They turned left, and a broad square ringed with low bungalows sprang up and hung before them on a pall of dust.
Kulfi tossed her head: It’ll be easy. I haven’t acted before, but I do see a lot of films and, I must say, I don’t know why but in al-Ghazira my husband’s colleagues used to keep telling me, at every party I went to, Why, you look just like Hema Malini, Mrs Bose. I don’t know why you say that, I used to tell them …
And luckily, said Mrs Verma, you’ll have a nice Arjuna.
I hope so, Kulfi said, frowning. Who is he?
You’ll meet him in a minute.
Mrs Verma pushed open a steel gate. That’s our house, she said, waving proudly at a thick-walled colonial bungalow, surrounded by tenaciously green patches of garden. She led Kulfi down a brick-lined path, past dusty casuarinas and doggedly blooming bushes of bougainvillaea to a low, deeply shaded porch. Then her eyes fell on a snapped clothes-line at the other end of the garden and she rushed off with a cry to rescue the scattered clothes from the dust.
Peering at the veranda which led on to the porch, and the darkness of the rooms beyond, it was evident at once to Kulfi that Mrs Verma took good care of her house: the veranda was spotless, the curtains in the windows were clean and bright, and there were calendars on every wall. She took a step towards the veranda and caught the sound of a muffled voice somewhere inside. Craning forward, she squinted into the shadows.
The darkness rippled and a moment later Kulfi sprang back, shrieking.
A short, stout man dressed in a scarlet knee-length dhoti had appeared on the veranda. Bits of tinsel were dotted about his chest and there was a white flower entwined in the sacred thread of his Brahminhood. Above it, like a rainswept rock framed by the setting sun, his bald head shone against a noisily spinning halo that seemed to grow out of the back of his neck.
Poised to run, Kulfi stole another quick look. He was peering at her in short-sighted confusion, his narrowed eyes hugely enlarged by his thick glasses. Kulfi choked back a scream.
Folding his hands, he bobbed his head and at once the halo slipped, grazing his glistening scalp. Namaste, he said, wincing, and pushed the halo hurriedly back into place. Don’t pay any attention to all this — he waved a deprecating hand at his clothes — it’s only because I’m Madana.
Madana? Kulfi whispered hoarsely.
Yes, he said, hitching up his dhoti and advancing upon her, the God of Love. And you?
Kulfi began to back away rapidly, watching his every move. Then, to her relief, Mrs Verma was beside her, her arms full of clothes.
So Madana’s found Chitrangada? she said, laughing. That old curtain really suits you, Dr Mishra; you should wear it more often.
Dr Mishra was suddenly acutely self-conscious. Never mind, he growled, crossing his hands over his tinselly chest.
What? said Mrs Verma. I can’t hear you.
Will you please make me known to this lady? Dr Mishra shouted over the whirring of his halo.
Mrs Verma smiled and waved, magician-like, at Kulfi. This, she said, is my Chitrangada.
Dr Mishra stared, and Kulfi lowered her head shyly. Did you create her, Mrs Verma? he said. Or did Madana drop her from the sky?
Actually, Mrs Verma said, she appeared out of Driss’s café. She and her husband are passing through — they’re tourists.
I see, Dr Mishra said, examining Kulfi suspiciously. Well, I suppose we should take our touring Chitrangada in and introduce her to her Arjuna.
Led by Dr Mishra they went into a large cool room which had its twin functions unmistakably indicated by a dining-table at one end and a circle of sofas at the other. Otherwise, except for a few calendars and a papier-mâché Taj Mahal, the room was clinically bare. But it was that very bareness which seemed to shine a spotlight on a far corner of the room where a battered old bookcase stood propped against the wall, reigning, somehow, in spite of its rickety shelves and frayed dustcovers, over every other object in the room.
As they entered Dr Mishra gestured at a young man who was rising awkwardly from a sofa. Well, Arjuna, he said drily, here’s your Chitrangada.
Turning on his heels, his arms spread out, he said: May I introduce you to our very own avatar of Arjuna? Mr Jyoti Das.
Jyoti Das had not seen them yet, but his hands were already folded and he was smiling in polite expectation. Then his eyes found Kulfi, and the smile vanished from his face and he swallowed and clutched at his throat.
Mrs Verma dropped her armful of clothes on a chair and bustled forward. How are you feeling now? she asked him kindly. He shook his head in an effort to take his eyes off Kulfi, failed, and sank wordlessly back on to the sofa.
He’s not been well, you know, Mrs Verma confided to Kulfi. We met him quite by chance a couple of days ago, when he was brought to the hospital with a mild case of heatstroke. He’d been here a few days already and apparently he’d spent all his time at the bus station watching the buses from the border come in, and on the dunes, where he was looking for a vulture. Just imagine — a vulture! Are you a corpse, I said, that you’re looking for a vulture in this blazing sun?
Jyoti Das moistened his lips mechanically and, without taking his eyes off Kulfi, he said: Not any old vulture, Mrs Verma. I thought I’d spotted a lappet-faced vulture. I had to find it — none has been reported from these parts for decades.
Mrs Verma shrugged: A vulture’s a vulture, whatever its face. Anyway, you’d better get up now; you have to go to Miss K.’s for lunch.
But Jyoti Das stayed as he was, his eyes riveted on Kulfi.
Kulfi tossed her head. She swept past Mrs Verma and went across to the bookcase, swaying her hips. She saw him turning, following her with his eyes, his young boyish face contorted with the clumsy, painful longing of a virgin rebelling too late against his condition. Inclining her head slightly, she gave him a tight little smile and with his gaze lapping thirstily at her back she began to flip languidly through a calendar.
I see good things, Dr Mishra said, watching them shrewdly from the other end of the room. It looks as though Madana’s going to have some success at last.
While Mrs Verma rang the hospital, her husband began dismantling Dr Mishra’s battery-operated halo.
Can’t you make it a little quieter? Dr Mishra said. They’ll think Madana is a kind of helicopter if it goes on like this.
Mrs Verma put the phone down and clapped her hands. All right now, she said. We all have to hurry. There’s a lot to do today.
What? said Dr Mishra.
Mrs Verma nodded at Jyoti Das and said: The two of you have to go to Miss K.’s for lunch. She’s expecting you; she’s saved up a whole cauliflower, and she borrowed a tin of pineapples from me this morning. And after that you have to come back here for a rehearsal. We can do it properly, with costumes and everything, now that we have our Chitrangada.
Do you think, Dr Mishra growled, that I don’t have anything better to do on a holiday than spend all my time dressed up in an old curtain?
Mrs Verma laughed: It’s too bad, Dr Mishra. You’ll have to come, holiday or not. It was a fair bet and you can’t let me down now, when I’m so close to winning.
She beckoned to Kulfi. Come, let me show you the room you’ll be staying in, she said, leading her to a room at the back.
When they came out again Jyoti Das was standing beside the door, rigidly still, waiting. Mrs Verma bustled past without noticing him, but Kulfi hung back. As she stepped out of the door, she lurched and fell sideways. Her hands brushed against the front of his trousers and flew back as if scalded.