And the rain came again that night.
And again and again and again.
Badal scanned the beach in either direction, shading his eyes. It was a while before he spotted Raghu, not far away, to the left. There he was, on one of the concrete plinths by the beach, facing the sun, body stretched: sinking and rising, arching and drooping, as gracefully as if it were a dance, into stretches and push-ups. Sculpture that had stepped off the walls of a temple.
Badal stood motionless, his eyes fixed on the boy. He did not notice the fire-tipped waves or the fishermen pushing out a boat farther down the shore. His gaze did not waver when Johnny Toppo’s singing turned into curses: “This time I’m going to smash his pretty nose in two. Raghu! Come here and get to work. And where’s that fifty I put into the biscuit box yesterday?”
Raghu straightened. A solid orange sun was floating out of the sea behind him, lighting up his mass of hair. He had taken off his T-shirt for the morning’s exercises and Badal saw that it was true, what he had only imagined: the boy had no hair on his body but for a shadow that vanished into his grey shorts. He saw the beginnings of hard muscles, the faintest of bulges at the shoulders. Raghu reached for the red T-shirt on the plinth and his spine became a bow arching down the length of his back. He looked in Johnny Toppo’s direction and noticed Badal’s eyes on him. He shrugged himself into the T-shirt and when his face emerged through the neck it had a half-smile.
“One tea, no milk, no sugar, lemon only?” he said to Badal as he went past him to the stove.
The monk lurched in the waves as a breaker charged the beach. Buffeted, he seemed to be in danger of being washed away, but he went on fingering his rosary. You could not tell if the eyes behind the dark glasses were closed in prayer.
*
Jarmuli had white beaches and many miles of coastline, but the waters were treacherous. Riptides could suck in swimmers and innocuous waves could turn savage, picking people off the sand and sucking them into the ocean. Most people came to Jarmuli for the temples, not for swimming, and pilgrims too tended to stay away during the long monsoon when cyclones ravaged the bay, lashing it day after day with rain. The morning’s lazy beauty had to end, work had to be done while the weather allowed. After the thrill of seeing Raghu at the beach was over, Badal stood at a food shop near the Vishnu temple, casting his eye around for possible clients, clinking the coins in his pocket. There wasn’t enough money, there seldom was. His wallet too had barely a hundred in it. But he had eaten nothing at home and decided to spend his loose change on a samosa.
He had idled near the temple for only a little while when Hari, another temple guide, tapped his arm saying, “Bhai, Badal. I need to leave — something urgent — and I’ve two people waiting for me. You take them to the temple, give them a quick round.”
Luck appeared to be on his side. It had to do with his early morning glimpse of shirtless Raghu, he was certain. Or perhaps it was those ten rupees and prayers at the old woman’s shrine. He remained carefully unsmiling and continued chewing his samosa. Between bites he said, “I’ve no time, got another group soon. And in the afternoon I need to get home.” He had no work till evening, but Hari did not need to know that. He looked towards the temple gates. He must not let Hari’s clients escape. He had to slow it down to extract as much as he could from Hari, but not too much.
Although the street had been swept that morning it was a stewing mess already: fruit, flowers, spilled food, pulverised by the heat. A foul smell rose from the blackness in the drains and penetrated everything. It was the only workplace he had ever known. He didn’t mind the stench. He stuffed the last of his samosa into his mouth, then grabbed the plastic jug from the counter. He poured water into his palm, slurped it in, and with calculated slowness swilled his mouth and spat into the drain. They both knew what this was about, but it had to be gone through.
Hari said, “Once. This one time — only because — look, I’ll tell you the reason later, it’s at a delicate stage now, you get it? Be quick, just show them a couple of shrines. They won’t know the difference. Or else I’ll get it in the neck from you know who.”
Badal drew a green plastic comb from his pocket, ran it through his oil-slicked hair, examined his nails. All clipped short apart from the long one on the little finger of his left hand. That nail was now about a quarter of the length of his finger, and he kept it coated with tomato-red nail polish. It was his good luck nail. He admired it for a moment, burped, then said, “I think I’ll have something sweet too,” and went back into the shop. He emerged with a leaf cup that held two creamy white squares. He offered one to Hari, who shook his head. “I’ll give you my cut, don’t refuse. I’ll come and deliver the cash at your house. Tell me when and —”
“No,” Badal interrupted. “Not to the house. I’ll get it from you here tomorrow, same time.” His uncle did not need to know about these extras. He had a bank account too that his uncle did not know about.
Negotiations completed, Badal stood before the main gate of the temple, talking into his phone. After several minutes of mis-understandings and misdirections he located Hari’s clients waving at him from near the shack where visitors to the temple had to leave their shoes. A man and a girl. He walked up to them. The man had sleepy eyes and crazy hair; the girl looked puny, reduced by the massive temple gates and her tall companion, whose shoulders her head barely reached. The beggars and idlers on the street were gawping at her beads and tattoos and coloured braids. Badal turned away from her tentative smile. How was he to put this to her? He took the man aside.
“She can’t go in like that.”
The man seemed not to understand.
Badal switched from Hindi to English and enunciated the words: “Clothes. Not good.” He gave the girl a rapid look, turned away as if embarrassed. How could she have come to a temple looking like that? Didn’t every guide book make it clear how women must dress for this temple? Nothing shorter than ankle-length, no tight clothes, everyone knew that.
“The priest say no. Not allow.” Badal pointed to the gates of the temple, which towered over the alley. Its stone arches were carved with gargoyles too high to see properly. Within the arches were heavy metal doors studded with brass clasps and rings. Half a dozen priest-like figures stood at the gates, bare-bodied but for their dhotis, chadars, and sacred threads. “She can rent something there,” Badal said, Hindi again, the English eluding him. He was gesturing towards a counter by the gates. “A sari to wrap around herself.”
Suraj, the sleepy-eyed man, followed Badal’s gaze and assessed the girl called Nomi with new eyes. His just-met colleague. He had not taken much notice of her that morning, he was hung-over, headachy. He had drunk way too much and smoked too much the day before. His throat felt as if a thousand pins were pricking it all over. On the drive to the temple he had rested his head against the car window and dozed off. But even in better shape he wouldn’t have noticed her clothes: olive green cargo pants cut off at the knees, pockets bulging with camera bits and pieces. An off-white shirt. Not loose, not tight. It was standard travel gear. But now that he was paying attention he saw that on her the shirt, its top three buttons undone, somehow looked quite unlike other shirts. Possibly not regulation temple gear.