Peeling her hands off his eyes, Neel turned to smile at her. Among the connoisseurs of Calcutta, Elokeshi was not considered a great beauty: her face was too round, the bridge of her nose too flat, and her lips too puffy to be pleasing to the conventional eye. Her hair, long, black and flowing, was her great asset, and she liked to wear it over her shoulders, with no bindings other than a few gold tassels. But it was not so much her looks as her spirit that had drawn Neel to her, the cast of her mind being as effervescent as his own was sombre: although many years his senior, and well versed in the ways of the world, her manner was as giggly and flirtatious as it had been when she'd first attracted notice as a dancer of sublimely light-footed tukras and tihais.
Now, flinging herself on the large four-poster bed in the centre of the stateroom, she parted her scarves and dupattas so that her pouting lips were laid bare, while the rest of her face remained covered. Ten days on this lumbering boat, she moaned, all alone, with nothing to do, and not once do you so much as look at me.
All alone – and what about them? Neel laughed and inclined his head in the direction of the doorway, where three girls were sitting crouched, watching their mistress.
Oh them… but they're just my little kanchanis!
Elokeshi giggled, covering her mouth: she was a creature of the city, addicted to the crowded bazars of Calcutta, and she had insisted on bringing along an entourage to keep her company on this unaccustomed expedition into the countryside; the three girls were at once maids, disciples and apprentices, indispensable to the refinement of her arts. Now, at a gesture from their mistress's forefinger, the girls withdrew, shutting the door behind them. But even in retreat they did not stray far from their mistress: in order to prevent interruptions, they sat in a huddle in the gangway outside, rising from time to time to steal glances through the chinks in a jillmilled ventilation panel on the teakwood door.
Once the door was shut, Elokeshi divested herself of one of her long dupattas and floated it over Neel's head, snaring him in the cloth and pulling him to the bed. Come to me now, she said, pouting, you've been at that desk long enough. When Neel went to lie beside her, she pushed him back against a bank of pillows. Now tell me, she said, on the undulating note that was her voice of complaint: Why did you bring me all this way with you – so far from the city? You still haven't explained properly.
Amused by her affectation of naïveté, Neel smiled: In the seven years you've been with me, you'd never once seen Raskhali. Isn't it natural that I should want you to see my zemindary?
Just to see it? She tossed her head in a gesture of challenge, miming a dancer's enactment of the role of injured lover. Is that all?
What else? He rubbed a lock of her hair between his fingertips. Wasn't it enough to see the place? Didn't you like what you saw?
Of course I liked it, said Elokeshi; it was grand beyond anything I could imagine. Her gaze drifted away, as if in search of his colonnaded riverside mansion with its gardens and orchards. She whispered: So many people, so much land! It made me think: I'm such a small part of your life.
He put his hand under her chin and turned her face towards him. What's the matter, Elokeshi? Tell me. What's on your mind?
I don't know how to tell you…
Now her fingers began to unbutton the ivory studs that ran slantwise across the chest of his kurta. She murmured: Do you know what my kanchanis said when they saw how large your zemindary was? They said: Elokeshi-di, you should ask the Raja for some land – don't you need a place where your relatives can live? After all, you need some security for your old age.
Neel groaned in annoyance: Those girls of yours are always making trouble. I wish you would turn them out of your house.
They just look after me – that's all. Her fingers strayed into his chest hair, busying themselves in making tiny braids, as she whispered: There's nothing wrong with a raja giving land to the girls in his keep. Your father used to do it all the time. People say his women had only to ask to get whatever they wanted: shawls, jewellery, jobs for their relatives…
Yes, said Neel, with a wry smile: And those relatives would go on receiving salaries, even when they were caught embezzling from the estate.
You see, she said, running her fingertips over his lips. He was a man who knew the value of love.
Not like me – I know, he said. It was true that Neel's own style of living was, for a scion of the Halder family, almost frugaclass="underline" he managed to get by with a single two-horse carriage and made do with a modest wing of the family mansion. Much less a voluptuary than his father, he had no mistress other than Elokeshi – but on her, he lavished his affections without stint, his relationship with his wife having never progressed beyond the conventional performance of his husbandly duties.
Don't you see, Elokeshi? Neel said, with a touch of sadness. To live like my father did costs money – more money than our estates could possibly provide.
Elokeshi was suddenly alert, her eyes keen with interest. What do you mean? Everyone always said your father was one of the richest men in the city.
Neel stiffened. Elokeshi – a pond needn't be deep to bear a lotus.
Elokeshi snatched back her hand and sat up. What are you trying to say? she demanded. Explain to me.
Neel knew he had said too much already, so he smiled and slipped his hand under her choli: It's nothing, Elokeshi.
There were times when he longed to tell her about the problems his father had left him with, but he knew her well enough to be aware that she would probably start making other arrangements if she learnt of the full extent of his difficulties. It was not that she was avaricious: on the contrary, for all her affectations, he knew that she had a strong sense of responsibility towards those who were dependent on her – just as Neel did himself. He regretted having let slip his words about his father, for it was premature to give her cause for alarm.
Let it be, Elokeshi. What does it matter?
No, tell me about it, said Elokeshi, pushing him back against the pillows. A well-wisher in Calcutta had warned her of financial trouble in the Raskhali zemindary: she had paid no heed at the time, but she sensed now that something was really awry and that she might have to re-examine her options.
Tell me, Elokeshi asked again: You've been so preoccupied these last few months – what's on your mind?
It's nothing you should worry about, Neel said – and it was certainly true, that no matter what happened, he would see to it that she was provided for: You and your girls and your house are all safe…
He was cut short by the voice of his bearer, Parimal, which suddenly made itself heard in the gangway, arguing furiously with the three girls: he was demanding to be let in, and they were adamantly holding him at bay.
Hastily pulling a sheet over Elokeshi, Neel called out to the girls: Let him in.
Parimal stepped in, keeping his eyes carefully averted from Elokeshi's covered form. Addressing Neel, he said: Huzoor, the sahibs on the ship said they would gladly come. They will be here soon after sunset.