“Stop,” he said. His throat constricted, his face went hot. “Close the door, please.”
The way she got to her feet in pretty little stages, first lifting her head to face him, tossing her braid aside, then raising herself by digging her fingers into his knees for balance, almost undid him. Then she was peeling off his shirt as he approached the charpoy. He watched her shimmy out of her dress, using her shoulders. When her dress dropped to her ankles she stepped out of it, kicking the door closed with one foot.
“I know what you want,” she said as he took her head, cupping her ears, and moved it like a melon on his lap.
He lay there in the half-dark, the wick of the oil lamp flickering in its dish on the floor by the washbasin, and he thought of how different his life was now. And what about Indru? She seemed happy. He had come home to her; she had been waiting for him. She was grateful—he could sense it from the warmth of her mouth, her eager lips.
He had done her more than a good turn; he had rescued her—rescued Padmini too, and if that young man did not happen to be her brother but another lover, he was helping that fellow as well. But who in the other world would understand? It was impossible to explain. That which words express is not truth—right! He would be seen as a sensualist, an exploiter, another opportunist in India. No, he was a benefactor.
In his rapture, with Indru’s palms flattened against his thighs, his sighing with pleasure, he was sentimental and told himself that there was no other place he wished to be.
Warmed by this thought, luxuriating in where he lay, he raised his eyes and saw past Indru’s head, past her braid coiled on the dampness of her bare back, to the door of the room, the shadow of Padmini in profile against the vertical bar of light where the door was ajar. One bright eye shone in the light of the oil lamp. He said nothing—could she see his face?—and it was a long time before the door silently shut, squeezing the light, and by then Indru was too frenzied to notice.
Afterward, he drew her into his arms and thought, Yes, their benefactor.
“That is my father,” Shah was saying, holding a framed photograph.
The old man in the silver frame was bearded, very thin, gripping a walking stick, carrying a cloth bundle.
“All his worldly possessions.”
The ascetic and rather starved face contrasted sharply with the elegant frame, the polished side table on which it rested with other silver-framed pictures—more of the old man—the cut-glass lamp, the linen tablecloth, the candlesticks.
And Dwight sat at a table that had been set with delicate porcelain plates thin as eggshells, linen napkins, gold-trimmed salvers, crystal goblets. But there were yellow lentils in the plates, beans in the salvers, water in the goblets.
“Please take some more dhal,” Mrs. Shah said. “It’s a family recipe. Tarka dhal—very creamy, you see.”
She was a lovely woman, younger than her husband, with a smooth serious face and a slightly strained manner, a kind of concern that Dwight understood as the effort of being hospitable to a big American stranger who had a reputation for bluntness. Shah must have warned her, but Shah was much more confident these days.
“And this,” she said, serving him with silver pincers what looked like a flattened muffin, “this is my mother’s uttapam.”
“Delicious,” Dwight said. “I’m not eating meat ever again.”
“Thank you,” Mrs. Shah said. She rang a bell and a young woman entered with a bowl of rice. As the woman stood next to Dwight, serving him, he had one thought in his mind. These days, when he met a woman in India, he thought, Would I? To this one, he nodded and smiled, thinking, Yes, I would.
“My father was a businessman,” Shah said, glancing at the framed photograph as he spoke. “He started as an accountant, then created a firm and eventually had a huge business—bought his building, branched out into real estate and investment. He did very well. My brother and I had a privileged upbringing. But as he got older he prepared himself, and at last he embarked on his journey.”
“Where did he go?”
“Not where, but how, is the question. He walked, he slept on the ground. He begged for alms, holding bowl. He wished to be come a saint. It was his aim.”
“Renounced everything?”
“Completely,” Shah said. “Not so, my dear?”
Mrs. Shah tipped her head in regret.
“Obeying the mahavratas,” Shah said. “The big vows. No injury. No lying. No stealing. Chastity. Lacking all possessions. Meditation and praying only. And walking to the shrines, day and night, begging for food.”
Now Dwight looked at the picture of the wealthy investor, who out of piety had reinvented himself as a beggar. Dwight said, “It’s quite a trajectory.”
“Jain trajectory—Buddhist too,” Shah said. “My brother and I looked after my mother. And my turn will come.” He suddenly became self-conscious and smiled at his wife. “Then my son will look after my wife. It is our way.”
“In this other picture he’s wearing a mask,” Dwight said.
“So as not to breathe in microbes and fleas.”
“So as not to get sick?”
“So as not to kill them. Ahimsa. Not killing a life, even flea’s life.”
“I get you.”
“I will share with you some literature about our beliefs,” Shah said. “We are not extreme—not like the Digambara, who are sky-clad.”
“Sky-clad, meaning …?”
“Nakedness. They go about mortifying themselves in the nakedness state. No one on earth could live more simply. But we are Svetambara. We follow the tenets of our faith. It is ancient, I tell you—older than your Christianity, from long before.”
“Maybe you can tell me about it sometime.”
“We have sweetened curd for dessert,” Mrs. Shah said, ringing the servant bell again.
“I anticipate being a saddhu myself—giving up the world. Just wandering, as my father wandered. He was so contented.”
“I guess that’s an Indian solution to life.”
“No. It was penance. He was not pure previously. I am not pure.” He smiled at Dwight, who read in Shah’s smile, And you?
Dwight saw himself with a wooden staff and a loincloth and a turban, striding down a dusty road in the sunlight in sandals, eating an apple—did they eat apples? Birds sang, a fragrant breeze cooled his face, he carried a bowl full of flower petals. He smiled, mocking himself with this image, knowing that he would be visiting Indru later.
Shah’s apartment was luxurious, with gilt-framed mirrors and brocade cushions on a white sofa that could have held five people, a thick carpet—he’d left his shoes at the door—windows like walls with panes of glass that went from floor to ceiling, and a balcony that gave onto Mumbai, from this height a magical-looking city of twinkling lights and toy cars.
The food could not have been simpler, yet it had been served on the thinnest porcelain; even the bell that Mrs. Shah rang to summon the serving girl looked precious. The colored portraits on the walls could have been deities, objects of veneration, as well as a valuable collection of paintings.
All this time, Shah was talking about Jainism, atonement, penance, poverty.
“Nirjara—process of atonement,” he said. “Ahimsa—respect for all living things, great and small, all jiva, all life and soul.”
The mention of living things great and small made Dwight think of his partners in Boston. He said, “Have you given any thought to my proposal? I’ve cleared it with the firm. They’re pretty excited.”
“I have reflected deeply on it,” Shah said. He kept a studied tone of reluctance in his voice that Dwight recognized as an eagerness he didn’t want to show. “I will accept. I will do my level best.”