Tea and Spices (An Erotic Novel of Colonial India) (8 page)

She would have thought she was going crazy were it not for the fact that everything felt oddly logical and very, very real. She felt as if the hot sun of India, the dry plains and wheat fields, the crumbling, ancient temples and multi-armed gods had all given her permission to feel and experience every licentious thought.

 
After eating breakfast, Devora picked up her teacup and wandered over to the bookshelf that rested against the wall. She hadn’t taken the opportunity to examine the shelf’s contents, but it occurred to her that there might be some texts dealing with Indian religion and philosophies. Perhaps even this notion of the worship of the phallus. After perusing several English novels and books about Indian history, Devora found a small volume on the bottom shelf entitled
The Kamasutra of the Vatsyayana
.

 
Taking the book, she sat down on the sofa and leafed through it. She had heard of
The Kamasutra
before, of course, but she’d never known exactly what it contained. All she knew was that it was a fourth-century text about the sacred act of love and union. And she certainly hadn’t known that the book was filled with such sexual detail, focusing on the range of positions available, the erogenous zones, even such matters as how to hold the phallus in one’s mouth.

Devora was certain that some of the sexual postures illustrated in the book were completely impossible between normal people, but, oh, what imagination! She never would have imagined such positions. Her couplings with Gerald, no matter how raw, had always been with her lying on her back and him over her. What would it be like to actually sit astride a man, or to bend over, or to turn away from him…

 
“
Memsahib
, you have a visitor.”

 
Startled, Devora looked up at Rohan. “Excuse me?”

 
“Mrs. Thompson is here to visit you.”

 
“Oh. Please send her in.”

 
Rohan nodded, but not before glancing down at the book in her lap. A hot flush colored Devora’s face as she realized the book was open to a number of illustrations about sexual postures. She slammed the book closed and thrust it back onto the shelf, giving Rohan a haughty glare.

 
“I said, send Mrs. Thompson in,” she ordered.

 
Rohan turned and went back outside. Devora fought the urge to make a face at his retreating back. She hated what he must think of her, and she was equally annoyed with herself for even caring what he thought. He was just a servant, hardly a person of importance. What did it matter if he thought she was a lust-driven tart? Heavens, maybe she was even turning into one.

 
Devora couldn’t help smiling at the thought.

 
“Oh, my goodness, would you feel how hot it is already?” Mrs. Thompson strutted into the room, dressing a flowing chiffon dress and a flowered hat. “I must say, I do long for the rain.”

 
“Hello, Mrs. Thompson, what a pleasant surprise.” Devora stood to kiss the other woman, catching a whiff of talcum powder. “What brings you here?”

 
“My husband told me that you might want to join us on our Agra trip while Gerald is gone,” Mrs. Thompson replied. She sat down heavily in a chair and began fanning herself with her hat. “Dear, have you got any tea brewed?”

 
“I’ll have Kalindi make a fresh pot.” Devora rang the servant’s bell and instructed Kalindi to bring out tea and cookies. She settled down across from Mrs. Thompson. “Yes, I thought going to Agra was a wonderful idea. I’ve been wanting to visit the Taj Mahal, and with Gerald gone for two weeks, I thought I would be quite bored. He suggested a trip might be great fun.”

 
“Yes, I suppose it will be.”

 
“Have you been?”

 
“Oh, of course. Several times. We usually take the train into Delhi, but it’s a rather horrible city. Very crowded and beggars everywhere. Then we take a car to Agra which is, of course, infinitely more pleasant. At least there are a number of British people around.”

 
“When are you planning to go?” Devora asked.

 
“We were hoping to go this coming weekend since that’s when Reginald can take some time off. I’m not comfortable going without a man, you understand.”

 
“Quite.”

 
Kalindi returned with a tea tray and poured two cups, glancing at Mrs. Thompson. “One lump or two,
memsahib
?”

 
“Two.” Mrs. Thompson accepted the tea and watched Kalindi leave the room. “She’s a young one, isn’t she?” she said to Devora.

 
“I imagine she’s at least twenty. That’s not so young.”

 
Mrs. Thompson chuckled. “And how old are you, my dear?”

 
“Twenty-eight.”

 
A thinly penciled eyebrow rose on Mrs. Thompson’s forehead. “Oh.”

 
“Pardon?”

 
“I thought you were younger than that. Having been married only a year and all.”

 
“Yes, I know. I was in danger of being a spinster before Gerald came along and rescued me,” Devora said dryly.

 
“Now, now, there’s no need to be sarcastic,” Mrs. Thompson replied. “Just remember that when there’s a younger woman in the house, regardless of the fact that she is Indian, the men are in danger of temptation.” Her voice rose and fell on the word “temptation,” resulting in a little sing-song tone that Devora found particularly irritating.

 
“I’ll remember that,” she muttered.

 
“So, my dear, you enjoyed our little visit with the maharaja the other day?”

 
“Yes, I found him to be very engaging.” Devora debated about whether or not to tell Mrs. Thompson about the erotic art room, but decided that such a revelation would only give the other woman more fodder for gossip. “His palace is beautiful.”

 
“And he’s quite a dashing man himself, in a regal sort of way. Not handsome really, but poised and, oh, I don’t know. Refined.”

 
“That’s an interesting observation considering the rumors about his sexual behaviors that seem so prevalent,” Devora said.

 
Mrs. Thompson’s eyebrow shot up again, no doubt due to Devora’s sardonic tone. “Well, the persona that one presents to the public is quite different from the one that exists behind closed doors, is that not the case?”

