Tea and Spices (An Erotic Novel of Colonial India) (25 page)

“I was doing no such thing,” Devora said. “I wanted to use the powder room.”

 
“Of course you did.” The maharaja flicked the cigarette over the railing and approached her. “But you cannot tell me you did not remember what we did in that room.”

 
Devora backed up a step, only to encounter the wall. She disliked the look in his eyes.

 
“What we did was a mistake,” she snapped. “It might have been exciting at first, but I no longer want anything to do with you. Please leave me alone.”

 
“Ah, my dear Mrs. Hawthorne.” The maharaja reached up and traced the scooped neckline of her dress with his finger. “You have a sensual nature unlike that of any British woman I have known.”

 
“And I’m sure you’ve known plenty of them.” Devora swatted his hand away. “I’m going back to the reception.”

“You mean, you don’t want to stay here with me?” Something wicked glinted in the maharaja’s expression as he pressed his large body against hers, pinning her to the wall. His stale breath rasped against her cheek.

 
Fear lit in Devora like a struck match. She suspected people did not often refuse the maharaja anything. She pressed her hands against his chest and tried to push him away. “Get away from me.”

 
“You know you enjoyed what I did to you,” he whispered, skimming his hand up her abdomen to her breast. “Wouldn’t you like to do it again?”

 
“No!” Devora snapped. “Get the hell away from me! If you don’t, I swear I will charge you with assault! How do you think the British officers will react to that?”

 
“Considering you have willingly given yourself to me at least twice, I suspect that they will consider you to be quite a little whore.” The maharaja grasped her breast in his hand and tried to press a kiss against her lips.

 
Nausea rose in Devora’s stomach like a wave. Without thinking, she slammed her knee upward and hit him squarely in the groin. He grunted in pain and released her, doubling over to clutch at himself.

 
“Keep treating me like this and what little you have down there will be so damaged that it’ll no longer work,” Devora snapped. While he was down, she slapped him across the face for good measure and then turned and fled.

 
Devora couldn’t return to the reception room in her current state, and so she pushed open the closed door of a room along the mezzanine and ducked inside. She shut the door behind her and leaned against it, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath and collect her senses.

 
After she had calmed down a bit, she focused on her surroundings. Her eyes widened at the sight of three, beautifully made-up women draped in silk
saris
and an abundance of gold jewelry. They lounged on velvet couches, and one of them was smoking from a hookah pipe. All three of them were staring at her.

 
“Oh,” Devora said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

 
None of them replied, and Devora realized they probably didn’t speak English. She couldn’t believe the room itself, with its rich furnishings of velvet and gold brocade. A dressing table held lacquer boxes overflowing with gold jewelry and precious gems. Devora suddenly felt almost frumpy in her beaded dress and pearl earrings.

 
“You are the maharaja’s
memsahib
, are you not?” one of the women asked. Devora recognized her as the woman who had approached her in the lounging room during her first lunch with the maharaja. What was her name? Alpana.

 
“No, I’m not,” Devora said. “I mean, I was…” Her voice trailed off.

 
“He has spoken of you,” Alpana said. “He has said that you were not good enough for him.”

 
“More that he has been cruel to me,” Devora replied. “I discovered that he is not a kind man.”

 
Alpana’s expression darkened. “No, he is not.”

 
Her voice was so certain that Devora looked at her in surprise. She wondered what odd perversions Alpana had suffered at the maharaja’s hands.

 
“You are lucky,” Alpana said. “I advise that you stay away from him. You are free now, yes?”

 
“I…yes.”

 
Alpana waved a hand towards the other women. “We are not. Perhaps we never will be.”

 
“I-I’m sorry.” The thick scents of smoke and incense made Devora slightly dizzy. What was this woman telling her? “Excuse me.”

 
She hurried back out onto the mezzanine, relieved to discover the maharaja was no longer there. She paused by the railing to collect her composure before following the sound of voices back to the reception room.

 
“Excuse me, Gerald, but may I speak with you?” Devora put her hand on Gerald’s arm as he stood talking with a group of British officers.

 
“Of course, darling.” Gerald followed her to a corner of the room. “What is it?”

“I’m feeling rather ill,” Devora explained. “Would you mind terribly if we returned home now?”

 
A crease of concern appeared between Gerald’s eyebrows. “What’s the matter?”

 
“I just have a bit of a headache. I’d really like to go home.”

“Darling, I have some important business to discuss here,” Gerald said, glancing back towards the group of men. “Can’t you stay for a little while longer?”

“No, I’m really not well.”

 
“Well, why don’t I ask Rohan to drive you home, then? I can return with the Thompsons after dinner.”

 
“Yes, I would appreciate that.”

 
“I’ll go and fetch him while you apologize to the maharaja.” Gerald headed for the front entrance.

 
Devora had no intentions of seeking out the maharaja again, so she quickly told Louise that she would be leaving and asked her to convey her regrets. Then she went outside, breathing in a rush of fresh air as if it could cleanse her of another repulsive incident.

 
“All right, darling?” Gerald came towards her. “I’m sorry I can’t return with you, but this has to do with the maharaja’s politics.”

 
“No, no, it’s all right,” Devora assured him. “I’ll be fine.”

