Theroux Paul - A Dead Hand - A Crime in Calcutta

Parvati's parents disapproved of me, as they would any man who cast his shadow over her and darkened her chances of a good match. They would certainly have hated me if they'd known how I spent my days longing for Mrs. Unger. Parvati would have been devastated too.

I would have gladly said to them, "That woman is the noblest person I've met in India — an ideal in your own terms! She asks for nothing. She uses her own money and all her time to improve the lives of Indian children."

The rest had to remain my secret. It was just not possible for anyone to imagine the physicality of my craving, how I was touched by her and yearned for more of it. How I longed to be alone with her. What it was like to be held by her, her hot dark breath at my ear: Do you want me to stop?

For Parvati, despite her sensual poems, my associating with Mrs. Unger would have been a crime.

All this was simultaneous, and I couldn't tell Parvati of Mrs. Unger, or vice versa. And Mrs. Unger made me strong enough to be able to endure the wait until she was free to see me. I liked having her as a secret, and I knew it was desire because nothing else mattered and everything seemed possible. It even seemed logical that I should be sitting in a very ordinary hotel on a back street in Calcutta, waiting to be summoned by a woman I had known for three weeks, who had introduced herself in a teasing letter she never now alluded to — had perhaps forgotten.

Another party at the consul general's, for some visiting academics, Howard making the introductions, Parvati in a green silk sari trimmed with gold, others dressed the same, in silks like extravagant plumage. I was uneasy in the presence of beautiful Indian women who arrayed themselves like courtesans, with nose jewels and dangly earrings, extending their slender arms, gold bangles jingling, and offering nothing but teasing fragrance. I resented the ancient rules of courtship that framed their lives and made them inaccessible.

Parvati was like that, a challenge, as radiant as they were, but wiser. "They're pukka Brahmins," she told me when I asked about her parents.

That was a coded way of suggesting that I was unclean to them. She confirmed that though her father's name was Surendranath, he was known as Punch. Then she sized me up and said, "You're not here, as usual."

Odd that even in her detached way — she hardly knew me — she could be so perceptive.

"Where am I?"

"You're far away." She put a folded poem in my hand.

I opened it and read the first lines:

In you, a single blue country

Laid bare of inconsistencies.

A bone of truth caught in a cage of fire.

"A love poem," I said. "It's very good. It's a dream. You're amazing. You're a brilliant poet. You practice martial arts. You do seductive dances. And you live with your parents. How is that possible?"

"It's the Indian way. If I marry I'll probably live with my parents. I don't have any brothers. My sister's still in college. Who'll look after them?"

"What do you mean if you marry?"

"I hold views on marriage," she said.

"Thank you for this poem. I want to see all your poems."

But even saying that, I felt disloyal to Mrs. Unger. I didn't want to be there. I was more uncomfortable with Parvati's good poems than her weak ones.

But it was true, as she had said, that I was far away. A woman in her detached, somewhat elevated position was extra-sensitive to a lapse in my attention, the more so because we were unphysical. She was more alert to gesture and tone, to the pulses in the air around me, than a hugger or a hand holder would have been. This was the upside of Indian romance: without sex, fascinated in virginal alertness, every other instinct was sharpened, almost to the point of hysteria. She knew from my eyes, the way I breathed, my posture, the tiniest inflection, from my very odor, perhaps, that my heart was somewhere else. In an overformal society where insincerity was the norm, where most relationships, including marriage, were based on polite or hostile untruths, Parvati was expert in seeing through my meaningless compliments and evasions.

Compared to this, being held by Mrs. Unger while I lay naked on the wooden table was the real world. With her, every word mattered and was unambiguous. We spoke the same language. We were free. She was generous and humane and was mistress of the great Lodge, shelter to abused and abducted children. Next to this, poems and dances were trifles of showing off, mere niceties with the subtext Look at me!

And Mrs. Unger had love left over for me. No, I don't want you to stop. That was my yearning, lavish, frank, risky, naked, physical, un-Indian. Don't stop.

As I hoped, Mrs. Unger summoned me about a week after the long day at the Kali temple and the compound at Shibpur, a few days after my unsettling meeting with Theroux at the Fairlawn. Balraj drove me to the Lodge. I caught his glance in the rear-view mirror as we entered the back street of villas.

"Alipore?"

"Alipore."

She met me at the door holding a small girl by the hand.

"Recognize her?"

I couldn't remember the Indian name. I said, "Daylight."

"Usha. Dawn. See how happy she is?" She led me into the Lodge. "The other children are here. They're settling down nicely. They feel right at home."

With that, she let go of Usha's hand and took mine, but with a tightening insinuation in her grip. I wanted to nuzzle her hand, the way a dog licks its mistress's fingers. Love is a yearning to clutch and hold, to be clutched and held.

The Lodge was alive: children's voices rang in the room and upstairs the drumming of running feet, the shriek of laughter; the aromas of cooking and flowers; the monotone of chanted mantras, repetitious and soothing, a kind of holy gargling. It was cool here too, and the high perimeter wall muffled the sound of traffic. This was the other world that I longed for and had found, not exotic at all, not the gaudy and overformal India but a version of home — secure and safe in the embrace of this lovely woman.

We descended to her vault without speaking. I took my clothes off while Mrs. Unger lit the candles and adjusted the volume of the Indian chants. I lay face-down in the heat, and she traced the contours of my body with her fingers for some minutes. After that, she began digging her knuckles into my shoulders, now and then pouring hot oil on my back. She was able to penetrate deep within me, reaching to the meat of my muscles, taking her time. She worked on my head, my face, and my jaw, squeezing her thumb in the declivities of my shoulders, and it seemed to me that her unhesitating fingers and hands were following familiar paths along the length of my body, because her confident touching reassured me.

"I need you to turn over."

So I did, and she slipped a damp cloth over my eyes. She bent over me — I felt the cool sweep of her hair linger on my skin. In a refinement that was new to me, she began to nibble and lick at my nipples, and to chafe the areolas with her fingertips.

"Do you want me to stop?"

My voice was a croak of encouragement as the heaviness of her hair continued to spill like a silken shawl across my stomach. Her hands were all over me, four hands it seemed, or more than four, and as she touched she made me weightless, lifting me off the table in a prolonged ritual of levitation. She went lower, her hands and lips — multiple mouths — taking possession of me, not giving what I wanted, but offering urgent promises. She anticipated what I wanted, which was a pleasure beyond desire, something like a refinement of gluttony, sucking the life from me, all the while soothing me with a satisfied purring in her throat.

I was folded into darkness, then came suddenly awake as though in a new room. I yanked the towel off my eyes.