 
Devora had to smile and concede the point. “Yes, that is indeed the case.”

 
Mrs. Thompson suddenly glanced at the doorway, where Rohan stood in all his stoicism. “Does he always just stand there?”

 
“Well, no. Sometimes he drives the car.” Devora couldn’t hold back a grin. She looked at Rohan, hoping that her condescending words would take him down a peg or two.

 
Mrs. Thompson lowered her voice to a whisper. “Be careful around him. Don’t let him wash your undies or anything. Some of these Indians get so excited about white women’s undies.”

 
Now it was Devora’s turn to lift an eyebrow. “He’s not a
dhobi
,” she said. “He’s the head servant.”

 
“Good. Still, it might behoove you to count your underclothes and keep track of them. There have been cases of stealing, you know.”

 
“By women or men?” Devora asked dryly.

 
“Both, of course. The women want to keep them, and I’m sure the men want to do disgusting things with them.”

 
“Really? What kinds of things?” Devora watched with amusement as Mrs. Thompson’s skin grew a rosy shade of pink.

 
“For heaven’s sake, Devora, I’m not going to
explain
them to you. Just don’t let the men steal your undies.”

 
“I’ll do my very best to prevent such a mishap.”

 
Mrs. Thompson glanced at Rohan again. “I hope you don’t let him run the place when Gerald is gone. We’ll have to find someone to stay with you.”

 
“Actually, that’s really not necessary. I’ll be fine alone.” Devora wasn’t entirely convinced of her own words, but she also didn’t want a nanny. She changed the subject so that Mrs. Thompson wouldn’t press the issue. “Isn’t there a picnic tomorrow or something?”

 
Mrs. Thompson’s expression brightened. “Oh, yes! We’ll come pick you up around noon. We’re going to a nearby temple site, so you should bring your sketchpads or paints or whatever it is you use.”

 
“Oh, good. I’ve so been wanting to visit a temple.”

 
“Now, you know, dear, that you can call on myself or Reginald for anything you need. I just hate to think of you all alone here.”

 
“I’ll be fine. Thank you for stopping by.” Devora walked Mrs. Thompson back outside and stood on the porch watching as the horse and carriage chugged away in a cloud of dust.

 
She turned to go back inside. Rohan was standing right behind her near the doorway. Devora gazed at him for a moment, never failing to be intrigued by the sculpted planes of his features and the depth of his eyes.

 
“Where are you from?” she finally asked.

 
“Punjab,
memsahib
. In the north.”

 
Devora knew that was why he was taller than most other Indians and had fairer skin. “Is your family still there?”

 
“My parents are both dead. My sister is married and living in the city of Jaipur.”

 
“I see. I’m sorry. About your parents, I mean.”

 
“What for? Death is simply a move into a different existence.”

 
“That doesn’t mean you can’t be sad about it.”

 
“That would be pointless.”

 
Devora shrugged and moved past him. “To you, all emotion seems pointless.”

 
She wasn’t surprised when he didn’t reply.

 
“He’s practically left her all alone.” Kalindi poured a small pool of coconut oil into her palms and began to massage it through Lota’s long, black hair. “Can you imagine?”

 
“Rohan stays in the servants’ quarters at the back of the house though, doesn’t he?” Lota asked. She was sitting on the floor at Kalindi’s feet, glancing through the pages of a magazine that the
memsahib
had given them. Neither Kalindi nor Lota could even read Hindi, let alone English, but the pictures were quite lovely.

 
“Yes, but I’m surprised the
sahib
entrusted his wife solely to Rohan’s care,” Kalindi explained. She picked up a comb from the bedside table and tugged it carefully through the tangle of Lota’s hair. “Although I did hear that fat cow Mrs. Thompson telling the
memsahib
they should get someone to stay with her.”

 
“Really? Do you think they will?”

 
“Probably. You know Mrs. Thompson. She’s such a busybody.”

 
“What does Rohan think of this whole situation?”

 
“I don’t know,” Kalindi replied. “He only talks to me to give me orders.”

 
“Has the
sahib
visited you at all since his wife arrived?” Lota asked.

 
Kalindi gave an unladylike snort. “No. I think he’s afraid of what she would do if she found out about us. They’ve been spending a lot of time in the bedroom, though.”

 
Lota chuckled. “I can’t imagine why. Maybe she’s satisfying him enough so that he doesn’t need you.”

 
Kalindi yanked hard on a particularly tight tangle in Lota’s hair, causing the other woman to give a yelp of pain.

 
“Ow!” Lota grabbed her head protectively. “That hurt.”

 
“Sorry.”

 
Lota glowered at her. “Kalindi, you can’t have thought that he would still be with you when she arrived.”

 
Kalindi shrugged. Truth be known, she had hoped exactly that. Of course, she didn’t harbor dreams of romance with a British man, but she had enjoyed her occasional visits to his bed. “No, I guess I didn’t.”

 
“Didn’t they go to dinner at the maharaja’s palace recently?” Lota asked, returning her attention to the magazine.

 
“Yes, just a few days ago. I heard the
memsahib
telling Mrs. Thompson that she found the maharaja to be very interesting.”

 
“Really? I wonder what she means by that.”

 
“Every woman finds the maharaja interesting,” Kalindi said. “With all that money, how could he not be interesting?”

 
“I wonder if she knows about his harem and all his sexual preferences,” Lota mused.