 
Rohan drove the car up to the entrance and opened the door for Devora. Gerald kissed her on the cheek and helped her inside.

 
“You’re not well,
memsahib
?” Rohan asked as he guided the car onto the road.

 
“I’ll be fine,” Devora repeated. “Just a little sick to my stomach, that’s all.”

 
Rohan glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “Does this have to do with the maharaja?”

 
Devora gave him a sharp look. “Why do you ask?”

 
“I recall you were quite distraught the last time you left him,” Rohan explained. “It would not surprise me if he was the cause.”

 
“Why? What do you know about him?”

 
“I know that he is very tyrannical,” Rohan said. “And as you know, rumors abound.”

 
Devora thought of the harem women. Alpana had been right. At least she was able to free herself. Heaven only knew just how intense the maharaja’s tyranny could get.

 
“Was that the reason you kept trying to prevent me from visiting him?” she asked Rohan.

 
“Of course. I wanted nothing to happen to you.”

 
Devora considered his words. Rather than being annoyed by them, however, she found them oddly comforting. “Then I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you.”

Rohan shrugged philosophically. “Often people do not heed words,” he said. “They must discover the truth for themselves.”

 
“Well, I certainly did that,” Devora replied, turning to look out the window. “He’s an unpleasant, greedy man. I think he is so used to people obeying him that he has completely ceased all regard for others.”

 
“Yet, it took you some time to discover that for yourself,” Rohan said.

 
Devora nodded, not finding his words to be particularly offensive.

 
“It’s a very romantic idea, meeting a maharaja,” she admitted. “I suppose I was rather taken by the notion. Unfortunately, the man himself quickly destroyed any illusions I might have had.”

 
“Perhaps it is better that he did so sooner rather than later,” Rohan suggested.

 
“Yes, perhaps,” Devora agreed. The sun still shimmered over the horizon, coating the plains in crimson. A distant river ran parallel to the road, bordered by trees and tall reeds with a small temple standing on the banks. “Rohan?”

 
“Yes,
memsahib
?”

 
“Would you pull over to that river, please? I’d like to stop for a moment.”

 
Rohan guided the car off the road and parked underneath a tree near the river. Both he and Devora got out and walked to the river. The air was much cooler now than during the day, creating a refreshing, sweet breeze.

They stopped close to the river, whose undulating waters moved swiftly south. The only sounds were those of the river, the rustling trees, and the chirping of birds. The purity of the riverbank and the air washed away the garish opulence and noise of the maharaja’s party. Devora took a deep breath, cleansing her lungs of the cloying scents of incense and perfume.

 
“What river is this?” she asked.

 
“The Ganges,
memsahib
. The holiest of India’s rivers. The waters are known as
amrita
, the nectar of immortality.”

 
Devora looked at the temple, which was so close to the river that its steps descended beneath the water’s surface. A half-naked man stood on the steps, waist-deep in the river, pouring water on his head with a small pot. Several flowers floated on the water around him.

 
“It is considered that bathing in the Ganges washes away one’s sins,” Rohan explained, following her gaze to the worshipping man. “The Ganges is said to have come down from the heavens onto the head of Lord Shiva. For thousands of years, the waters spread through his hair before descending onto the earth. If you look at the Shiva Nataraja statues in which he is performing the cosmic dance of creation, you will see a small, female figure in his hair. That is a personification of the Ganges River.”

 
“That’s fascinating,” Devora said. “Do you know all of this from your studies? You play the piano so beautifully, you know so much about Indian religion and philosophies, and yet…” Her voice trailed off.

 
“Yet, I am merely a servant,” Rohan finished.

 
“It does seem a bit strange,” Devora admitted.

 
“There is no shame in servitude,” Rohan replied. “There is no shame in any job, no matter how menial. If the duties are carried out properly and the job is done well, then one should take pride in that.”

 
“But, haven’t you wanted to be something more?” Devora asked. “Haven’t you wanted to be a teacher or a doctor or even a…a concert pianist?”

 
“The piano I learned when I was a child, as I told you,” Rohan explained. “I play for enjoyment. As for teaching, I teach English to a group of school children twice a week in the village. I am happy doing what I do. No, I have not wanted for more.”

 
“Well, I think you could be much more than a servant,” Devora said. “What about all of the Indian mythology that you know? Did you learn that in school?”

 
“Ah, India.” Rohan shrugged. “One learns through life.”

 
“Are you very religious?”

 
“I am not as devout as perhaps I should be.”

 
“Do you believe in things like karma and reincarnation?” Devora asked.

 
“Of course. And destiny.”

 
“I don’t believe in destiny. I dislike the idea of assuming that one’s path is already set and unchangeable.”

 
“That is not the destiny of Hinduism,
memsahib
,” Rohan said. “If that were the case, we would all be idle. Destiny is the result of one’s actions in previous lives, that is true. However, destiny is insignificant without exertion. One must take action in order to follow one’s path.”

 
“Well, that makes more sense,” Devora said. “Otherwise, what is the point of karma?”

 
“Exactly,
memsahib
. One must act well in this life in order to secure happiness for the next life. My father always told me that.”

 
“Were you close to your father?”

“My father?” Rohan sounded surprised. “Yes. I loved my father very much.” He paused. “And your parents?”