloons, nuts and even miniature plastic models of the palace. Murli bought the entrance tickets. They entered the gar­den

though a smaller gate. Security men in olive green uniforms checked Maura's tote bag and waved them in.

I am coming here since childhood only" Murli informed her with a shy smile.

"How old is it"? She enquired. "Oh,two hundred and fourteen years".

He replied promptly "Built by Amir-ud-din Faisal, Nawab of Raibagh. Took nine years to build, cost forty lacs."

She let out an amused laugh. He sounded like a brochure. They crossed the parquet floor of the verandah and entered a magnificent marble foyer. Murli pointed out the ornate cornices and the arches which framed serene landscapes. Female figurines were lined along the walls, each holding a lamp above her head. Tiered chandeliers were suspended from above,

It was quite early and visitors had not yet arrived. Maura and Murli wandered about happily absorbed,climbing the giant staircase, admiring the curved balustrade ,the paintings of the Nawab and his family,the wood-panelling on the library walls.Murli prattled on and on in his heavily accented English about how the furniture was bought from Europe by sea,and how many Viceroys had dined here.

Maura's face was flushed and animated. She smiled frequently and touched Murli's arm to point out objects of interest. She felt young, playful. Once when he had his ~ack to her, she quickly stepped behind a wooden screen with stained glass. He looked around, puzzled, calling out "Madam, Madam," in an anxious tone, his voice echoing in the high ceilinged banquet hall.

"Call me Maura" she said, stepping out again, to his relief."Madam sounds so silly."

"Why silly?" he looked a little hurt. "I am giving you respect" . "Oh", she said with a shrug,"Do not be so bloody formal".

Then they made their way down a flight of stairs to the underground maze. It was pitch dark and Mauta held on to Murli's arm as they wandered about. It was cold and dark. Murli explained how traitors in the old days were let loose on the maze. They wandered about for days, starving and exhausted, until they dropped down dead.

"Let's get out of here Murli". Maura said in a strained voice,"I'm not feeling too well"

Tongue clicking in an expression of concern. Murli took her arm and guided her up the steps. He was very close to her and she could smell the coconut oil on his hair. They were now on a long panelled passage. At the other end was a twisting staircase that led to the first floor. A red signboard warned that it was out of bounds for visitors.

"Madam ", Murli said with a conspiratorial whisper "Want to come?

Nobody will know. I am showing you the private quarters of Amir-ud-dins favourite concubine ... "

"I'm all for it, man"she winked. She climbed the steps and Murli followed her. They came to another corridor. At the end was an ornate door. Murli pushed it open and ushered her in with a courtly bow.

A massive four poster bed stood in the centre of the room,filled with satin pillows and bolsters. On the four comers of the bed were four cherubs, caved out of wood, their naked bodies plump and sensuous. There were landscapes on the walls and exquisite crystal bric a brae on incidental tables scattered about the room. A frothy lace canopy hung above the bed. An oval rose coloured carpet covered the marble floor. There were rows and rows of gilt edged mirrors on three sides of the room and Maura was a little overcome by the mutliple images she saw of herself and Murli.

"What was her name? She asked in a whisper.

"Shaheen" he said "Died young. It broke Amir-ud-din's heart .... " She sat down on the bed,feeling its luxurious softness.

"Come here Murli", she called out in a low voice.

An eyebrow raised in enquiry.

"Is anything wrong. Madam?"

"Come here" she patted the space on the bed. "Sit next to me."

A little puzzled. A little wary. He came and sat down next to her.

Took out his comb and ran it over his hair.

A slow warmth started from the depths of her belly and spread in radiating waves. Her skirt had slipped way above her knees, exposing her thighs but she made no attempt to lower it. Murli put the comb back into his pocket and fiddled with the strap of his watch.

"Time to go Madam."he muttered warningly, his gaze averted. She touched his bristly chin with a tentative finger and forced him to meet her eyes. Then her finger wandered to his adams apple and the matted hair on his chest.

