The Mammoth Book of Frankenstein (Mammoth Books) (74 page)

I’m not saying that at that time I accepted all of what Barr-Taylor had told me. Hindu holy men, both rishis and saddhus, are commonplace in India, as are Buddhist monks. Some are itinerant, some tend to stay in one place, but all are reliant on the charity of others, and that charity is usually generous. However, the district officer had whetted my curiosity more than a little.

So at the earliest opportunity, I rode out to visit Katachari. As always, Mushtaq Khan accompanied me, alert that I should not come to harm. When first appointed to my district, I had protested to the old warrior that I would be perfectly safe in my travels, that I was sure the people would respect me.

“That may well be, Rowan-sahib,” Mushtaq Khan had growled, “I doubt not that your God and mine will watch over you. And yet it will do no harm for you to be seen in my company. The sight of a Pathan is an excellent way of reinforcing respect among these unbelievers.”

I had to admit he was right. When he rode high in the saddle, moustaches bristling, vicious curved dagger at his belt, and long Martini-Henry rifle balanced before him, he was fully capable of reinforcing my own respect. I felt that together we could have seen off the worst band of dacoits.

The way to Katachari led through forest, at times quite dense, in other places thinning out so that the path before us was dappled emerald and bronze and saffron by filtered sunlight. It was cooler here beneath the leafy canopy and the air was heady with fragrances of bright flowers and ripening fruits and the mulch of decaying vegetation. Above us flittered jewel-like birds, their cries tolling to their mates, while monkeys squabbled amongst themselves and scolded us when we passed.

Our conversation tended to be one-sided. Mushtaq Khan talked and I listened. While ostensibly his superior, I had the sense to know that I could learn much from the old man and I’m sure that everything
he said to me was intended to impart some lesson. I wasn’t his first sprog and I sometimes marvelled at his limitless patience.

We were probably about three-quarters of the way to Katachari when I began to catch glimpses of what looked like a stone building further back among the trees.

“What’s that?” I asked Mushtaq Khan, pointing towards the structure.

“An ancient Hindu temple, sahib,” the Pathan told me. “It was left to the jungle many years ago, long, long before the coming of the sahibs.”

“I’d like to take a look,” I said. Mushtaq shrugged and tugged at the reins, guiding his horse to follow mine.

At one time, lord knows how many centuries previously, the temple must have stood within a considerable clearing, but now the forest had inexorably reclaimed its own. The grey, weathered stone was gripped by tangles of twisted, verdant branches and crawling vines, and bright blossoms hung from plants which had set themselves and taken life in the crumbling mortar between the gigantic blocks.

As is common with Hindu temples, the edifice was lavishly decorated with row upon row of sculpted figures depicting scenes from their mythology. Gods and warriors struggled, locked in combat until the stones finally crumbled. Nautch girls and courtesans and temple maidens allured, their time-weary enticements frozen and eroding.

Several rows of statuary at the friezes were brazenly erotic and I think I flushed, torn by the conflicting pressures of a young man’s lusts and the restrictions of the society in which I was raised.

The focal point, above what probably had been the main entrance to the temple, was a carving much larger than all of the others. I believed it to be of Prithivi, the Hindu earth-goddess, the goddess of fertility. She smiled gently down upon me, her arms extended in welcome. By chance, nature had adorned the goddess with gorgeous hibiscus flowers, lending almost an illusion of fruitfulness.

I think more than anything I was struck by a great sense of peace in this place. And then, almost lost in myself, I was disturbed by a grumpy snort. I turned, to catch a slight frown on the face of the elderly Pathan. I had momentarily overlooked the Moslem disapproval of what they consider idolatry.

I covered by taking out my watch and glancing at the time. “Yes, very interesting, Mushtaq Khan,” I said, “but I really think that we’d better hurry on to Katachari.”

I still sometimes wonder if the glint in his eye then had been approval or amusement at the transparency of the young Sahib.

We reached the village about half-an-hour later, the forest thinning and clearing as we passed the huts of harijans – the Untouchables –
and then those of the poorer farmers. We turned onto a wider road and our route became more busy. Men stooped under the weight of bundles, drivers of ox-carts, women in butterfly colours bearing laundry to the river, elders sitting in the shade, all called out greetings to us as we rode by them. Children began to tag onto us. The closer into the village we came, the longer became our train of frolicking urchins, happily ignoring Mushtaq Khan’s admonitions to respect the sahib’s dignity.

