Free A River Sutra by Gita Mehta Page A

arms reaching for the dry branches fallen on the mud. As I approached them I saw the saris sliding from their shoulders, baring their waists and the curve of their full breasts to my view as they stacked bundles of wood onto the small donkeys grazing under the trees.
The sturdy bodies of the village women, their catlike faces with the triangular tattoo marks high on each cheekbone, were such a relief after Tariq Mia's story that I returned their greetings with uncharacteristic warmth.
They nudged each other in surprise. "The sahib finds your face pretty today, Rano."
"It must be the season. Spring rouses even old tigers from their rest."
"It's true. Don't you see a prowl to the sahib's walk this morning?"
Their provocative laughter followed me down the gentle incline of the path. "Be careful not to walk alone, sisters. The mango trees are in bloom."
"Kama must be sharpening his arrows of blossoms and stringing his bow with bees, sisters. Take care the sahib does not lure us to a seduction."
I could not help smiling at the women's references to Kama, God of Love, with his sugarcane bow strung with honeybees and his five flowered arrows of desire. There was indeed a mood of longing in the jungle. Small flowers foamed over the leaves of the mango trees, the wind carried the scent of lemon blossoms and sandalwood to my nostrils.
The call of the koil bird, that strange imitation "of a woman's cry at the moment of sexual fulfillment, hung suspended in the air, and I felt mythology might at any moment become reality. That Kama might suddenly draw his sugarcane bow, known as the Exciter of Madness, and unleash one of his five arrows on a hapless wanderer who would then crave some unsuspecting woman as an incarnation of Delight, the Goddess of Involuntary Allure. And to make sure of victory Kama might call on his friends—Spring with his ruthless hands and his beautiful body clothed only in lotus buds, or the Malayan Wind carrying the aromatic perfumes of the South, or most dangerous of all, Amorous Mood.
Grateful to the laughing women for lifting my gloom, I turned to wave at them but they had disappeared and only the green canopy of the jungle rustled over the hill.
Mr. Chagla leaned from the window of his office as I opened the small wooden gate at the back entrance to the bungalow. "Sir! Sir! One minute, sir."
He hurried into the garden, the slight roll to his gait emphasizing the endearing roundness of his whole appearance. Although Mr. Chagla bicycles a good two hours every day, from the town of Rudra to the bungalow and back again, his exertions seem to make little impression on his plump body or interfere with the genial innocence of his open nature, which finds delight in the smallest incident.
"The sugarcane men came while you were on your walk, sir."
"I'm sorry, Chagla. I was unavoidably detained at the mosque."
"Mention not, sir. I purchased three bundles. At this very time they are stacked against the kitchen wall. We will have lots of juice for the visitors."
He handed me a letter with the indulgence of a parent handing a child a toy and I felt his expectant gaze on my face as I read.
The letter was from an old colleague. "My nephew, Nitin Bose, will be coming to your bungalow for a few weeks' leave. He is interested in tribal customs. He is a very brilliant young man and has recently been made a director of a big tea company. Please keep an eye on him. I count on your understanding and discretion."
"Well, sir? Which suite shall I prepare?" Mr. Chagla's smile tightened the shining skin of his round face.
"The letter doesn't say when the visitor is arriving."
"We must prepare for all eventualities, sir. Shall I move in extra beds at least?"
"We are only expecting one young man. No mention is made of a wife or children." The brown eyes lost their bright anticipation and I added hurriedly, "But send me a glass of sugarcane juice while I read the post. If it is sweet enough, we'll buy some more to make cane sugar."
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