"No!" his denial came out like a little explosion. But her arms went around his neck and her mouth found his lips. It seemed an eternity as they struggled in that mirrored room, her body straining against him,her golden hair falling in waves over his brown face, her hips grinding against his, their clothes dishevelled.

Then he gave her a violent push and stood up, breathing heavily. "Time to go Madam"he said curtly. For internlinable moments she stared at him, feelings of anger, defeat, despair flitting across her face. Suddenly she looked old and haggard.

"I have a wife" he said humbly, as if an explanation was due "I am loving her very much".

She gave a bitter laugh. So this was it. Through all the strife and loneliness of her life one thing had kept her going. The thought that she would win over men, anyone she fancied, by flaunting her beauty. And this short man with the copper skin and white smile had smashed that illusion. A white hot flash of anger streaked through her. Sud­denly life seemed a cold damp and dark maze where you took a wrong turning.

"What's your wife's name?" she asked brightly, as ifthey had been having an innocuous conversation all along.

"Madhavi." He said after a pause."Do you want to meet her, she will like you."

"We'll see about that. "She stepped into her sandals, turned to him

and said in as normal a tone she could muster."Could you go outside for a minute. I'll be out in a short while".

He went out of the ornate door. She waited till he had gone and looked around quickly. The white hot rage was simmering within and she had to act before it spent itself. Next to the bed was an ornamaental table. On it lay a book bound in red cloth with gold lettering in Arabic. It was very old and valuable. Without a moments hesitation she slipped it in her tote bag and went after Murli.

It was one in the afternoon when they reached the Palace gates.

Tourists had arrived in buses and cars and there was a rush for tickets . . The security men were checking bags and looked harried.

"Here" she said to Murli. "Hold my bag.-1 don't want to lose it in the rush." They inched forward.

"You" barked a guard. "Open the bag".

The guard, a tall robust man with a gun on his belt, dressed in olive green, fished out the red book from the tote bag.

Murli let out an expression of surprise and turned to her indignantly.

"He let me have it for a hundred dollars."She told the security man."He wanted two hundred dollars."

"Madam, this is the Koran" another guard rasped, moustache bristIing."He is selling the Mussalman's holiest book?"

She shrugged. Her grey eyes flecked with gold were cool,indifferent. "He was very insistent. "She explained. "He forced me to buy it"

The first guard grabbed Murli by the collar and punched his face.

He dropped to his knees, his arms trying to protect his face. There was a roar from the crowd. Some others joined in the beating. Someone kicked him between his legs. A woman screamed.

She edged away, his cry of pain ringing in her ears. She slipped out of the gates and merged into the crowd. An autorickshaw man, glad to have a foreigner as a passenger willingly took her down the hill,past the view of the river, the brick kiln and minarets of the mosque, past

the carpet of golmohur blossoms, to the town where the welder still showered metal blue sparks from his torch, where men sat in shops and spread out bolts of cloth on snow white mattresses. She got back to her hotel and stayed in her room.

Later in the evening the Manager came to her room, apologising that there would be no chicken for dinner. Trouble had broken out in the town. A Hindu had tried to sell a Koran to a foreigner. Shops had downed their shutters. The roads were deserted. Some Muslim youths had heckled a priest of the Shiva temple. The situation was bad.

"Are there buses to Hyderabad now?" she asked, trying to keep calm.

"Yes,one leaves in half an hour's time." "Then get me the bill, I am leaving."

Half an hour later the bus left for Hyderabad. And Maura Brent was in it.

Then she was back in Cedar falls, Iowa, picking up the threads of her life there. She bought a flat,enrolled in a yoga class, changed her analyst. One day, on the way home she passed the glass fronted store exhibiting Indian handicrafts. On display was a life size statue of a blue god, a flute held to his lips, fingers poised. She read the label Krishna, stared at it for a long time, her grey gold flecked eyes filled with pain. For Murli. Named after a god. Whose only fault was that he believed in fidelity.

"Forgive me",she whispered. It was all she could do.

Then she walked away,a lone figure in the long avenue where in slow, silent spirals the brown leaves of autumn fell endlessly ...