We guided our horses towards the village square and I was assailed by the odours of dust and frying spices and cattle dung and all those other wonderful smells of India.

A small group of men awaited, their manner respectful. When we had dismounted, one of them came forward, making namaste. “At last, Rowan-Sahib, I am honoured to welcome you to Katachari. I am Gokul, the headman and landlord.”

I returned Gokul’s greetings and conveyed the good wishes of Barr-Taylor. I was quickly introduced to the others, a mixed group of men who comprised the village council. Within minutes all were seated and drinking hot, sweet tea as we discussed matters important to the village and the region. Three men sat slightly apart: two Brahmins whose caste disallowed close contact with non-Hindus, and Mushtaq Khan, guided more by his warrior alertness than by his distaste for infidels.

Then without warning, my hosts fell silent and slowly the councilmen rose to their feet, bowing their heads as they did so. Behind me, I heard an old and dry voice saying, “Enough of such mundane matters, Gokul, I am sure Rowan-sahib hears them daily and to whom is farming of any interest save another farmer? Anyway, I believe the sahib was advised to make this journey to meet me.”

I, too, rose and turned to face the speaker. When I looked at him, I felt a breathless shock as if I had suddenly been plunged into an ice-cold bath. Aditya was small in stature and, in common with most holy men, very thin. He was clad in a white robe, and long white hair and beard cascaded down his body. But it was the deeply-shadowed, hypnotic eyes and the sense of sheer power emanating in waves from the man which held and enthralled.

Instinctively, I lowered my head, placing my palms together and making namaste to the holy man. I surprised myself in doing this, for protocol was that I should have been greeted first. Even greater was my surprise when I saw, from the corner of my eye, Mushtaq Khan also bowing and making salaam.

The rishi placed his hands over mine. “Come, my son, we will go to my home and talk.” He turned and I followed without further bidding.
Again I was astounded at the reaction of Mushtaq Khan who, instead of following at his usual discreet distance, resumed his seat and took up his tea.

The rishi’s home was small and simple, as would have been expected. I had to stoop to pass through the low portal into the single room, poorly illuminated by lighted wicks floating in dishes of oil. The air was thick with the sweetness of the many smouldering incense sticks balanced in ornate brass holders which were scattered about the floor. And there was another underlying odour that I could not identify. Perhaps it was the smell of old age.

I could see at a glance that the place was sparsely furnished. Two single charpoys were positioned at opposite sides of the room, each furnished with a light blanket. There was a low table and several stools, while at the rear was a small stove and a number of clay cooking pots. There were niches in the mud walls which held statuettes of deities.

As we entered, a woman came silently to her feet and stood with her eyes cast down. Like Aditya, she was clothed entirely in white, but her garb was not the usual sari. Instead, she wore a burkha, the all-enveloping garb worn by most Moslem women. A veil was drawn across her face. Only her eyes, hands and feet were visible.

“Welcome to my home, Rowan-sahib,” said the rishi, “this is Chandira, my wife.” Turning to the woman, he added, “Bring chai for our guest, Chandira.”

As the woman moved to the stove to make her preparations, the rishi gestured me to a stool before taking up the lotus position on one of the charpoys. He closed his eyes, apparently as a signal that until the niceties were observed we should refrain from conversation.

I took the opportunity to study the man. He was certainly unlike other holy men I had experienced. Not counting the Brahmin priests, there are two kinds of Hindu holy men: the rishis, who may marry if they wish, and the saddhus, the celibates.

If most people have a mental picture of Hindu holy men, it will probably be of the saddhus. They are the itinerants, the ones who travel naked or near naked, their bodies covered in ashes and dust. Many of them mortify the flesh as an offering to their pantheon of gods. But even the rishis will often maltreat themselves to demonstrate spirituality.

Aditya was clean, and to the casual glance seemed quite normal other than for his ascetic spareness. He was old, but more than two hundred? I doubted it.

I was startled from reverie by the woman’s sudden appearance at my side as she set down tea and a dish of fruit slices. My senses were overwhelmed by the richly musky perfume with which she
seemed to have dowsed heself. While not in itself unpleasant, the scent was cloying. I did not look at her too closely as I thanked her, being sensible of how easily I could give offence. I did notice rather beautiful eyes and elegant hands. Then she moved back to a corner and squatted mute on the earthen floor.

Aditya’s eyes snapped open and seemed to penetrate my own. Then it was as if they filmed over and he gestured an invitation to the refreshments.

I sipped at the tea, which relaxed me a little and could not restrain my curiosity. “Your wife, Aditya-Sahib, is she a Moslem?” Such mixed marriages were not common, but neither were they unknown.

“A Moslem?” He glanced over at the woman. “No, she is not a Moslem.” He smiled. “You have no wife, Rowan-sahib.” It was not a question.

“No, sir.” The rishi continued to stare at me and I felt somehow that I had to explain. “It’s not our custom for a young man making his way in the world to marry. We believe that his career comes first.”

“How very strange.” Aditya selected a slice of orange and nibbled on it. “Young men of your race are placed in positions of great importance, of great responsibility, so that you may satisfy the urges of the mind, and yet at this time of your possibly greatest potency, you are expected to ignore the more natural urges of flesh. Tell me, Rowan-sahib, do you not find yourself frustrated by the unanswered cry of your loins? Do you not find yourself longing for the soft, naked body of a loving and compliant woman to comfort you in the long hours of the night?”

I thought again of those erotic carvings on the Prithivi temple in the forest and felt my face grow hot. I was thankful for the poor light in the rishi’s home, thankful that my embarrassment was not visible to him. “Excuse me, Rishi-sahib, it is not our way to discuss such matters,” I prevaricated, wishing that he would let the matter drop.

The holy man laughed, a crackling, raspy noise which was not too pleasant. “Such a young race, such children,” he mused. “Now I have been married very many times, for is it not the natural way of life? Certain of my wives were more precious to me than others. Let me tell you of my favourites, let me tell you of the erotic pleasure that each one had to offer a man.”

He raised his cup, slurping noisily at his tea. “Kumud had fair looks, great beauty. Her face was a perfect oval, with flesh like that of a fresh peach bearing traces of morning dew. Her eyes held the promise of heaven and her yoni fulfilled that promise.

“Radhika was the daughter of a Kashmiri Brahmin, with light skin,
little darker than that of a sahib. Hers was the body which most delighted my senses. From neck to upper thighs she was perfect, with breasts . . . I think your own holy book is most eloquent when it likens the loved one’s breasts to young roes feeding among the lilies. Her body hair was plucked, in the fashion of the ancient nobility, so that but a slim arrow showed the way to paradise and such a paradise, sahib, such a paradise.”

Quite frankly, I didn’t know where to put myself, hearing this talk which seemed to me to be so appallingly candid. I glanced frantically towards the woman, Chandira. The rishi correctly interpreted my hint, but his only reaction was to repeat that arid laugh. “Do not fret that my wife is shocked, Rowan-sahib. Is she not an Indian woman? Talk of sensual pleasures is not anathema to us.

“Now, where was I? Ah, my favourite wives. The loveliest, longest limbs were those of Shamin and Phoolan. Shamin’s arms could draw a man close so it was as if being was melting into being. And Phoolan’s legs were strong, like pythons, clasping a man to her as he entered, relaxing not until the course was run for both.”

The rishi’s eyes held me, and his smile seemed to mock my innocence. Selecting another piece of fruit, he continued, “Harpal was blind, and from an early age she had been trained in the art of massage. Her hands and feet were beautiful, well-cared for, strong and delicate. They could coax from a man’s well more than he believed himself to contain, so that his essence was as a perpetual fountain.

“These, then, Rowan-sahib, were the most-favoured of my many wives.” He thrust his head forward, one eyebrow raised sardonically, as if to ask my opinion of his marital history.

Compelled to say something, if only as a necessity to disguise my discomfiture, I asked, “How can a man have had so many wives in one lifetime?”

Yet again, the laugh, which was beginning to make me shiver. “One lifetime? How old do you think I am, young man?”

I hesitated, and Aditya snapped, “The Barr-Taylor has already told you, and yet neither of you believe.”